38897	----	[Illustration: THE NEXT MOMENT THE HORSEHIDE WENT SPEEDING TOWARD THE PLATE.] Baseball Joe on the School Nine OR Pitching _for the_ Blue Banner _By_ LESTER CHADWICK AUTHOR OF "BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS," "THE RIVAL PITCHERS," "A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK," "BATTING TO WIN," ETC. _ILLUSTRATED_ [Illustration] NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES =12mo. Illustrated= BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS Or The Rivals of Riverside BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE Or Pitching for the Blue Banner (_Other Volumes in Preparation_) THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES =12mo. Illustrated= THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK A Story of College Football BATTING TO WIN A Story of College Baseball THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN A Story of College Football (_Other Volumes in Preparation_) CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York Copyright, 1912, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY =Baseball Joe on the School Nine= CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I HITTING A TEACHER 1 II PLANNING A BATTLE 12 III AN ANGRY BULLY 23 IV JOE LEARNS SOMETHING 31 V THE TABLES TURNED 40 VI THE BULLY SNEERS 52 VII A CLASH WITH LUKE 58 VIII "WHO WILL PITCH?" 68 IX TOM'S PLAN FAILS 74 X THE BANNER PARADE 82 XI JOE HOPES AND FEARS 92 XII ON THE SCRUB 98 XIII JOE'S GREAT WORK 106 XIV THE GAME AT MORNINGSIDE 115 XV A STRANGE DISCOVERY 124 XVI A HOT MEETING 130 XVII THE INITIATION 136 XVIII "FIRE!" 143 XIX A THRILLING RESCUE 150 XX THE WARNING 160 XXI BAD NEWS 167 XXII BITTER DEFEAT 173 XXIII HIRAM IS OUT 183 XXIV TWO OF A KIND 190 XXV BY A CLOSE MARGIN 198 XXVI THE OVERTURNED STATUE 211 XXVII ON PROBATION 218 XXVIII LUKE'S CONFESSION 224 XXIX A GLORIOUS VICTORY 233 XXX GOOD NEWS--CONCLUSION 240 BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE CHAPTER I HITTING A TEACHER "Look out now, fellows; here goes for a high one!" "Aw come off; you can't throw high without dislocating your arm, Peaches. Don't try it." "You get off the earth; I can so, Teeter. Watch me." "Let Joe Matson have a try. He can throw higher than you can, Peaches," and the lad who had last spoken grasped the arm of a tall boy, with a very fair complexion which had gained him the nickname of "Peaches and Cream," though it was usually shortened to "Peaches." There was a crowd of lads on the school grounds, throwing snowballs, when the offer of "Peaches" or Dick Lantfeld was made. "Don't let him throw, Teeter," begged George Bland, jokingly. "I'll not," retorted "Teeter" Nelson, whose first name was Harry, but who had gained his appellation because of a habit he had of "teetering" on his tiptoes when reciting in class. "I've got Peaches all right," and there was a struggle between the two lads, one trying to throw a snowball, and the other trying to prevent him. "Come on, Joe," called Teeter, to a tall, good-looking, and rather quiet youth who stood beside a companion. "Let's see you throw. You're always good at it, and I'll keep Peaches out of the way." "Shall we try, Tom?" asked Joe Matson of his chum. "Might as well. Come on!" "Yes, let 'Sister' Davis have a whack at it too," urged George Bland. Tom Davis, who was Joe Matson's particular chum, was designated "Sister" because, in an incautious moment, when first coming to Excelsior Hall, he had shown a picture of his very pretty sister, Mabel. Tom and Joe, who had come upon the group of other pupils after the impromptu snowball throwing contest had started, advanced further toward their school companions. Peaches and Teeter were still engaged in their friendly struggle, until Peaches tripped over a stone, concealed under a blanket of snow, and both went down in a struggling heap. "Make it a touchdown!" yelled George Bland. "Yes, shove him over the line, Peaches!" cried Tom. "Hold him! Hold him!" implored Joe, and the little group of lads, which was increased by the addition of several other pupils, circled about the struggling ones, laughing at their plight. "D-d-down!" finally panted Peaches, when Teeter held his face in the soft snow. "Let me up, will you?" "Promise not to try to throw a high one?" asked Teeter, still maintaining his position astride of Peaches. "Yes--I--I guess so." "That doesn't go with me; you've got to be sure." "All right, let a fellow up, will you? There's a lot of snow down my neck." "That's what happened to me the last time you fired a high snowball, Peaches. That's why I didn't want you to try another while I'm around. You wait until I'm off the campus if you've got to indulge in high jinks. Come on now, fellows, since Peaches has promised to behave himself, let the merry dance go on. Have you tried a shot, Joe? Or you, Sister," and Teeter looked at the newcomers. "Not yet," answered Joe Matson with a smile. "Haven't had a chance." "That's right," put in Tom Davis. "You started a rough-house with Peaches as soon as we got here. What's on, anyhow?" "Oh, we're just seeing how straight we can aim with snowballs," explained Teeter. "See if you can hit that barrel head down there," and he pointed to the object in question, about forty yards away on the school campus. "See if you can hit the barrel, Joe," urged George Bland. "A lot of us have missed it, including Peaches, who seems to think his particular stunt is high throwing." "And so it is!" interrupted the lad with the clear complexion. "I can beat any one here at----" "Save that talk until the baseball season opens!" retorted Teeter. "Go ahead, Joe and Tom. And you other fellows can try if you like," he added, for several more pupils had joined the group. It might seem easy to hit the head of a barrel at that distance, but either the lads were not expert enough or else the snowballs, being of irregular shapes and rather light, did not carry well. Whatever the cause, the fact remained that the barrel received only a few scattering shots and these on the outer edges of the head. "Now we'll see what Sister Davis can do!" exclaimed Nat Pierson, as Joe's chum stepped up to the firing line. "Oh, I'm not so much," answered Tom with a half smile. "Joe will beat me all to pieces." "Joe Matson sure can throw," commented Teeter, in a low voice to George Bland. "I remember what straight aim he had the last time we built a fort, and had a snow fight." "I should say yes," agreed George. "And talk about speed!" he added. "Wow! One ball he threw soaked me in the ear. I can feel it yet!" and he rubbed the side of his head reflectively. The first ball that Tom threw just clipped the upper rim of the barrel head, and there were some exclamations of admiration. The second one was a clean miss, but not by a large margin. The third missile split into fragments on the rim of the head. "Good!" cried Peaches. "That's the way to do it!" "Wait until you see Joe plug it," retorted Tom with a smile. "Oh, I'm not such a wonder," remarked our hero modestly, as he advanced to the line. In his hand he held three very hard and smooth snowballs, which he spent some time in making in anticipation of his turn to throw. "I haven't had much practice lately," he went on, "though I used to throw pretty straight when the baseball season was on." Joe carefully measured with his eye the distance to the barrel. Then he swung his arm around a few times to "limber up." "That fellow used to pitch on some nine, I'll wager," said Teeter in a whisper to Peaches. "Yes, I heard something about him being a star on some small country team," was the retort. "But let's watch him." Joe threw. The ball left his hand with tremendous speed and, an instant later, had struck the head of the barrel with a resounding "ping!" "In the centre! In the centre!" yelled Peaches with enthusiasm as he capered about. "A mighty good shot!" complimented Teeter, doing his particular toe stunt. "Not exactly in the centre," admitted Joe. "Here goes for another." Once more he threw, and again the snowball hit the barrel head, close to the first, but not quite so near the middle. "You can do better than that, Joe," spoke Tom in a low voice. "I'm going to try," was all the thrower said. Again his arm was swung around with the peculiar motion used by many good baseball pitchers. Again the snowball shot forward, whizzing through the air. Again came that resounding thud on the hollow barrel, this time louder than before. "Right on the nose!" "A clean middle shot!" "A good plunk!" These cries greeted Joe's last effort, and, sure enough, when several lads ran to get a closer view of the barrel, they came back to report that the ball was exactly in the centre of the head. "Say, you're a wonder!" exclaimed Peaches, admiringly. "Who's a wonder?" inquired a new voice, and a tall heavily-built lad, with rather a coarse and brutal face, sauntered up to the group. "Who's been doing wonderful stunts, Peaches?" "Joe Matson here. He hit the barrel head three times out of three, and the best any of us could do was once. Besides, Joe poked it in the exact centre once, and nearly twice." "That's easy," spoke the newcomer, with a sneer in his voice. "Let's see you do it, Shell," invited George Bland. "Go on, Hiram, show 'em what you can do," urged Luke Fodick, who was a sort of toady to Hiram Shell, the school bully, if ever there was one. "Just watch me," requested Hiram, and hastily taking some hard round snowballs away from a smaller lad who had made them for his own use, the bully threw. I must do him the credit to say that he was a good shot, and all three of his missiles hit the barrel head. But two of them clipped the outer edge, and only one was completely on, and that nowhere near the centre. "Joe Matson's got you beat a mile!" exclaimed Peaches. "That's all right," answered Hiram with the easy superior air he generally assumed. "If I'd been practicing all day as you fellows have I could poke the centre every time, too." As a matter of fact, those three balls were the first Joe had thrown that day, but he did not think it wise to say so, for Hiram had mean ways about him, and none of the pupils at Excelsior Hall cared to rouse his anger unnecessarily. "Well, I guess we've all had our turns," spoke George Bland, after Hiram had thrown a few more balls so carelessly as to miss the barrel entirely. "I haven't," piped up Tommy Burton, one of the youngest lads. "Hiram took my snowballs." "Aw, what of it, kid?" sneered the bully. "There's lots more snow. Make yourself another set and see what you can do." But Tommy was bashful, and the attention he had thus drawn upon himself made him blush. He was a timid lad and he shrank away now, evidently fearing Shell. "Never mind," spoke Peaches kindly, "we'll have another contest soon and you can be in it." "Let's see who can throw the farthest," suggested Hiram. His great strength gave him a decided advantage in this, as he very well knew. The other boys also knew this, but did not like to refuse to enter the lists with him, so the long-distance throwing was started. Hiram did throw hard and far, but he met his match in Joe Matson, and the bully evidently did not like it. He sneered at Joe's style and did his best to beat him, but could not. "I ate too much dinner to-day," said Hiram finally, as an excuse, "so I can't throw well," and though there were covert smiles at this palpable excuse, no one said anything. Then came other contests, throwing at trees and different objects. Finally Hiram and Luke took themselves off, and everyone else was glad of it. "He's only a bluff, Shell is!" murmured Peaches. "And mean," added George. "Joe, I wonder if you can throw over those trees," spoke Tom, pointing to a fringe of big maples which bordered a walk that ran around the school campus. "That's something of a throw for height and distance. Want to try?" "Sure," assented our hero, "though I don't know as I can do it." "Wait, I'm with you," put in Peaches. "We'll throw together." They quickly made a couple of hard, smooth balls, and at the word from Tom, Joe and Peaches let go together, for it was to be a sort of contest in swiftness. The white missiles sailed through the air side by side, and not far apart. Higher and higher they went, until they both topped the trees, and began to go down on the other side. Joe's was far in advance of the snowball of Peaches, however, and went higher. As the balls descended and went out of sight, there suddenly arose from the other side of the trees a series of expostulating yells. "Stop it! Stop that, I say! How dare you throw snowballs at me? I shall report you at once! Who are you? Don't you dare to run!" "We--we hit some one," faltered Peaches, his fair complexion blushing a bright red. "I--I guess we did," admitted Joe. There was no doubt of it a moment later, for through the trees came running a figure whose tall hat was battered over his head by the snowballs, some fragments of the missiles still clinging to the tile. "You sure did," added Teeter, stifling a laugh. "And of all persons in the school but Professor Rodd. Oh my! Oh wow! You're in for it now! He won't do a thing to you fellows! Look at his hat! Here he comes!" Professor Elias Rodd, one of the strictest and certainly the "fussiest" instructor at Excelsior, was hurrying toward the group of boys. CHAPTER II PLANNING A BATTLE Professor Elias Rodd was rather elderly, and, as he never took much exercise, his sprinting abilities were not pronounced. So it took him about a minute and a half to cross the campus to where the little group of lads awaited him--anxious waiting it was too, on the part of Joe and Peaches. And in that minute and a half, before the excitement begins, I want to take the opportunity to tell you something about Joe Matson, and his chum Tom Davis, and how they happened to be at Excelsior Hall. Those of you who have read the first volume of this series entitled, "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars," need no introduction to our hero. Sufficient to say that he was a lad who thought more of baseball than of any other sport. Joe was the son of Mr. and Mrs. John Matson, and he had a sister named Clara. Joe's father was an inventor of farming machinery and other apparatus, and had been employed by the Royal Harvester Works of Riverside, which was located on the Appleby River, in one of our New England States. Joe lived in Riverside, his family having moved there from Bentville. In the previous story I told how Joe made the acquaintance of Tom Davis, who lived in the house back of him. Joe became interested in the Silver Stars, the Riverside amateur nine, and through doing a favor for Darrell Blackney, the manager, was given a position in the field. But Joe wanted to become a pitcher, and, in fact, had pitched for the Bentville Boosters. He longed to fill the box for the Stars, and was finally given a chance. But he had incurred the enmity of Sam Morton, the regular pitcher, and there were several clashes between them. Finally Joe displaced Sam and won many games for the Stars. Mr. Matson had some trouble with his inventions, for Isaac Benjamin, manager of the harvester works, and Rufus Holdney, the latter once a friend of the inventor, determined to get certain valuable patents away from Mr. Matson. How they nearly succeeded, and how Joe foiled the plans of the plotters once, is told in the first book. Though Joe aided his father considerably, the young pitcher never lost his interest in baseball, and when, at the last moment, word came that Mr. Matson had seemingly lost everything, Joe hid his own feelings and went off to pitch the deciding championship game against the Resolutes of Rocky Ford, the bitter rivals of the Silver Stars. Joe's heart was heavy as he pitched, for he knew that if his father lost his money through the taking away of his patents there would be no chance of his going to boarding school, and Joe desired that above everything. But he pluckily pitched the game, which was a close and hot one. He won, making the Stars the champions of the county league; and then Joe hurried home. To his delight there was a message from his father, stating that at the last minute unexpected evidence had won the patent case for him, and he was now on the road to prosperity. So it was possible for Joe to go to boarding school after all, and, to his delight, Tom Davis prevailed upon his parents to send him. So Joe and Tom went off together to attend Excelsior Hall, just outside of Cedarhurst, and about a hundred miles from Riverside. Joe and Tom, who had each finished short courses in the Riverside High School, started for Excelsior Hall at the opening of the Fall term, and had spent the Winter, with the exception of the Christmas holidays, at the institution. They liked it very much, and made a number of friends as well as some enemies. Their chief foe, as well as that of nearly every other lad in Excelsior Hall, was Hiram Shell. The months passed, and with the waning of Winter, Joe began to feel the call of the baseball diamond. He and Tom got out some old gloves and balls and bats, and in the seclusion of their room they played over again, in imagination, some of the stirring games of the Silver Stars. As yet, however, there had been no baseball activity at Excelsior, and Joe was wondering what sort of team there would be, for that there must be one was a foregone conclusion. Joe knew that before he picked out Excelsior Hall as his particular boarding school. I might add that Dr. Wright Fillmore was the principal of Excelsior Hall. He was dubbed "Cæsar" because of his fondness for the character of that warrior, and because he was always holding him up as a pattern of some virtues to his pupils. Dr. Enos Rudden the mathematical teacher was one of the best-liked of all the instructors. He was fond of athletics, and acted as sort of head coach and trainer for the football and baseball teams. As much as Dr. Rudden was liked so was Professor Rodd disliked. Professor Rodd, who was privately termed "Sixteen and a Half" or "Sixteen" for short (because of the number of feet in a rod) was very exacting, fussy and a terror to the lads who failed to know their Latin lessons. And as we are at present immediately concerned with Professor Rodd, now I will go back to where we left him approaching the group of students, with wrath plainly written on his countenance. "Who--who threw that ball--that snowball?" the irate instructor cried. "I demand to know. Look at my hat! Look at it, I say!" and that there might be no difficulty in the boys seeing it Mr. Rodd endeavored to take off his head-piece. But he found this no easy matter, for the snowballs, hitting it with considerable force, had driven it down over his brow. He struggled to get it off and this only made him the more angry. "Who--who threw those balls at me?" again demanded Professor Rodd, and this time he managed to work off his hat. He held it out accusingly. "We--I--er--that is--we all were having a throwing contest," explained Teeter Nelson, diffidently, "and--er----" "You certainly _all_ didn't throw at me," interrupted the professor. "Only two balls struck me, and I demand to know who threw them. Or shall I report you all to Dr. Fillmore and have him keep you in bounds for a week; eh?" "Nobody meant to hit you, Professor," put in Tom. "You see----" "Will you or will you not answer my question?" snapped the instructor, in the same tone of voice he used in the classroom, when some luckless lad was stuttering and stammering over the difference between the _gerund_ and the _gerundive_. "Who threw the balls?" "I--I'm afraid I did," faltered Joe. "I threw one, and--and----" "I threw the other," popped out Peaches. "But it was an accident, Professor." "An accident! Humph!" "Yes," eagerly went on Peaches, who, having been longer at the school than Joe, knew better how to handle the irate instructor. "You see it was this way: We were having a contest, and wanted to see who could throw over the trees. Instead of throwing _primus_, _secondus_, and _tertius_ as we might have done, Joe and I threw together--um--er--ah _conjunctim_ so to speak," and Peaches managed to keep a straight face even while struggling to find the right Latin word. "Yes, we threw _conjunctim_--together--and we both wanted to see who could do the best--er--_supero_--you know, and--er we--well, it was an accident--_casus eventus_. We are awfully sorry, and----" Professor Rodd gave an audible sniff, but there was a marked softening of the hard lines about his face. He was an enthusiastic Latin scholar, and the trial of his life was to know that most of his pupils hated the study--indeed as many boys do. So when the teacher found one who took the trouble in ordinary conversation to use a few Latin words, or phrases, the professor was correspondingly pleased. Peaches knew this. "It was a _casus eventus_--an accident," the fair-cheeked lad repeated, very proud of his ability in the dead language. "We are very sorry," put in Joe, "and I'll pay for having your hat ironed." "We threw in _conjunctim_," murmured Peaches. "Ha! A very good attempt at the Latin--at least some of the words are," admitted Professor Rodd. "They do credit to your studying, Lantfeld, but how in the world did you ever get _casus eventus_ into accident?" "Why--er--it's so in the dictionary, Professor," pleaded Peaches. "Yes, but look up the substantive, and remember your endings. Here I'll show you," and, pulling from his pocket a Latin dictionary, which he was never without, Professor Rodd, sticking his battered hat back on his head, began to quote and translate and do all manner of things with the dead language, to show Peaches where he had made his errors. And Peaches, sacrificing himself on the altar of friendship, stood there like a man, nodding his head and agreeing with everything the instructor said, whether he understood it or not. "Your _conjunctim_ was not so bad," complimented the professor, "but I could never pass _casus eventus_. However, I am glad to see that you take an interest in your studies. I wish more of the boys did. Now take the irregular conjugation for instance. We will begin with the indicative mood and----" The professor's voice was droning off into his classroom tones. Peaches held his ground valiantly. "Come on, fellows, cut for it!" whispered Teeter hoarsely. "Leg it, Joe. Peaches will take care of him." "But the hat--I damaged it--I want to pay for it," objected our hero, who was square in everything. "Don't worry about that. When Old Sixteen gets to spouting Latin or Greek he doesn't know whether he's on his head or his feet, and as for a hat--say, forget it and come on. He'll never mention it again. Peaches knows how to handle him. Peaches is the best Latin lad in the whole school, and once Sixteen finds some one who will listen to his new theory about conjugating irregular verbs, he'll talk until midnight. Come on!" "Poor Peaches!" murmured Tom Davis. "Never mind, Sister," spoke George Bland, as he linked his arm in that of Joe. "Peaches seen his duty and he done it nobly, as the novels say. When Sixteen gets through with him we'll blow him to a feed to make it up to him. Come on while the going's good. He'll never see us." Thus the day--rather an eventful one as it was destined to become--came to an end. The boys filed into the big dining hall, and talk, which had begun to verge around to baseball, could scarcely be heard for the clatter of knives and forks and dishes. Some time later there came a cautious knock on the door of the room that Tom Davis and Joe Matson shared. The two lads were deep in their books. "Who's there?" asked Joe sharply. "It's me--Peaches," was the quick if ungrammatical answer. "The coast is clear--open your oak," and he rattled the knob of the door. Tom unlocked and swung wide the portal, and the hero of the Latin engagement entered. "Quick--anything to drink?" he demanded. "I'm a rag! Say, I never swallowed so much dry Latin in my life. My throat is parched. Don't tell me that all that ginger ale you smuggled in the other day is gone--don't you dare do it!" "Tom, see if there's a bottle left for the gentleman of thirst," directed Joe with a smile. Tom went to the window and pulled up a cord that was fastened to the sill. On the end of the string was a basket, and in it three bottles of ginger ale. "Our patent refrigerator," explained Joe, with a wave of his hand. "Do the uncorking act, Tom, and we'll get busy. You can go to sleep,"--this last to a book he had been studying, as he tossed it on a couch. "Oh, but that's good!" murmured Peaches as he drained his glass. "Now I can talk. I came in, Joe and Tom, to see if you didn't think it would be a good thing to have a fight." "A fight! For cats' sake, who with?" demanded Tom. "Are you spoiling for one?" asked Joe. "Oh, I mean a snowball fight. This is probably the last of the season, and I was thinking we could get a lot of fellows together, make a fort, and have a regular battle like we read about in Cæsar to-day. It would be no end of sport." "I think so myself," agreed Joe. "Bully!" exclaimed Tom sententiously, burying his nose in his ginger ale glass. "Go on, tell us some more." "Well, I was thinking," resumed Peaches, "that we----" He was interrupted by another tap on the door. In an instant Peaches had dived under the table. With one sweep of his arm Joe noiselessly collected the bottles, while Joe spread a paper over the glasses. The knock was repeated, and the two lads looked apprehensively at the door. CHAPTER III AN ANGRY BULLY "Well, why don't one of you fellows open the door?" demanded Peaches in a hoarse whisper from his point of vantage under the table. "If it's one of the 'profs.' or a monitor, he'll get wise if you wait all this while." It might be explained that there was a rule at Excelsior Hall against students visiting in their classmates' rooms at certain hours of the day, unless permission had been secured from the professor or monitor in charge of the dormitory. Needless to say Peaches had not secured any such permission--the lads seldom did. "Aren't you going to open it?" again demanded Peaches, from where he had taken refuge, so as to be out of sight, should the caller prove to be some one in authority. "Yes--certainly--of course," replied Joe. "Tom, you open the door." Once more came the knock. "Open it yourself," insisted Tom. "It's as much your room as it is mine. Go ahead." But there was no need for any one to first encounter the stern gaze of some professor, if such the unannounced caller should prove to be. The knock was repeated and then a voice demanded: "Say, you fellows needn't pretend not to be in there. I can hear you whispering. What's up?" and with that the portal swung open and Teeter Nelson entered. He advanced to the middle of the room and stood moving up and down on his tiptoes. "I like your nerve!" he went on. "Having a spread and not tipping a fellow off. Is it all gone?" and with a sweep of his arm he sent the paper cover flying from over the half-emptied ginger ale glasses. "Where's Peaches?" he demanded. "I know he's out, for I was at his den, and there's not a soul in. He's got a 'dummy' in the bed, but it's rank. Wouldn't fool anybody." "Then you must have spoiled it!" exclaimed Peaches, sticking his head out from beneath the table, the cloth draping itself around his neck like a lady's scarf. "I made a dandy figure. It would fool even Sixteen himself; and then I sneaked out. I made it look as natural as could be. I'll bet you did something to it." "Only punched it a couple of times to see if it was you," retorted Teeter. "But say, what's going on? Why didn't you open when I knocked?" "Thought it was a prof.," replied Joe. "Why didn't you give the code knock. Tat--rat-a-tat-tat--tat-tat--and the hiss." "That's right, I did forget it. But I got all excited when I found that Peaches had sneaked off without telling me. Say, what's on, anyhow? Where's the feed? Give me something good." "Nothing going but ginger ale," answered Joe, as Peaches crawled the rest of the way out from under the table. "And I don't know as there's any left." "Gee, you fellows have nerve!" complained the newcomer. "There's one bottle," said Tom, who had charge of the improvised refrigerator, and forthwith he hauled up the basket, at the sight of which Teeter laughed joyously, and proceeded to get outside of his share of the refreshments. "What's doing?" he demanded, after his thirst was quenched, and when they were all seated at the table. "We're going to have a snow battle," explained Peaches. "We were just talking about it when you gave us heart disease by pounding on the oak." "Heart disease; my eye!" exclaimed Teeter. "You should have a clear conscience such as I have, and nothing would worry you. That's good ale all right, Joe. Got any more?" and he finished his glass. "Nary a drop. But go on, Peaches. Tell us more about the snow fight." Whereupon the lad did, waxing enthusiastic, and causing his chums to get into the same state of mind. "It will be no end of fun!" declared Teeter. "We'll choose sides and see which one can capture the fort." "When can we do it?" asked Tom. "The sooner the quicker," was Joe's opinion. "The snow won't last long." "Then we ought to start on the fort to-morrow and have the battle the next day," was the opinion of Peaches. Permission to have the snow battle was obtained from Dr. Fillmore the next day, and the work of building the snow fort started soon after lessons were over. Fortunately the white flakes packed well, and with a foundation of a number of big snowballs the fort was shortly in process of construction. A better day for a snow battle could not have been desired. It was just warm enough so that the snow stuck, and yet cool enough so that the exertion would not be unpleasant. The fort was at the far end of the big school campus, and all about it the ground had been practically cleared of snow to build it. This made it necessary for the attacking party to carry their ammunition from afar. As for the defenders of the fort, they had plenty of snow inside, and, as a last resort they could use part of the walls of the structure itself to repel the enemy. The lads had made wooden shields for themselves, some using the heads of barrels, with leather loops for hand and arm. Others were content with something simpler, a mere board, or a barrel stave. Sides had been chosen, and, somewhat to his own surprise, Joe Matson was made captain of the attacking force. "We want you because you can throw straight and hard," explained Teeter, who was a sort of lieutenant of the attacking army. "Soak those fellows good!" pleaded Peaches. "We've got to look out for icy balls," cautioned Tom. "How so?" asked Joe, as he looked toward the fort where Frank Brown, as captain, was marshalling his lads. "I heard that Hiram Shell and Luke Fodick soaked a lot of snowballs in water last night, and let 'em freeze," went on Tom. "They're just mean enough to use them." "That's right," agreed Peaches, "and we made it up not to throw that kind. Well, if we catch Hiram or Luke using 'em we'll make a protest, that's all." "Say, are you fellows all ready?" asked Frank Brown at length, as he looked to see if he and his mates had a good supply of ammunition. "Sure," answered Joe. "Yell when you want us to come at you." "Any time now," replied Frank. "Get on the job, fellows!" he called to his force. The snow battle began. Joe and his lads had boxes and baskets of snowballs piled where they could easily get them. They took them with them, up to the very walls of the fort, certain boys being designated as ammunition carriers. The fight was fast and furious. The air was thick with flying balls; and the yells, shouts, cries, and laughter of the lads could be heard afar. Up to the fort swarmed Joe and his mates, only to be driven back by a withering fire. Then they came once more to the attack, pouring in a destructive rain of white balls on the defenders of the snow fort. But this resulted partly in disaster for the attacking foe, as several of their number were captured. "At 'em again!" ordered Joe, after a slight repulse. "We can capture that place!" Once more they swarmed to the attack, and with very good effect, delivering such a rattling volley of balls, that the defenders were thrown into confusion, and could not send back an answering fire quickly enough. "Swarm the walls! Swarm the walls!" yelled Joe. He and his lads scrambled up, their pockets filled with balls. Down upon the hapless foe they threw them, and in another moment the fort would have been theirs. "Repel boarders! Repel boarders!" sang out Hiram. "Come on, fellows, give 'em an extra dose!" Joe saw the bully, and Luke, his crony, rush to a corner of the fort and take something from a wooden box. The next instant several lads uttered cries of real pain, as they felt the missiles of almost solid ice hit them. Joe understood at once. "The mean, sneaking coward!" he cried. In his hand he held a large snowball. It was hard packed, but did not equal the ice balls in any particular. Yet it was effective. Joe saw the chance he wanted. Hiram had drawn back his hand to throw one of the missiles he and Luke had secretly made, when, with a suddenness that was startling, Joe threw his large snowball full in the bully's face. Hiram caught his breath. The ball he had intended throwing fell from his hand. He staggered back, his face a mass of snow. Then he recovered himself, cleared his eyes of the flakes and, with a yell of rage sprang forward. "I saw you throw that, Joe Matson!" he cried. "You had no right to pitch it with all your might at such close range." "I had as much right as you and Luke have to use iceballs," retorted our hero. "I--I'll fix you for that!" threatened Hiram, boiling over with wrath, as he scrambled up the inner walls of the fort and stood before Joe. "I'll knock you into the middle of next week! I'll teach you how to behave. I'm going to lick you good," and he drew back his fist, and aimed a mighty blow at our hero. CHAPTER IV JOE LEARNS SOMETHING Joe Matson had been in fights before. Some had been forced upon him, and he accepted the challenges for sufficient reasons, and had given a good account of himself in the battles. Other fistic encounters had been of his own seeking and for excellent reasons he had generally come out ahead. The prospective fight with the bully was very sudden. Joe had seen what he considered a mean trick on Hiram's part and had thrown on the impulse of the moment. He rather regretted his hasty action, but it was too late for regrets now, and he was willing to accept the outcome. "I'm going to make you wish you'd never come to Excelsior Hall!" cried Hiram, and with that he expected the blow which he had aimed at Joe to land on the countenance of our hero. But, like the celebrated flea of history, who, as the Dutchman said, "ven you put your finger on him, dot flea he aind't dere!" so it was with Joe. He cleverly ducked, and then waited for what would happen next. Something did happen with a vengeance. Hiram had rushed up the slippery, sloping, inner wall of the fort to get at Joe, and pummel him for sending the snowball smashing into his face, but when Joe turned aside, and Hiram's fist went through the air like a batter fanning over a swift ball, the bully was unable to recover himself. He overbalanced, clawed vainly at the atmosphere, made a grab for Joe, who took good care to keep well out of reach, and then Hiram Shell went slipping and sliding down the outside wall of the snow fort, turning over several times ere he landed at the bottom, amid a pile of the white flakes. [Illustration: HIRAM SHELL WENT SLIPPING AND SLIDING DOWN THE OUTSIDE WALL OF THE SNOW FORT.] In his descent he struck several lads who were swarming up to the attack, and these Hiram bowled over like tenpins, so that when he came to rest he was in the centre of a pile of heaving bodies, and of threshing and swaying arms and legs, like a football player downed after a long run. "Get off me, you fellows!" yelled Hiram, when he could get his breath. "I'll punch some of you good and hard for this!" "And you'll get punched yourself if you don't take your feet out of my face!" retorted Peaches, who was one of the few pupils not afraid of the bully. "Where's that Joe Matson? I've got a score to settle with him," went on Hiram, as he struggled to his feet, and disentangled himself from the mass of snow-warriors. "You'll have one to settle with me if you knock me down again!" cried Teeter Nelson, as he tried to shake some snow out from inside his collar. It was melting and running down his back in little cold streams. "What do you mean by playing that way?" demanded Teeter, who had not seen the impending fight between Joe and Hiram. "Why don't you stay inside your own fort, and not make a human battering ram of yourself?" "You mind your own business!" snapped Hiram with an ugly look. "I slipped and fell, or else Joe Matson pushed me. Wait until I get hold of him." With a look of anger on his face, Hiram turned and went swarming up the outer wall of the fort. At the top stood Joe, waiting, and the lad's face showed no signs of fear, though he was a trifle pale. Though Hiram was larger, and evidently stronger than Joe, our hero was not afraid. He was debating in his mind whether it would not be better to rush to the ground below, where he would have a better chance if it came to an out-and-out-fight. Yet Joe had a certain advantage on top of the snow wall, for he could easily push Hiram down. Yet this was not his idea of a contest of that kind. "I'll fix you, Matson!" muttered the bully. "I'll teach you to push me down! You might have broken my arm or leg," he added in an injured tone. "I didn't push you!" retorted our hero. "You tried to hit me and missed. Then you fell." "That's right!" chimed in Peaches, amid a silence, for the general snowball fight had ceased in anticipation of another kind of an encounter. Hiram balanced himself half way up the white wall. "What did you smash me in the face with a snowball for?" he demanded. "We made it up that no one was to aim at another fellow's face at close range, and you know it." "Of course I know it," answered Joe. "But that rule applied to hard balls, and I didn't use one. I threw a soft ball at you, and you know why I did it, too. I'll let Luke Fodick have one, too, if he does it again." "Does what again?" sneered the bully's crony. "Use icy balls. I saw you and Hiram take some frozen ones from that box," and Joe pointed to the secret supply of ammunition. "Some of our fellows were hit and that's why I threw in your face, Hiram. Now, if you want to fight I'm ready for you," and Joe stood well balanced on top of the wall, awaiting the approach of his enemy. Somehow the fighting spirit was oozing out of Hiram. He felt sure that he could whip Joe in a battle on level ground, but when his opponent stood above him, and when it was evident that Joe could deliver a blow before Hiram could, with the probability that it would send the attacker sliding down the wall again, the bully began to see that discretion was the better part of valor. "Do you want to fight?" demanded Hiram, in that tone which sometimes means that the questioner would be glad to get a negative answer. "I'm not aching for it," replied Joe slowly. "But I'm not going to run away. If you like I'll come down, but you can come up if you want to," and he smiled at Hiram. "You only got what you deserved, you know." "That's right," chimed in Teeter. "You hadn't any right to use frozen balls, Hiram." "Sure not!" came in a menacing chorus from Joe's crowd of lads. "Well, they weren't frozen very hard," mumbled Hiram. "I only threw a few, anyhow, and you've got more fellows than we have." "Because we captured some of yours--yes," admitted Joe. "Well, all right then," answered the bully with no good grace. "But if you throw at my face again, at such close range, Joe Matson, I'll give you the best licking you ever had." "Two can play at that game," was Joe's retort. "I'm ready any time you are." "Why don't you go at him now, and clean him up?" asked Luke Fodick, making his way to where Hiram stood. "If you don't he'll be saying he backed you to a standstill. Go at him, Hiram." "I've a good notion to," muttered the bully. He measured with his eye the distance between himself and Joe, and wondered if he could cover it in a rush, carry his opponent off his feet, and batter and pummel him as they rolled down the fort wall together. "Go on!" urged Luke. "I--I guess I will!" spoke Hiram desperately. Then from the outer fringe of the attacking crowd there arose a cautious warning. "Cheese it! Here comes old Sixteen!" Professor Rodd was approaching and the lads well knew that he was bitterly opposed to fights, and would at once report any who engaged in them. "Come on! Let's finish the snow fight!" cried Teeter. "Get back in your fort, Hiram, and the rest of you, and we'll soon capture it." "All right," said the bully in a low voice. Then looking at Joe he said: "This isn't the end of it; not by a long shot, Matson. I'll get square with you yet." "Just as you choose," answered Joe, as he rallied his lads to the attack again. Then the snow ball fight went on, with Professor Rodd an interested onlooker. Joe's boys finally won, capturing the fort; but the real zest had been taken out of the battle by the unpleasant incident, and the boys no longer fought with jolly good-will. "Ah, that is what I like to see," remarked the Latin professor, as the lads, having finished the game, strolled away from the fort which had been sadly battered and disrupted by the attack on it. "Nothing like good, healthy out-door exercise to fit the mind for the classics. I'm sure you will all do better in Latin and Greek for this little diversion." "He's got another think coming as far as I'm concerned," whispered Teeter to Joe. "I haven't got a line of my Cæsar." "This is certainly what I like to see," went on the instructor. "No hard feelings, yet I venture to say you all fought well, and hard. It is most delightful." "It wouldn't have been quite so delightful if you'd have come along a few minutes later and seen a real fight," murmured Peaches. "Would you have stood up to Hiram, Joe?" "I sure would. I was ready for him, though I don't want to be unfriendly to any of the fellows here. But I couldn't stand for what he did. Oh, I'd have fought him all right, even at the risk of a whipping, or of beating him, and having him down on me all the while I'm here." "I guess he's down on you all right as it is," ventured George Bland. "And it's too bad, too." "Oh, I don't know as I care particularly," spoke Joe. "I thought I heard you say you wanted to play ball when the Spring season opened," said George. "So I do, but what has Hiram Shell got to do with it?" "Lots, as you'll very soon learn," put in Teeter. "Hiram is the head of the ball club--the manager--I guess you forgot that, and he runs things. If he doesn't want a fellow to play--why, that fellow doesn't play--that's all. That's what George means." "Yes," assented George. "And Hiram is sure down on you after what you did to him to-day, Joe." The young pitcher stood still. Many thoughts came to him. He felt a strange sinking sensation, as if he had suddenly lost hope. He dwelt for a moment on his great ambition, to be the star pitcher on the school nine, as he had been on the nine at home. "Well, I guess it's too late to worry about it now," remarked Joe after a bit. "I'm sorry--no; I'm not either!" he cried, with sudden energy. "I'd do the same thing over again if I had to, and if Hiram Shell wants to keep me off the nine he can do it!" "That's the way to talk!" cried Teeter, clapping Joe on the back. CHAPTER V THE TABLES TURNED "Well, Joe, what do you think about it?" Tom Davis glanced at his chum across the room as he asked this question. It was several hours after the snow battle, and the two lads were studying, or making a pretense at it. "Think about what, Tom?" "Oh, you know what I mean--what happened to-day, and how it's going to affect your chances for the nine. They look rather slim, don't they?" "Well, Tom, I don't mind admitting that they do. I didn't know Hiram was such a high-mucky-muck in baseball here. But there's no use crying over spilled milk. He and I would have had a clash sooner or later, anyhow, and it might as well be first as last." "It's too blamed bad though," went on Tom. "Yes," agreed Joe, "especially as I picked out Excelsior Hall because their nine had so many victories to its credit, and because it had a good reputation. That's what partly induced you to come here, too, I guess." "Well, yes, in a way. Of course I like baseball, but I'm not so crazy after it as you are. Maybe that's why I'm not such a good player. If I can hold down first, or play out in the field, it suits me; but you----" "I want to be pitcher or nothing," interrupted Joe with a smile, "but I'm afraid I'm a long way from the box now." "Yes, from what I can hear, Hiram has the inside track in the baseball game. He's manager chiefly because he puts up a lot of money for the team, and because his friends, what few he has, are officers in the organization." "Who's captain?" asked Joe. "Maybe I could induce him to let me play even if Hiram is down on me." "Nothing doing there," replied Tom quickly. "Luke Fodick is captain, or, rather he was last year, I hear, and he's slated for the same position this season. Luke and Hiram are as thick as such fellows always are. When Hiram is hit Luke does the boo-hoo act for him. No, Luke will be down on you as much as his crony is. But maybe we can get up a second nine, and play some games on our own hook!" "None of that!" Joe exclaimed quickly. "I'm not an insurgent. I play with the regulars or not at all. They'd be saying all sorts of things against me if you and I tried to start an opposition team." "That's so. Still it mightn't be a bad idea, under the circumstances, to have another team, if it wasn't for what the school would say." "What do you mean?" "Why, Excelsior got dumped in the interscholastic league last season. They play for the blue banner you know--a sort of prize trophy--and it was won by Morningside Academy, which now holds it. That's why I say it might be a good thing to have some more ginger in the team here. I know you could put it in, after the way you pitched on the Silver Stars when they licked the Resolutes." "Well, it can't be done I'm afraid," Joe rejoined. "There can only be one first team in a school, and I don't want to disrupt things or play second fiddle. If I can't get on the nine I'll have to stay off, that's all. But it's going to be mighty tough to sit still and watch the other fellows play, and all the while just itching to get hold of the ball--mighty tough," and Joe gazed abstractedly about the room. "I wish I could help you, old man, but I can't," said Tom. "I suppose this clash with Hiram had to come but I do wish it had held off until after the season opened. Once you were on the nine you could show the fellows what stuff you had in your pitching arm, and then Hiram and Luke could do their worst, but they couldn't get you off the team." "That's nice of you to say, but I don't know about it," remarked Joe. "Well, I'm about done studying. I wish----" But he did not finish the sentence, for there came a knock on the door--a pre-arranged signal in a certain code of raps, showing that one of their classmates stood without. "Wait a minute," called Tom, as he went to open the door. His quick view through the crack showed the smiling faces of Teeter and Peaches, and there was an audible sigh of relief from Joe's roommate. For Tom had fallen behind in his studies of late, and had been warned that any infractions of the rules might mean his suspension for a week or two. "Gee, you took long enough to open the door," complained Teeter, "especially considering what we have with us." "Don't you mean 'whom' you have with you?" asked Joe, nodding toward Peaches. "No, I mean 'what,'" insisted Teeter with a grin as he unbuttoned his coat and brought into view several pies, and a couple of packages done up in paper. "Oh, that's the game, is it?" asked Joe with a laugh. "And there's more to it," added Peaches, as he produced two bottles from the legs of his trousers. "This is the best strawberry pop that can be bought. We'll have a feast as is a feast; eh, fellows?" "Lock the door!" exclaimed Tom, and he did it himself, being nearest to it. "There may be confiscating spirits abroad in the land to-night." "Old Sixteen is abroad, anyhow," spoke Teeter with a laugh, "but I guess we'll be safe. I have a scheme, if worst comes to worst." "What is it?" asked Joe. "You'll see when the time comes--if it does. 'Now, on with the dance--let joy be unconfined!' Open the pop, Peaches, and don't sample it until we're all ready. Got any glasses, you fellows? This is a return game for the treat you gave us the other night." "Then we'll find the glasses all right," spoke Joe with a laugh. "But what's your game, not to let old Sixteen catch us at this forbidden midnight feast? Have you dummies in your beds?" "Not a dum. But watch my smoke." From the parcels he carried, Teeter produced what looked to be books--books, as attested by the words on their covers--books dealing with Latin, and the science of physics. "There are our plates," he said as he laid the books down on the table. Then Joe and Tom saw that the books were merely covers pasted over a sort of box into which a whole pie could easily be put. "Catch the idea," went on Teeter. "We are eating in here, which is against the rules, worse luck. But, perchance, some monitor or professor knocks unexpectedly. Do we have to hustle and scramble to conceal our refreshments? Answer--we do not. What do we do?" "Answer," broke in Peaches. "We merely slip our pie or sandwiches or whatever it happens to be, inside our 'books,' and go right on studying. Catch on?" "I should say we did!" exclaimed Joe. "That's great!" "But what about the bottles of strawberry pop?" asked Tom. "We can't hide them in the fake books." "No, I've another scheme for that," went on Teeter. "Show 'em, Peaches." Thereupon Peaches proceeded to extract the corks from the bottles of liquid refreshment. From the packages Teeter had brought he took some other corks. They had glass tubes through them, two tubes for each cork. And on one tube in each cork was a small rubber hose. "There!" exclaimed Teeter as Peaches put the odd corks in the bottles. "We can pour out the pop with neatness and dispatch into our glasses and at the same time, should any one unexpectedly enter, why--we are only conducting an experiment in generating oxygen or hydrogen gas. The bottles are the retorts, and we can pretend our glasses are to receive the gas. How's that?" "All to the horse radish!" cried Joe in delight. "Then proceed," ordered Teeter with a laugh; and when all was in readiness each lad sat with a fake book near him, into which he could slip his piece of pie at a moment's warning, while on the table stood the bottles of pop with the tubes and hose extending from their corks--truly a most scientific-looking array of flasks and glassware. "Now let's talk," suggested Teeter, biting generously into a pie. "That was a great fight we had to-day, all right." "And there might have been one of a different kind," added Peaches. "Hear anything more from Hiram, Joe?" "No, I don't expect to--until the next time, and then I suppose we'll have it out." "I guess Joe's goose is cooked as far as getting on the nine is concerned," ventured Tom. "Sure thing," agreed Peaches. "Yet we're going to need a new pitcher," went on Teeter. "Probably two of 'em?" "How's that?" asked Tom interestedly. "Why Rutherford, our star man of last year, graduated, and he's gone to Princeton or Yale. Madison, the substitute who was pretty good in a pinch game, graduated, too; but we thought he was coming back for an extra course in Latin. I heard to-day that he isn't, and so that means we'll have to have two new box-men. There might be a show for Joe." "Forget it!" advised Peaches. "Not the way Hiram and Luke feel. They went off by themselves right after supper to-night, and I heard them saying something about Joe here, but I couldn't catch what it was. Oh, they're down on him all right, for Joe backed Hiram to a standstill to-day, and that hasn't happened to the bully in a blue moon." "Oh, well, I guess I can live if I don't get on the nine my first season here," spoke Joe. "I'll keep on trying though." Thus the talk went on, chiefly about baseball, and gradually the strawberry pop was lowered in the bottles, and the pie was nearly consumed. "Guess you had all your trouble for nothing, Teeter," remarked Tom. "We aren't going to be interrupted to-night." Hardly had he spoken than there was the faint rattle of the door knob. It was as if some one had tried it to see if the portal was unlocked before knocking. Slight as the noise was, the lads heard it. "Quick! On the job!" whispered Teeter. He crammed the rest of his pie into the fake book, as did the others. "Study like blazes!" was Teeter's next order. There came a knock at the door. "Young gentlemen have you any visitors?" demanded the ominous voice of Professor Rodd. Teeter placed the ends of the rubber tubes one in each of two glasses before Joe could answer. "I heard voices in there--more than two voices," went on the Latin instructor grimly, "and I demand that you open the door before I send for Dr. Fillmore and the janitor." Tom slid to the portal and unlocked it. Professor Rodd stepped into the room and his stern gaze took in the two visitors. But he also saw something else that surprised him. On the table was apparatus that very much resembled some used for experiments in the physics class. And, wonder of wonders, each of the four lads held a book in his hand--a book that the merest glance showed to be either a Latin grammar or a treatise on chemistry. "What--why----?" faltered the professor. "_Aliqui--aliquare--aliqua_," recited Teeter in a sing-song declension voice. "_Aliquorum--aliquarum--aliquorum._" Then he pretended to look up suddenly, as if just aware of the presence of the instructor. "Oh, good evening, Professor Rodd," said Teeter calmly. "What does this mean?" exclaimed the teacher. "Don't you know it is against the rules for students to visit in each others' rooms after hours without permission?" "I knew it was--that is for anything but study," replied Teeter frankly. "I didn't think you minded if we helped each other with our Latin." Oh! what an innocent look was on his face! "Oh!--er--um--and you are studying Latin?" asked the professor, while a pleased smile replaced his frown. "Yes, Professor," put in Peaches. "And I can't seem to remember, nor find, what the neuter plural accusative of 'some' is. I have gone as far as _aliquos--aliquas_, but----" "_Aliqua--aliqua!_" exclaimed the Professor quickly. "You ought not to forget that. We had it in class the other day." "Oh, yes, so we did!" exclaimed Teeter. "I just remember now; don't you, Joe?" "Yes," murmured Joe, wondering whether or not they had turned the tables on the teacher. "I am glad to see you so studious," went on Mr. Rodd. "And I see you do not neglect your physics, either. Ah--er--what is the red liquid in the bottles," and he looked at what remained of the strawberry pop. It was the question Tom and Joe had feared would be asked. But Teeter was equal to the emergency. "Professor," he asked innocently, "isn't there some rule regarding _quis_ used in the indefinite in connection with _aliquis_?" "Yes, and I am glad you spoke of that," said Mr. Rodd quickly, rubbing his hands, much pleased that he had a chance to impart some Latin information. "_Quis_ indefinite is found in the following compounds: _aliquis_--someone; _si quis_, if any; _ne quis_, lest any; _ecquis_, _num quis_, whether any. I am very glad you brought that up. I will speak of it in class to-morrow. But I must go now." The boys began to breathe easier and Teeter, who had been whispering declensions to himself, left off. "Oh, by the way," spoke the Professor, as if he had just thought of it: "I don't mind you boys studying together, if you don't stay up too late. But it is better to ask permission. However, I will speak to Dr. Fillmore about it, and it will be all right from now on. I am pleased that some of my students are so painstaking. I wish more were." With a bow he left them and they tried not to give way to their exultation until he was far down the corridor. "Say, talk about pulling off a stunt! We did it all right!" exclaimed Joe. "I should say yes," agreed the others. CHAPTER VI THE BULLY SNEERS "Well, you ought to get out a patent on this," remarked Joe, when they resumed the eating of the pie and the drinking of the pop, following the withdrawal of the professor. "You sure had," agreed Tom. "Let Joe give you some points. His father has taken out several patents." "Oh, I guess we'll make it free for all--any fellow is welcome to the idea," replied Teeter. "So your dad's an inventor, eh, Matson?" "Yes, harvester machinery--his latest was a corn reaper and binder, and he nearly lost it," and Joe briefly told how Isaac Benjamin and Rufus Holdney had nearly ruined his father, as related in detail in "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars." "Ever hear anything more of those fellows?" asked Tom, following the recital of the schemes of the plotters. "No, they seem to have disappeared," answered Joe. "They cleared out after dad won his case in the courts. But he's on the watch for them, he told me. His business isn't all settled yet, and there is some danger. But I guess Benjamin or Holdney won't bother him, though some other rascals may." "Anything more to eat?" asked Peaches, during the pause that followed. "Say, what are you, a human refrigerator?" demanded Teeter. "I couldn't carry any more pie if I tried." "It'll be our treat next time," observed Joe. "Why didn't George Bland come with you?" "Had to bone on trigonometry, I guess," replied Peaches. "Does he play on the team?" Joe wanted to know. "Yes, we all do. George is short, I'm on third, and Teeter holds down first sometimes. But you never can tell what Hiram is going to do. He and Luke are always making shifts, and that's what lost us the Blue Banner last season. The fellows would no more than get familiar with their positions than Hiram would shift 'em. Oh, he runs things to suit himself." The hour of ten boomed out from the big school clock and the visitors left. "Spring fever!" exclaimed Joe one day, as he and Tom came from a physics lecture. "Yes, I've got it, too," admitted Tom. "It's in the air, and I'm glad of it. What's that Shakespeare says about 'now is the winter of our discontent?'" "Oh, cheese it! Don't begin spouting poetry. Besides I'm not sure it was Shakespeare, and I don't give a hang. All I know is that Spring is coming, and soon they'll begin getting the diamond in shape." "Precious lot of good that will do you--or me, either. Hiram is as down on me as he is on you." "I know it, and I was going to speak of that, Tom. There's no use in your losing a chance to play on the nine just because I'm on the outs. Why don't you cut loose from me? You can get another room, and maybe if you do----" "Hold on!" cried Tom quickly. "Do you want me to go, old man?" and he looked sharply at Joe. "Nonsense! Of course you know I don't." "Then drop that kind of talk, unless you want a fight on your hands. You and I stick together, Hiram Shell or no Hiram Shell--and Luke Fodick." "Well, I didn't know," spoke Joe softly. "Here, come on; let's have a catch," proposed Tom. "I've got an old ball that we used in one of the Star games. Get over there and sting some in to me. Wait until I get my glove on," and he adjusted his mitt. "Jove! This is like old times!" exclaimed Joe, as he lovingly fingered the horsehide--dirty and stained as it was from many a clouting and drive into the tall grass and daisies. "I wish we could go and see a game, even if we couldn't play." "Same here," came from Tom, as he crouched to receive the ball his chum was about to deliver. Joe wound up and sent in a "hot" one. It landed squarely in Tom's glove for the first-baseman (a position he sometimes had played on the Stars) was not a half bad catcher. "How was that?" asked Joe. "Pretty good. Not quite over the plate, but you can get 'em there. Let 'em come about so," and Tom indicated a stone that would serve for home. "Watch this," requested Joe as he wound up again and let drive. "A beaut!" cried Tom. "Give me some more that way, and you'll have the man out." "Say, what are you fellows doing?" demanded a voice, and the two chums looked up to see Hiram Shell gazing at them with mingled expressions on his fleshy face. "Oh, having a little practice," replied Joe easily. The feeling between himself and the bully had nearly worn off, and they were on speaking, if not on friendly terms. "Practice for what?" demanded Hiram. "Well, the baseball season opens pretty soon," went on Joe, "and Tom and I sort of felt the fever in our veins to-day. Want to have a catch?" "No," half snarled Hiram. "Say, did you fellows play ball before you came here?" he demanded. "Sure," put in Tom. "Joe was one of the best pitchers on the Silver Stars." "The Silver Stars? Never heard of 'em!" sneered Hiram. "Oh, it was only an amateur nine," Joe admitted modestly. "Tom here was first baseman, and we had some good country games." "Huh! Maybe you came _here_ to play baseball!" suggested Hiram with a leer. "Seems to me I heard that you had some such notion." "Well, I have," asserted Joe confidently. "I like the game, and I'd give a good deal to get on the nine. So would Tom, I guess." "First base is filled," snapped Hiram. "How about pitcher," asked Tom eagerly, anxious to put in a good word for his chum. "I hear you need a new pitcher." "Oh, you did; eh?" exclaimed the bully with an unpleasant laugh. "Well, you've got another 'hear' coming. Besides, if there wasn't another pitcher in the country, you wouldn't get a chance, Matson!" "No?" queried Joe easily. "No, and a dozen times no! What, you pitch? Say, you may have been all right on a sand-lots team, but there's some class to Excelsior Hall. We don't want any dubs on our nine. You think you might pitch on _my_ team? I guess nixy! We want some fellow who can deliver the goods." "Joe can!" exclaimed Tom eagerly. "Aw, forget it!" sneered Hiram. "Why, you'd be knocked out of the box first inning with some of the teams we play. You pitch! Ha! Ha! That's pretty rich. I'll have to tell the fellows about this!" "I didn't ask you to let me pitch," said Joe quietly though an angry spot burned in either cheek. "No, and you'd better not!" snapped Hiram. "You pitch! Ha! Ha! It makes me laugh," and with a sneering look at Joe the bully strode off, chuckling unpleasantly. CHAPTER VII A CLASH WITH LUKE For several minutes Joe stood staring after the baseball manager. The young pitcher's arm hung listlessly at his side. There was a look on his face that would have been sad, had Joe been that kind of a lad--showing his feelings needlessly. But our hero was full of spunk and grit, and, though Hiram's unnecessarily cruel words hurt him grievously, Joe shut his teeth with a firmer grip, squared his shoulders, drew himself up, and then he smiled at Tom. "Well, of all the mean, unmitigated, low-down, cantankerous, sneaking, bulldozing and----" sputtered the first baseman. "Hold on!" exclaimed his companion. "You'll blow up if you go on that way, Tom. Besides, save some of those big words for a time when you may need 'em." "Need 'em? Say if I don't need 'em now I never will. I wish I had thought to get rid of a few when that bully was here." "You'd only gotten into trouble. Better keep still about it." "I can't Joe. Just think of it! We came here to play ball, and the first crack out of the box that fellow goes and tells us we can't." "Well, I don't know as I have any particular right to play on the nine here." "Yes, you have, the best right in the world! I'll bet they haven't got a pitcher here who can stand up to you, and I'm going to tell that sneaking bully so, too," and Tom started off after the departing Hiram. "No, don't!" cried Joe quickly. "It will only make matters worse." "But you want to pitch; don't you?" "Sure, but that would be the best way in the world to insure that I wouldn't. Hiram Shell is just the kind of a fellow who, if he thinks a chap wants anything, is going to do his best--or worst--to stop him." "What are you going to do then?" "I'm going to lie low and saw wood. The baseball season hasn't opened yet. The team isn't made up. Nobody knows who is going to play and----" "Well, Hiram as good as told us two fellows who weren't going to play," interrupted Tom. "That's you and I." "Wait a bit," advised Joe. "I was going to say that when the season has started and several games have been played there may be a change. I may get a chance to play then, just as I did on the Stars. I'm willing to wait. The Summer is long, and there'll be more than one game. Just say nothing." "Well, if you say so, I suppose I'll have to," answered his chum, "but it's mighty hard to keep still when a fellow like Hiram Shell rubs your nose in the dirt, and then kicks you in the bargain. He'll have to ask me to play now. I won't volunteer!" and Tom shook his fist in the direction of the manager. "Yes, he'll have to get down on his knees and----" "Precious little danger of that," remarked Joe with a laugh. He was feeling more like himself now, though the memory of the bully's sneering words rankled. They had cut deep. "Guess there's no use catching any longer," resumed Tom after a pause. "I don't exactly feel like it." "Me either. I guess we've gotten over our touch of spring fever," and Joe's voice was a bit despondent. Really, he cared more about what Hiram had said than he liked to admit, even to himself. He had had high hopes when he left the Riverside High School to come to Excelsior Hall that he would at once become a member of the nine. His ambition, of course, was to pitch, but he would have accepted any position--even out in the field, for the sake of being on the school team. Now it seemed that he was fated not even to be one of the substitutes. "What are you fellows up to?" asked a voice suddenly, and the two chums turned to behold Peaches and Teeter walking toward them. "Oh, we were having a catch," replied Tom, "until we got called down for it. It seems you have to have a permit at Excelsior to indulge in a little private practice," he added sarcastically. "What's up your back now?" asked Teeter. "Yes, who's been rubbing your fur the wrong way?" Peaches wanted to know. "What's riled Sister?" "Who do you reckon would, if not Bully Shell?" asked Tom. "He's the limit," and he rapidly told how Hiram had sneered at Joe's efforts, and had said that he never would be on the team. "Well, it's too bad, for Hiram has the inside track," admitted Teeter. "I'm as sorry about it as you are, and so are a lot of the fellows. The trouble is that the athletic committee is too big. There are a lot of lads on it who don't care a rap for baseball or football, who don't even play tennis, yet they have a vote, and it's their votes that keep Hiram as manager, and Luke as captain." "Can't it be changed?" Tom wanted to know. Joe was maintaining a discrete silence, for he did not want to urge his own qualifications as a pitcher. Tom was eager to fight for his chum. "Well, it's been tried," spoke Peaches, "but Hiram has his own set with him--a set that isn't the sporting element of Excelsior by a good lot, and their votes keep him in. He spends his money freely and toadies to them, and they fairly black his shoes. Luke Fodick, too, helps out. He has his crowd and they're all with him. I tell you it's rotten, but what are you going to do?" "I know what I'm going to do if I stay here!" declared Tom. "What?" demanded Peaches and Teeter eagerly. "I'm not going to tell until I'm ready to spring it," said Tom, "and when I do I think you'll see some fur fly. How soon before the school team is picked?" "Well, they ought to get at it pretty soon now," answered Teeter. "There is a meeting of the athletic committee some time next week, and a manager and captain will be elected. It's always done that way here, though in some places they do it right at the close of the season. But it has always been a cut-and-dried affair as long as Hiram has been here. He got in--he and Luke--and they've stayed in ever since." "Can we go to that athletic meeting?" asked Tom. "Oh, yes," said Teeter quickly. "It's open to every lad in the school, but lots don't take the trouble to go,--they know how it will turn out." "Well, maybe there'll be a different turn to it this time," predicted Tom. "I'm afraid you've got another guess coming," was the retort of Peaches; and then the four friends strolled toward the school buildings. "What do you say to a scrub game?" asked Teeter. "I'm willing!" said Joe eagerly; and so it was arranged. The school diamond was not in very good shape, but two teams, of seven lads on a side, gathered for the first impromptu baseball game of the season the following afternoon. Tom, Joe, Peaches and Teeter tried to get more out, but there were various excuses, and it might be noted that aside from Teeter and Peaches not one of the former regular nine appeared. "I guess they're afraid Hiram will release them if they play with us," commented Tom. "Maybe so," admitted Teeter. "George Bland would come only he had some experimental work to finish. George isn't any more afraid of Hiram than we are." "Well, let's play ball," suggested Joe; and the game started. Joe occupied the box for his side, an honor that came easily to him since none of the others had had any experience as a twirler of the horsehide. Our hero felt a little nervous as he took his place, for he knew he was out of practice. Also he felt that he was being watched, not only by his particular friends, but by others. And some of them might not be friendly eyes--nay, some might be spying on behalf of Hiram Shell. But Joe pulled himself well together, laughed at his idle fears, and sent in a swift curve. It broke cleanly and completely fooled the batter. "Say, that's the way to get 'em over!" cried Teeter admiringly from behind the bat as the ball landed in his mitt. "Do it some more!" "I'll try," laughed Joe, and he repeated the trick. The man was easily struck out, and the next at the bat fell for a like fate, but the third found Joe's curve and swatted the ball for two bags. "Oh, well, Joe just allowed that so you fellows wouldn't get discouraged," exclaimed Teeter as an excuse for his pitcher. "Get ready to slaughter the next man, Joe." And Joe did. He was delighted to find that his ability to curve the ball, and send it swiftly in, had not deserted him during the long winter of comparative inactivity. He knew that he could "come back with the goods," and there was a feeling of hope welling up within him, that, after all, there might come a chance for him to pitch on the Excelsior nine. The game went on, not regular, nor played according to the rules by any means. But it was lots of fun, and some of the lads discovered their weak points, while others found themselves doing better than they expected. Joe's side won by a small margin, and just as the winning run came in our hero was aware of a figure walking toward the bench on which the side was sitting. "Huh! Starting off rather early, ain't you?" demanded a voice, and they turned to behold Luke Fodick. "Who said you fellows could use the diamond, anyhow?" "We didn't ask anybody," retorted Teeter with a snap. "Well, you want to--after this," was the surly command. "I'm captain of the nine and what I say goes. I'm not going to have the diamond all torn up before the season opens, see! I'm captain!" "Not yet," spoke Peaches quietly. "The election isn't until next week." "What's that got to do with it? You ain't thinking of running opposition to me; are you?" "No," and a bright spot burned on the fair cheeks of the light-complexioned lad. "Because if you are you'll have a fight on your hands," threatened Luke. "Who's been pitching?" he asked, his gaze roving over the crowd of lads. "I was for our side," replied Joe quietly. "Oh, you--yes I heard about you!" exclaimed Luke with a grating laugh. "You're the fellow who wants to pitch on the nine; ain't you? Well, you want to get that bee out of your bonnet, or you may get stung, see? Hiram told me about you. Why, you are only an amateur. We want the best here at Excelsior. By Jove, it's queer how tacky some of you high school kids get as soon as you come to a real institution. Talk about nerve, I----" Joe fairly leaped from the bench. In another stride he confronted Luke. "Look here!" cried our hero, anger getting the best of him for the time being. "I've taken all of that kind of talk I'm going to either from you or Bully Shell! Now you keep still or I'll make you. I'll give you the best licking you ever had; and I'll do it right here and now if you say another word about my pitching! I didn't come here to take any of your sneers, and I don't intend to. Now you put that in your pipe, and smoke it, and then close up and stay closed," and shaking his finger so close to the astonished Luke that it hit the buttons on his coat, Joe turned back and sat down. CHAPTER VIII "WHO WILL PITCH?" For a moment there was silence--a sort of awed silence--and Teeter uttered a faint cheer. "That's the way to talk!" he exclaimed. "You're all right!" declared Peaches. Luke turned and glared at them. Afterward several lads said the bully's toady looked dazed, as if he did not understand what had happened. "He'll go tell Hiram now, and he'll be laying for you, Joe," was Tom's opinion. "Let him. I'm ready to meet that bully whenever he is, and I'm not afraid, either." "That's the way to talk!" exclaimed Teeter admiringly. "If Hiram got one good licking he wouldn't be quite so uppish. But I'm afraid this will put you on the fritz for the nine, Joe." "I don't care if it does. I'm going to let 'em know what I think." Yet in the quietness of his room that night Joe rather regretted what he had done. He realized that he might have turned off Luke's insult with a laugh. "For if I had done so I'd stand a better chance of getting on the nine," mused Joe. Then a different feeling came to him. "No, I couldn't do that either," he reflected. "I'm not built that way. I'm not going to lie down and be walked on, nine or no nine, and I'm going to find some way to play ball, at that!" There was a determined look on Joe's face, and he squared his shoulders in a way that meant business. If Hiram and his crony could have seen our hero then they might not have been so sure of what they would do to him. "So that's how he acted, eh?" asked the bully, when his crony had reported to him what Joe had said. "Well, he'll get _his_ all right. He'll never play ball here as long as I am manager." "No, nor while I'm captain," added Luke. "Nor that friend of his either, Tom Davis." "That's right; we'll make it so hot here for both of 'em that they'll leave at the end of the term," predicted Hiram. What a pity he did not know that Joe and Tom were not of the "leaving" kind. The hotter it was the better they liked it, for they both came of fighting stock. But with all his nerve, and not regretting in the least what he had done, Joe was a bit uneasy as the time for the baseball organization meeting drew near. He hoped against hope that somehow he might get on the team, but he did not see how. He talked with other students, and they all told him that Hiram, Luke and their crowd ran things to suit themselves. "But I've got something up my sleeve," declared Tom. "There may be a surprise at the meeting." "What are you up to?" asked Joe. "Nothing rash, I hope." "You wait and see," his chum advised. "I'm not saying anything." As the days went by, Tom might have been seen talking in confidential whispers to many students. He made lots of new friends, and it was remarked that they were neither of the "sporting set," nor the crowd that trained with Hiram and Luke. To all questions Tom turned a deaf ear, and went on his way serenely. It was almost a foregone conclusion as to who would constitute the nine, with the exception of the pitchers. As already explained, the students who, as regular and substitute, had filled the box the previous season had left, and it was up to Hiram and Luke to find new pitchers. Hiram did not play on the nine, being content to manage it, but Luke was catcher and some of the friends of Joe and Tom filled regular places. "How do you dope it out?" asked Tom of Peaches one day, shortly before the organization meeting. "Well, it'll be about like this," was the reply. "We will all gather in the gymnasium--as many as want to--and Hiram will be in the chair. He'll call the meeting to order and state what we're there for, which everyone knows already, without being told. Then he'll ask for nominations for secretary, and one of his friends will go in. Then he'll spout about what we ought to do to win this season, and how to do it, and say we're sure to be at the head of the league and win the Blue Banner and all like that. "Then he'll ask for nominations for players and they'll be voted on; we'll have a little chinning about money matters, Hiram may say who the first few games will be with, and it will be all over but the shouting." "Well, won't lots of fellows have a chance to nominate players, or won't the players themselves ask to be given a chance?" "Oh, yes, but what's the use? It's all cut and dried." "Who'll be on the nine?" "I can pretty near tell you, all but the pitcher. And that will lay between Frank Brown and Larry Akers--both friends of Hiram. Luke will catch--that's a cinch. George Bland will be in centre-field. I may be at first, though I doubt it." "Why?" "Oh, because I dared to say Joe was right for answering Luke back that time. I'll probably be sent out in the daisies, but I don't care, for with Luke catching it's no easy matter to hold down the first bag. He throws so rotten high. Then Teeter will be on second. Nat Pierson on third, Harry Lauter in right, Jake Weston at short, and Charlie Borden in left. That's how it will be." "And no show for Joe?" "I can't see any, nor for you, either." "Oh, I don't care about myself, but I'm interested in Joe. I _do_ wish he could pitch." "I'm afraid he can't," answered Peaches with a sigh. "I'd almost be willing to give my place to him, but I'm not altogether sure that I'll get on the nine, though I'm going to make a big fight for it." "Oh, Joe wouldn't think of doing anything like that!" objected Tom. "But maybe my plan will work. If it does, Hiram won't have so much to say as he does now." "I hope to gracious you can work something. It's rotten the way things are now, and it is our own fault, too. But I'm afraid it's too late to change. No, you can figure that the nine is already made up between Hiram and Luke--that is, all but pitcher." "Then I think Joe has a chance!" exclaimed Tom. "I'm not going to give up until the last minute. I'm working hard for him, but don't say anything to him about it. I want to surprise him." "I'm afraid it will be a disagreeable surprise," commented Peaches, as he left his friend. The time for the meeting was at hand and on all sides there seemed to be but one question: "Who will pitch?" There were many shakes of heads and much speculation, but Hiram and Luke kept their own counsel. CHAPTER IX TOM'S PLAN FAILS "The meeting will come to order!" called Hiram. "I'll cuff some of you fellows over the head if you don't sit down." It was rather an unparliamentary way of doing things, but it proved effective, and at length quiet reigned. As Peaches had said, Hiram began by stating what they were there for, and by announcing that the make-up of the nine was in order. Some unimportant business was disposed of, there were remarks from several lads about what the season might have in store, there were many determinations expressed about how well the Excelsior team would play that season, and then Hiram said: "Nominations for the team are in order. Of course we expect that there will be a lot more fellows named than we can use, but there'll probably be a weeding-out when we get at practice. The team named to-night will only be a tentative one." "Like pie!" murmured Tom. "You and Luke have it all up your sleeves." "Has the nominating committee anything to report?" asked Hiram, looking over at Luke. His crony arose. Luke was chairman of the nominating committee, as well as chairman of the committee on membership. "Your committee would recommend the following names," said Luke, and then he read off most of those named by Peaches to Tom. He did not call off his own name, however, and there was a blank opposite the positions of pitcher and left field. "Say, what's the matter, don't I play?" demanded Peaches, jumping up. "Oh, yes," answered Luke quickly. "But we haven't just decided where. I'm going to leave that with Hiram, and also the position for left field." "Well, I'll settle it right now!" exclaimed the manager. "You'll play left field, Peaches, and Charlie Borden will move up from there to first base." "What did I tell you?" murmured Peaches to Tom. "What about the stunt you were going to pull off?" "It isn't time yet. See the gang I have with me?" and Tom motioned to a lot of lads in the rear of the hall. "What is it--a rough house?" asked Peaches, and then he noticed for the first time that the athletic meeting was much better attended than usual. "Those are new members," declared Tom in a whisper. "I'm counting on turning the balance of power away from Hiram and the crowd with him. I've been canvassing the last week, and I've got a lot of fellows to join who never took an interest in sports before." "Oh, ho! So that's your game!" exclaimed Peaches. "Well, it's a good one all right." "They'll all vote for Joe for pitcher," went on Tom. "I notice that there are still two vacancies in the team," spoke Jake Weston, who had been named as shortstop. "We had such success with Luke as catcher last year, that I move that he again go behind the bat." "Second it," sung out Harry Lauter. "It has been moved and seconded," began Hiram, and there came a shout of "ayes" before he had finished. "That's the way it always is," whispered Peaches. "Luke pretends he's too modest to name himself, and some one else does it for him. Oh, the cut-and-dried program is going through all right!" "Wait and see," suggested Tom with a wink. "Are the selections of the nominating committee sanctioned?" asked Hiram. Again came a chorus of "ayes." "What about the pitcher?" asked Luke. "Will you name him, Hiram?" "Yes!" said the manager and he looked about the room until his eyes lit on those of Joe. "I'll name Frank Brown as regular pitcher with Larry Akers as substitute." Again came the chorus of confirmation. "Just as I told you," murmured Peaches. Tom was on his feet as the murmurs died away. Hiram was speaking. "That completes the regular nine," the manager said, "and it only remains to name the substitutes. I think we will let them go until you fellows have had some practice, so we can get a line on you. There's time enough. We'll begin regular practice next week, if the weather permits, and then I'll arrange for games. I have some in prospect, and the Blue Banner----" "Mr. Chairman!" interrupted Tom. "Well, what is it?" snapped Hiram. "I'm talking, and I don't want anyone to butt in." "I rise to a point of order," went on Tom, in a loud voice. "The nominations have not been closed, and I want to put in nomination the name of a friend, who is one of the best pitchers that ever----" "None of that!" cried Hiram. "Get down to business. I'll allow your point of order. Who do you name?" "Joe Matson!" cried Tom, "and----" "You can't elect him, what's the use of trying?" sneered Luke. "Maybe I can't, with your crowd, but I came here to-night with some friends of mine, new members of the athletic committee, and they'll vote for Joe, and I think we can outvote you!" cried Tom defiantly. "That's right!" yelled the lads toward whom he waved his hand. "Joe Matson for pitcher." Luke turned pale. So did Hiram as they looked at each other. This was something they had not counted on--an effective trick. "For myself and for these new members I demand a vote on the name of Joe Matson!" went on Tom, ignoring Joe's efforts to stop him. "That's right--we're for Joe!" yelled the new crowd. There were many of them, and with the usual element always ready to break away from him, Hiram knew that he would lose on the combination. "One moment!" he shouted, banging his gavel. Then he hurried over to Luke and the two conferred excitedly, while there was a near-pandemonium in the gymnasium. "I have an announcement to make!" shouted Hiram after a bit, making his way back to the platform. "It is true that you have the right to nominate any one you please--that is, a member of the athletic committee has, and members have the right to vote as they please. But I have to inform this audience that Sister Davis is not yet a fully-qualified member of this committee. That is not just yet." Hiram sneered disagreeably. "Why not? I signed my application, was properly endorsed, and paid in my dues!" cried Tom. "And so did these other fellows." "That's right," shouted his crowd in a chorus. "Very true," went on Hiram coolly. He was master of the situation now, and he knew it. "But there is a rule of this organization, which states that at the discretion of the chairman, and the manager and captain of the team, or any two of them, new members may be taken on probation for three months, and during that term of probation they have no voting power, so you see----" "That's an old rule!" "It's never been enforced!" "It's rotten!" "That's only a trick!" These were some of the cries that greeted the announcement Hiram made. "It may never have been enforced, but it's going to be _now_!" he shouted. "It was made to cover just such snap cases as this. You tried to work a trick, Tom Davis, but you got left. You and those other lads can't vote for three months, and so the team stands as originally named." "But we have no captain--your rule won't work. You said the manager, chairman and captain could apply that rule. Who is the captain?" demanded Tom, as he saw his game blocked. "Luke Fodick is captain of this nine; isn't he?" shouted Hiram, closing the last loophole. "Aye!" yelled the bully's crowd. "No!" yelled Tom's. "The ayes have it," announced the chairman, "and Luke and I agreed on enforcing that rule at this time. Besides, I am acting as chairman in place of Henry Clay, who isn't present, and I have his voting proxy, so Henry and I also agree on it, if you question the election of Luke." "That ends it," murmured Peaches in Tom's ear. "Henry Clay never does preside as chairman. He's only a figurehead for Hiram, and that's well known. Hiram always votes for him. I guess you're beaten Tom." "I'm afraid so. I wish I'd known about that rule." "I'd forgotten it myself," admitted Peaches. "It's rotten, but you can't do anything unless you outvote Hiram." The bully was smiling mockingly at Tom and Joe. The young pitcher felt rather foolish, but he gave Tom credit for originating a bold move and one that, under ordinary circumstances, would have been effective. "You may renew your nomination in three months, if you like, Sister Davis," spoke Hiram sarcastically "as you and the others will then be voting members. I believe that is about all the business to come before us to-night." And he announced the adjournment of the meeting. CHAPTER X THE BANNER PARADE Instantly following Hiram's words a hub-bub burst out in the gymnasium. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, and the crowd of boys split up into two factions. There were those who were with Joe and Tom in their contention, and who thought that they had not been given a fair opportunity. Among these were, of course, the lads who had not hitherto belonged to the athletic committee, and who had been induced by Tom to put in their applications. On the other side were what might be called the "conservatives," those who, while not exactly favoring Hiram and his high-handed methods, preferred to take the easiest way and let the old order of things prevail. Then, too, was a smaller crowd of distinct "Shellites" as Peaches dubbed them--friends and close cronies of the manager who sided with him in all things and looked upon him as a sort of hero. Chief among them, of course, was Luke Fodick, and perhaps next in line stood Charlie Borden, who had replaced Peaches at first. "It's a rotten, mean shame!" burst out Teeter as he came over to where Tom, Joe and Peaches were standing. "I'm not going to stand for it, either!" "Well, what can you do?" asked the practical Peaches. "They have it on us good and proper. There's the rule." "Well, I don't like it, but I'm going to stay here just the same," snapped Tom. "And so am I," added Joe frankly. "There's no use saying I don't care, for I do. I'd like to get on the team. But if I can't--why I'll root for 'em, that's all." "Maybe you'll be picked as one of the subs," was what Charlie Borden said. "We always have lots of them to make up the scrub nine. But frankly, Matson, I don't think you'll pitch. Frank Brown is going to make good, and if he doesn't Larry Akers will." He turned to join some of his own particular crowd, and with them continued the discussion of the unexpected turn given to the athletic meeting. Hiram and Luke were surrounded by a throng of their cronies, and from time to time there could be heard from them such remarks as: "Serves 'em good and right for trying to butt in." "What right have new fellows to try to run our affairs for us, anyhow?" "You sat on 'em proper, Hiram." "Yes, Luke and I fixed up that scheme," answered the bully, with no little pride. Joe heard, and the thought came to him that possibly there might be a split in the ranks of the lads--a school divided against itself, and on his account. He took a quick resolve. Striding over to Hiram he held out his hand, saying with a frank smile: "Hiram, don't think for a minute I'm sore. It's all right, and I haven't a word to say. I did want to get on the nine, but I realize that I am a new lad here, and maybe next year things will be different. I'm for the team first, last and always. Will you shake on it--you and Luke?" For a moment the bully eyed our hero. Luke, too, gazed at him with a sneer on his face. Then as a little murmur of admiration for Joe's conduct arose--a murmur in which some of Hiram's own friends joined--the latter knew that it was the wisest policy to be at least outwardly friendly with Joe. "All right, Matson," replied Hiram. "I guess you can come in. I'm sorry if you feel hurt about the way we run things here at Excelsior Hall, but----" "Not at all--'to the victors belong the spoils,'" quoted Joe. "Maybe you'll let me play on the scrub." "Sure, if there's a chance," put in Luke eagerly. He, too, saw which way the wind was likely to blow, and noting that Hiram had changed his conduct toward Joe it was up to the bully's toady to do the same. "You can play on the scrub all you want to," Luke added. Hiram held out his hand and, though the clasp he gave Joe might have been more friendly, our hero took the will for the deed. Luke, also, shook hands, and thus, for the time being, the threatened breach was closed. But Joe knew, and Hiram knew, that never could there be real friendship between them. Some of the lads began leaving the gymnasium now. There was more talk about the coming ball season, and some still persisted in denouncing the high-handed methods of the manager and his crowd. But in the main the feeling was smothered, due chiefly to Joe's manly act. The young pitcher even remained for a while chatting with Hiram, Luke and some of their cronies. "Say, you sure did have your nerve with you, when you shook hands with those two sneaks," remarked Tom, when he and Joe reached their room, a little later. "Yes, it did take nerve, but it was the only thing to do. I'm a thousand times obliged to you, Tom, for what you did for me, and----" "For what I didn't do for you, I guess you mean," interrupted his chum with a smile. "Well, I meant all right, but they beat us out. But I'm not done trying. Joe, you're going to pitch on the first nine of Excelsior Hall before this season is over, or I'll eat my hat." "I wish I could believe so," replied Joe with a little sigh of longing. Baseball practice formally opened the next day, which proved unexpectedly warm and springlike. The diamond was in good shape, and a crowd of lads turned out. A host of candidates did their "stunts" and Luke and Hiram "sized them up." Joe wanted to pitch on the tentative scrub nine that was picked to play against the first team, but Luke, who seemed to manage the second squad as well as the first, sent our hero out in the field, as he also did Tom. "Never mind," consoled Peaches, who was on the first team. "Luke doesn't captain the scrub when it's formed regularly, and when the fellow is picked out who is to have charge I'll speak for you, Joe." "Thanks. I would like a chance to get in the box." That the first nine had many weak spots was soon made plain to captain and manager, and, to give them credit, they at once set at work correcting them. "I'll get Dr. Rudden out to give you fellows some pointers as soon as we're in a little better shape," said Hiram, referring to the instructor who usually acted as coach. "Yes, and you fellows need it all right," said Tom in a low voice. "Everybody in the gym right after the game," ordered Hiram, during a lull in the play. "We're going to arrange about the Blue Banner parade." "What's that," asked Joe of Teeter. "Oh, every year all the teams in the Interscholastic League meet and have a parade to sort of open the season. The nine that holds the banner marches at the head, we have a band, and after that a little feed and it's jolly fun. You'll like it." "Morningside holds the banner now, doesn't she?" "Yes, worse luck. It ought to come here, and would have if Hiram and Luke had run things differently last year. But they wouldn't listen to reason. Well, I've got to play ball. See you at the meeting." The regulars won the ball game by a small margin, and then the lads trooped off to the gymnasium to the meeting. It was much more friendly and enthusiastic than the organization session had been, and arrangements were quickly made for taking part in the annual parade. "As is the custom," said Hiram, "we will all meet on the grounds of the school that holds the Blue Banner--that's Morningside, I'm sorry to say, but next season will be different. We are going to win the Blue Banner this time." "That's what he always says," murmured Peaches in Tom's ear. "So we will meet on the Morningside diamond, do the regular marching stunt and have a feed there. It will be necessary for you fellows to chip in for part of the expenses as our treasury is low just now. It won't be much. Now the parade committee will meet to talk over details, and so will the rooting crowd. Get busy now, fellows; we want to make a good showing in the parade." The Interscholastic League, of which the Blue Banner was the trophy, consisted of these schools beside Morningside Academy and Excelsior Hall: Trinity School, Woodside Hall and the Lakeview Preparatory Institute--or, more briefly the Lakeview Prep., which I shall call it. In the parade of the nines of these institutions, and the followers of them, there were always some novel features, and the lads tried to outdo each other in singing, cheering or giving their school yells. A committee generally had charge of the cheering and yelling contingents, and this body of students for Excelsior now got busy making up new war-cries. The day of the parade was a glorious one. It was Saturday, naturally, as that was the only time the students could be free. Early in the afternoon a big crowd left Excelsior Hall, the nine and the substitutes, including Joe and Tom, in their uniforms, each carrying a bat as an insignia of office. Morningside Academy was about five miles from Excelsior, and could be reached by trolley. Several special cars carried our hero and his companions. All the other marching contingents save Trinity were on hand when the Excelsior lads arrived at Morningside, and they were noisily greeted. A few minutes later the Trinity lads arrived and then pandemonium broke loose. "Say, this is great!" cried Joe, as cheer after cheer, and school-yell after school-yell, rent the air. "I guess we'll have some fun after all, Tom." "Oh, sure. It's jolly." The managers of the parade were rushing wildly to and fro, trying to get things in shape for the start. Lads who had not seen each other for some time were exchanging greetings, and the members of the various nines were talking "shop" to their hearts' content. "Get in line! Get in line!" cried the marshals. "We're going to start." The lads were to parade around the Morningside diamond, as a sort of tribute to the winning team of the league, and then go down through the town to the public square, where the yelling, cheering and singing would take place. Then they were to come back to Morningside for the feast. The band struck up a lively air and a silence fell over the crowd. Then, out from the midst of the throng came the lads of Morningside. They were to lead the line, as was their right, by virtue of being champions, and as they swung into formation Joe looked at them with critical eyes. Here was the doughty foe of his school. His gaze fell upon one sturdy lad who carried a staff--carried it proudly--and no wonder, for, floating from it was the Blue Banner, glorious in gold embroidery and silver lace--the Blue Banner of the Interscholastic League--the trophy which meant so much. "'Rah! 'Rah! 'Rah!" yelled the lads. "Three cheers for the Blue Banner!" And how those cheers welled out! The lad carrying the banner dipped it in response to the salute. Joe felt his heart strangely beating. A mist of tears came into his eyes--not tears of regret, but rather tears of joy and pride, that he belonged to the school which had a right to fight for that banner. Ah, if he could but enter that struggle himself! Slowly the Morningside lads filed to their places. Louder played the band. There were more cheers, more salutes to the blue trophy, and then the banner parade was under way. CHAPTER XI JOE HOPES AND FEARS Around the Morningside diamond marched the singing, cheering and yelling lads. The Blue Banner fluttered in the Spring breeze, and not a student in the crowd but either hoped it would stay in the possession of the present owners, or would come to his school, the desires varying according to the allegiance of the wisher. [Illustration: AROUND THE MORNINGSIDE DIAMOND MARCHED THE SINGING, CHEERING AND YELLING LADS.] It was a gala occasion for the town of Morningside, this Blue Banner parade, and the people turned out in great numbers to watch the lads. Throngs came from neighboring towns and villages, and some even from a distant city, for the boys could always be depended on to make the occasion enjoyable. The Excelsior Hall crowd did some new "stunts." Under the leadership of Luke and Hiram they rendered some odd songs and yells, and then, as they passed around the public square, Hiram executed his main surprise. The leader of Excelsior, none other than Luke Fodick, had been carrying a pole, on the top of which was a canvas bundle. It was tied about with strings in such a manner that, by pulling on one cord the wrapping would fall off, as when a statue is unveiled. To all questions as to what was on the pole under the canvas Luke and Hiram returned only evasive replies. But on reaching the public square, when the cheering was at its height, Luke pulled the string. At once there floated from the staff an "effigy" of the Blue Banner. It was made of blue calico and worked on it in strands of yellow rope were the words: WE'LL HAVE THE REAL BANNER THIS YEAR! Surmounting the odd trophy was a stuffed eagle, rather the worse for being moth-eaten, and worn "to a frazzle," as Tom said. But it made a hit, and the yells of laughter bore evidence of how the crowd appreciated it. "Guess we've made good all right," said Hiram to his crony. "There's nothing else like it in the parade." "That's right," answered Luke. "Oh, it takes us to do things." "And sometimes _not_ do them," murmured Teeter. "We ought to have the real banner." "Maybe we will," spoke Joe. The other schools had their own specialties in singing, cutting queer capers, or in cheers, and made hits in their own way. Around the square marched the lads, and then, with a final chorus, rendered by all the students, the parade was over. Back to Morningside Academy they went, and sat down to what the papers described later as a "sumptuous repast; a feast of reason and a flow of soul." Jolly good fellowship prevailed at the board. Speeches were made, toasts responded to, and baseball talk flowed on all sides. Hiram and Luke made remarks, as did the managers and captains of the other nines. Predictions were freely expressed as to who would have the banner the next year, and then came more singing, more cheering and more yelling. The dinner broke up finally, and then the various managers and captains got together to arrange the Interscholastic League schedule of games. "Well, it was all right; wasn't it?" asked Tom of Joe, when they were on their way back to Excelsior Hall. "Fine and dandy," was the answer. "They're a nice lot of fellows--all of 'em." "Quite some class to those Trinity School lads," remarked Tom. "It's a swell place--a lot of millionaires' sons go there I understand." "Yes, but I hobnobbed with some of 'em, and they weren't a bit uppish. Right good fellows, I thought." "Oh, yes, all millionaire lads aren't cads though money sometimes makes a chap that way. Trinity must be quite a school." "I guess it is, but Excelsior is good enough for me. We're in with a dandy crowd of fellows, though, and that makes it nice if you've got to play a lot of games with 'em. Nothing like class when it comes to sport. We ought to have some corking good games this Summer." "I only wish you and I were more in it," went on Tom. "Wait until we see about the scrub," suggested him chum. "I'm not worrying as much as I was at first." But, though Joe thus lightly passed over the matter, deep down in his heart there was a great longing. To him baseball meant more than to the average player. From the time when he had seen his first game, as a little chap, our hero had fairly lived, eaten and slept in an atmosphere of the diamond. He had organized a team of lads when he was scarcely nine years old, and played those little chaps in a sort of improvised circuit. Then, as he grew, and developed, and found that he could pitch, the world seemed to hold something worth while for Joe Matson. "Baseball Joe," he had been dubbed, when as a small chap he shouldered his bat and started off across the lots to a game, and "Baseball Joe" he was yet. How he longed to be on the regular nine, even in the outfield, none but himself knew. And when he dreamed of the possibility that he might some time occupy the pitching mound--well, he had to stop short, for he found himself indulging in a too high flight of fancy. "Get back to earth, Joe," he told himself. "If you want to pitch for Excelsior you've got to do a heap of waiting, and you are pretty good at that game." And so Joe had hopes and fears--hopes that his dream might come true, and fears lest the enmity of Hiram and Luke would keep him one of the "scrubbiest of the scrubs." He was tired after the excitement of the parade, and so was Tom, but they were not too weary to accept an invitation to gather in the room of Teeter and Peaches that night for a surreptitious lunch of ginger snaps, cheese and bottled soda water, which had been smuggled in. And, as before, the lads took the same precautions with the fake books and the tubes, hose and bottles. But they were not disturbed. "Well, we'll have to get busy next week," remarked Teeter as he slowly sipped his glass. "How so?" asked Joe. "Hard practice against the scrub starts Monday." "Who's captain of the scrub; did you hear?" asked Peaches eagerly. "Yes, Ward Gerard--a nice fellow, too." "That's the stuff!" cried Peaches. "Now there's a chance for you, Joe. Ward's room is on this corridor. I'm going to see him." "You'll be caught," warned Teeter. "Caught nothing!" retorted his chum. "It's so late none of the profs. or monitors will think a fellow will dare go out. Ward isn't an early sleeper, and I'm going to see him and ask him to let Joe pitch on the scrub before some one else gets the place. I'll be back in a few minutes, fellows. Don't eat up all the grub," and with that Peaches slipped noiselessly from the room. CHAPTER XII ON THE SCRUB "It doesn't take Peaches long to make up his mind," remarked Tom. "No, he's always right on the job," agreed Teeter. "It's mighty good of him--and all of you--to go to all this trouble and fuss on my account," added Joe. "I appreciate it, too." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Teeter, as he balanced himself on his toes to see if it was safe to indulge in any more cheese and ginger snaps. "We're glad to do it. I only hope you do make the team, and pitch, at that." "If I can pitch on the scrub, I'll be satisfied for a while." "We want to make Excelsior the best nine in the league this year," went on Teeter. "We've got to have the Blue Banner, and one way we can cinch it is to have a good pitcher." "Thanks!" laughed Joe. "Well, I mean it," resumed Teeter, helping himself to a handful of the crisp snaps. "That's where our weak point was last season. Many a game we gave away after we had it practically won, just because our pitchers went up in the air. And I'm afraid it'll be the same now. Frank Brown isn't much, unless he's improved a whole lot over season, and I don't believe he has. And as for Larry Akers--well, he's only a makeshift. Now, I'd like to see----" But Teeter's little talk was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside. For a moment the lads gazed anxiously at each other, and Tom made a grab for one of the fake books, but a look of relief came over their faces when the door opened and Peaches entered, followed by some one. "I brought Ward with me," explained the lad with the fair complexion. "Thought it was the safest way. Come on in, Ward; I guess these Indians haven't scalped all the grub." "Yes, fall to," invited Teeter. "There's plenty." "Charmed, I'm sure," murmured Ward with an assumed society air. "You know Joe Matson, of course," went on Peaches. "Oh, sure. He beat me in physics class the other week and I haven't forgotten it." "He wants to pitch on the scrub," went on the originator of the scheme. "He's all to the mustard, too, and----" "Say, let me say a word for myself," put in Joe. "I'm not a political candidate in the hands of my friends. Is there a show for me on the scrub, Ward?" "Well, I haven't made up the team yet, and you're the first applicant for pitcher, so you'll have first choice." "Then it's as good as settled!" declared Peaches. "When do you make up the team, Ward?" "To-morrow, I guess. I'll put you down as first pitcher, Joe, and I hope you can throw a scare into the school team--not because I'm not on it myself, but the better opposition they have, the better they'll play for the banner." "What about Hiram?" asked Tom. "Won't he kick up a fuss if he knows you've got Joe? And what about Luke?" "Say, I'm running the scrub!" exclaimed Ward. "They haven't anything to say after I take charge. What I say goes!" "That's right," agreed Teeter. "I'll do Hiram that much justice. He never interferes with the scrub after the season starts. Neither does Luke. They have their hands full managing their own players." "Then I guess I'll get a chance to pitch," murmured Joe, and he was happier than he had been in some time. It was only a small beginning, but it was a start, and that meant a good deal. Ward Gerard, whom Joe and Tom did not know very well, turned out to be a good-natured and pleasant companion. He was one of the new arrivals at the school, but already stood well in his classes and on the athletic field. Football was his specialty, but he was none the less a good baseball player and might have made the first team had he tried harder. The boys talked of the diamond until the booming of the big school clock warned them that they had better get to bed; so with good-nights and a renewed promise on the part of Ward to place Joe in the box, the conference broke up. "Oh, things are coming your way slowly," remarked Tom, as he and Joe reached their room, having successfully dodged a prying monitor on the look-out for rule violators. "Yes, and now I've got to make good." "You can do that easily enough. You always have. And when the three months are up I'm going to make my motion over again, and I'll bet we'll elect you as regular pitcher." "I guess you forget that when the three months are up the Summer vacation will be here and the nine will be out of business," remarked Joe. "No, I've got to work my own way, I guess." There were some murmurs of surprise when it was announced the next day that Joe Matson was to be the scrub pitcher. Friends of rival candidates urged their claims on Ward, but he stuck to his promise and the place went to Joe. "Did Hiram or Luke say anything when you told them?" asked Tom of the scrub captain. "Oh, yes--a little." "What was it?" "Nothing very pleasant, so don't repeat it to Joe, but Hiram wanted to know why I didn't pick out a decent fellow to pitch against the first team, and Luke remarked that Joe would be knocked out of the box in the first practice game, and that I'd have to get some one else." "Oh, Luke said that, did he?" asked Tom, and there was a look of smothered anger in his eyes. "Yes, and then some more." "Just wait until the first game--that's all," requested Tom quietly. "If they knock Joe Matson out of the box it will be the first time it's happened since he found that he was a real pitcher." "There are some pretty good batters on the first team," warned Ward. "That's the kind Joe likes," replied his chum. "Just you wait; that's all." It was the day for the first regular practice between the scrub and first teams. For several afternoons Joe had been pitching to Bob Harrison, who often acted as the scrub catcher, and as there was so much other individual playing going on no one had paid much attention to the work of our hero. "Say, I think we've got a 'find' all right," announced Bob to Ward, just before the practice game was called. "How so?" asked the scrub captain. "Why, that Matson can sting 'em in for further orders, and he's got some of the prettiest curves that ever came over the plate. The Hiram-Luke crowd is going to sit up and take notice, take it from yours truly." "I'm glad of it!" declared Ward. "We'll do our best to beat 'em, and it will be for their own good. They're soft, naturally at the beginning of the season, and so are we, but if we can wallop 'em, so much the better. Have you and Joe got your signals down?" "Yes, he's better at that than I am. He must have played some pretty good games." "So Sister Davis says. Well, here they come. Now to see what we can do?" There was a conference between Luke and Ward, and in order to give his team the most severe kind of a try-out, Luke arranged to let the scrub bat last. The first practice game was important in more ways than one. Not only did it open the season for Excelsior Hall, but it would show up the weak players, and, while the first team was practically picked, there might be a change in it. At least so every lad who was not on it, but wanted to be, thought, and he hoped against hope that his playing might attract the attention of the manager. Another thing was that Dr. Rudden, the coach, sometimes took a hand in the baseball affairs and occasionally he had been known to over-ride the judgment of Hiram and Luke, insisting that some player whom they had not picked be allowed to show what he could do on the first team. So there were many hearts that beat high with hope, and among them was Joe's. And there were hearts that were a bit anxious--to wit, members of the first team who were not quite sure of themselves. There was a large crowd in the grandstand and on the bleachers when the gong rang to start the game--a throng of students mostly, for the general public was not admitted so early in the season. It was a good day for the game, albeit the ground was a trifle soft, and the Spring wind not as warm as might be. The boys in their spick and span new uniforms made a natty appearance as they trotted out on the diamond. According to custom, Dr. Fillmore, the venerable head of the school, pitched the first ball formally to open the season. It was a sort of complimentary ball, and was not expected to be struck at. "Play ball!" yelled the umpire as he took the new horsehide sphere from its tinfoil wrapping and handed it to Dr. Fillmore. The president bowed as though about to make a speech, and Joe, who was in the box, stepped back. Our hero's heart was thumping under his blouse, for at last he was about to pitch his first game at Excelsior Hall, even if it was but on the scrub. CHAPTER XIII JOE'S GREAT WORK "Let her go, Doctor!" "Make him hit it, Professor!" "Strike him out!" "Give him an old Greek curve!" These were some of the cries that reached Dr. Fillmore as he stood in Joe's place in the pitching box. The president of the faculty smiled pleasantly. He was used to this mild "joshing," which was always indulged in by the lads of Excelsior on the occasion of the opening of the season. Not that it was at all offensive; in fact, it rather showed the good feeling existing between the instructors and their pupils. "Are you all ready?" asked Dr. Fillmore, as though he was inquiring whether a student was prepared to recite, and as if he really expected to pitch a ball that was to be hit. "Play ball!" called Harvey Hallock, who was umpiring. "Not too swift now, if you please, Doctor," stipulated Nat Pierson, who was first up. Then the venerable president delivered the new, white horsehide sphere. He threw rather awkwardly, but with more accuracy than might have been expected from a man who had a ball in his hands but once a year. Right over the plate it went, and though usually the initial ball was never struck at, Nat could not resist the opportunity. He "bunted," and the ball popped up in the air and sailed back toward the pitcher's box. To the surprise of all, Dr. Fillmore stepped forward and neatly caught it. "Hurray!" "That's the stuff!" "Put him on the team!" "Why didn't you say you were a ball-player, Doctor?" "Let him play the game!" These and many other cries greeted the president's performance. He bowed again, gravely, and smiled genially as he tossed the ball to Joe, who was waiting for it. A little round of applause came from some members of the faculty who had accompanied the doctor to the grounds, and then the head of the school walked off the diamond amid a riot of cheers. The baseball season at Excelsior Hall had opened under auspicious occasions everyone thought, and more than one lad had great hopes that the Blue Banner would come back there to stay for a while. "Play ball!" called the umpire again, and this time the game was on in earnest. Joe dug a little hole for the toe of his shoe, revolved the ball in his hands a few times, and looked to get the signal from Bob Harrison, the scrub catcher. Bob, who knew the individual characteristics of each batter better than did Joe (though the latter was rapidly learning them) signalled for a high out, and our hero nodded his head in confirmation. The next instant he delivered the ball. There was a vicious swing of the bat, and there could almost be heard the swish as it cut the air. And that is all it did do, for the horsehide landed squarely in Bob's glove with a resounding ping! and there was one strike against Nat. "That's the way to do it!" cried Bob. "Say, what's the matter with you?" angrily demanded Luke Fodick of one of his best batters. "What do you want to fan for?" "Couldn't help it, I guess," answered Bob rather sheepishly. "It was a curve." "Well, don't you know how to handle them by this time?" fairly snarled Hiram, who was closely watching every player. "If you don't know how to hit out a hot one you'd better go back on the scrub. Don't do it again." "I'll kill the next ball!" declared Nat, but he did not like the looks of it as Joe delivered it, and did not swing his bat. "Strike!" called the umpire sharply. "Wha--what?" cried Nat. "I said strike. It was right over the plate." "Plate nothing!" "What's he doing, calling strikes on you?" demanded Hiram. "It looks that way," spoke Nat. "Well, say----" began the manager in his bullying manner, as he strode toward the umpire. "Hold on now!" interposed Luke, who sometimes had better judgment than Hiram. "It's all right. Don't get excited. It may have been a strike. The fellows haven't got on to all the points of the game yet this season. Go on." "All right," growled Hiram. "But don't you dare strike out, Nat." Joe's next delivery was called a ball, though it was rightly a strike. Joe said nothing, realizing that the umpire was naturally a bit afraid of offending Hiram and Luke too much. Then Nat knocked a little pop fly, which was easily taken care of by the second baseman, and the first man on the regular, or school team, as it was called, was out. "All ready for the next one!" called Catcher Bob. "Don't you fan!" warned Hiram to Jake Weston, who was next up. "Just watch me!" exulted Jake as he walked confidently to the plate. Joe sent in a puzzling drop, with considerable swiftness, but to his chagrin Jake "killed" it, landing on it squarely and lining it out for two bags. "That's the way to do it!" yelled Luke, capering about. "Now, where's your star pitcher?" inquired Hiram, and he looked toward Tom Davis, who was playing first. "I guess he isn't so much!" Tom said nothing. He realized that perhaps his advocacy of Joe's abilities had brought his friend and himself too much in the limelight. But he meant well. "Oh, well, we just let you hit that one to see how it felt," shouted Bob Harrison, and that brought back Joe's nerve, which, for the moment, had deserted him as he saw his effort go for naught. Jake was on second, but he only got one bag farther, stealing to third as Joe struck out the next man. The school nine members were now whispering uneasily among themselves. Never before, at the opening of the season had they had a scrub pitcher who did such things to them. They realized that they had to play the game for all it was worth. Luke and Hiram were whispering earnestly together and when Harry Lauter, whom Joe had struck out walked to the bench, Luke stepped up to the plate. "Hold on!" cried Ward Gerard quickly. "You are out of your turn, Luke." "How's that?" indignantly demanded the school captain. "George Bland is up next, according to the batting order you gave me." "Well, we've changed the batting order," put in Hiram quickly. The truth of the matter was that George was not a very good hitter, while Luke was, and both the latter and the manager had seen the necessity of making at least one run the first inning in order to inspire confidence in the school team. They had hoped to change the batting order unobserved, and bring up a good hitter when he was most needed. But the scrub captain had been too sharp for them. "Changed the batting order, eh?" asked Ward. "You can't do it now under the rules." "Oh, well, we ain't playing strictly according to rules yet," said Luke weakly. "I'm going to bat, anyhow. You can change your batting order if you like." "We don't have to," responded Ward. "But go ahead, we'll allow it." "Thanks--for nothing!" exclaimed Hiram sarcastically, and Luke held his place at home plate. The situation was now rather tense. There were two men out, a man was on third and the captain of the school team himself was at bat. It was up to Luke to bring in his man and save his side from a goose egg in the first inning. Luke fairly glared at Joe, as if daring our hero to strike him out, and Joe was no less determined to do that feat if possible. He looked at Bob for a signal, and got one that meant to deliver a swift in. Then Joe knew that Luke, for all his boasting was a bit afraid--afraid of being hit by the ball, and, being timid would involuntarily step back if the horsehide seemed to be coming too close to him. "Here goes!" murmured Joe, and he sent in one with all his force. As he had expected, the school captain did step back, and, an instant later, the umpire cried: "Strike!" "What?" fairly yelled Luke turning at him. There was a laugh from some of the scrubs, and it was joined in by a number of the other students--lads who were kept from the athletic committee by the snap ruling of Luke and Hiram. The captain realized that there was a feeling against him, and he quickly swallowed his wrath. "Watch what you're doing," warned Hiram. "Oh, that was only a fluke," declared Luke. Joe smiled. He was going to send in another "fluke," but not the same kind. He delivered a quick ball, with a peculiar upward twist to it, and, as Luke swung viciously at it, but too low, naturally his bat passed under the ball. "Strike two!" yelled the umpire, as the ball landed safely in Bob's big mitt. There was a murmur of astonishment from the school nine and its particular sympathizers, and a breath of delight from the despised scrubs. Hiram flushed angrily, yet he dared say nothing, for there was no doubt about this strike. As for Luke, he was too surprised to make any comment. "I'll get the next one!" he declared, as he tapped his bat on the home plate. He did hit it, but it was only a foul, and, being on the last strike, did not count against him. "That's the way to do it. You're finding his curves if he has any!" cried Hiram. "Swat it!" "Sure!" assented Luke. With all his might he hit at the next ball, only to fan the air. "Strike three--batter's out!" called the umpire amid a tense silence. Luke had done what he was seldom guilty of; he had struck out, and to a pitcher whom he not only hated but despised. Joe's great work had enabled the scrub to retire the school team without a run--a thing that had not been done at Excelsior in many years. "Wow! That's the stuff!" yelled Tom, as he raced in from first. "I knew you could do it, Joe." "Great work, old man!" complimented Ward. "Now we'll see what we can do." There were gloomy and dubious looks on the faces of Hiram and Luke as the school team filed out on the field. CHAPTER XIV THE GAME AT MORNINGSIDE Interest, especially for Joe, centered in what Frank Brown, the school pitcher, might do. So, as a matter of fact, was the attention of nearly all the players and spectators on him. For, to a large extent, the victories of the Excelsior team would depend on what their battery could do. Of course it was up to the other players to lend them support, but it was pretty well established that if the pitcher and catcher did well, support would not be lacking. At the catching end of it Luke Fodick could be depended on nearly every time. But Frank Brown had yet to show what he could do as a twirler. In practice he had made out fairly well, but now the real test was to come. Naturally he was a bit nervous as he walked to the box, to face his first opponent, none other than Ward Gerard, the scrub captain; and Ward was a good hitter. He managed to hit a two bagger. Luke and Hiram cast anxious looks at each other. Well they knew how much depended on the showing their pitcher would make. "Watch yourself, Frank," called Hiram--just the very advice to make poor Frank more nervous. But he braced up, struck out the next man, and managed to hold the succeeding one hitless. The school nine was now about in the same position as the scrub had been. Their opponents had a man on third and two out. It was a time when Frank needed to brace up, and repeat Joe's trick. But he could not do it. Joe himself came to the bat, and with watchful eyes picked out just the ball he wanted after two strikes had been called on him. He rapped out as pretty a single as had been seen on the diamond in many a long day, and brought in Ward with the first run. "Wow! Wow!" yelled the scrubs, capering about. "That's the way to do it!" Luke and Hiram were almost in a panic. They saw the team they had so carefully built up in danger of disintegration; and holding a hasty conference, warning was sent to every school player to do his very best to get the scrub side out without another run. Frank did it, for he struck out the next man, and Joe died at second. But the scrub had one run and the school nine nothing. It was a poor beginning for Excelsior's chances at the Blue Banner when the players realized what a strong team Morningside had, and how efficient were the other nines in the league. I am not going to describe that first school-scrub game in detail. I shall have other more important contests to tell you about, as the story goes on. Sufficient to say that after the ending of the first inning Hiram and Luke went at their lads in such a fierce spirit that there was a big improvement. Joe kept up his good work in the box, but he had not yet "found" himself that season. He was not hardened enough; he lacked practice, and his arm soon gave out. Then, too the fielding of the scrubs was ragged, after Joe once began to be hit. The result was that the school nine began to pile up runs, and Hiram and Luke were jubilant. "Now, where's your wonderful pitcher?" asked Luke of Ward. "Oh, he's coming on. No use to work him too hard at first," replied the scrub captain good naturedly. "Look out for your own." This advice was needed, for, after helping his team to get a good lead, Frank Brown also rather went to pieces and when the game was over the school team led by only two runs. "That's too close for comfort," observed Hiram to Luke, as they walked off the diamond. "Frank has got to do better than that." "Oh, he'll be all right after a little more practice," spoke the captain. "If he isn't Larry Akers will go in," warned the manager. "Sure. Well, we've got lots of time before the first Morningside game. We'll win that." "I hope we do," but Hiram's tone was not confident. Somehow he was worried over the way Joe Matson pitched. As for our hero, he was warmly congratulated by his friends. Tom Davis was particularly enthusiastic. "We'll have you in the box for the school nine before long," he predicted. "I don't know," answered Joe rather dubiously. "It's a close combination between Hiram and Luke, and they may get Frank Brown into shape." "Don't you believe it. He can't pitch as good as you in a thousand years." "That's right," chimed in Teeter. "Nothing like having good friends," remarked Joe laughingly. Now that the season was started the baseball practice went on with a vim. Luke and Hiram had some of their players out every day, batting or catching the ball. Others were sent around the track to improve their wind, and in the gymnasium others were set at work on the various machines, as Dr. Rudden found their weak spots. The school nine battled against the scrub, too, and though Joe improved in his pitching so did the members of the first team in their batting, so that there were no other contests as close as the first one. The time for the first Morningside game was approaching. It was the first regular contest of the season and as such was always quite an affair. This time it was to be played on the Morningside diamond, and Luke and Hiram were bending every effort to win the game. The nine picked to play was practically the same as the one that played the first game against the scrub. There had been some shifts, and then shifts back again, and under the urging of the coach, the captain and the manager, the lads had improved very much. The day of the first game came. In special cars or in stage coaches, for those who preferred that method of locomotion, while some of the more wealthy lads hired autos, the nine and its supporters made their way to Morningside. Hiram, Luke and a few of their cronies went in a big touring car that Spencer Trusdell, a millionaire's son, owned. "Some class to them," remarked Joe, as he and Tom with a squad of the scrub and substitutes, got aboard a trolley car. "They may have to walk back," predicted Tommy Barton, one of the scrub. "Why?" asked Joe. "Spencer may not have money enough left to buy gasolene. He's a sport, you know, and always betting." "Well, he'll bet on his own nine; won't he?" "Oh, yes--but----" and Tommy paused significantly. "You don't mean to say you think Morningside will win, do you?" asked Ward Gerard. "You old traitor, you!" "I shouldn't be surprised to see our side licked," replied Tommy calmly. "They're soft, and Morningside has already played one game with Trinity and trimmed them." And as Joe and Tom journeyed to the grounds they heard others say the same thing. Nevertheless, Luke, Hiram and their own particular crowd were very confident. There was a big attendance at the game. The stands were filled with a rustling, yelling, cheering and vari-colored throng--the colors being supplied by scores of pretty girls, whose brothers, or whose friends, played on either nine. "Jove! What wouldn't I give to be booked to pitch to-day!" exclaimed Joe, as he and Tom found their seats, for neither was on the list of substitutes. "I know how you feel, old man," sympathized Tom. "But just hang on, and things may come your way." "Play ball!" cried the umpire, and the first big game of the season for Excelsior Hall was underway. That contest is still talked about in the annals of the two schools. It started off well, and Excelsior, first to the bat, rapped out two runs before the side was retired. Then came the first real intimation that the opponents of Morningside were weak in several places, notably in the pitching box, and in fielding and stick-work. Frank Brown, after striking out two men in succession, and giving the impression to his mates that he was going to make good, and to his rivals that they had a strong boxman to fight against--Frank, I say, literally went up in the air. He was not used to being hooted at and jeered, and this is just what the Morningsideites did to him to get his "goat." They got it, for before the first inning closed he had been unmercifully pounded, and four runs were chalked up to the credit of the foes of Excelsior Hall. Still that score might not have been so bad had Hiram and Luke kept their heads. They changed their batting order, put in some substitutes, and Hiram used strong language to Frank. "You've got to do better!" insisted the bullying manager. This had the further effect of getting on Frank's nerves, and he did worse than ever. "Say, why don't you fellows get a real pitcher?" asked Halsted Hart, manager of the Morningsides. "This is too easy," added Ted Clay, the opposing pitcher with a laugh. In desperation Luke finally sent in Larry Akers to pitch. At first he tightened up and stopped the winning streak of Morningside, and then, he, too, fell by the wayside, and the hooting, yelling crowd had his "Angora," as Peaches dolefully remarked. It might be said in passing that both Peaches and Teeter did well, and George Bland not quite so well. But the rest of the Excelsior team made many errors. Even Luke was not exempt, and this had the further effect of worrying his players. It is no pleasure to write of that first game, and that is why I have not gone into details about it, for Excelsior Hall is a school dear to my heart, and I do not like to chronicle her defeats. When the ninth inning came the score stood fourteen to six. In desperation, Luke had sent in Ned Turton to replace Larry. Several of his own friends asked him to give Joe a chance, but neither he nor Hiram would listen. In fact, there was a disagreement between Hiram and Luke. The manager wanted to shift Peaches back to first base but Luke would not hear of it until Hiram threatened to resign as manager, and that so alarmed the captain that he let him have his way. That settled matters, not because Peaches went to first, though he did good service there, but it was too late to stem the losing tide. The Excelsior team could not get a run in their share of the ninth, and Morningside did not take the trouble to finish out, the final score being fourteen to six in their favor. The opponents of Excelsior had snowed them under. CHAPTER XV A STRANGE DISCOVERY "Three cheers for Excelsior Hall!" cried Captain Elmer Dalton of the Morningside team. "All ready boys, with a will!" The cheers were deafening and perhaps they were all the more hearty because it was the winning nine and its supporters who were giving them. The crowd swarmed over the diamond, players and spectators mingling. Everybody was talking at once, the losing side and their supporters trying to explain how the defeat had come about, and the victors exulting in their victory. "I don't see what's the matter with you fellows, anyhow," growled Hiram, as he strode over and joined the little group of disconsolate ones who were walking toward the dressing room. "You ought to have beaten 'em." "And so we would have if they'd given me decent support," broke in Luke. "There were too many changes on the team." "And I suppose you think I'm responsible for that," retorted Hiram quickly. "I didn't say so. One thing, though; there's got to be another change." "That's right," added the manager scowling at the team, but neither he nor Luke intimated where the change ought to be made. "They're right on that one point," said Peaches, "a big shift is needed, and I can tell 'em one place to make it, if not two." "Where?" asked Teeter. "Pitcher for one," replied Peaches quickly, "and catcher for the other. If we had two good men as a battery there would have been a different story to-day." "What's that?" quickly demanded Hiram, turning around, for Peaches had unconsciously spoken louder than he intended. "I said I agreed with you," spoke the lad diplomatically, "that if we'd had some changes the result would have been different to-day," but he did not mention the changes. "Well, it's all over," remarked Joe to Tom, as they descended from the grandstand. "Let's get back home. Jove! But it's too bad to start the season with a defeat." "Somebody had to lose," replied Tom philosophically. "We couldn't both win, and I didn't expect it would turn out much different when I heard the talk on the way to the game. But it will teach Luke and Hiram a lesson." "If they want to learn it--yes." "Oh, don't worry. They'll be only too anxious, after to-day. But I notice some of the Trinity Hall and Lakeview Prep. players here. Getting a line on us, I guess." "Shouldn't wonder. We play Trinity next week." "Well, we ought to win that game. Hurry up, Joe, and we can get the next trolley back. No autos for us." As the two chums hurried across the diamond they found themselves in the midst of a crowd of Morningside players and students. At the sight of one lad in the uniform of Morningside, a uniform not soiled by the dust and grime of the diamond, Tom plucked Joe by the sleeve. "For the love of Mike, look there!" exclaimed the former first baseman of the Silver Stars. "Where?" asked Joe, and Tom pointed to the player in the spick and span new uniform. "Sam Morton!" gasped Joe, as he recognized his former rival on the Stars and his sometime enemy. "Sam Morton! What's he doing here?" "Looks as if he was on the nine," replied Tom. "He's in one of the Morningside uniforms, but he didn't take part in the game." "Sam Morton here!" went on Joe, wonderingly. "It doesn't seem possible. I wonder why we didn't hear something about it? It sure is he, and yet----" "Wait, I'll ask some one," volunteered Tom, and tapping on the shoulder a Morningside player near him, he asked: "Is he one of your nine?" Tom pointed to Sam Morton, who had not yet observed our heroes. "What? Oh, yes; he's a newcomer here I believe, but he had quite a reputation, so Captain Dalton put him on as substitute pitcher." "Substitute pitcher!" gasped Joe. "Yes, he's rather good I believe. He hasn't had much practice with us as yet or we'd have played him part of the time against you fellows to-day. Why, do you know him?" "Yes. He used to be on the same town team with me," replied Joe. "He'll probably play next week," went on the Morningside lad, "and when we meet you fellows again he'll probably do what Ted Clay did to-day," and he grinned cheerfully--there is nothing like a cheerful enemy. "Sam Morton here," murmured Joe, as if unable to believe it, while his old enemy strode on without having seen him, and the Morningside lad, who had given them the information swung about on his way to the dressing rooms. "Say, that's going some!" exclaimed Joe, as he and Tom walked on. "Fancy meeting Sam Morton here. I didn't hear that he was going to boarding school." "Neither did I. He must have made up his mind lately. Probably he began right after the Easter vacation. I didn't spot him at the time of the banner parade." "Me, either. But there was such a mob of fellows that it was hard to find anyone. But if he's here and he makes good, and pitches in some of the games, and if----" "If you get the chance to pitch for the school nine, you and Sam may fight your old battles over again," finished Tom. "That's right," agreed Joe. It was a discouraged, disgruntled and altogether unhappy crowd of lads that returned to Excelsior Hall late that afternoon. Despondency perched like a bird of ill-omen on the big flagstaff; and a celebration that some of the lads had arranged for, in case of a victory, did not come off. Tom and Joe were seated in their room, talking over various matters, including the game of the day, when there came the usual signal on their door, indicating that a friend stood without. "That's Teeter," predicted Tom. "Peaches," was Joe's guess, but when he swung open the portal both lads stood there. On their faces were looks of suppressed excitement. "What's up?" demanded Joe. "Lots. Special meeting of the athletic committee called. In the gym. Come on!" panted Peaches. "We're going to protest against the way Hiram manages the team!" added Teeter. "Come on!" urged Peaches, recovering his breath. "We want you with us. There's a lot of feeling against Hiram and Luke. They practically lost the game for us to-day. The revolt is spreading. It's a chance for you, Joe. Come on." "There's going to be a hot time!" predicted Teeter. "We have permission to hold a meeting. All the fellows are coming. Get a move on." Joe and Tom grabbed up their caps and hurried after their chums, Joe with a wildly-beating heart. Had his chance come? CHAPTER XVI A HOT MEETING "The meeting will come to order!" Teeter was in the chair, looking over a talking, shifting, excited crowd of lads gathered in the school gymnasium. He had assumed the office, and no one had disputed him. "The meeting will come to order!" he cried again. "Order! Order!" begged George Bland and Peaches. "We can't do anything like this." "What are we going to do?" asked Tommy Barton. "Try and fix things so we can win ball games," answered Tom Davis. Joe did not say much. He realized that this was, in a measure, a meeting to aid him, and he felt it would be best to keep quiet. His friends were looking out for his interests. "Order! Order!" begged Teeter again, and after many repetitions, and bangings of his gavel, he succeeded in producing some semblance of quietness. "You all know what we're here for," went on Teeter. "No, we don't; tell us!" shouted some one. "We're here in the first place to make a protest against the way Hiram Shell and Luke Fodick managed the baseball team to-day," went on Teeter, "and then we'll consider what can be done to make things better. We ought to have won against Morningside to-day, and----" "That's the stuff!" "That's the way to talk!" "Hit 'em again!" These were a few of the cries that greeted Teeter's announcement. He was very much in earnest. "This isn't a regular session of the athletic committee at all," he resumed. "It's a protest meeting, and it's going to be sort of free and easy. Any fellow that wants to can speak his mind. I take it you all agree with me that we ought to do something." "That's right!" came in a chorus. "And we ought to protest against Hiram's high-handed method. What about that?" "That's right, too," responded several. Joe looked over the crowd. As far as he could see it was composed in the main of lads who were only probationary members of the school society--lads without voting power. Neither Hiram nor Luke was present, and Joe could not see any of their particular crowd. He was mistaken in thinking that Hiram had no friends there, however, for no sooner had Teeter asked the last question than Jake Weston arose and asked in rather sneering tones: "Do you call this giving a fellow a square deal?" "What do you mean?" inquired Teeter. The room was quiet enough now. "I mean just this," went on the lad who was perhaps the closest of all on the nine to Hiram save Luke. "I mean that Hiram Shell isn't here to defend himself, and you're saying all sorts of mean things against him." "We intend to have him here--if he'll come," spoke Teeter significantly. "Luke, too. We want them to hear what we say about them." "You're trying to disrupt the team!" yelled Jake, who had lost his temper. "I am not! I'm trying to do anything to better the team. We ought to have won that game to-day, and you know it." "I know that I played my best!" shouted Jake, "and if you accuse me of----" "Nobody's accusing you," put in Peaches. Several lads were on their feet, all seeking to be heard. Teeter was vainly rapping with his gavel. It looked for a few moments as if there would be several fights, for lads were shaking their fists in each other's faces. "Why don't you give Hiram a show?" demanded Jake. "Let him know this meeting is being held." "I sent word to him, but he didn't come," called Teeter, above the din. "Well, he's here now!" interrupted a sudden voice, and Hiram Shell fairly jumped into the room, followed by Luke and a score of their particular friends. "I just heard of this snap session, and I want to know what it's about. How dare you fellows hold a meeting of the athletic committee when I didn't call it?" "Say, you drop that kind of talk!" fairly yelled Teeter. "This isn't a meeting of the athletic committee!" "Come on down off that platform!" demanded the bully striding toward the chairman _pro tem_. "What right have you got there?" "Just as much right as you have, and I'm going to stick! This is just a meeting of the fellows of Excelsior Hall, and I've got just as much right to preside as you have." Perhaps it was the gavel which Teeter clenched in his hand, perhaps it was the fearless manner in which he faced Hiram, or perhaps it was the way in which Joe, Tom, Peaches and several of the larger students crowded up around Teeter, like a bodyguard, that caused Hiram to pause in his progress toward the chairman. Whatever it was, it proved effective and probably prevented a serious clash, for Hiram was in the mood to have struck Teeter, who surely would have retaliated. "Well, what's it all about?" asked the bully, after a pause. "What do you fellows want, anyhow?" "We want the ball team managed differently," retorted Teeter. "That's right!" came from a score of ringing voices. Hiram turned a bit pale. It was the first time he had ever witnessed an organized revolt against his authority. "Aren't you fellows satisfied with the way I manage things?" the bully sneered. "No, and not with the way Luke Fodick captains the team," went on the now fully aroused Teeter. "There's got to be a change." "Aw, you're sore because some of your friends can't play!" cut in Jake Weston. "Not at all," spoke Teeter. "Everyone knows we should have won to-day, and what a miserable exhibition of baseball we gave! It was rotten, and we want to protest. We're willing to let you continue as manager, Hiram, and have Luke for captain, only we fellows want to have more of a say in how the team is run." "Why, you fellows haven't any rights!" cried Hiram. "A lot of you are only probationary members, anyhow, and can't vote." "They don't need to vote," declared Teeter. "It isn't a question of voting. We're students at Excelsior--all of us--and we have a right to say what we think. We think things ought to be done differently." "That's right--we're with him," was shouted in such a volume of energy that it clearly showed to Hiram that, even though he held the balance of power in the committee proper, yet he did not in the whole school, and it was to the whole school that the team would have to look for support. It was a crisis in the affairs of Excelsior Hall. CHAPTER XVII THE INITIATION For a moment after the unexpected support of Teeter's ultimatum to Hiram there was a tense silence. The lads who had come in with the bully--his supporting army so to speak--remained grouped around him and Luke. On the other side stood Teeter, Peaches, Tom, Joe and their friends, and a number of the better players of the school nine. Included among them were a number of the substitutes. Hiram Shell looked around him. He must have been aware that his power might slip very easily from him now, unless something was done. It was no time to pursue his usual tactics. He must temporize, but he made up his mind that those who had revolted from his authority would pay dearly for it sooner or later. "Well, what do you fellows want?" he fairly growled. "I'll tell you what we want," said Teeter firmly. "In the first place we want this business of shifting players all about, stopped. A fellow gets used to playing in one position and he's best there. Then you or Luke change him." "Well, hasn't the captain the right to do that?" demanded Luke. "Sure, yes," spoke Peaches, "but when you get a good lad in a good place keep him there." "Is that all?" sneered Hiram. "No, we think there ought to be better pitching," went on the self-constituted chairman. "Ha! I guess that's where the whole trouble is!" cried Hiram quickly. "This meeting is for the benefit of Joe Matson." "Nothing of the sort!" exclaimed Joe quickly. "I knew nothing about it until Teeter told me. Of course I'd like to pitch; there's no use denying that, but I don't want any fellow to give way for me if he's making good." "That's the trouble--he isn't," put in Teeter. Hiram took a quick resolve. He could smooth matters over now, and later arrange them to suit himself and Luke. So he said: "All right, I admit that we didn't make a very good showing to-day. But it was our first game, and Brown and Akers didn't do very well in the box. But don't be too hasty. Now I'll tell you what I'll do," and he acted as though it was a big favor. "I'll let you fellows have a voice when I make changes after this. We'll do some harder practice. I'll make Brown and Akers pitch better----" "I don't believe he can," murmured Tom. "We won't make any more shifts--right away," went on Hiram. "Maybe you fellows were right. I haven't given as much time to the team as I should. But wait--we'll win the Blue Banner yet." "That's all we ask," said Teeter. "We just wanted you to know how we felt about it, and if things are better and our nine can win, we won't say another word." "All right, let it go at that," and Hiram affected to laugh, but there was not much mirth in it. "Might as well quit now, I guess. Everybody out for hard practice next week. I want to see some better stick-work, and as for pitching--where are Brown and Akers?" "Here!" cried the two boxmen. "You fellows will have to brush up a bit on your speed and curves," went on the bully manager. "Isn't that right, Luke?" "Sure," grunted the captain. There was more talk, but it was not of the fiery kind and, for the time, at least, the threatened disruption had passed. But there was still an undercurrent of dissatisfaction against Luke and Hiram. "Well, I don't see as it did an awful lot of good," remarked Tom Davis to Peaches and Teeter, as they walked out of the gymnasium with Joe, a little later. "I don't see that Joe is benefitted." "I didn't expect much," spoke our hero. "It was well meant and----" "And it did good, too," interrupted Teeter. "It's the first time any one ever talked to Hiram like a Dutch Uncle, and I guess it sort of jarred him. He'll sit up and take notice now, and it will be for the good of the team." "But where does Joe come in?" asked Peaches. "Well, I figure it out this way," replied Teeter. "Brown and Akers will try to make good but they can't. The fellows will see that we've got to have a new pitcher, and Hiram will have to give 'em one. Then Joe will step in." "There are others as good as I in the school," remarked Joe modestly. "Well, they haven't shown themselves if there are," was Teeter's retort. "No, Joe will be pitching before the season is over, you see if he isn't." The question was discussed pro and con, as they went to their rooms, and continued after they got there until a monitor warned them that though permission had been given to hold a meeting it did not extend to midnight lunch. It was one night, after a hard day on the diamond, that Joe and Tom, who were studying, or making a pretense at it, heard the usual knock on their door. "Teeter and Peaches--I wonder what's up now?" asked Tom. "Let 'em in and they'll tell us," suggested Joe, as his roommate went to the door. It was kept locked, for often some of the fun-loving students would come in unannounced to create a "rough-house," to the misery of the two chums. As the portal swung back, there was revealed to Joe and Tom several sheet-clad white figures, each one with a mask of black cloth over his head. The sight was rather a weird one, and for the moment Tom was nonplussed. "Shut the door," commanded Joe quickly. "They're up to some high jinks!" Tom hesitated for a moment. If it was Peaches, Teeter and their friends, he did not want to shut them out, but, on the contrary might want to join the fun. If, on the contrary, it was a hostile crowd there was no use getting into trouble. So Tom hesitated and was lost. For a moment later, the throng of white-clad and unrecognizable figures (because of the masks) stepped into the room. "We have come," announced one in a voice that sounded hollow and deep, "to initiate you into the Mystic and Sacred Order of the Choo-Choo!" "Get out, Peaches, I know your voice," said Joe, not quite sure whether he did or not. "Prepare to join the Mystic and Sacred Order of the Choo-Choo! Shall he not, comrades?" demanded a second figure. "Toot! Toot! He shall!" was the answer in a chorus. "That's Teeter all right," affirmed Tom. "Come!" commanded the first figure, advancing to take hold of Tom's arm. "Shall we go, Joe?" asked his chum. Joe thought a minute. There had been rumors in the school of late, that several initiations had been held into a newly-formed society. Reports differed as to what society it was, some lads stating that they had been made to join one and some another. But all agreed, though they did not go into particulars, that the initiations were anything but pleasant. Joe was as fond of fun as anyone but he did not like being mistreated--especially when it was not by his friends. "Don't go!" he called suddenly to Tom. "Then we'll make you!" said the disguised voice. "Grab 'em fellows!" Instantly there was a commotion in the room. Joe leaped back to get behind a sofa, but one of the black-masked figures was too quick for him and seized him around the neck. Our hero tried to tear the mask from the face to see who his assailant was, but other hands clasped his arms from behind and he was helpless. Tom, too, was having his own troubles. He was beset by two of the unknowns and held in such a way that he could do nothing. The struggle though sharp was a quiet one, for the students did not want to attract the attention of a monitor or prowling professor. "'Tis well," spoke the lad who was evidently the leader, when Tom and Joe were held safely, their hands having been tied behind their backs. "Away with them to the dungeon deep, and they will soon be good, faithful and true members of the Mystic and Sacred Order of the Choo-Choo!" Then, realizing that discretion was probably now the better part of valor, Joe and Tom meekly followed their captors. CHAPTER XVIII "FIRE!" "Where are you fellows taking us?" demanded Joe, as they walked softly down the corridor. "Toot-Toot!" was all the answer he received. "Say, we don't mind having fun," added Tom, "but if you fellows are going to cut up any, we want to know it." "Toot-Toot!" came again in imitation of a whistle. It was evident that this was a sort of signal or watchword among the members of the Order of Choo-Choo. "These aren't Peaches, Teeter, and our fellows," spoke Joe into Tom's ear as they were forced to descend a back and seldom used staircase. "That's right," agreed Tom. "I wonder who they are?" "Some of the seniors, maybe," suggested the young pitcher. "I wish I knew where they are taking us." "The candidates who are about to be initiated into the Mystic and Sacred Order of the Choo-Choo will kindly keep quiet!" came the quick command from the leader. "Silence is imperative to have the spell work." "Oh, you dry up!" retorted Joe. "Silence!" came the command again, emphasized this time by a dig in the ribs. "You quit----" began our hero, but his voice ended in a grunt, for some one had hit him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He was indignant, and had half a mind to make a fight for it then and there. But he was practically helpless, and was descending a flight of stairs which made it dangerous to chance a scuffle. He made up his mind to fight when the time came. "If you fellows----" began Tom. "Silence over there!" hissed one of the white-robed figures. "If they talk any more, Master of Ceremonies, gag 'em." "Right, Chief Engineer," was the hollow answer. Tom thought it best to keep quiet. Silently the little crowd advanced. They halted at the door of one of the many store-rooms in the basement of the largest of the school dormitories. One of the lads opened the portals with a key. It was as black as pitch beyond. "Enter, timid and shrinking candidates," commanded some one. "Enter into the sacred precincts of the Choo-Choo." "Not much I won't!" declared Joe. "I can't see my hand before my face, and I'm not going into a dark room, not knowing what is there." "Me either!" declared Tom. "It is so ordered," came the deep voice of the leader. "Enter or be thrown in!" Joe turned, trying in vain to pierce the disguise of the black mask. He struggled to free his arms from the rope that bound them, but could not. He was half-minded to strike out with his feet, but he was now so surrounded by the initiators that he could not. Besides, if he did that he might lose his balance and fall hard. Tom was in like straits. "Forward, march!" came the command. "I'm not going in I tell you!" insisted Joe. "If he doesn't go in, shove him," came the command. Joe, as he felt that resistance was useless, started forward. It was better to keep his own footing, if he had to go in the room and not run the risk of being shoved down. Advancing cautiously, followed by Tom, the young pitcher stepped over the threshold. Almost instantly he felt cold water spurting up around his ankles, and he sought to draw back. He did not want to fall into a deep tank, with his arms bound. "Go on! Go on in!" was the command and he felt himself being shoved from behind. There was no help for it, but to his relief he found, as he advanced, that the water did not come higher than his knees. "Great Scott! What are we up against?" asked Tom. "Search me," responded Joe. "Silence! Blindfold 'em!" came a command, and before they could have prevented it, had they been able, Joe's and Tom's eyes were covered with big handkerchiefs. "Keep on!" was the order again, and the candidates did, soon stepping out of the water upon the solid floor. "Tie their feet," was the next order, and this was done. "Now, candidates," spoke the leader, "you have crossed the river of blood and the first part of your journey is over. But, to be good and loyal members of the Mystic and Sacred Order of Choo-Choo, it is necessary that you make a noise like a locomotive. Go ahead now, puff!" For a moment Joe and Tom hesitated and then, absurd as it was, they entered into the spirit of the affair and gave as good an imitation as possible of a steam locomotive in operation. "Very good! Very good," was the comment. "Now go up grade," and the blindfolded candidates were forced to go up a steep incline of boards, slipping and sliding back half the time. "They are coming on," commented some one. "At the next stop they take water. Hose-tender, get ready!" "Hold on! What are you going to do?" demanded Joe. "You'll see," was the answer. Joe and Tom were led to another part of the room. It was dimly lighted now, as they could see, for a faint glow came under the handkerchiefs. A moment later each of the luckless candidates felt a cold stream of water strike him full in the face. They tried to duck, and to turn their heads away, but the others held them until the upper part of their bodies were thoroughly soaked. "That's enough for steam," came the order from one of the party. "Now to see how they can carry passengers. Off with their bonds, but keep the blinders on." This was done. "Down on your hands and knees, candidates," came the order, and Joe and Tom had nothing for it but to obey. A moment later some one sat on each back and again came the order: "Forward march!" Now Joe, while liking fun as well as any lad, thought there was a limit to it, and to the indignities of the initiation, especially in a mythical society which they did not care about joining. When a heavy lad, therefore, sat down on our hero's back Joe made up his mind that matters had gone far enough. "Go ahead! Carry your passenger!" was the command. "Not by a jugful!" cried Joe, and with a quick motion he stood up, spilling off the lad on his back. The latter hit the floor with a resounding whack. The next instant Joe had torn off the blinding handkerchief, and made a grab for the lad whom he had upset. He tore off his mask and there was revealed the scowling face of Hiram Shell. At the same moment Tom had done the same to his tormentor, discovering Luke Fodick under the black mask. "Oh, so it's your crowd, is it Hiram?" asked Joe. "Yes, and by Jove, you'll suffer for this! Why aren't you sports enough to take your initiation as the others do?" "Because we don't choose to," replied our hero. "Then I'll make you!" cried Hiram, doubling up his fists and leaping at Joe. "Come on, Luke, give 'em what's coming to 'em!" "Two can play at that game," spoke Joe coolly. He noted that the room had been roughly fitted up as a sort of society meeting chamber. At the entrance was a long, narrow and shallow tank of water. It was through this that Joe and Tom had waded. "I'll fix you!" cried Hiram. "All right," agreed Joe easily. "As well here and now as anywhere, anytime." He threw himself into a position of defense as Hiram came on. Luke was advancing toward Tom, while the others, still wearing their masks, looked on in anticipation. There might have been two stiff fights the next moment had there not suddenly sounded from without a series of startled cries. Then came the clanging of bells, and above the riot of noise the lads heard some one shouting: "Fire! Fire! Fire!" CHAPTER XIX A THRILLING RESCUE "What's that?" asked half a dozen of the white-robed lads. "Fire, somewhere," answered Hiram, pausing in his rush toward Joe. "Come on, this can wait," added one of his companions. "We're through with this initiation, anyhow." "But I'm not through with him," snapped the bully with a glance of anger at the young pitcher. "I'll settle with him later." "Fire! Fire!" Again the cries rang out on the night air. "The school must be on fire!" yelled Luke Fodick. "Come on, fellows!" "Fire! Fire!" Many voices now took up the cry outside, and through a partially-curtained window could be seen the dancing light of flames. "Come on!" cried Joe to Tom. "We've got to be in on this, whatever it is!" "Surest thing you know," agreed his chum. They rushed from the room, following after Hiram and Luke. The others straggled out as fast as they disrobed, for they did not want to be seen in their regalia by any of the school authorities who might be on hand after the alarm of fire. "I hope it isn't any of the school buildings!" exclaimed Joe as he and Tom raced along. "That's right. So do I. Look, you can see the reflection from here." The boys were opposite a window in the corridor, and over the roof and spire of the school chapel could be seen a lurid glare in the sky, but what was burning could not be made out. "It's the gym!" gasped Tom. "Don't you dare say that!" cried Joe, "and with the baseball season just starting." "Well, it looks like it anyhow." Together they raced on until they came to a door that gave egress to the campus. Students were pouring out from their rooms in all directions, some eagerly questioning, and others joining in the cries of "Fire!" No one seemed to know where the blaze was. Professor Rodd came out with his precious tall hat in one hand and a bundle of books in the other. "Is the school doomed, boys?" he asked. "How did it start? Have I time to save anything else? I have some Latin books----" "I don't know where it is, Professor," answered Joe. "But it isn't this building, anyhow." "Good! I'm glad of it. I mean I'm sorry it's anywhere. Wait, and I'll be with you to help fight the flames." He ran back to his quarters to return quickly minus his silk hat and the books, and he wore an old fashioned night-cap. "There now, I'm ready," he announced, and he ran on as though he had donned a modern smoke helmet, used by the firemen. The boys laughed, serious and exciting as the situation was. Dr. Rudden saw our two friends hurrying across the campus together. "Why, boys!" cried the coach and athletic director. "You're all wet! How did it happen? Have you been playing the hose on the fire? Did it burst?" "No, we haven't been to the blaze yet," answered Joe. "We had----" "A sort of accident," finished Tom, as his chum hesitated for the right explanation. Then they avoided further conversation by racing toward the blaze, the light of which was becoming every minute more glaring. A stream of students and teachers was now hurrying across the campus, heading for the path around the chapel, which building hid the fire from sight. As Tom and Joe turned the corner they saw at a glance what was burning. It was an old disused factory about half a mile from the school, a building pretty much in ruins and of little value save as a sleeping place for tramps. Several times in the past there had been slight fires there but they had been quickly extinguished, though many said it would have been as well to let the old structure burn down. This time it seemed as if this would happen. The factory was of wood, and there had been no rain recently, so it was quite dry, and there was a brisk wind to fan the flames. "I guess it's a goner," panted Tom. "Looks that way," agreed his chum. "Here comes the fire department," went on the other, as they heard the clanging of a bell down the road. A little later they could see, by the glare of the fire, a crowd of village men and boys dragging, by the long rope attached to it, a combined chemical engine, and hook and ladder vehicle. It was a new acquisition in the town of Cedarhurst, and the citizens were very proud of it, though they had no horses to pull it. But everyone who could do so grabbed hold of the long rope. "They're making good time," commented Joe. "But they might as well save themselves. The old factory is better burned than standing. Guess some more tramps went in there." "Then they'd better be getting out by now," observed the young pitcher, "for it must be pretty hot." The lads ran on, and soon found themselves close to the burning structure. The heat of the flames could be felt, and Tom and Joe moved back into the crowd that had gathered. Up clattered the fire apparatus, and there was the usual excitement, with everyone giving orders, and telling how it ought to be done. Finally a chemical stream was turned on, the whitish foaming mixture of bicarbonate of soda, sulphuric acid and water spurting upon the flames. There was a hiss, and the part of the fire that was sprayed quickly died out. But it was evident that several chemical streams would be needed if the fire was to be completely extinguished, whereas two lines of hose were all that were available. In fact nothing but a smothering deluge of water would have been effective, and this was not obtainable. "They'll never get that fire out!" cried a man in the crowd. "Why don't you let it burn, Chief?" "Because we're here to put out fires. I'm going to----" But what the chief was going to do he never said, for at that moment, above the crackling of the fire and the shouts of the men and boys, there arose an agonized shout. "Help! Help! Save me!" All eyes turned instinctively upward, and there, perched on the ledge of what had once been the clock tower of the factory, high above the roaring, crackling flames, stood a man, wildly waving his arms and crying: "Help! Help! Save me!" "Look! A man! He'll be burned to death!" yelled a score of persons as they saw the danger. "That's about right, unless he gets down pretty soon," shouted Tom into Joe's ear. "Why doesn't he go down?" "Probably because the stairs are burned away," was Joe's shouted answer--everyone was shouting, partly to make themselves heard and partly because of the excitement, which was contagious. "Help! Help!" cried the man again. He gave one look below him and crowded closer to the outer edge of the tower. "Look out! Don't jump!" someone cried. "We'll save you!" shouted the chief. "Get the ladder, boys! Lively now!" Scores of willing ones raced to the wagon and began pulling out the ladders. They were the extension kind, and could be made quite long. Several men ran with one toward the building. "Not that side! The flames are too hot! You can't raise it there!" cried the chief. "Try around back!" The men obeyed but a moment later there came a disappointing shout: "Too short! The ladder's too short! Get a longer one!" "That's the longest we've got!" answered the chief. "Then splice two together!" urged some one, but the suggestion could hardly have been carried out with safety. No one knew what to do. The flames were mounting higher and higher, bursting out on all sides now, so that in a few moments, even had there been a ladder long enough to reach to the man, it could not have been raised against the building. "Help! Help!" continued to call the seemingly-doomed one. He moved still nearer to the edge of the tower. "Don't jump! Don't!" yelled the crowd. "You'll be killed!" "He might just as well be killed by the fall as burned to death," remarked one man grimly. "In fact I'd prefer it." "Can't someone do something?" begged a woman hysterically. The man held out his hands appealingly. "Oh, if we only had an airship, we could rescue him!" murmured Tom. "By Jove!" exclaimed Joe. "I have an idea. If I could only get a rope up to him he could slide down it, if we held the outer end away from the fire--a slanting cable you know." "That's it!" yelled his chum. "How are you going to get a rope up to him?" asked Luke Fodick, who was standing beside our hero. "No one could throw a rope up there." "No, perhaps not a rope," admitted Joe, "but if I could throw a string we could tie the rope to the string and he could haul it up and fasten it." "But you can't even throw a string up there," insisted Luke. "Of course not!" added Hiram, who had joined his crony. "Nobody could." "Yes they can--I can!" cried Joe. "I'll throw up this ball of cord. It will unwind on the way up if I keep hold of one end of it," and he pulled from his pocket a ball of light but strong cord. Joe used it to wind around split bats. "I'm going to throw this," cried the young pitcher. "Hey there!" he yelled to the man on the tower. "Catch this as it comes, and pull up the rope we're going to fasten on!" The man waved his hands helplessly. He could not hear. "Where you going to get the rope?" asked Tom. "Off the fire apparatus, of course. It's long and strong. Tom, you go get the rope off; I've got to make the man hear and understand before I can throw the cord." "That's the stuff! The rope from the engine!" cried the man near Joe. "That's the idea, young fellow!" Accompanied by Tom, the man raced to the engine. He quickly explained what the plan of rescue was, and others aided in taking from the reel the long rope by which the apparatus was pulled. Once more Joe shouted his instructions, while the fire raged and crackled and the crowd yelled. "Quiet! Quiet!" begged Joe. "I've got to make him hear!" "Make a megaphone--here's a newspaper," suggested a man. He quickly rolled it into a cone, tore off the small end to make a mouthpiece and Joe had an improvised megaphone. Through it he begged the crowd to keep silent, and at last they heard and understood. "I'm going to throw you a ball of cord!" called Joe through the paper cone to the man on the tower. "Catch it, and when I yell again, pull up the rope. Fasten it to the tower and we'll hold the ground end out and away from the flames. Then slide down." The man waved his hands to show that he understood. Then Joe got ready to throw up the cord. "He can't do it! He'll never be able to get that ball up to the man. It will fall short or go into the flames," said Luke Fodick. "He can't, eh?" asked Tom, who came back, helping to pull the long rope. "You don't know how Joe Matson can throw. Just watch him." And, amid a silence that was painfully tense, the young pitcher got ready to deliver a ball on which more depended than on any other he had ever thrown in all his life. CHAPTER XX THE WARNING Joe hesitated a moment. Everything would depend on his one throw, because there was no chance to get another ball of cord, and if this one went wide it would fall into the fire and be rendered useless. The fire was increasing, for all the chemicals in the tank on the wagon had been used, and no fresh supply was available. Below the tower on which the man stood, the flames raged and crackled. Even the tower itself was ablaze a little and at times the smoke hid the man from view momentarily. "I'll have to wait until it clears," murmured the young pitcher, when, just as he got ready to throw, a swirl of vapor arose. "You can't wait much longer," said Tom, in an ominously quiet voice. "I know it," agreed Joe desperately, and it was but too evident. The tower itself, weakened by the fire, would soon collapse, and would carry the man down with it into the seething fire below. "Throw! Throw!" urged several in the throng. Joe handed the loose end of the cord to Tom. He wanted to give all his attention to throwing the ball. He poised himself as if he was in the pitching box. It was like a situation in a game when his side needed to retire the other in order to win, as when two men were out, three on bases and the man at bat had two strikes and three balls. All depended on one throw. With a quick motion Joe drew back his arm. There was an intaking of breath on the part of the crowd that could be heard even above the crackling of the flames. All eyes were centered on the young pitcher. "He'll never do it," murmured Hiram Shell. "If he does he's a better pitcher than I'll ever be," admitted Frank Brown. Suddenly Joe threw. The white ball was plainly visible as it sailed through the air, unwinding as it mounted upward. On and on it went, Joe, no less than every one in the crowd, watching it with eager eyes. And as for the man on the tower he eagerly stretched out his hands to catch the ball of cord, on which his life now depended. [Illustration: THE WHITE BALL WAS PLAINLY VISIBLE AS IT SAILED THROUGH THE AIR.] Straight and true it went, as swift and as direct a ball as Baseball Joe had ever delivered. Straight and true--on and on and then---- Into the hands of the anxiously waiting man went the ball of cord. Eagerly he clutched it, while the crowd set up a great cheer. "That's the stuff!" yelled a man in Joe's ear. "You sure are one good pitcher, my boy!" "Never mind about that now," said the practical Joe. "Fasten on the rope. Quick!" Willing hands did this, and Joe looked to see if the knot would not slip. He seemed to have assumed charge of the rescue operations. "Haul up!" he yelled to the man through the newspaper megaphone. "Haul up the rope and make it fast. Then, when I give the signal, slide down." The man waved his hands to show that he understood, and the next moment he began pulling on the cord. The rope followed. Quickly it uncoiled from where the strands had been piled in readiness for just this. Up and up the man on the tower pulled it until he held the end of the heavy rope in his hands. There now extended from the tower to the ground a slanting pathway of rope, such as is sometimes seen leading down into a stone quarry. It was high enough above the flames to enable a man to swing himself along above them, though doubtless he would have to pass over a zone of fierce heat. "All ready! Come on down!" yelled Joe, and the man on the tower lost no time in obeying. He let go the rope as his feet touched the earth and then with a groan he collapsed. The crowd closed in around him, and two minutes later the tower, with a crash, toppled into the midst of the seething furnace of fire. The rescue had been made none too soon. "Don't crowd around him so!" shouted Joe, hurrying over to where the man lay. He pushed his way into the throng, followed by Tom, and the two lads actually forced the men and boys away from the man, who had evidently fainted. Joe whipped off his coat and made a pillow for the sufferer's head. As he bent over him, the man's face was illuminated by the glare from the burning factory, and our hero started back in astonishment. "Isaac Benjamin!" he exclaimed, as he recognized the former manager of the Royal Harvester works where Mr. Matson had been employed. Isaac Benjamin, the man who, with Mr. Rufus Holdney, had conspired to ruin Joe's father by getting his patents away from him. "Isaac Benjamin!" said Joe again. Mr. Benjamin opened his eyes. Into them came the light of recognition as he gazed into Joe's face. He struggled to a sitting position. "Joe--Joe Matson!" he murmured. "I--I hope your father will forgive me. I--I----" "There, don't think of that now," said Joe gently. "Are you hurt?" "No--nothing of any consequence. I'm not even burned, thanks to you. I climbed up into the tower when I found the place on fire. I--I--Joe, can you ever forgive me for trying to ruin your father?" "Yes, of course. But don't talk of that now," Joe said, while the crowd looked on and wondered at the man and boy knowing each other--wondered at their strange talk. "I--I must talk of that now--more--more danger threatens your father, Joe." Joe thought perhaps the man might be in a delirium of fright, and he decided it would be best to humor him. "That's all right," he said soothingly. "You'll be taken care of. We've sent for a doctor. How did you come to be in the old factory?" "I--I was sleeping there, Joe." Mr. Benjamin's tones did not indicate a raving mind. "Sleeping there?" There was surprise in the boy's voice. "Yes, Joe, I'm down and out. I've lost all my money, my friends have gone back on me--though it's my own fault--I have lost my home--my position--everything. I'm an outcast--a tramp--that's why I was sleeping there. There were some other tramps. They were smoking--I guess that's how the fire started. They got away but I couldn't." The man's voice was excited now, and Joe tried to calm him. But Mr. Benjamin continued. "Wait, Joe, I have something to tell you--something important--a warning to give you. If we--can we talk in private?" "Yes, later, when you are stronger," answered the lad soothingly. "Then it may be too late," went on Mr. Benjamin. "I am strong enough now. It was just a passing faintness. I--I am weak--haven't had much to eat--I'm hungry. But no matter. Here, come over here, I'll tell you." He struggled to his feet with Joe's aid and led the lad aside from the crowd, which parted to make way for them. "I'm down and out, Joe. Money and friends all gone." "What about Mr. Holdney?" "He too, has deserted me--turned against me, though I helped him in many schemes. I'm nothing but a tramp now, Joe." The young pitcher looked at the wreck of the man before him. Truly he was "down and out." His once fine and well-dressed appearance had given place to a slouchy attire. "But I must tell you, Joe. Your father's patent rights are again in danger. Rufus Holdney is going to try to get some valuable papers and models away from him. That's what he and I quarreled over. I'd do anything to spoil his plans, after he has thrown me off as he has. I left him, and since then I have had only bad luck. I don't know how I came to come here. I didn't know you were here. But warn your father, Joe, to look well after his new patents. Warn him before it is too late." "I will," promised Joe. "I will. Thank you for telling me. Now we must look after you." And indeed it was high time, for, as the young pitcher spoke Mr. Benjamin tottered and would have fallen had not our hero caught him. "Quick, get a doctor!" cried Joe, as the crowd surged up again around the unfortunate man, who had fainted. CHAPTER XXI BAD NEWS Attention was divided, on the part of the crowd, between the man who had been rescued, and the fire. The old factory was now burning fiercely and it was useless to try to save the structure. In fact, nearly everyone was glad that it had been destroyed, for it would harbor no more tramps. So the man who had been so thrillingly rescued was the greater attraction. Fortunately there was a doctor in the throng, and he gave Mr. Benjamin some stimulants which quickly brought him out of his faint. Then a carriage was secured, and the man was taken to the village hotel, Joe agreeing to be responsible for his board. Though Mr. Benjamin had treated Mr. Matson most unjustly, and had tried to ruin him, yet the son thought he could do no less than to give him some aid, especially after the warning. "Well, I guess it's all over but the shouting, as they say at the baseball games," remarked Tom to Joe. "Let's get home. I'm cold," for they had both been drenched over the upper part of their bodies by the initiation, and the night wind was cold, in spite of the fact that Spring was well advanced. "So am I," admitted Joe, as he watched the carriage containing Mr. Benjamin drive off. "I'd like some good hot lemonade." The fire now held little attraction for our friends and they hastened back to the dormitory, Joe explaining on the way how he had unexpectedly rescued a former enemy of his father's. "And aren't you going to send some word home about that warning he gave you?" asked Tom, as Joe finished. "That Holdney scoundrel may be working his scheme now." "Oh, yes, sure. I'm going to write to dad as soon as we get back to our room. Sure I'm going to warn him. I'm mighty sorry for Mr. Benjamin. He's a smart man, but he went wrong, and now he's down and out, as he says. But he did me a good service." "It doesn't even things up!" spoke Teeter. "He surely would have been a gone one but for you." "Oh, some one else might have thought of that way of getting him down if I hadn't," replied Joe modestly. "I remember a story I read in one of the books I had when I was a kid. A fellow was on a high chimney, and a rope he had used to haul himself up slipped down. A big crowd gathered and no one knew how to help him. His wife came to bring his dinner and she got onto a scheme right away. "'Hey, John!' she called 'unravel your sock. Begin at the toe!' You see he had on knitted socks. Well, he unravelled one, got a nice long piece of yarn and lowered it to the ground. He tied on his knife, or something for a weight. Then they fastened a cord to the yarn, and a rope to the cord, he pulled the rope up and got down off the chimney." "Your process, only reversed," commented Tom. "I say fellows," he added, "let's run and get warmed up. I'm shivering." "It was warm enough back there at the fire," said Teeter, as he looked to where the blaze was now dying out for lack of material on which to feed. "Beastly mean of Hiram and Luke," commented Peaches. "They're getting scared I guess. I hope we get 'em out of the nine before the season's over." Joe and Tom entertained their friends with crackers and hot lemonade, and none of the professors or monitors annoyed them with attentions. They must have known of it, when Peaches went to get the hot water in the dormitory kitchen, but it is something to have a hero in a school, and Joe was certainly the hero of the night. The two lads, who had been thoroughly soaked, stripped and took a good rub down, and this, with the hot lemonade, set them into a warm glow. Then they sat about and talked and talked until nearly midnight. Joe wrote a long letter to his father explaining all the circumstances and warned him to be on the lookout. One of the janitors who had to arise early to attend to his duties promised to see that the missive got off on the first morning mail. "There, now, I guess we'll go to bed," announced Joe. There was much subdued excitement in chapel the next morning, and Dr. Fillmore made a reference to the events of the night before. "I am very proud of the way you young gentlemen behaved at the fire," he said. "It was an exciting occasion, and yet you held yourselves well within bounds. We have reason to be very proud of one of our number who distinguished himself, and----" "Three cheers for Joe Matson!" yelled Peaches, and they were given heartily--something that had never before happened in chapel. Dr. Fillmore looked surprised, and Professor Rodd was evidently pained, but Dr. Rudden was observed to join in the ovation, over which Joe blushed painfully. Joe caught a cold from his wetting and exposure. It was nothing serious, but the school physician thought he had better stay in bed for a couple of days, and, much against his will the young pitcher did so. "How is baseball practice going on?" he asked Tom after the first day. "I wish I could get out and watch it." "Oh, it's going pretty good. We scrubs have a hard job holding the school nine down when you're not there to pitch. There's a game with Woodside Hall to-morrow, and I guess we'll win." Excelsior Hall did win that contest, but not by as big a score as they should have done. It was the old story of Hiram and Luke not managing things right, and having weak pitchers. Still it was a victory, and served to elate the bully and his crony. It was on the third day of Joe's imprisonment in his room, and his cold was much better. He had heard that Mr. Benjamin had recovered and left the hotel; no one knew for what place. He sent Joe a note of thanks, however, and it came in with some mail from home. Joe opened the home letters first. There was one from his father, enclosed in one from his mother and Clara. "Dear Joe," wrote Mr. Matson. "I got your warning, but it was too late. Why didn't you telegraph me? The night before your letter got here some valuable papers and models were stolen from my new shop. I have no doubt but that Holdney did it--he or some of his tools. It will cripple me badly, but I may be able to pull through. I appreciate what Benjamin did for us, and it was mighty smart of you to save him that way. But why didn't you telegraph me about the danger to my models?" "That's it!" exclaimed Joe bitterly to himself. "What a chump I was. Why didn't I telegraph dad, and then it would have been in time. Why didn't I?" CHAPTER XXII BITTER DEFEAT Joe's first act, after receiving the bad news from home, was to sit down and write his father a letter full of vain regrets, of self-accusation, upbraiding himself for having been so stupid as not to have thought of telegraphing. He hastened to post this, going out himself though barely over his cold. "I'm not going to take any more chances," he remarked to Tom. "Maybe that other letter wasn't mailed by the janitor, or it would have gotten to dad in time." "Hardly," remarked his chum. "Your father says the things were taken the night before your letter arrived, so you would have had to write the day before to have done any good. Only a telegram would have been of any use." "I guess so," admitted Joe sorrowfully. "I'm a chump!" "Oh, don't worry any more," advised his friend. "Let's get at some baseball practice. The school has two games this week." "Who with?" asked Joe. "Woodside Hall and the Lakeview Preps. We ought to win 'em both. They need you back on the scrub. The first nine has had it too easy." "And I'll be glad to get back," replied the young pitcher earnestly. "It seems as if I hadn't had a ball in my hands for a month." Joe mailed his letter and then, as the day was just right to go out on the diamond, he and Tom hastened there, finding plenty of lads awaiting them. A five-inning game between the scrub and school teams was soon arranged. "Now boys, go in and clean 'em up!" exclaimed Luke, as his men went to bat, allowing the scrub the advantage of being last up. This was done to make the first team strive exceptionally hard to pile up runs early in the practice. "Don't any of you fan out," warned Hiram. "I'm watching you." "And so am I," added Dr. Rudden, the coach, as he strolled up. "You first team lads want to look to your laurels. You have plenty of games to play before the finals to decide the possession of the Blue Banner, but remember that every league game counts. Your percentage is rather low for the start of the season." He was putting it mildly. The percentage of Excelsior Hall was exceedingly low. "Beat the scrub!" advised the coach-teacher. "They can't do it with Joe in the box!" declared Tom; and Luke and Hiram sneered audibly. Their feeling against our two heroes had not improved since the event of the initiation. The scrub nine was not noted for its heavy hitting, but in this practice game they outdid themselves, and when they came up for their first attempt they pulled down the lead of four runs which the school nine had, to one. There was an ominous look on the faces of Luke and Hiram as the first team went to bat for the second time. "Make 'em look like a plugged nickel," advised Tom to his pitching chum. "The worse you make 'em take a beating the more it will show against Hiram and Luke. We want to get 'em out of the game." "All right," assented Joe, and then he "tightened up," in his pitching, with the result that a goose egg went up in the second frame of the first team. Even Dr. Rudden looked grave over this. If the school nine could not put up a better game against their own scrub, all of whose tricks and mannerisms they knew, what could they do against the two regular nines with whom they were to cross bats during the week? When the scrubs got another run, Joe knocking a three bagger, and coming home on Tommy Barton's sacrifice, there was even a graver look on the face of the coach. As for Luke and Hiram, they held a consultation. "We'll have to make a shift somewhere," declared Hiram. "I'll just let Akers go in the box in place of Frank Brown," decided the captain. "No, that's not enough," insisted the manager. "You don't know how to play your own men." "I know as much as you do about it!" fired back Luke. Of late the bully and his crony had not agreed overwell. "No, you don't!" reaffirmed Hiram. "I tell you what you ought to do. You ought to get rid of Peaches, Teeter and George Bland." "Why, they're three of the best players on the nine." "No, they're not, and besides they're too friendly with Joe Matson and Sister Davis. They don't half play. They make errors on purpose, just to make the school team have a bad reputation." "Why should they do that?" "Don't you understand, you chump? They want to force you and me out. That's their game. They're sore about that meeting, and Matson and Davis are sore about lots of things. Peaches and the other two think if they get us out there'll be a chance for Joe to pitch." "So that's their game, is it?" exclaimed Luke. "Well, I'll put a stop to it. I'll make subs of Peaches, Bland and Teeter, and put in some other players. They can't come it over me that way." "Play ball!" called the umpire, for the talk between the captain and manager was delaying the game. "Oh, we'll play all right," snapped Luke, and he knew that he and his nine had to, for the score was now tie. "Peaches, Teeter, Bland, you can sit on the bench a while!" went on Luke. "Wilson, Natch and Gonzales, you'll take their places." "What's that for?" asked the innocent and unoffending Peaches. "Have we played so rotten?" Teeter wanted to know. "I made the changes because I wanted to," snapped Luke. "Go sit down with the other subs, and we'll see if we can't play a decent game." Perhaps Peaches and his chums may have understood the reason for Luke's act, but if they did, they did not say so. The game went on with the three new players, and the result may be imagined. The scrub continued to get ahead, and the school nine could not catch up because Joe was pitching in great form, and striking out man after man, though he was hit occasionally. "This is worse than ever," growled Hiram, when another inning passed and the scrub was five runs ahead. "Change back again, Luke." "Say, they'll think I'm crazy." "Can't help it. We'll be worse than crazy if we don't win this little measly game. And think what will happen Friday and Saturday. Change back." So Peaches, Teeter and George were called from the bench again, and they played desperately. There was a general tightening all along the line, and the school nine began to see victory ahead. Joe got a little wild occasionally, principally because he was out of practice, but the best the school nine could do was to tie the score in the fifth inning, and it had to go to seven before they could win, though they had planned to play only five. The school nine won by a margin of one. "That's too close for comfort, boys," said the coach. "Why didn't you have a little mercy, Joe?" he asked of the young scrub pitcher. "I will next time--maybe," was the laughing answer. Luke and Hiram scowled at him as they passed. They would have witnessed with pleasure his withdrawal from the school. But Joe was going to stick. "What are we going to do?" asked Luke of Hiram as they walked on. "About what?" "The nine. We've just _got_ to win these two games." "Well, we'll have to do some more shifting, I guess, and Brown and Akers have got to tighten up on their pitching. We'll try some more shifting." "Oh, you make me sick!" exclaimed the captain. "Always changing. What good does that do?" "Say, I'm manager of this nine!" declared the bully, "and if you don't like the way I run things, you know what you can do." Luke subsided after that. He was afraid of Hiram, and he wanted to remain as captain. The two discussed various plans, but could come to no decision. The inevitable happened. In the game with Woodside the Excelsiors managed to get a few runs in the early innings, but their opponents did likewise, because the Hall pitcher could not hold the batters in check. Then Woodside sent in another pitcher, better than the first, and the Excelsiors got only a few scattering hits, while, after shifting from Brown to Akers, Luke's nine did even worse, for Akers was pounded out of the box. The score was fifteen to six in favor of Woodside when the final inning ended, and the Excelsiors filed off the diamond in gloomy mood. "Well, it couldn't have been much worse," growled Luke to the manager. "Oh, it was pretty bad," admitted Hiram, "but we'll whitewash the Preps." The Excelsior Hall nine journeyed to the Lakeview school full of hope, for the lads there did not have a very good reputation as hitters, and their pitcher was not out of the ordinary. But it was the same old story--mismanagement, and a captain of the Excelsiors who didn't dare speak his own mind. If Luke had been allowed to run the team to suit himself he might have been able to do something with it, but Hiram insisted on having his way. The result can be imagined. Instead of beating the Lakeview boys by a large score, as they had done the previous year, Excelsior was beaten, nine to seven. "Well, it's not as bad as the last game," was all the consolation Hiram could find. "Say, don't talk to me!" snapped Luke. "Something's got to be done!" "That's right," put in Peaches, who came up just then. "Something has got to be done, Hiram Shell, and right away, too." He looked the bully squarely in the face. Behind Peaches came Teeter, George Bland and several of the subs. "What--what do you mean?" stammered Hiram. "I mean that it's either you or us," went on Peaches. "Either you get out as manager or we get out as players," added Teeter. "We're tired of playing on a nine that can't win a game. We can play ball, and we know it. But not with you, Hiram. What's it going to be--you or us?" "Say!" burst out the bully. "I'll have you know that----" A hand was placed on his shoulder. He wheeled about to confront Dr. Rudden. "I think something _must_ be done," said the coach quietly. "Call a meeting of the Athletic Committee, Shell." "What for?" asked the bully. "To discuss the situation. There has got to be a change if Excelsior Hall is to have a chance for the Blue Banner. If you don't call the meeting, Shell, I will." It was perhaps the best thing that could have happened, and to save friction among the students, many of whom were still for the manager, Hiram knew he had to give in to Dr. Rudden. "All right," he growled. "The meeting will take place to-night." Quickly the word went around through the precincts of Excelsior Hall. "There's going to be another hot meeting." "Hiram's on his last legs." "His game is up now." "This means that Joe Matson will pitch, sure, and we'll win some games now." "If Hiram goes, Luke will, too, and there'll be a new captain." These were only a few of the comments and predictions made by the players and other students as they got ready to attend the session. CHAPTER XXIII HIRAM IS OUT There was an ominous silence over the gathering in the gymnasium. It was entirely different from the former meeting which started in such a hub-bub, and which created such a stir. This time it meant "business," as Peaches said. Hiram called the session, but refused to preside. He wanted to be able to say what he thought from the floor, and from the manner in which he and Luke and one or two of their friends conferred before the session opened, it was evident that Hiram was going to make a fight to maintain his prestige. "Come to order, young gentlemen," suggested Dr. Rudden, when the gymnasium was well filled. It seemed as if every lad in Excelsior Hall was there. "You know what we are here for----" "To elect a new manager and captain!" shouted someone. "Stop!" commanded the coach, banging his gavel. "Who said that?" cried Hiram, springing to his feet. "If I find out----" "Silence!" commanded the chairman, while Luke pulled his crony to his seat. "This meeting will be conducted in a gentlemanly manner, or not at all," went on the professor quietly; but the boys knew what he meant. "We are here to discuss the baseball situation, and try to decide on some plan for bettering the team. I will hear suggestions." "I just want to say one thing," began Hiram. "I have managed this team for three seasons, and----" "Mis-managed it," murmured someone. "Why didn't we get the Blue Banner?" asked another voice. "Young gentlemen, you will have to keep from making side remarks, and interrupting the speakers," said Dr. Rudden. "Go on, Shell." "I never had any kicking on my management before," continued Hiram, glaring at those around him. "I can manage it all right now, and it's only some soreheads----" "Rather unparliamentary language," the chairman warned him. "If we had a few good players we could win every game," went on the bully. "But the season is young yet, and----" "I don't think that is a valid excuse," said the professor. "You had your choice of the whole school in picking the nine, so it is the fault of yourself and the captain if you haven't a good team. As for the earliness of the season, the boys have had plenty of practice and they ought to have struck their gait before this. I'm afraid something else is to blame." "We need better pitchers for one thing!" called someone. "That's right!" yelled a double score of voices, and Dr. Rudden, seeing the sway of sentiment, did not object. "We've got two good pitchers!" fairly yelled Hiram. "I know what this all means--that Joe Matson and his crowd----" "That will do," the chairman warned him. "It's true!" exclaimed Frank Brown, jumping to his feet. "I'm not a good pitcher, and I don't mind admitting it. I can't hold the other fellows down enough. If I could, we would have won these last two games, for our boys can bat when they haven't the heart taken out of them." "That's the way to talk!" cried Tom Davis. "Nothing like being honest about it," commented Dr. Rudden. "That statement does you credit, Brown. How many of you think the same--that a different pitcher would strengthen the team?" "I! I! I!" yelled scores. "It's not so! Our pitchers are good enough!" These cries came from Luke, Hiram and a few of their cronies. "There seems to be a division of opinion," began the chairman. "I think we had better vote on it." "There are a lot of fellows here who have no right to vote!" cried Hiram. "That won't do, Shell," said Dr. Rudden sternly. "This is a matter that concerns the entire school--to have a winning nine. Every student is entitled to vote." "Hurrah!" yelled Tom. "This is a victory all right. The end of Hiram, Luke and Company has come." "You'll pitch on the school team, Joe!" called Peaches in our hero's ear. "I'd like to," Joe answered back, "but I'm afraid----" "All in favor of having a change in pitchers, since Frank Brown has been good enough, and manly enough, to say that he knows his own weakness--all in favor of a change vote 'aye,'" directed the chairman. "Aye!" came in a thunderous chorus. "Contrary minded----" "No!" snapped Hiram. Luke and Jake Weston followed with feeble negatives. They, too, were beginning to see which way the wind blew. "Whom will you have for pitcher?" asked the Professor. "Can you decide now, or will you wait and----" "Decide now!" was yelled. "Joe Matson for pitcher! Baseball Joe. Joe Matson!" was cried in different parts of the room. "Very well," assented the chairman. "This may be a wise move. All in favor of Joe Matson as pitcher, since Frank Brown, the regular boxman, has practically resigned--all say 'aye.'" Again came the hearty assent, and again the feeble objection of Hiram. "Joe Matson is now the regular pitcher for the school nine," said Dr. Rudden. "And I want to say that I'm glad of the change," put in Larry Akers. "Hurray! Hurray!" yelled the now excited and enthusiastic students. Things seemed to be coming out right after all. "I want to say," exclaimed Joe, "that while I appreciate the honor done me, we may need substitute pitchers. In fact, I'm sure we will, and I wish Frank and Larry would remain to help me. I'll coach them all I can, and I know they both have pitching stuff in them. I've made quite a study of pitching as an amateur. Some day I hope to be a professional, and I'm willing to tell Frank and Larry all I know." "Good!" exclaimed the chairman. "I think they'll take your offer. Well, we have now made one change. Are there any more that you think necessary?" It was rather a delicate question, for everyone knew what was meant. But the lads were saved from doing what most of them knew ought to be done. "Do I understand that Joe Matson is the regular pitcher on the school team?" asked the manager, sourly. "That seems to be the sentiment of the students, Shell," answered Dr. Rudden. "And without me, or the captain, having anything to say about it?" "You were out-voted, Shell." "Well, then all I've got to say is that I don't manage this nine any more!" fairly yelled Hiram. "There's my resignation, and it takes effect at once!" and, walking down the aisle he threw a folded paper on the table at which the professor sat. "Shall this resignation be accepted?" asked the chairman, amid a rather tense silence. "Yes!" came so quickly and with such volume that there was no doubt about the sentiment of the crowd. Perhaps Hiram had hoped that he would be asked to reconsider it, but if so he was disappointed. He walked back to where Luke sat. He leaned over the captain and said something in a whisper. "I'm not going to," replied Luke, loudly enough for all in the room to hear. "Go on!" ordered the bully. "If you don't, I'll----" and then his voice sank to a whisper again. "All right," assented Luke, and walking forward as his crony had done, he, too, tossed a paper on the table. "There's my resignation as captain and a member of the Excelsior baseball nine!" he exclaimed. There was a gasp of surprise from the crowd. Hiram and Luke both out! It was rather unexpected, but Tom and his friends felt elated. Now they would have a chance to play. It looked like the dawn of a brighter day for Excelsior Hall. CHAPTER XXIV TWO OF A KIND "There is another resignation to act on," said Dr. Rudden, after a pause, and, somehow he did not seem half as worried over it as Luke had hoped he would be. "What shall we do with it?" "Take it!" exclaimed Tom, and it was accepted with a promptness that startled the former captain. "The action taken to-night makes it necessary to elect a new manager and a captain," went on the professor. "Perhaps the manager should be elected first. Whom will you have?" "Peaches Lantfeld," called some. "Teeter Nelson," said others. "George Bland! Sister Davis! Ward Gerard! Tommy Barton," called various lads. There were more nominations, but Peaches received the majority of votes, and was declared elected. Teeter was the first to congratulate him, and the others followed. "Now a captain," suggested the chairman. "Joe Matson!" yelled scores of voices. "No, I can't accept," cried Joe, jumping to his feet. "If I'm going to pitch I want to give all my time to that. I'm much obliged, but I decline." "I think it would not be wise to make your pitcher the captain, especially at this time," spoke Dr. Rudden. "The catcher is in a better position to captain a team, for he can see all the plays. You will have to have a new catcher, and----" "Ward Gerard!" called Joe. "He's caught for me on the scrub, and----" "Ward! Ward Gerard!" Scores of lads took up the calling of his name. He was very popular, and was elected in a minute, while Hiram and Luke, followed by Jake Weston, filed from the room in plainly-shown disgust, sneers on their faces. Nothing more remained to do save to have a conference of the new captain and manager, to arrange for future practice and playing. This was soon done, and Ward told the lads to report early the next Monday afternoon, when they would play the scrub, which organization had also to select a new captain and pitcher, as well as catcher. "Now, all I want is to get Tom Davis on the school nine, and I'll be happy," said Joe to Peaches and Teeter, as the meeting broke up. "I think you can," declared Teeter. "Jake Weston is going to get out, I hear, and Tom will fit in. Charlie Borden can take Jake's place at short and Tom can play first, which he's used to. Oh, I guess old Excelsior Hall has come into her own again, and we'll make some of these other teams sit up and take notice." And Jake did resign, following the example of his two cronies. This made a place for Tom, and he promptly filled it. There was a snap and a vim to the playing of the school nine when they first went at it with the changed players, that fairly took the breath out of the scrub. Of course that unfortunate collection of players was weakened by the withdrawal of Joe, Ward and Tom, but even with players of equal strength it is doubtful if they could have held the school nine down. Joe and his mates struck a winning streak, and the young pitcher never was better than in that practice game on Monday afternoon. "Joe's pitching his head off," observed Tom Davis, and when Ward missed holding one or two particular "hot" ones he thought the same thing. The school team won a decisive victory. "But that doesn't mean we will beat Trinity on Saturday," said Peaches, the new manager. "Don't begin to take it easy, fellows. And then follows the second game in the series with Morningside. We've got to get that or those boys will think they've gotten into the habit of beating us." "We'll trim 'em both!" cried Tom. "Sure," assented Joe. It was like old times now, he reflected, he and Tom together on a team as they had been on the Silver Stars. The only thing that worried Joe was the theft of his father's papers and patent models. He knew it would mean a serious loss to his parents, and Joe was rather in fear that he might have to leave boarding school. "If I have to go away, I hope it won't be until after I have helped win back the Blue Banner," he confided to Tom. "Oh, don't worry," advised his chum; and a few days later Joe received a letter from home, telling him the same thing. Mr. Matson wrote that whereas the loss would badly cripple him, yet he did not want Joe to worry. The game with Trinity was a source of delight to the Excelsior team. Their rivals came to the diamond battlefield eager for a victory, and they worked hard for it, but the new combination was too much for them. When the final run was chalked up the score stood: Excelsior Hall, 11; Trinity, 4. "That's what we want to do to Morningside," said Tom. "And we will!" predicted Joe. They had hard practice before the second game with their ancient rivals--for Morningside was a foe whom Excelsior Hall was always eager to beat. In the series for the possession of the Blue Banner she had three games with Morningside and a like number with the other teams in the league. It was the day of the second Morningside game, and it was to take place on the Excelsior diamond. The weather could not have been better. Spring was just merging into Summer, and the lads were on their mettle. There had been a big improvement in their playing, and they were ready to do battle to a finish. Luke and Hiram had not been much in evidence since their resignations. They occasionally came to a game, or to practice, but they made sneering remarks, and few of the students had anything to do with them. It was quite a jolt for Hiram, used as he was to running matters to suit himself. The crowd began arriving early at the Excelsior diamond, for word had gone around that it was to be a game for "blood," and both teams were on edge. If Excelsior had improved, so had Morningside. They had strengthened their men by long, hard practice, and they were confident of victory. Joe and Tom had expected before this to hear something about their old enemy, Sam Morton, at Morningside, but the former pitcher for the Silver Stars was seldom mentioned. However, it was learned that he was to substitute in the Morningside-Excelsior game. Out on the diamond trotted the renovated Excelsior nine. They were received with a burst of applause, and at once got to practice. A little later out came their rivals, and there was a cheer for them. Immediately the opposition cheering and shouting contingents got busy, and there was a riot of sound. "Going to stay and see the game?" asked Luke of Hiram, as they entered the gate. "Yes, might as well. Gee! But I hope our fellows lose!" Nice sentiments, weren't they for an Excelsior student? But then Hiram was very sore and angry. "So do I," added Luke. "It would show them what a mistake they made by dropping us." "That's right," agreed the conceited Hiram. "If they had only waited we'd have come out all right. It was all the fault of Joe Matson and Tom Davis. I'll get square with 'em yet." They strolled over the grounds, winding in and out amid the throngs. They almost collided with a Morningside player. "Beg your pardon," murmured Luke. "Oh, it's Sam Morton," he added, for he had met Sam in town a week or so previously. "Have you met Hiram Shell, Sam," and he introduced the two. "Oh, yes, you're the manager of the Excelsiors," said Sam. "Glad to know you. I think we'll beat you again. I may pitch after the fifth inning. I'm only the sub now, but I expect to be the regular soon." "I _was_ manager," replied Hiram bitterly, "but Joe Matson and his crowd put up a game on me, and I resigned." "Joe Matson, eh? He's the same fellow who made a lot of trouble for me." "Excuse me," murmured Luke. "I see a friend of mine. I'm going to leave you for a minute." "All right," assented Hiram. "So Joe Matson made trouble for you, too, eh?" he went on to Sam, curiously. "Yes, he played a mean trick on me, and took my place as pitcher," which wasn't exactly true, as my old readers know. "I'd like to get square with him some way," concluded Sam. "Say, so would I!" exclaimed Hiram eagerly. "Shake hands on that. He's a low sneak, and he played a mean trick on me. I'd do anything to get even." "Maybe we can," suggested Sam. "How?" "Oh, lots of ways. Come on over here where no one will hear us. Maybe we can fix up some scheme on him. I'd give a good deal to get even." "So would I," added Hiram. "I wish I could get him off the nine, and out of the school." "I'll help you," proposed Sam eagerly; and then the two, who were very much of a kind when it came to disliking our hero, walked off, whispering together. "Play ball!" came the distant cry of the umpire, and the great Excelsior-Morningside game was about to start. But the plotters did not turn back to watch it. CHAPTER XXV BY A CLOSE MARGIN "Whew!" whistled Captain Elmer Dalton of the Morningside nine, as he greeted some of the lads against whom his team was to play, "you fellows have been making a lot of changes, haven't you?" and he looked at the several new members of the school team, including Joe and Tom. "Yes, a bit of house cleaning," replied Ward Gerard. "I am captain now. Hiram and Luke got out." "Yes, I heard there was some sort of a row." "Oh, I suppose it's all over the league by this time," put in Peaches. "But it couldn't be helped. It was like a dose of bitter medicine, but we took it, and I think it's going to do us good." "You mean _we're_ going to do you good," laughed Elmer. "We're going to trim you again to-day." "Not much!" cried Ward. "We'll win. Come now, a little wager between you and me--for the sodas, say." "You're on!" agreed Elmer. "Where's your batting list?" The two captains walked over to the scoring bench to arrange the details of the game. The two teams were made up as follows, this being the batting order: EXCELSIOR-- George Bland centre field Dick Lantfeld left field Harry Nelson second base Nat Pierson third base Tom Davis first base Charles Borden shortstop Harry Lauter right field Joe Matson pitcher Ward Gerard catcher MORNINGSIDE-- Dunlap Spurr centre field Will Lee shortstop Wilson Carlburg left field Ted Clay pitcher Wallace Douglass catcher Elmer Dalton first base Walker Bromley third base Loftus Brown second base Harry Young right field The Excelsiors were to bat last, and while the rival crowds of school boys were singing, cheering and giving their class yells, Joe Matson walked to the box for the second time as pitcher on the school nine in a big school league game. No wonder he felt a trifle nervous, but he did not show it, not even when some one yelled: "Look at the new pitcher they've got! We'll get his number all right." "Yes, we'll have his goat in about a minute!" added another Morningside partizan. "Go as far as you like," answered Joe with a smile. "Play ball!" yelled the umpire, and Joe faced the first batter, Dunlap Spurr, who had the reputation of being a heavy hitter. Ward signalled for a low one, for he knew that Dunlap had a tendency to hit over such a ball. Joe nodded his head to show that he understood, and the next moment the horsehide went speeding toward the plate. The batter swung viciously at it but--missed. He had gone half a foot over it. "Strike!" cried the umpire. "Make him give you a pretty one!" called Elmer. "He will if you wait." "He won't have long to wait," retorted our hero. This time he decided to send one over the corner of the plate, as he noticed that Dunlap had a free swing. Joe hoped he would strike at it and miss, and that was exactly what happened. "Strike two!" howled the umpire, and there followed a gasp of dismay. Dunlap was not in the habit of doing this, and he rather scowled. Joe smiled. "One more and we'll have him down!" called the catcher. "Where'd you get the pitcher?" asked a Morningside wit. "Oh, we had him made to order," replied Tom Davis, who was anxiously waiting on first. Joe hoped he could make it three straight strikes, but his next was called a ball, and the Morningside supporters let out a yell of gratification. "There's his glass arm showing! He's going to pieces!" they yelled. Joe shut his jaw grimly. He was going to fool the batter if possible, and the next ball he sent in was a puzzling inshoot. Instinctively Dunlap started away from the plate, but he need not have moved, for the ball, with a neat little twist, passed him at a safe distance, and at a point where he could almost have hit it had he tried. But he did not move his bat, and an instant later the umpire called: "Three strikes--batter out!" Then indeed was there a gasp of dismay and protest from the big crowd of Morningside sympathizers, and the visiting nine. "Say," began Dunlap Spurr, "that was never----" "You dry up!" commanded his captain with a laugh. "It was a peach of a ball, and you ought to have hit it. Don't begin that way. We can beat 'em without that. Good work, Matson, but you can't keep it up. Come on, Lee; you're up next. Carlburg on deck." Joe was immensely pleased, but he knew it was only the beginning of the battle. He got two strikes on Lee and that player began to get worried. Then, after one ball, Lee hit the next one for a pop fly that Joe hardly had to step out of his box to get. "Two down, play for all you're worth, Joe," called Ward; but Joe needed no such urging. However, something went wrong. Either Joe did not have as good control, speed or curving ability as when he had started in, or the next players found him. At any rate Carlburg knocked a dandy two bagger, and Ted Clay, who followed, duplicated the trick. Carlburg came in with the first run of the game, amid a riot of noise, and when Wallace Douglass hit safely to first, Clay got to third, coming in with the second run a little later, when Captain Dalton also singled. "We've got 'em going! We've got 'em going!" yelled the delighted Morningside crowd, and it did seem so. Joe felt that he must tighten up, and strike out the next man, or all would be lost. He glanced at the bench, where the jubilant Morningside players were sitting, all regarding him sharply. It was a supreme test. Then Joe caught the eyes of some one else on him. The eyes of Sam Morton, his old enemy. It was like a dash of cold water. For the time being he had forgotten that Sam was the substitute pitcher on the visiting team, but had Joe seen him and Hiram in close consultation a little while previously, our hero would have had reason long to remember it. "I'll show 'em I am still in the ring!" Joe murmured, and when he wound up for his next delivery he knew that he had himself well in hand again. "Come on now, bring us all in!" urged Captain Dalton, when Walker Bromley got up to the plate. "He'll walk you, and then Loftus and Harry will have a show. We'll have the whole team up." It began to look so, for already seven of the nine had been at bat. Joe might have wasted time trying to nail some lad who was playing too far off base, but he did not. Instead he sized up Bromley and sent him a swift one. The batter struck at it and missed. The next ball was called a strike, and attention was at fever heat. Would Walker hit it? The question was answered in the negative a moment later, for he swung at it with all his force and fanned the air. "Out!" called the umpire, and the side was retired. But Morningside had two runs, and the way Joe had been hit by four men did not augur well for Excelsior's chances. "Oh, we'll do 'em!" said Ward, with more confidence than he felt. "I hope they pound Joe out of the box," murmured Hiram to Luke. "So do I," said the former catcher. Excelsior hoped for great things when it came her turn at stick-work, but alas for hopes! A series of happenings worked against her. George Bland rapped out as pretty a two bagger as one could wish, but he tried to steal third, slipped on a pebble when almost safe, and was thrown out. Peaches Lantfeld knocked a sharp grounder that looked almost certain to get past the shortstop; and it did, but the third baseman, who was a rattling good player, nabbed it and Peaches went down. "Now, Teeter!" called Ward. "See what you can do." Teeter got to first on a muffed fly, and it was Nat Pierson's turn. Nat could usually be depended on, but this time he could not. He fanned twice and the third time got two fouls in succession. "Well, we're finding the ball, anyhow," said Ward cheerfully. "Kill it next time, Nat, and give Sister Davis a show." Nat tried to, but he knocked an easy fly, which the pitcher gathered in, and the opportunity of the Excelsior nine was over for that inning. A big goose egg went up in their frame. Score: 2--0, in favor of the visitors. Joe took a long breath when he went into the box again, and facing Loftus Brown, struck him out in such short order that his friends began to breathe easier again. The game was far from lost, and as long as Joe did not allow his "goat" to be gotten, Excelsior might win yet. Then Harry Young, probably the poorest batter the visitors had, fanned thrice successively, and it was Dunlap Spurr's turn again. Joe knew just what to give him, and when he struck him out, after two foul strikes had been made, the crowd set up a yell. The visitors did not get a run in their half of the second, and once more Excelsior had a show. Tom Davis singled, got around to third when Charlie Borden knocked a two-bagger, and slid home in a close play when Harry Lauter was thrown out at first. There was only one gone when Joe came to bat, and one run had come in. Joe knocked a safety, or at least it looked as if it was going to be that, but the shortstop, by a magnificent jump into the air, nabbed it, and then came as pretty a double play as had ever taken place on that diamond. Joe was put out and Charlie Borden, who had been hugging third, was caught at home, for he was not a fast runner. That retired the side, and there was only one run to match the two which Morningside had. Still it was something, and the home team began to take heart. Then began what was one of the most remarkable games in the series. Joe did not allow a hit in the first half of the third inning and the Excelsiors got one run, tying the score. In the fourth the visitors pulled a single tally down, putting them one ahead, and then, just to show what they could do, the home team knocked out two, gaining an advantage of one. The crowd was wild with delight at the clean playing, for both teams were on their mettle, and the rival pitchers were delivering good balls. But the fifth inning nearly proved a Waterloo for our friends. The Morningsides got four runs, which made Joe groan inwardly in anguish, for he was severely pounded. "Maybe you'd better let Brown or Akers go in," he suggested to Ward. "Not on your life!" cried the captain. "You are all right. It was just a slip. Hold hard and we'll do 'em." Joe held hard, and there was a little encouragement when his team got one run, making the score at the ending of the fifth inning seven to five in favor of the Morningside team. Once more in the opening of the sixth Joe did the trick. He allowed but one single, and then three men fanned in succession, while, just to make things more than ever interesting, the Excelsiors got two runs, again tying the score. "Say, we'll have to wake up if we're going to wallop these fellows," confided the visiting captain to his lads. "They have certainly improved a lot by getting Hiram and Luke out." "Oh, we'll do 'em," predicted Ted Clay, the pitcher. From then on the Excelsiors fairly "played their heads off," and they ought to have done much better than they did when their hard work was taken into consideration. But there were many weak spots that might in the future be eliminated by good coaching, and Joe needed harder practice. But in every inning thereafter the home team got at least one run, save only in the seventh. In their half of the sixth they got two, as I have said, and though the visitors got one in their half of the seventh, again making the score one in their favor, in the eighth our friends got three, while the visitors got only two. So that at the close of the eighth the score was: Excelsior, 10; Morningside 10. "A tie! A tie!" cried hundreds of voices. Indeed it had pretty nearly been a tie game all the way through, and it might go to ten innings or more. "We've got to beat 'em!" declared Captain Ward. "Joe, whitewash 'em this inning, and in the next we'll get the winning run." "I'll do it!" confidently promised the young pitcher, and he did. He was tossing the ball according to his old form again, and not a man landed his stick on it during the first half of the ninth. Then, as the home team came up for their last whacks (except in the event of the score being a tie), they were wildly greeted by their schoolmates. "One run to beat 'em! Only one!" yelled the crowd. "I guess it's all up with us," remarked the visiting captain to his men, as they took the field. "They're bound to get that one." "Not if I can help it!" exclaimed the pitcher fiercely. And it looked as if he was going to make good his boast, for he struck out two men in quick order. And then up came Tom Davis. "Swat it, Tom. Swat it!" was the general cry. "Bring in a home run!" "Watch me," he answered grimly. Two strikes were called on him, and two balls. There was a nervous tension on everyone, for, unless Tom made good, the game would have to go another inning, when all sorts of possibilities might happen. Ping! That was the mighty sound of Tom's bat landing on the ball. Away sailed the horsehide--up and away, far over the head of the centre fielder, who raced madly after it. "Go on! Go on!" "Run, you swatter, run!" "A homer! A homer!" These cries greeted and encouraged Tom as he legged it for first base. On and on he went, faster and faster, rounding the initial bag, going on to second and then to third. The centre fielder had the ball now, but he would have to relay it in. He threw as Tom left third. "Come on! Come on!" yelled Joe, jumping up and down. "If you don't bring in that run I'll never speak to you again!" shouted Ward. The crowd was in a frenzy. Men and women were standing up on the seats, some jumping up and down, others yelling at the tops of their voices, and some pounding each other on the back in their excitement. On and on ran Tom, but he was getting weary now. The second baseman had the ball and was swinging his arm back to hurl it home. But Tom was almost there now, and he slid over the plate a full two seconds ere the ball landed in the catcher's big mitt. "Safe!" howled the umpire. "And we win the game!" yelled Joe, as he raced over to Tom and slapped him on the back, an example followed by so many others that poor Tom nearly lost his breath. "You won the game for us, Tom!" "Nonsense! If you hadn't held 'em down by your pitching, Joe, my run wouldn't have done any good." "That's right!" cried the others, and it was so. Excelsior Hall had won the second of the big games with her ancient rival, though it was by the narrow margin of one run. CHAPTER XXVI THE OVERTURNED STATUE "Three cheers for the Excelsiors!" cried the visiting captain, swinging his hat around in the air as a signal to his crowd, after the excitement had somewhat calmed. "Three good cheers, boys! They beat us fair and square! Three big cheers!" And how they rang out! And how also rang out the return cheers, which Joe and his mates rendered. Never had applause sounded sweeter in the ears of our hero, for it seemed that the school nine had now begun to live in better days, since the dismissal of Hiram and Luke. Joe kept at his pitching practice, and he himself knew, even had others, including Tom, not told him, that he was doing well. "You're better than when you pitched for the Silver Stars," said Tom, "and you were no slouch then." "Yes, I think I _am_ more sure of myself," admitted Joe. "And I've got more speed and better curves." It was natural that he should have. He was growing taller and stronger that Summer, and he had most excellent practice. He had not given up the idea of becoming a professional pitcher, and everything he could do tended that way for him. He had heard nothing more definite from home, but Mr. Matson said he was still trying to trace the stolen models and papers. "I'll help you when vacation time comes," said Joe in a letter. "But I'm playing ball for all I'm worth now." "Keep at it," his father wrote back. There were many games played that season by Excelsior Hall--many more than the previous Summer--for Spring had now given place to warm weather. The school term was drawing to a close, but there were still many more games to play in the league series. In succession Excelsior met and defeated Trinity, the Lakeview Preps. and Woodside Hall. She was near the top of the list now, though Morningside was quite a way in advance. It looked as if eventually there would be a tie for first place between the old rivals--a tie for the possession of the Blue Banner, and if there was it meant a great final game. Joe looked forward to it with mingled fear and hope. "How I hate him!" exclaimed Hiram to his crony, Luke, one day after a close game, when Joe's pitching had won again for Excelsior. "I wish I could get him out of the school, or off the nine, or something." "Why don't you? I thought you and Sam Morton had some scheme." "We thought so, too, but it fell through. But I've thought of something else, and if you and Sam will help me carry it out, I think we can put it all over that fresh guy." "Sure, I'll help; what is it?" "First we've got to get hold of something belonging to him--his knife, if it's got his name on; a letter addressed to him, that he's opened and read; a handkerchief with his name on; anything that would show he'd been in a certain place at a certain time." "Suppose we do?" "Leave the rest to Sam and me, if you can get us something." "I'll do it!" promised Luke. "I'm on the same corridor with Joe now; I changed my room, you know. I shouldn't wonder but what I could sneak in and get something belonging to him." "Do it, then. I've got a date with Sam, and I'll go see him. See if you can get something this afternoon or evening, and if you can we'll do it." "I will," and the two plotters parted, the chief one to keep an appointment with Joe's enemy. Sam's hatred against our hero was increased because Sam was not allowed to pitch for his own team. "I've got to keep Ted Clay in condition, so that when we meet Excelsior again he'll be on edge," said Captain Dalton of the Morningsides. "That Matson is a wonder and we can't take any chances. I don't dare risk letting you pitch." "That's another one I owe to Joe!" muttered Sam. "I must certainly get even with him. Hiram and I ought to pull off something," and then he sent word to the Excelsior bully. That afternoon the three conspirators, with guilty looks, met in a secluded place and talked over their plans. There was a knock on Joe's door. His chum Tom had gone out that evening to a lecture, and our hero was all alone. "Come!" called Joe, and from down the corridor Luke Fodick peered out of his slightly-opened door to see what was going on. "Here's a telegram for you," said one of the school messengers, handing in a yellow envelope. "A telegram for me," murmured Joe. "It must be from dad. I may have to send an answer. Did the messenger wait?" "No, he's gone." "All right, if I do have to wire, perhaps I can get permission to go in to town to do it." Quickly Joe tore open the message. It was brief, and it was from his father. "Understand Holdney is somewhere near Cedarhurst," the message read. "Keep a lookout, and if you get trace notify police there at once. Arrest on larceny charge." "Rufus Holdney near here," murmured Joe. "I must keep my eyes open. I'll wire dad at once, telling him I'm on the job." He hurried from his room, stuffing the telegram in his pocket as he went, and never noticing as he passed Luke's door that it fell out into the corridor. "I hope I can get permission to go to the telegraph office," mused Joe as he hastened to the office. "I guess the doctor will let me when I tell him what it's about." As Joe turned a corner out of sight, Luke sprang out, picked up the message and envelope, and exclaimed: "This will do the trick! Now to find Hiram and Sam." He hurried to tell his crony, who was being visited by Sam, and once more the three put their heads together, to work the ruin of our hero. Joe easily obtained permission to go to town to send his message. He was rather surprised on looking in his pocket for his father's telegram, not to find it, but concluded that he had left it in his room. He did not really need it, anyhow, as he knew the contents perfectly well. The telegraph office was closed when he reached it, but the operator lived near by, and agreed to open his place, and tick off the message. This delayed Joe, however, and he was rather late getting back to the school. He did not see a teacher to report to him, as he had been bidden to do, but hurried to his own room. He was tired and soon fell asleep, noting that Tom was already in bed and slumbering. Joe did not look for his lost message. There was a thundering knock at Joe's door the next morning. It awoke him and Tom. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Fire!" "Fire! No. Haven't you heard the news?" asked the voice of Peaches. "There's a big row on." "What's up?" demanded Tom, slipping out of bed, and opening the door. "The Founder Statue has been pulled from its base, and overturned!" said Teeter, who was with Peaches. "Look, you can see it from your window." Tom and Joe hastened to the casement to look. On the campus, not far from the school, stood a bronze statue of Dr. Theodore Whittleside, the original founder of the institution. It was a fine piece of work, the gift of several of the alumni societies, and was almost sacred. Now some ruthless hand had pulled it from its base, and part of one of the hands was broken off. For a moment Joe and Tom stood aghast, looking at it. Then the meaning of it came to them. Some sacrilegious student, or students, had done the deed. "There'll be a peach of a row over this!" declared Teeter. "Hurry up and get to chapel. Old Cæsar is sure to spout a lot about it. It's sure dismissal for whoever did it." "And it ought to be!" exclaimed Joe wrathfully. "If they catch them," added Tom, thoughtfully. "I wonder who did it?" CHAPTER XXVII ON PROBATION Joe did not get to chapel that morning. He was all ready to go with Tom and the others after making a hasty toilet, when a messenger came to the door. "Dr. Fillmore wants to see you in his office, Joe," said the messenger--a nice lad who did this work to help pay for his tuition. "Wants to see me--what for?" demanded our hero. "Are you sure that's right, Georgie?" "Sure, and a teacher's there with him. I'm not sure but I think it's something about the overthrown statue. I heard them mention it as they called me to go for you." "The overturned statue? I don't know anything about it!" exclaimed Joe. "I only just this moment saw it--from my window." "Well, the doctor wants you, anyhow," repeated the messenger lad. "You'd better go." "Oh, sure," assented Joe, and he started for the doctor's study with wonder in his heart and a puzzled and rather an ominous look on his face. His companions regarded him seriously. "What do you s'pose is in the wind?" asked Peaches. "Give it up," remarked Teeter. "Are _you_ on, Tom?" "Nary a bit. First I knew of it was when you fellows came and told me." "Was Joe out last night?" asked Peaches. "That's so, he did go into town," replied Tom. "He left a note to tell me--but that was all straight--he had permission. It can't be that." "Well, we'll hear in chapel," said Teeter. "Ah, it's you is it, Matson?" asked the doctor, as our hero entered the study. There was a curious note in the master's voice, and he glanced narrowly at Joe. "Come in. I am sorry to have to summon you on such an unpleasant and important matter, but I have no choice. As you probably know, the Founder's Statue was overturned last night." He looked questioningly at Joe. "I just saw it from my window," was the simple answer. "It was done last night," went on the doctor with a look at a teacher who acted as proctor. "It was a disgraceful, vile piece of vandalism. The guilty one will be severely punished. Doubtless you are wondering why we sent for you. It was on account of this, which was picked up by one of the janitors in front of the statue, when he discovered its fallen position this morning." Dr. Fillmore held out to Joe the telegram our hero had received from his father the night previous! "Is this yours?" asked the doctor. "Ye--yes, it came to me last night. It's from my father." "What did you do after you got it?" "Put it in my pocket and went out to answer it. I had permission from the proctor." "That is right," assented that official. "But I did not see you come in." "No, I was late. The telegraph office was not open, and I had to rouse the operator." "When did you last see this telegram?" asked the doctor. "I missed it soon after I started, but I concluded that I had dropped it," said Joe. Then it all came to him. The school authorities believed that the telegram had dropped out of his pocket when he was at the work of overturning the statue, in which vandalism he had no hand. "It was picked up near where the vile work went on," said the doctor bitterly. "It is evidence that even if you had no actual hand in the dastardly horseplay, that you might have witnessed it, and you can tell us who did it. That is what we now call on you to do, Matson. Tell us who did it." "But I don't know!" cried poor Joe. "I didn't see anything of it. I got in a little late, and went at once to my room. That telegram may have dropped from my pocket at any time, someone may have picked it up and put it--I mean dropped it--as they were passing the statue--either before or after it was pulled from the base." "That is hardly likely," said the doctor. "I am very sorry, Matson, but I must conclude that even if you had no hand in the vandalism, that you know who did it, or suspect." "But I don't!" cried Joe eagerly. "Someone may have put this telegram there to make it look----" He stopped in some confusion. He never had been a "squealer," and he was not going to begin now. "I think I know what you mean," said the proctor quietly. "You mean that some enemy of yours may have had an object in making it appear as if you had a hand in this work." He looked narrowly at Joe. "I--I, well, it might have happened that way." "And of the students here, whom would you regard as your enemy?" asked Dr. Fillmore quickly. "I--I--I must refuse to answer," said Joe firmly. "It would not be fair." "You mean you won't tell?" "I can't, Doctor. I haven't any right to assume that the telegram came there that way. I know that I didn't pass very near the statue, either on leaving or coming back to school. The message dropped from my pocket, I'm sure of that, but the wind may have blown it near the statue." "There was no wind last night," said the proctor severely. "Then--then----" stammered Joe. "That will do, Matson," said the doctor quietly, and there was sorrow in his voice. "I will not question you further. I am convinced that if you had no hand in the actual overturning of the statue, that you know something of how it was done, or who did it. Are you prepared to tell us?" "No, sir, I am not. I--can't." "I think I understand," said Dr. Fillmore. "Very well. Understand, we do not accuse you of anything, but under the circumstances I must put you on probation." "Probation?" murmured Joe. "Yes," added the proctor as the doctor turned away. "That means that you will not be allowed to leave the school grounds. You will report to your classes and lectures as usual, but you will not be allowed to take part in athletic contests." "Not--not baseball?" gasped Joe. "Not baseball," replied the proctor. "I am sorry, but that is the rule for one who is on probation. When you make up your mind to make a complete confession, and tell whom you saw at the work of tearing down the statue----" "But I didn't----" began Joe. "That will do," interrupted the proctor gently. "You are on probation until then. And you will not be allowed to play baseball." Joe felt his heart wildly thumping under his coat. Without a word he turned aside and went back to his room. And that is why he missed chapel that morning. CHAPTER XXVIII LUKE'S CONFESSION The anticipation of Teeter, Peaches and the others that there would be a sensation in chapel that morning was borne out. Never, in all their experience, had the boys recalled Dr. Fillmore being more bitter in his denunciation of what he characterized as "sensational vandalism." He liked boys to have good, clean healthy fun, he said, and an occasional prank was not out of order, but this pulling the statue from its base passed all bounds. More and more bitter the good doctor became. Perhaps part of his feeling was due to the fact that the Founder had written a book on Cæsar that the head of the school considered an authority, and you remember how fond Dr. Fillmore was of the writer of the "Commentaries." The boys looked at each other as the denunciation proceeded, and there were whispers of: "Who did it? Why doesn't he name some one?" The doctor came to that part in a moment. "We are unable to say who perpetrated this act of sensational vandalism," he went on, "but I may say that once the students are discovered they will be instantly dismissed from Excelsior Hall--this is no place for them. I say we do not know who did it, but we have reason to suspect----" Here the good doctor paused and there was an uneasy movement among several lads. "We have reason to suspect that some one knows who did it, but will not tell. I am sorry to say that we have been obliged to inflict the usual punishment on this--ahem--student and he is now on probation. The usual exercises will now be held." They went on, but it is doubtful if the lads were in a very devotional spirit. Joe's absence was at once noted, and of course it was guessed why he was not there, though being on probation did not bar one from chapel or classes. "By Jove!" exclaimed Tom, when they were on their way to first lectures. "It's Joe! Who'd ever dream it?" "So that's why he was wanted in the office," added Peaches. "I don't believe he had a thing to do with it!" declared Teeter vehemently. "Of course not!" chorused the other two. "But they evidently think he does," went on Tom. "Here he comes now; let's ask him." "Say, what does it all mean anyhow?" inquired Teeter when he had warmly clasped Joe's hand. The young pitcher told of the finding of the telegram, and its result. "But, hang it all, that's no evidence!" burst out Tom. "The doctor thinks so," replied Joe grimly. "Some one who has a grudge against you--Say!" exclaimed Teeter with a sudden change of manner. "I'll bet it was Luke or Hiram who did it--pulled the statue down and then tried to blame it on you." "Sure!" chorused Tom and Peaches. "Wait!" cried Joe. "It's bad enough for me to be suspected of knowing something that I don't, but we can't go to accusing even Hiram or Luke on mere guesswork. It won't do." "But hang it all, man!" cried Peaches. "You _can't play ball_." "No," answered Joe quietly. "And the league season is closing! How are we going to win without you in the box?" "You'll have to--that's all. Brown or Akers will have to twirl--they're pretty good at it now." There were sorrowful shakes of the heads, but so it had to be. It may well be imagined that there was a sensation in Excelsior Hall when it was known that Joe was the one on probation, and he was urged by more than one to tell all he knew, no matter on whose shoulders the guilt would fall. "But I don't know!" he insisted again and again. "And it wouldn't be fair to guess." The days went on. Frank Brown was tried out in the box and did fairly well, thanks to the efficient coaching Joe had given him. Excelsior even won a game with him twirling, though by a narrow margin, and against a weak team. But there were dubious shakes of the heads of the students--especially those on the team--when they thought of the games to come--the important final with Morningside. Still there was no help for it, and Brown and Akers redoubled their practice in anticipation. There was no objection to Joe practicing, or in coaching the two substitute pitchers, and he did this every day. Our hero did not write home about the disgrace that had come so undeservedly upon him, merely telling general news, and assuring his father that he had kept a lookout, and made inquiries, but had neither seen nor heard anything of Mr. Holdney. Meanwhile the affairs of Mr. Matson--due to the theft of the models--were in anything but good shape. Still nothing could be done. Joe bitterly felt his position. So did his chums, and they even tried their hand at amateur detective work, endeavoring to discover who had pulled down the statue and put Joe's telegram where it had been found. That it was put there was certain, for Joe, on the night in question, had not gone near the statue. In the meanwhile the bronze had been put back in place and repaired. Among the students there were those who thought they knew the guilty ones, but nothing definite was disclosed. The school term was drawing to an end. After the hard work of getting the ball team into shape for championship honors it was hard to see it begin to slip back. Yet this is what took place. Brown and Akers could not keep up the pace set by Joe, and several games were lost. By hard work, and more due to errors on the part of their opponents, Excelsior won victories over Trinity and the preparatory school. This made her percentage just high enough so that if she should win from Morningside in the final game the Blue Banner would come to her. But could Excelsior win? That was what every lad there asked himself. It was rumored that Morningside was never in better shape. Ted Clay, the pitcher, was twirling in great form it was said, and Sam Morton, as substitute, was sure to go in for several innings in the final contest. "They say he's a wonder for a short time," Peaches confided to Joe. "He is," frankly admitted our hero. "I know his style. He can't last, but he's good for part of a game. With him and Ted against us I'm afraid it's all up with our chances." "Oh, Joe, if you could only play!" "I want to as much as you want me, Peaches, but it's out of the question." "Maybe if we were to put it up to the doctor--that we would lose the Blue Banner without you--he'd let you play." "I couldn't play that way, Peaches--under a ban. I want vindication--or nothing." "Yes, I suppose so--only it's hard." At last came the night before the final game with Morningside. There was a spirit of unrest and a sense of impending disaster abroad in Excelsior. Every student was talking of it, even Hiram and Luke. The latter, for some days past had not been his usual self, and his crony could not understand it. "What's the matter with you, anyhow?" Hiram asked. "Aren't you glad we did that chump Matson up good and brown?" "Oh, well, I don't know," answered Luke slowly. "I didn't think it would mean that we'd lose the Blue Banner." "How do you know we are going to lose it?" "Of course we are. Morningside will win, with no good pitcher to hold her down, and Joe is a good pitcher, no matter what hand he had in getting us out of the nine. I'm sorry I got out anyhow. I'd like to be on it now." "You're sorry?" gasped Hiram. "Yes, I wouldn't have resigned only you made me." "_I_ made you! Say, what's eating you, anyhow? You were as hot against Matson and his crowd as I was." "No, I wasn't, and while we're on this subject I'll tell you another thing. I'm mighty sorry I had a hand in that statue business." "You didn't do anything--Sam and I yanked it down." "I know, but I put Joe's telegram there--I'm responsible for him being on probation, so he can't play to-morrow." "Oh, you are; eh?" sneered Hiram. "Then you'd better go tell the doctor that." "By Jove I will!" suddenly exclaimed Luke with a change of manner. "I haven't had a decent night's sleep since I did it. I am going to tell. I can't stand it any longer. I want to see Excelsior win the Blue Banner. I'm going to tell the doctor!" "Hold on!" Hiram fairly hissed. "If you squeal I'll make it so hot for you that you'll wish you'd never seen me--and so will Sam." "I'm not afraid! Besides I'm not going to tell on you--only on myself. I'll say I put the telegram there. The doctor can think what he likes about who pulled down the statue. He can put me on probation for I won't tell, but it doesn't matter, for I don't play ball. But that will let Joe play, and it's not too late for him to get in shape--in fact, he's at top notch, for I saw him practice to-day. I'm going to tell, and you can do as you like, Hiram." "I say you shan't tell. I'll----" But Luke slipped from Hiram's room, where the talk had been going on, and made his way to the doctor's office. Dr. Fillmore, as may well be imagined, was surprised to see Luke at that late hour, for it was past eleven. He laid aside a book on the immortal Cæsar, looked over his glasses at the conscience-stricken lad, and asked in his kind voice: "Well, Fodick, what is it?" "I--I--Doctor Fillmore, I've come to--confess. I put that telegram by the statue. Joe Matson didn't do it. He dropped it--I picked it up. He had nothing to do with pulling down the statue and doesn't know who did it. But he's got to play ball to-morrow or we'll lose the Blue Banner again. I'm the guilty one, Doctor--not of pulling the statue down--I won't tell who did that, no matter what you do to me. But I want Joe to play. Oh, I--I couldn't stand it any longer. I haven't slept, and--and----" Poor Luke burst into a fit of weeping--hot, passionate tears of real sorrow--the best thing he had done in many a long day--and Dr. Fillmore, understanding a boy's heart as few heads of schools do, put his big arm over Luke's shoulder. Thus was the confession made, and of its effect you shall soon hear. That night Luke slept soundly. CHAPTER XXIX A GLORIOUS VICTORY It was the morning of the day of the big game--the final contest between Morningside and Excelsior for the possession of the Blue Banner. So far the two nines were tied as regards their percentage of victories, and the banner would go to whoever won the diamond battle on this occasion. Dr. Fillmore, after hearing Luke's confession, had sent a messenger to Joe's room with instructions to see if our hero and Tom were asleep. The apartment was in darkness and quiet reigned when the messenger listened, so he reported that both lads were slumbering. But he was not altogether right, for Joe tossed restlessly on his pillow and thought bitterly of the morrow. "Well, as long as he is asleep," remarked the good doctor to the coach whom he had summoned, "we won't tell him the good news until to-morrow. He'll need his rest if he is to pitch against Morningside." "Then you're going to remove the probation ban, Dr. Fillmore?" asked Dr. Rudden eagerly. "Of course. I shall make the announcement at chapel, and wish Matson and the others of the nine all success." "And you don't yet know who pulled down the statue?" "No. It was manly of Fodick to confess, and though I shall have to suspend him, of course, I didn't even ask him to inform on the guilty ones. I really couldn't, you know." "No, I suppose not. But I'm glad Joe is going to play. I think we shall win." "I hope so," murmured Dr. Fillmore. The surprise and gratification of the students may easily be surmised when the next morning at chapel, Dr. Fillmore made his announcement, stating that Joe had been on probation under a misapprehension, and that now the ban was removed he could play ball. "And I hope that he and the others of the nine play their very best," concluded the head of the school, "and win!" There was a spontaneous cheer, and neither the doctor nor any of the teachers took the trouble to stop it. Joe's face was burning red, his heart was thumping like a trip hammer, but he was the happiest lad in school. "Oh, it's great! Glorious! I can't talk! Whoop!" yelled Teeter, once out of chapel, as he balanced himself on his toes. "Say, old man, it's too good to be true!" cried Peaches, yelling and capering about until his usually fair complexion was like that of a beet. "We'll make Morningside look like thirty cents!" declared Tom. "Come on, you and Ward get in all the practice you can," ordered Peaches. The game was to be played on the Morningside diamond, this having been decided by lot, the choice having fallen to the rivals of Excelsior. "Well, we'll beat 'em on their own grounds!" declared Peaches, when he and the others of the nine, with some substitutes, and a host of "rooters" and supporters, departed for the contest. What a crowd was there to see! What hosts of pretty girls! Men and women, too; old graduates, students from both schools, many from other schools in the league, for this was the wind-up of the season. Out on the diamond trotted the Morningside nine, to be greeted with a roar of cheers. They began practice at once, and it was noticed that Sam Morton was "warming up." "They're going to use two pitchers all right," observed Tommy Barton. "Guess they heard that Joe was going to be on deck again." A noisy welcome awaited the Excelsior nine as they trotted out, and they, too, began batting and catching practice. Then, after a little delay and the submitting of batting orders, the details were completed, and once again the umpire gave his stirring call: "Play ball!" Morningside was to bat last and so George Bland was the first of the Excelsior players to face Pitcher Clay. The two nines were the same as had met a few weeks previously. "Play ball!" called the umpire again, and the game was on. It was a memorable battle. They talk of it to this day at Excelsior and Morningside. For three innings neither side got a run, goose eggs going up in regular succession until, as is generally the case "pitchers' fight" began to be heard spoken on the stands and side lines. And truly it was rather that way. Both Joe Matson and Ted Clay were at their best, and man after man fanned the air helplessly, or stood while the umpire called strikes on them. But there had to be a break, and it came in the fourth inning. In their half of that Excelsior again had to retire without a run, and the four circles looked rather strange on the score board. Then something happened. Joe was delivering a puzzling drop, but his hand slipped, the curve broke at the wrong moment and the batter hit it for three bases. That looked like the beginning of the end for a little while, as the Morningside lads seemed to have struck a winning streak and they had three runs to their credit when Joe, after having struck two men out, caught a hot liner himself and retired the third man. "Three to nothing," murmured Captain Ward as his men came in to bat again. "It looks bad--looks bad." "That will only give us an appetite," declared Joe. "You'll see," and it did seem as if he were a prophet, for the rivals of Morningside, evidently on desperation bent, "found" Ted Clay, rapped out five runs, putting them two ahead, and then the crowd went wild. So did Joe and his mates. They fairly danced as they took the field again; danced and shouted, even jumping over each other in the exuberance of their joy. "We've got 'em going! We've got 'em going!" they yelled. Glumly, and almost in a daze, the Morningside players looked at the figures. Their rivals were two ahead in the fifth inning and Baseball Joe, the pitcher on whom so much depended, was "as fresh as a daisy," as Tom declared. "But we haven't won the game by a whole lot!" warned Captain Ward to his enthusiastic lads. "Play hard--play hard!" Morningside managed to get one run in their half of the fifth, but when Excelsior came up for her stick-work again she easily demonstrated her superiority over the other lads. Four runs went to her credit, and only one to the rival team, and then, as Peaches said, "it was all over but the shouting." "The game is in the ice box now, all right," Teeter added. And so it was. Two runs for Excelsior in the seventh to one for her opponent; four in the eighth, while Joe held the enemy hitless in their half of that inning, brought the score to the tally of fifteen to six in favor of our friends. "Let's make it an even 20 fellows!" proposed Teeter when they came to have their last raps in the ninth. "We can do it!" "Sure!" his mates assured him, and it did seem possible, for Morningside appeared to have gone to pieces. Ted Clay was being batted all over the field, his support was poor, while the Morningside lads could not seem to find the ball. In desperation, that last inning, Sam Morton was sent in, and he faced Joe with a scowl on his face. But Sam could not stem the winning tide, and he was batted for five runs, making the even twenty. "Now, hold 'em down, Joe--don't let 'em get a run!" urged Teeter, when Morningside prepared to take her last chance to retrieve her falling fortunes. And Joe did. Amid a riot of cheers he struck three men out in quick succession, and a final goose egg went up in the last frame, the score reading: Excelsior, 20; Morningside, 6. "The Blue Banner is ours! The Blue Banner comes back where it belongs!" yelled Joe, and then, amid a silence, the banner was taken from in front of the Morningside stand, where it had flaunted in the breeze, and presented to Captain Ward Gerard, who proudly marched about the diamond with it at the head of his victorious lads. CHAPTER XXX GOOD NEWS--CONCLUSION There were the usual cheers first by the victors and then by the vanquished, and it would be hard to say which were the heartiest. For Morningside was a good loser and next to a well-beaten rival, she loved a staunch victorious one. "You fellows certainly did us up good and proper--the worst beating we ever got," admitted Captain Dalton to Ward. "That's what we came here for," was the reply. "It was Joe's twirling that did it." "Get out!" cried the modest pitcher. "Yes, that certainly held us down," went on Dalton. "We couldn't seem to find you. I'll need some new pitchers next season, I guess, for you certainly batted Ted and Sam all over. But I'm not kicking. How are you fixed for next year, Joe? Don't you want to come to Morningside?" and he laughed. "I don't know," answered our hero. "I haven't quite made up my mind what I shall do. I'm going to play ball, I know that much, anyhow." "I should think you would--any fellow who can twirl the horsehide as you can. Well, might as well get off these togs," spoke Dalton. "I won't need 'em here any more this season, though I'm going to join some amateur team for the vacation if I can." The cheering and yelling kept up for some time; and then with the glorious Blue Banner, that meant so much to them in their possession, the Excelsior Hall lads started back for the school. "So you don't know what you are going to do next season, eh, Joe?" asked Tom, as he and his chum were riding back. "I thought you'd stick on here." "Well, I'd like to, first rate but I don't know how dad's business is going to be since this second robbery. I may have to leave school." "Oh, I hope not. So they haven't any trace of the missing papers and models?" "Not according to what I last heard. I'm going to get on the trail of that scamp, Holdney, this vacation, though." As might have been guessed, there was a big banquet for the baseball team that night. And such a spread as it was, held in the big gymnasium. Every player came in for his share of praise, and there was so much of it for Joe; and his health was drunk in soda and ginger ale so often that his complexion was like that of Peaches'--red and white by turns. But nearly everyone felt that he deserved all the nice things that were said about him, not only for his share in the victory, but for what he had suffered. There were two absentees at the banquet--and only two. One was Hiram Shell and the other Luke Fodick. Luke humbly told Dr. Fillmore that he thought it best to leave the school after what had happened. The good doctor thought so, too, for it would have been hard for Luke to live down what he had done. As for Hiram, he said nothing, but when he knew that Luke had made his confession, the bully, after using harsh language to his former crony, quietly packed his things and went also. He sent word to Sam, at Morningside, that "the jig" was up, and there was a pre-vacation vacancy on the books of that institution. It was never definitely stated who had pulled down the statue, but the withdrawal of Hiram, Luke and Sam was confession enough. It was in the midst of the banquet, when Joe had been called upon to respond to the toast, "The Baseball Nine," that a messenger was seen to enter with a telegram. "It's for Joe Matson," the boy announced loudly enough for all to hear. "Gee, but he's de stuff; eh? I'd like to shake hands wit a pitcher like dat! I'm goin' t' be one mysel' some day. Here's de tick-tick, sport," and he passed the message to Joe, at the same time regarding our hero with worshipful eyes. Joe read the message at a glance, and a change came over his face. "No bad news, I hope," murmured Tom, who stood near him. "No, it's the very best!" cried the young pitcher, and he showed Tom the telegram. "I wired dad that we'd won the game," Joe stated. Mr. Matson said in his telegram: "Best of congratulations. Models and papers recovered. Everything all right." "Hurray!" yelled Tom, waving the message above his head. "Three cheers for Baseball Joe!" and, when the cheers had subsided he briefly informed his mates what the telegram meant to our hero. Mr. Matson would still retain his fortune, and probably make more money than ever out of his patents. "Gee! Dis is great!" murmured the diminutive messenger, as he listened to the cheers and watched the jolly crowd of students. "I wish I was studyin' here!" Joe shook the messenger's hand and left in it a crisp bill, to show his appreciation of the good news the lad had brought. And the toasting, the cheering and singing went on again. "Now you can continue your studies," said Tom to Joe. "Yes, I suppose so," was the answer. "Maybe I'll even go to college." What were his further fortunes on the diamond I shall tell you in the next book of this series, to be called: "Baseball Joe at Yale; or Pitching for the College Championship." In that we shall see him in adventures as strenuous as any he had yet encountered. "One last song, fellows, and then we'll quit!" called Peaches. "I want you all to join with me in singing: 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow,' and by '_He_' I mean Joe Matson--Baseball Joe!" And as the strains of that ever-jolly, and yet somewhat sad, song are dying away, we will take our leave for a time of Baseball Joe and his friends. THE END THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES BY LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 75 cents, postpaid._ [Illustration] =BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS= _or The Rivals of Riverside_ Joe is an everyday country boy who loves to play baseball and particularly to pitch. =BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE= _or Pitching for the Blue Banner_ Joe's great ambition was to go to boarding school and play on the school team. =BASEBALL JOE AT YALE= _or Pitching for the College Championship_ Joe goes to Yale University. In his second year he becomes a varsity pitcher and pitches in several big games. =BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE= _or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_ In this volume the scene of action is shifted from Yale college to a baseball league of our central states. =BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE= _or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles_ From the Central League Joe is drafted into the St. Louis Nationals. A corking baseball story all fans will enjoy. =BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS= _or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_ How Joe was traded to the Giants and became their mainstay in the box makes an interesting baseball story. =BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES= _or Pitching for the Championship_ The rivalry was of course of the keenest, and what Joe did to win the series is told in a manner to thrill the most jaded reader. =BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD= (_New_) _or Pitching on a Grand Tour_ The Giants and the All-Americans tour the world, playing in many foreign countries. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE Y. M. C. A. BOYS SERIES By BROOKS HENDERLEY =_12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume, 75 cents, postpaid._= _This new series relates the doings of a wide-awake boys' club of the Y. M. C. A., full of good times and every-day, practical Christianity. Clean, elevating and full of fun and vigor, books that should be read by every boy._ [Illustration] =THE Y. M. C. A. BOYS OF CLIFFWOOD= _or The Struggle for the Holwell Prize_ Telling how the boys of Cliffwood were a wild set and how, on Hallowe'en, they turned the home town topsy-turvy. This led to an organization of a boys' department in the local Y. M. C. A. When the lads realized what was being done for them, they joined in the movement with vigor and did all they could to help the good cause. =THE Y. M. C. A. BOYS ON BASS ISLAND= _or The Mystery of Russabaga Camp_ Summer was at hand, and at a meeting of the boys of the Y. M. C. A. of Cliffwood, it was decided that a regular summer camp should be instituted. This was located at a beautiful spot on Bass Island, and there the lads went boating, swimming, fishing and tramping to their heart's content. =THE Y. M. C. A. BOYS AT FOOTBALL= _or Lively Doings On and Off the Gridiron_ This volume will add greatly to the deserved success of this well-written series. The Y. M. C. A. boys are plucky lads--clean minded and as true as steel. They have many ups and downs, but in the end they "win out" in the best meaning of that term. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON CO. Publishers New York ALIVE, PATRIOTIC, ELEVATING BANNER BOY SCOUTS SERIES By GEORGE A. WARREN Author of the "Revolutionary Series" 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 75 cents, postpaid. [Illustration] The Boy Scouts movement has swept over our country like wildfire, and is endorsed by our greatest men and leading educators. No author is better qualified to write such a series as this than Professor Warren, who has watched the movement closely since its inception in England some years ago. =THE BANNER BOY SCOUTS= _or The Struggle for Leadership_ This initial volume tells how the news of the scout movement reached the boys and how they determined to act on it. They organized the Fox Patrol, and some rivals organized another patrol. More patrols were formed in neighboring towns and a prize was put up for the patrol scoring the most points in a many-sided contest. =THE BANNER BOY SCOUTS ON A TOUR= _or The Mystery of Rattlesnake Mountain_ This story begins with a mystery that is most unusual. There is a good deal of fun and adventure, camping, fishing, and swimming, and the young heroes more than once prove their worth. =THE BANNER BOY SCOUTS AFLOAT= _or The Secret of Cedar Island_ Here is another tale of life in the open, of jolly times on river and lake and around the camp fire, told by one who has camped out for many years. =THE BANNER BOY SCOUTS SNOWBOUND= (_New_) _or A Tour on Skates and Iceboats_ The boys take a trip into the mountains, where they are caught in a big snowstorm and are snowbound. A series of stirring adventures which will hold the interest of every reader. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, New York THE HARRY HARDING SERIES By ALFRED RAYMOND =_12mo. Cloth. Handsomely Illustrated. Beautiful jackets printed in colors. 75 Cents Per Volume, Postpaid._= [Illustration] The trials and triumphs of Harry Harding and Teddy Burke, two wide-awake boys who make a humble beginning on the messenger force of a great department store, with the firm resolve to become successful business men, form a series of narratives calculated to please the alert, progressive boys of today. =HARRY HARDING--_Messenger "45"_= When Harry Harding bravely decided to leave school in order to help his mother in the fight against poverty, he took his first long step towards successful manhood. How Harry chanced to meet mischievous, red-haired Teddy Burke who preferred work to school, how Teddy and Harry became messengers in Martin Brothers' Department store and what happened to them there, is a story that never flags in interest. =HARRY HARDING'S YEAR OF PROMISE= After a blissful two weeks' vacation, spent together, Harry Harding and Teddy Burke again take up their work in Martin Brothers' store. Their "year of promise" brings them many new experiences, pleasant and unpleasant, but more determined than ever to reach the goal they have set for themselves, they pass courageously and hopefully over the rough places, meeting with many surprises and exciting incidents which advance them far on the road to success. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON CO. Publishers New York THE WEBSTER SERIES By FRANK V. WEBSTER [Illustration] Mr. Webster's style is very much like that of the boys' favorite author, the late lamented Horatio Alger, Jr., but his tales are thoroughly up-to-date. Cloth. 12mo. Over 200 pages each. Illustrated. Stamped in various colors. Price per volume, 50 cents, postpaid. Only A Farm Boy _or Dan Hardy's Rise in Life_ The Boy From The Ranch _or Roy Bradner's City Experiences_ The Young Treasure Hunter _or Fred Stanley's Trip to Alaska_ The Boy Pilot of the Lakes _or Nat Morton's Perils_ Tom The Telephone Boy _or The Mystery of a Message_ Bob The Castaway _or The Wreck of the Eagle_ The Newsboy Partners _or Who Was Dick Box?_ Two Boy Gold Miners _or Lost in the Mountains_ The Young Firemen of Lakeville _or Herbert Dare's Pluck_ The Boys of Bellwood School _or Frank Jordan's Triumph_ Jack the Runaway _or On the Road with a Circus_ Bob Chester's Grit _or From Ranch to Riches_ Airship Andy _or The Luck of a Brave Boy_ High School Rivals _or Fred Markham's Struggles_ Darry The Life Saver _or The Heroes of the Coast_ Dick The Bank Boy _or A Missing Fortune_ Ben Hardy's Flying Machine _or Making a Record for Himself_ Harry Watson's High School Days _or The Rivals of Rivertown_ Comrades of the Saddle _or The Young Rough Riders of the Plains_ Tom Taylor at West Point _or The Old Army Officer's Secret_ The Boy Scouts of Lennox _or Hiking Over Big Bear Mountain_ The Boys of the Wireless _or A Stirring Rescue from the Deep_ Cowboy Dave _or The Round-up at Rolling River_ Jack of the Pony Express _or The Young Rider of the Mountain Trail_ The Boys of the Battleship _or For the Honor of Uncle Sam_ CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE BOYS' OUTING LIBRARY _12mo. 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JAMES CARSON The Saddle Boys of the Rockies The Saddle Boys in the Grand Canyon The Saddle Boys on the Plains The Saddle Boys at Circle Ranch The Saddle Boys on Mexican Trails =THE DAVE DASHAWAY SERIES= BY ROY ROCKWOOD Dave Dashaway the Young Aviator Dave Dashaway and His Hydroplane Dave Dashaway and His Giant Airship Dave Dashaway Around the World Dave Dashaway: Air Champion =THE SPEEDWELL BOYS SERIES= BY ROY ROCKWOOD The Speedwell Boys on Motorcycles The Speedwell Boys and Their Racing Auto The Speedwell Boys and Their Power Launch The Speedwell Boys in a Submarine The Speedwell Boys and Their Ice Racer =THE TOM FAIRFIELD SERIES= BY ALLEN CHAPMAN Tom Fairfield's School Days Tom Fairfield at Sea Tom Fairfield in Camp Tom Fairfield's Pluck and Luck Tom Fairfield's Hunting Trip =THE FRED FENTON ATHLETIC SERIES= BY ALLEN CHAPMAN Fred Fenton the Pitcher Fred Fenton in the Line Fred Fenton on the Crew Fred Fenton on the Track Fred Fenton: Marathon Runner _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE KHAKI BOYS SERIES BY CAPT. GORDON BATES _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full color._ =_Price per volume, 50 cents, postpaid._= [Illustration] _All who love the experiences and adventures of our American boys, fighting for the freedom of democracy in the world, will be delighted with these vivid and true-to-life stories of the camp and field in the great war._ =THE KHAKI BOYS AT CAMP STERLING= _or Training for the Big Fight in France_ Two zealous young patriots volunteer and begin their military training. On the train going to camp they meet two rookies with whom they become chums. Together they get into a baffling camp mystery that develops into an extraordinary spy-plot. They defeat the enemies of their country and incidentally help one another to promotion both in friendship and service. =THE KHAKI BOYS ON THE WAY= _or Doing Their Bit on Sea and Land_ Our soldier boys having completed their training at Camp Sterling are transferred to a Southern cantonment from which they are finally sent aboard a troop-ship for France. On the trip their ship is sunk by a U-boat and their adventures are realistic descriptions of the tragedies of the sea. =THE KHAKI BOYS AT THE FRONT= _or Shoulder to Shoulder in the Trenches_ The Khaki Boys reach France, and, after some intensive training in sound of the battle front, are sent into the trenches. In the raids across No-Man's land, they have numerous tragic adventures that show what great work is being performed by our soldiers. It shows what makes heroes. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE KHAKI GIRLS SERIES BY EDNA BROOKS _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors._ =_Price per volume, 50 cents, postpaid._= [Illustration] _When Uncle Sam sent forth the ringing call, "I need you!" it was not alone his strong young sons who responded. All over the United States capable American girls stood ready to offer their services to their country. How two young girls donned the khaki and made good in the Motor Corps, an organization for women developed by the Great War, forms a series of stories of signal novelty and vivid interest and action._ =THE KHAKI GIRLS OF THE MOTOR CORPS= _or Finding Their Place in the Big War_ Joan Mason, an enthusiastic motor girl, and Valerie Warde, a society debutante, meet at an automobile show. Next day they go together to the Motor Corps headquarters and in due time are accepted and become members of the Corps, in the service of the United States. The two girl drivers find motoring for Uncle Sam a most exciting business. Incidentally they are instrumental in rendering valuable service to the United States government by discovering and running down a secret organization of its enemies. =THE KHAKI GIRLS BEHIND THE LINES= _or Driving with the Ambulance Corps_ As a result of their splendid work in the Motor Corps, the Khaki Girls receive the honor of an opportunity to drive with the Ambulance Corps in France. After a most eventful and hazardous crossing of the Atlantic, they arrive in France and are assigned to a station behind the lines. Constantly within range of enemy shrapnel, out in all kinds of weather, tearing over shell-torn roads and dodging Boche patrols, all go to make up the day's work, and bring them many exciting adventures. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York Transcriber's Notes: --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). --Text in bold is enclosed by "equal" signs (=bold=). --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --Normalized instances of "Lakeville" (p. 180, p. 181) to the more frequent "Lakeview" Preparatory Institute. 
27584	----	[Illustration: HE BEAT THE BALL BY A NARROW MARGIN, AND WAS DECLARED SAFE. Page 245.] Baseball Joe in the Big League OR A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles _By_ LESTER CHADWICK AUTHOR OF "BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS," "BASEBALL JOE AT YALE," "BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE," "THE RIVAL PITCHERS," "THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS," ETC. _ILLUSTRATED_ NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY Copyright, 1915, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY Baseball Joe in the Big League Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I TWO LETTERS 1 II TO THE RESCUE 11 III AN UPSET 19 IV AN APPEAL 30 V THE THREAT 38 VI A WARNING 46 VII BASEBALL TALK 54 VIII THE QUARREL 61 IX JOE IS DRAFTED 70 X OFF TO ST. LOUIS 77 XI GOING DOWN SOUTH 87 XII THE QUARRELING MAN 97 XIII UNDER SUNNY SKIES 103 XIV HARD WORK 112 XV ANOTHER THREAT 122 XVI JOE'S TRIUMPH 129 XVII "PLAY BALL!" 140 XVIII HOT WORDS 148 XIX JOE GOES IN 153 XX STAGE FRIGHT 162 XXI A QUEER MESSAGE 175 XXII IN DANGER 182 XXIII A LAME ARM 191 XXIV A TIGHT GAME 201 XXV IN NEW YORK 208 XXVI ADRIFT 217 XXVII THE RESCUE 223 XXVIII MOVING PICTURES 229 XXIX SHALLEG'S DOWNFALL 234 XXX THE HARDEST BATTLE 240 BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE CHAPTER I TWO LETTERS "Whew!" whistled Joe Matson, the astonishment on his bronzed face being indicated by his surprised exclamation of: "Well, what do you know about that, Sis?" "What is it, Joe?" asked his sister Clara, as she looked up from a letter she was reading to see her brother staring at a sheet of paper he had just withdrawn from an envelope, for the morning mail had been delivered a few minutes before. "What is it?" the girl went on, laying aside her own correspondence. "Is it anything serious--anything about father's business? Don't tell me there is more trouble, Joe!" "I'm not going to, Clara. It isn't trouble, but, if what he says is true, it's going to make a big difference to me," and Joe looked out of the window, across a snowy expanse of yard, and gazed at, without consciously seeing, a myriad of white flakes swirling down through the wintry air. "No, it isn't exactly trouble," went on Joe, "and I suppose I ought to be corkingly glad of it; but I hadn't counted on leaving the Central Baseball League quite so soon." "Oh, Joe! Have you lost your place?" exclaimed Clara. "And just after you have done so well, too; and helped them win the pennant! I call that a shame! I thought baseball men were better 'sports' than that." "Listen to her--my little sister using slang!" laughed Joe. "'Sports' isn't slang," defended Clara. "I've heard lots of girls use it. I mean it in the right sense. But have you really lost your place on the team, Joe?" "Well, not exactly, Sis, but I'm about to, I'm afraid. However, I guess I may as well make the best of it, and be glad. I sure can use the extra money!" "I certainly don't know what you're talking about," went on Clara, with a helpless look at her big, handsome brother, "and I suppose you'll take your own time in telling me. But I _would_ like to know what it all means, Joe. And about extra money. Who's going to give it to you?" "Nobody. I'll have to earn it with this pitching arm of mine," and the young baseball player swung it around, as though "winding-up" for a swift delivery. "Look out, Joe!" cried Clara, but she gave the warning too late. At that moment Mrs. Matson entered the room with a jug of water, which she intended pouring on a window-box of flowers. Joe's arm struck the jug a glancing blow, and sent it flying, the water spraying over the floor, and the jug itself falling, and cracking into many pieces. For a moment there was a momentous silence, after two startled screams--one each from Mrs. Matson and Clara. Then Joe cried gaily: "Out at first! Say, Momsey, I hope I didn't hit you!" "No, you didn't," and she laughed now. "But what does it all mean? Are you practicing so early in the season? Oh, my carpet! It will be ruined!" she went on, as she saw the water. "But I'm glad I didn't bring in a good jug. Did you hurt your hand?" "Nary a hurt," said Joe, with a smile. "Ha! I'll save _you_ from a wetting!" he exclaimed, as he stooped quickly and picked up an unopened letter, the address of which was in a girlish hand. "Get the mop, while you're at it," advised Clara. A little later Joe had sopped up the water, and quiet was restored. "And now suppose you tell us all about it," suggested Mrs. Mason. "Why were you practicing gymnastics, Joe?" and she smiled at her athletic son. "I was just telling Clara that my pitching arm was likely to bring me in more money this year, Momsey, and I was giving it a twirl, when you happened to get in my way. Now I'll tell you all about it. It's this letter," and Joe held out the one he had been reading. "Are you sure it isn't the _other_?" asked Clara, with a sly look at her brother, for she had glanced at the writing on the unopened envelope Joe had picked up from the floor. "Let me read that other letter, Joe," she teased. "A little later--maybe!" he parried. "But this one," and he fluttered the open sheet in his hand, "this one is from Mr. Gregory, manager of the Pittston team, with whom I have the honor to be associated," and Joe bowed low to his mother and sister. "Mr. Gregory gives me a bit of news. It is nothing less than that the manager of the St. Louis Nationals is negotiating for the services of yours truly--your humble servant, Joseph Matson," and again the young ball player bowed, and laughed. "Joe, you don't mean it!" cried his sister. "You're going to belong to a major league team!" for Clara was almost as ardent a baseball "fan" as was her brother. "Well, it looks like it, Sis," replied Joe, slowly, as he glanced at the letter again. "Of course it isn't settled, but Mr. Gregory says I'm pretty sure to be drafted to St. Louis." "Drafted!" exclaimed his mother. "That sounds like war times, when they used to draft men to go to the front. Do you mean you haven't any choice in the matter, Joe?" "Well, that's about it, Momsey," the young man explained. "You see, baseball is pretty well organized. It has to be, to make it the success it is," he added frankly, "though lots of people are opposed to the system. But I haven't been in it long enough to find fault, even if I wanted to--which I don't." "But it seems queer that you can't stay with the Pittston team if you want to," said Mrs. Matson. "I don't know as I want to," spoke Joe, slowly, "especially when I'll surely get more money with St. Louis, besides having the honor of pitching for a major league team, even if it isn't one of the top-notchers, and a pennant winner. So if they want to draft me, let them do their worst!" and he laughed, showing his even, white teeth. "You see," he resumed, "when I signed a contract with the Pittstons, of the Central League, I gave them the right to control my services as long as I played baseball. I had to agree not to go to any other team without permission, and, in fact, no other organized team would take me unless the Pittston management released me. I went into it with my eyes open. "And, you see, the Pittston team, being one of the small ones, has to give way to a major league team. That is, any major league team, like the St. Louis Nationals, can call for, or draft, any player in a smaller team. So if they call me I'll have to go. And I'll be glad to. I'll get more money and fame. "That is, I hope I will," and Joe spoke more soberly. "I know I'm not going to have any snap of it. It's going to be hard work from the word go, for there will be other pitchers on the St. Louis team, and I'll have to do my best to make a showing against them. "And I will, too!" cried Joe, resolutely. "I'll make good, Momsey!" "I hope so, my son," she responded, quietly. "You know I was not much in favor of your taking up baseball for a living, but I must say you have done well at it, and after all, if one does one's best at anything, that is what counts. So I hope you make good with the St. Louis team--I suppose 'make good' is the proper expression," she added, with a smile. "It'll do first-rate, Momsey," laughed Joe. "Now let's see what else Gregory says." He glanced over the letter again, and remarked: "Well, there's nothing definite. The managers are laying their plans for the Spring work, and he says I'm being considered. He adds he will be sorry to lose me." "I should think he would be!" exclaimed Clara, a flush coming into her cheeks. "You were the best pitcher on his team!" "Oh, I wouldn't go as far as to say that!" cried Joe, "though I appreciate your feeling, Sis. I had a good bit of luck, winning some of the games the way I did. Well, I guess I'll go look up some St. Louis records, and see what I'm expected to do in the batting average line compared with them," the player went on. "The St. Louis team isn't a wonder, but it's done pretty fair at times, I believe, and it's a step up for me. I'll be more in line for a place on the New York Giants, or the Philadelphia Athletics if I make a good showing in Missouri," finished Joe. He started from the room, carrying the two letters, one of which he had not yet opened. "Who's it from?" asked Clara, with a smile, as she pointed to the heavy, square envelope in his hand. "Oh, one of my many admirers," teased Joe. "I can't tell just which one until I open it. And, just to satisfy your curiosity, I'll do so now," and he proceeded to slit the envelope with his pocket-knife. "Oh, it's from Mabel Varley!" he exclaimed. "Just as if you didn't know all the while!" scoffed Clara. "You wouldn't forget her handwriting so soon, Joe Matson." "Um!" he murmured, non-committally. "Why, this is news!" he cried, suddenly. "Mabel and her brother Reggie are coming here!" "Here!" exclaimed Clara. "To visit us?" "Oh, no, not that exactly," Joe went on. "They're on a trip, it seems, and they're going to stop off here for a day or so. Mabel says they'll try to see us. I hope they will." "I've never met them," observed Clara. "No," spoke Joe, musingly. "Well, you may soon. Why!" he went on, "they're coming to-day--on the afternoon express. I must go down to the station to meet them, though the train is likely to be late, if this snow keeps up. Whew! see it come down!" and he went over to the window and looked out. "It's like a small blizzard," remarked Clara, "and it seems to be growing worse. Doesn't look much like baseball; does it, Joe?" "I should say not! Say, I believe I'll go down to the station, anyhow, and see what the prospects are. Want to come, Sis?" "No, thank you. Not in this storm. Where are the Varleys going to stop?" "At the hotel. Reggie has some business in town, Mabel writes. Well, I sure will be glad to see him again!" "_Him_? _Her_, you mean!" laughed Clara. "Oh, Joe, you _are_ so simple!" "Humph!" he exclaimed, as he put the two letters into his pocket--both of great importance to him. "Well, I'll go down to the station." Joe was soon trudging through the storm on the way to the depot. "The St. Louis 'Cardinals'!" he mused, as he bent his head to the blast, thinking of the letters in his pocket. "I didn't think I'd be in line for a major league team so soon. I wonder if I can make good?" Thinking alternately of the pleasure he would have in seeing Miss Mabel Varley, a girl in whom he was more than ordinarily interested, and of the new chance that had come to him, Joe soon reached the depot. His inquiries about the trains were not, however, very satisfactorily answered. "We can't tell much about them in this storm," the station master said. "All our trains are more or less late. Stop in this afternoon, and I may have some definite information for you." And later that day, when it was nearly arrival time for the train on which Mabel and Reggie were to come, Joe received some news that startled him. "There's no use in your waiting, Joe," said the station master, as the young ball player approached him again. "Your train won't be in to-day, and maybe not for several days." "Why? What's the matter--a wreck?" cried Joe, a vision of injured friends looming before him. "Not exactly a wreck, but almost as bad," went on the official. "The train is stalled--snowed in at Deep Rock Cut, five miles above here, and there's no chance of getting her out." "Great Scott!" cried Joe. "The express snowed in! Why, I've got friends on that train! I wonder what I can do to help them?" CHAPTER II TO THE RESCUE Joe Matson looked so worried at the information imparted by the station master that the latter asked him: "Any particular friends of yours on that train?" "Very particular," declared the young ball player. "And I hope no harm comes to them." "Well, I don't know as any great harm will come," went on the station master. "The train's snowed in, and will have to stay there until we can get together a gang of men and shovel her out. It won't be easy, for it's snowing harder every minute, and Deep Rock Cut is one of the worst places on the line for drifts. But no other train can run into the stalled one, that's sure. The only thing is the steam may get low, and the passengers will be cold, and hungry." "Isn't there any way to prevent that?" asked Joe, anxiously. "I s'pose the passengers could get out and try to reach some house or hotel," resumed the railroad man, "but Deep Rock Cut is a pretty lonely place, and there aren't many houses near it. The only thing I see to do would be for someone to go there with a horse and sled, and rescue the passengers, and that would be _some_ job, as there's quite a trainload of them." "Well, I'm going to try and get _my_ friends that way, anyhow!" cried Joe. "I'll go to the rescue," and he set off for home through the storm again, intending to hire a rig at a livery stable, and do what he could to take Mabel and her brother from the train. And, while Joe is thus making his preparations, I will tell my new readers something about the previous books of this series, in which Joe Matson, or "Baseball Joe," as he is called, has a prominent part. The initial volume was called "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars; Or, The Rivals of Riverside," and began with my hero's career in the town of Riverside. Joe joined the ball team there, and, after some hard work, became one of the best amateur pitchers in that section of the country. He did not have it all easy, though, and the fight was an uphill one. But Joe made good, and his team came out ahead. "Baseball Joe on the School Nine; Or, Pitching for the Blue Banner," the second book in the series, saw our hero as the pitcher on a better organized team than were the Silver Stars. Joe had taken a step forward. He did not make the school nine without a struggle, for he had rivals, and a strong effort was made to keep him out of the game. But Joe proved his worth, and when a critical time came he pitched to victory, thus defeating the plans of his enemies. It was quite a step forward for Joe to go to Yale from Excelsior Hall, where he had gotten his early education. Naturally Joe wanted to play on the Yale team, but he had to wait some time before his ambition was gratified. In "Baseball Joe at Yale; Or, Pitching for the College Championship," I related how, after playing during his freshman year on the class team, Joe was picked as one of the pitchers for the varsity. Then, indeed, he was proud and happy, but he knew it would not be as easy as it had been at Excelsior Hall. Every step upward meant harder work, but Joe welcomed the chance. And when finally the deciding game came--the one with Princeton at the Polo Grounds, New York--Joe had the proud distinction of pitching for Yale--and he pitched to victory. Joe's ambition, ever since he had taken an interest in baseball, had been to become a professional player. His mother had hoped that he would become a minister, or enter one of the more learned professions, but, though Joe disappointed her hopes, there was some compensation. "Better let the boy have his own way," Mr. Matson had said. "I would rather see him a good ball player than a half-rate lawyer, or doctor; and, after all, there is good money to be made on the diamond." So, when Joe received an offer from the manager of one of the minor league professional teams, he took it. In "Baseball Joe in the Central League; Or, Making Good as a Professional Pitcher," the fourth volume of the series, I related Joe's experiences when he got his start in organized baseball. How he was instrumental in bringing back on the right path a player who had gone wrong, and how he fought to the last, until his team won the pennant--all that you will find set down in the book. I might add that Joe lived with his father, mother, and sister in the town of Riverside, where Mr. Matson was employed in the Royal Harvester Works, being an able inventor. Joe had many friends in town, one in particular being Tom Davis, who had gone to Excelsior Hall with him. Of late, however, Joe had not seen so much of Tom, their occupations pursuing divergent paths. It was while Joe was on his way to join the Pittston team, of the Central League, that he made the acquaintance of Reggie Varley, a rich, and somewhat dudish, young man; and the acquaintance was made in an odd manner. For Reggie practically accused Joe of knowing something of some jewelry that was missing from a valise. Of course Joe did not take it, but for some time the theft remained quite a mystery, until Joe solved the secret. From then on he and Reggie were good friends, and Reggie's sister Mabel and Joe were---- Oh, well, what's the use of telling on a fellow? You wouldn't like it yourself; would you? The baseball season came to an end, and the Pittston team covered itself with glory, partly due to Joe's good pitching. Cold weather set in, and the players took themselves to their various Winter occupations, or pleasures. Joe went home, to wait until the training season should open, in preparation for league games on the velvety, green diamonds. Several weeks of inaction had passed, the holidays were over, Winter had set in with all earnestness, and now we find Joe hurrying along, intent on the rescue of Reggie and his sister from the snow-stalled train. "I hope they will not freeze before I get to them," thought Joe, as he staggered through the blinding snow. "They can't, though, for there'll be sure to be steam for some hours yet. I guess I'll stop home, and get something to eat for them, and a bottle of coffee. I'll put it in one of those vacuum flasks, and it will keep hot." So intent was Joe on his rescue that, for the time, he gave no more thought to the matter of joining the St. Louis nine, important as that matter was to him. "I'd better get a team of horses, and a light sled," he mused, as he turned in the direction of the livery stable. "There will be some heavy going between here and Deep Rock Cut, and I'll need a good team to pull through." A little later he was leaving his order with the proprietor. "I'll fix you up, Joe," said the stable boss, who was a baseball "fan," and a great admirer of our hero. "I'll give you the best team in the place, and they'll get you through, if any horses can. I expect I'll have other calls, if, as you say, the train is stalled, for there'll likely be other folks in town who have friends aboard her. But you've got the first call, and I'm glad of it." "I'll be back in a little while," called Joe, as he hurried off. "I'm going around to my house to put up some lunch and coffee." "Good idea! I'll have everything ready for you when you come back." On Joe hurried once more, through the swirl of white flakes that cut into his face, blown on the wings of a bitter wind. He bent his head to the blast, and buttoned his overcoat more closely about him, as he fought his way through the drifts. It had been snowing since early morning, and there were no signs to indicate that the storm was going to stop. It was growing colder, too, and the wind seemed to increase in violence each hour. Though it was only a little after one o'clock in the afternoon, it was unusually dark, and Joe realized that night would soon be at hand, hastened by the clouds overhead. "But the snow will make it light enough to see, I guess," reasoned Joe. "I hope I can keep to the road. It wouldn't be much of a joke to get Reggie and Mabel out of the train, into the comfortable sled, and then lose them on the way home." Quickly explaining to his mother and sister his plan of going for the two friends in the stalled train, Joe hastily put up some sandwiches, while Clara made coffee and poured it into the vacuum bottle. "Perhaps you'd better bring them here, Joe, instead of taking them to the hotel," suggested his mother. "Mabel will be wet and cold, perhaps, and I could make her more comfortable here than she would be at the hotel. We have room enough." "She can share my room," proposed Clara. "That's good of you," and Joe flashed a grateful look at his sister. "I hope you will like Mabel," he added, softly. "I guess I will; if you do," laughed Clara. "Well, I sure do," and Joe smiled. Then, with a big scarf to wrap about his neck, and carrying the basket of food and coffee, Joe set out for the livery stable, to start to the rescue. CHAPTER III AN UPSET "Here you are, Joe. Best team in the stable. I could have hired 'em out twice over since you went; but I wouldn't do it. Other folks have got the scare, too, about friends on the stalled train," and the livery boss handed Joe the reins of a pair of prancing horses, hitched to a light, but strong cutter. "Thanks, Mr. Blasser," said Joe. "I'll take good care of 'em." "And hold 'em in a bit at the start," advised the man. "They haven't been out for a couple of days, and they're a bit frisky. But they'll calm down after a while." With a jingle of bells, and a scattering of the snow from their hoofs, the horses leaped forward when Joe gave them their heads, and down the whitened street they trotted, on the way to Deep Rock Cut. This was a place where the railroad went through a rocky defile, about a mile long. It had been the scene of more than one wreck, for there was a dangerous curve in it, and in the Winter it was a source of worry to the railroad men, for the snow piled high in it when there was a storm of more than usual severity. In the Summer a nearby river sometimes rose above its banks, and filled the cut with water, washing out the track. Altogether Deep Rock Cut was a cause of much anxiety to the railroad management, but it was not practical to run the line on either side of it, so its use had been continued. "And very likely it's living up to its reputation right now," mused Joe, as he drove down the main street, and then turned to another that would take him out of the town, and to a highway that led near Deep Rock Cut. "It sure must be living up to its reputation right now, though, of course, the storm is to blame. "Whew! It certainly does blow!" he commented, as he held the reins in one hand, and drew more closely about his throat the muffler he had brought with him. "Stand to it, ponies!" Joe called to the sturdy steeds. They had started off at a lively pace, but the snow soon slowed them down. They started up again, however, at the sound of Joe's voice, and settled down into a steady pull that took them over the ground at a good pace. Now that he was actually on the way to the rescue Joe allowed his thoughts to go back to the baseball letter that was in his pocket, next to the one from Mabel. "I wonder how they came to pick me out?" he mused, as he recalled the possibility that he would go to St. Louis. "They must have had a scout at some of the Central League games, though generally the news of that is tipped off beforehand. "That must have been the way of it, though," he went on, still communing with himself. "I don't know that I played so extra well, except maybe at the last, and then--then I just _had_ to--to make good. Well, I'm glad they picked me out. Wonder if any other members of the Pittston team are slated to go? Can't be, though, or Gregory would have told me of it. "And I wonder how much more salary I'll get? Of course I oughtn't to think too much about money, for, after all, it's the game I like. But, then, I have to live, and, since I'm in organized baseball, I want to be at the top of the heap, the same as I would if I were a lawyer, or a doctor. That's it--the top of the heap--the New York Giants for mine--if I can reach 'em," and he smiled quizzically. "Yes, I guess lots of the fellows would give their eye teeth to have my chance. Of course, it isn't settled yet," Joe told himself, "but there must have been a good foundation for it, or Gregory wouldn't have taken the trouble to write to me about it." Joe found the road to Deep Rock Cut fully as bad, in the matter of snowdrifts, as he had expected. It was rather slow going when he got to the open country, where the wind had full sweep, and progress, even on the part of the willing horses, was slower. Joe picked out the best, and easiest, route possible, but that was not saying much, and it was not until nearly three o'clock, and growing quite dark, that he came within sight of the cut. Then the storm was so thick that he could not see the stalled train. "I'll have to leave the team as near to it as I can get, and walk in to tell Reggie and Mabel that I've come for them," Joe decided. The highway crossed the railroad track a short distance from the end of the cut nearest Riverside, and Joe, halting a moment to listen, and to make sure no trains were approaching, drove over the rails. "Though there isn't much danger, now, of a train getting through that," he said to himself, as he saw the big drift of snow that blocked the cut. Behind that drift was the stalled train, he reflected, and then, as he looked at the white mound, he realized that he had made a mistake. "I can never get through that drift myself," he said. "I'll have to drive up to the other end of the cut, by which the engine and cars entered. Stupid of me not to have thought of that at first." He turned his horses, and again sought the highway that led along the cut, parallel to it, and about a quarter of a mile distant. Joe listened, again hoping he could hear the whistle of the approaching rescue-train, for at the station he had been told one was being fitted out, and would carry a gang of snow shovelers. But the howl of the wind was all that came to his ears. "This means another mile of travel," Joe thought, as he urged on the horses. "It will be pitch dark by the time I get back to town with them. I hope Mabel doesn't take cold. It sure is bitter." Joe found the going even harder as he kept on, but he would not give up now. "There's one consolation," he reasoned, "the wind will be at our backs going home. That will make it easier." The road that crossed the track at the other end of Deep Rock Cut was farther from the beginning of the defile, and Joe, leaving the horses in a sheltering clump of trees, struggled down the track, the rails of which were out of sight under the snow. "I wonder if Mabel can walk back?" he said aloud. "If not I guess Reggie and I can carry her. It's pretty deep. I didn't get here any too soon." Something dark loomed up before him, amid the wall of white, swirling flakes. "There's the train!" exclaimed Joe, in relief. It was indeed the rear coach of the stalled passenger train, and, a moment later, Joe was climbing the snow-encumbered steps. It proved to be the baggage car, and, as Joe entered, he surprised a number of men who were smoking, and playing cards on an upturned trunk. "Hello!" exclaimed one of them, in surprise at the sight of the ball player. "Where'd you come from? Is the rescue-train here?" "Not yet," Joe answered. "I came to take a couple of friends into town." "Say, I wish I had a friend like you!" cried the man, with a laugh. "I sure would like to get into town; but I don't dare start out and tramp it--not with my rheumatism. How much room have you got in your airship?" "I came in a cutter," responded Joe, with a smile. "Say, you got some grit!" declared the man. "I like your nerve!" "Oh, Joe's got plenty of nerve--of the right sort!" called a brakeman, and Joe, nodding at him, recognized a railroad acquaintance who had been present at some of the town ball games. "A couple of my friends are in one of the coaches, Mr. Wheatson," explained Joe. "I'm going to drive back with them." "Go ahead and look for 'em," invited the brakeman. "The train is yours, as far as I'm concerned. I guess we're tied up here all night." "They're going to start out a rescue-train," Joe informed the men in the baggage car, for the telegraph wires had gone down after the first message, telling of the stalled train, had been sent. "That's good news," replied one of the men. "Well, all we can do is to stay here, and play cards. It's nice and warm in here, anyhow." "Yes, it will be until the coal for the engine gives out," spoke a player, who seemed to take a rather gloomy view of matters. "And what are we going to do about supper? I'd like to know that!" Joe wished he could have brought along enough food for all the stranded passengers, but this was impossible. He went on through the train, and presently came to where Mabel and her brother were seated in the parlor car, looking gloomily out at the storm. "Well!" exclaimed Joe, with a smile, as he stood just back of them. They both turned with a flash, and a look of pleased surprise came over the faces of Reggie and his sister as they saw him. "Joe Matson!" cried Reggie, jumping up, and holding out his hand. "Where in the world did you come from? I didn't know you were on this train." "I wasn't," laughed Joe. "I just boarded it, and I've come for you," he added, as he gave Mabel his hand. "Oh, but I'm glad to see you!" she exclaimed. "Isn't this just perfectly awful, to be snowed in like this! And they tell us there's no chance of getting out to-night." "There is for you," remarked Joe, quietly. "How?" asked Reggie, quickly. "Did they push the relief-train through?" "I'm all the relief-train there is," announced Joe, and he told about having the cutter in readiness. "Say, that's fine of you!" cried Reggie. "Shall we go with him, Mabel?" "Well, I rather guess so," she answered. "I couldn't stay here another hour." "It won't be much fun traveling through the storm," Joe warned his friends. At this Reggie looked a bit doubtful, but his sister exclaimed: "I don't mind it! I love a storm, anyhow, and I just can't bear sitting still, and doing nothing. Besides, there isn't a thing to eat aboard this train, for they took off the dining car right after lunch." "I brought along a little something. It's in the cutter," Joe said. "I didn't bring it in here for fear the famished passengers would mob me for it," he added, with a smile. "Well, if you're willing to trust yourself with me, perhaps we'd better start," he went on. "It is getting darker all the while, and the snow is still falling." "I'll be ready at once!" cried Mabel. "Reggie, get down the valises; will you, please? Can you take them?" she asked of Joe. "Oh, yes--room for them in the cutter," he assured her. The other passengers looked on curiously, and enviously, when they heard where Reggie and his sister were going. But, much as Joe would have liked to take them all to a place of comfort, he could not. The three went back to the baggage car, and, saying good-bye to the card-players, stepped out into the storm. "I guess your brother and I had better carry you, Mabel," suggested Joe, as he saw the deep snow that led along the track to where he had left the cutter. "Indeed you'll not--thank you!" she flashed back at him. "I have on stout shoes, and I don't mind the drifts." She proved it by striding sturdily through them, and soon the three were at the cutter, the horses whinnying impatiently to be gone. "Have some hot coffee and a sandwich," invited Joe, as he got out the basket, and served his guests. "Say, you're all right!" cried Reggie. Mabel said nothing, but the look she gave Joe was reward enough. The coffee in the vacuum bottle was warm and cheering, and soon, much refreshed from the little lunch, and bundled up well in the robes Joe had brought, Reggie and his sister were ready for the trip to town. "Step along!" cried the young baseball player to the horses, and glad enough they were to do so. Out to the highway they went, and it was not until they were some distance away from the cut that Joe noticed how much worse the going was. The snow was considerably deeper, and had drifted high in many more places. "Think you can make it?" asked Reggie, anxiously. "Well, I'm going to make a big try!" responded Joe. "I've got a good team here." Half an hour later it was quite dark, but the white covering on the ground showed where the road was faintly outlined. Joe let the horses have their heads, and they seemed to know they were going toward their stable, for they went along at a good pace. "There's a bad drift!" exclaimed Joe as, ahead of him, he saw a big mound of snow. He tried to guide the horses to one side, and must have given a stronger pull on the reins than he realized. For the steeds turned sharply, and, the next moment, the cutter suddenly turned over on its side, spilling into the snow the three occupants. CHAPTER IV AN APPEAL "Look out there!" "See if you can grab the horses, Reggie!" "Mabel, are you hurt?" Fast and excitedly came the exclamations, as Joe managed to free himself from the entanglement of robes and lines. Then he stood up, and, giving a hasty glance to see that Mabel and her brother were extricating themselves (apparently little if any hurt), the young pitcher sprang for the heads of the horses, fearing they might bolt. But, as if the steeds had done mischief enough; or, possibly because they were well trained, and had lost most of their skittishness in the cold, they stood still. "For which I'm mighty glad!" quoth Joe, as he looked to see that no part of the harness was broken, a fact of which he could not be quite sure in the darkness. "Are you all right, Mabel?" called Joe, as he stood at the heads of the animals. "All right, Joe, yes, thank you. How about yourself?" "Oh, I haven't a scratch. The snow is soft. How about you, Reggie?" "Nothing worse than about a peck of snow down my neck. What happened, anyhow?" "Hit a drift and turned too suddenly. I guess you'll wish I had left you in the train; won't you?" "No, indeed!" laughed Mabel. "This isn't anything, nor the first upset I've been in--Reggie tipped us over once." "Oh, that was when I was first learning how to drive," put in the other youth, quickly. "But can we go on, Joe?" "I think so. Nothing seems to be broken. We'll have to right the sled, though. I wonder if the horses will stand while we do it? I wouldn't like them to start up, but----" "Let me hold them!" begged Mabel. "I'm not afraid, and with me at their heads you boys can turn the sled right side up. It isn't tipped all the way over, anyhow." She shook the snow from her garments, and made her way to where Joe stood, holding the reins close to the heads of the horses. It was still snowing hard, and with the cold wind driving the flakes into swirls and drifts, it was anything but pleasant. Had they been left behind by the horses running away, their plight would have been dangerous enough. "Perhaps I can help you," suddenly called a voice out of the storm, and Joe and the others turned quickly, to see whence it had come. The snow-encrusted figure of a man made its way over the piles of snow, and stood beside Joe. "I'll hold the horses for you," the stranger went on. "You seem to have had an accident. I know something about horses. I'll hold them while you right the sled." "Thanks," said Joe, and, as he spoke, he wondered where he had heard that voice before. He knew he had heard it, for there was a familiar ring to it. But it was not light enough to make out the features of the man. Besides, he was so wrapped up, with a slouch hat drawn low over his face, and a scarf pulled up well around his neck, that, even in daylight, his features would have been effectually concealed. "I guess they won't need much holding," Joe went on, all the while racking his brain to recall the voice. He wanted to have the man speak again, that he might listen once more. And the unknown, who had appeared so suddenly out of the storm, did not seem to have anything to conceal. He spoke freely. "Don't worry about the horses," he remarked. "I can manage them." "They won't need a lot of managing," responded Joe. "I guess they've had pretty nearly all the tucker taken out of them in the storm. It was pretty hard coming from Riverside." "Are you from there?" the man asked rather quickly. "Yes," answered Joe, "and we're going back." "Then I'm glad I met you!" the man exclaimed, and Joe, who had half formed an opinion as to his identity, changed his mind, for the voice sounded different now. "Yes, I'm glad I met you," the stranger went on. "I was looking for someone to ask the road to Riverside, and you can tell me. I guess I lost my way in the storm. I heard your sleigh-bells, and I was heading for them when I heard you upset. You can show me the shortest road to Riverside; can't you?" "We can do better than that," spoke Joe, trying, but still unsuccessfully, to get a look at the man's face. "We've got plenty of room in the sled, and you can ride back with us, once we get it on the runners again. Come on, Reggie, give me a hand, if you will, and we'll get this cutter right side up with care." "If it needs three of you, I can take my place at the horses," suggested Mabel, who was standing beside Joe, idly looking through the fast-gathering darkness at the stranger. "Oh, the two of us can easily do it," said the young ball player. "It isn't heavy. Come on, Reggie. Better stand a bit back, Mabel. It might slip," he advised. Joe and his friend easily righted the sleigh, while the stranger stood at the heads of the horses, who were now quiet enough. Then, the scattered robes having been collected, and the baggage picked up, all was in readiness for a new start. Joe tucked the warm blanket well around Mabel, and then called to the stranger: "Get up on the front seat, and I'll soon have you in Riverside. It isn't very far now." "Thanks," said the man, briefly. "This is better luck than I've had in some time." For a while, after the mishap, none of the occupants of the cutter spoke, as the willing horses pulled it through the big drifts of snow. Joe drove more carefully, taking care not to turn too suddenly, and he avoided, as well as he could, the huge heaps of white crystals that, every moment, were piling higher. Reggie was snuggling down in the robes, and Mabel, too, rather worn out by the events of the day, and the worry of being snowed in, maintained silence. As for Joe, he had all he could do to manage the horses in the storm, though the beasts did not seem inclined to make any more trouble. The man on the seat beside him appeared wrapped, not only in his heavy garments, but in a sort of gloomy silence, as well. He did not speak again, and Joe was still puzzling over his identity. "For I'm sure I've met him before, and more than once," reasoned Joe. "But then I've met so many fellows, playing ball all around the country, that it's no wonder I can't recall a certain voice. Maybe I'll get a chance to have a good look at him later." "You'll come right to our house," said Joe, turning to speak to Mabel and Reggie. "Mother said so." "Oh, but we have our rooms engaged at the hotel," objected the other youth. "That doesn't matter. You can go there later, if you like. But mother insisted that I bring you home," Joe went on. "You can be more comfortable there--at least, until you get over this cold trip." "It's perfectly lovely of your mother," declared Mabel. "But I don't want to put her to so much inconvenience." "It isn't any inconvenience at all," laughed Joe. "She wants to meet you, and so does my sister Clara." "And I want to meet them," responded Mabel, with a blush that was unseen in the darkness. "Well, have it your own way," said Reggie, who was, perhaps, rather too much inclined to give in easily. Life came very easy to him, anyhow. "It's very nice of you to put us up, Joe. By the way, how is your father since the operation?" "Oh, he has almost entirely recovered. His eyesight is better than ever, he says." "How lovely!" cried Mabel. "And how lucky it was, Joe, that your share of the money your team got for winning the pennant helped to make the operation possible." "Yes, I sure do owe a debt of gratitude to baseball," admitted the young pitcher. "Do you play ball?" suddenly asked the man on the seat beside Joe. "Yes, I play at it," was the modest answer. "Amateur or professional?" "Professional. I am with the Central League." Was it fancy, or did the man give a sudden start, that might indicate surprise? Joe could not be sure. "I suppose you'll be at it again this year, Joe," put in Reggie. "Oh, yes. But I may change my club. I'll tell you about it later. We'll soon be at the house. Is there any special place I can take you to, in Riverside?" asked Joe of the stranger. "Well, I'm looking for a young fellow named Matson," was the unexpected answer. "Matson?" cried Joe. "Why, that's my name!" "Joe Matson?" the man exclaimed, drawing slightly away in order, possibly, to get a better look at the young player. "I'm Joe Matson--yes. Are you looking for me?" "I was, and I'm glad I found you!" the man exclaimed. "I've got a very special request to make of you. Is there some hotel, or boarding house, where I could put up, and where I could see you--later?" he asked, eagerly. "Why, yes, there are several such places in town," said Joe, slowly, trying, harder than ever, to place the man who had so unexpectedly appeared. "Take me to a quiet one--not too high-priced," requested the man in a low voice. "I want to see you on a very particular matter--that is, it's particular to me," he added, significantly. "Will you come and see me--after you take care of your friends?" "Why, yes, I guess so--perhaps to-morrow," replied Joe, for he did not fancy going out in the storm again that night. "But why can't you stop off at my house now?" he asked. "No, I don't want to do that," the man objected. "I'd rather you would come to see me," and there was a note of appeal in his voice. "Very well, I'll see you to-morrow," Joe promised, wondering if this man's seeking of him had any connection with his possible draft to the St. Louis Cardinals. CHAPTER V THE THREAT "Here's a boarding house that will suit you, I think," announced Joe, a little later, as he stopped the horses in front of a sort of hostelry of good reputation. It was not as large nor as stylish as some of the other places in Riverside, but Joe bore in mind the man's request to be taken to a moderate-priced establishment. "Thanks," said the stranger. "Then you'll come here to see me to-morrow? I'll be in all day." "I'll call in the afternoon, Mr.--er----" and Joe hesitated. "I don't believe I caught your name," he said, significantly. "No, I didn't mention it, but it's Shalleg," was the answer. "Oh, of the Clevefield team!" exclaimed the young player, knowing now where he had heard the voice before. "Yes, of the Clevefield team," admitted Mr. Shalleg, repeating the name of one of the nines forming the Central League, and which team Joe's club had met several times on the diamond. "I was trying, ever since you spoke, to recall where I'd met you before," went on Joe, "but you had me guessing. I'm glad to meet you again. I suppose you're going to stay with the League this coming season?" "I--er--I haven't quite made my plans," was the somewhat hesitating answer. "I've been looking about. I was over in Rocky Ford this morning, seeing a friend, and I happened to recall that you lived in Riverside, so I came on, but lost my way in the storm. I didn't recognize you back there, where you had the upset." "The lack of recognition was mutual," laughed Joe, puzzling over what Shalleg's object could be in seeking him. "Well, I must get these folks in out of the storm," Joe went on. "I'll see you to-morrow, Mr. Shalleg." The latter alighted from the cutter, and entered the boarding house, while Joe turned the heads of the horses toward his own home. "I guess you'll be glad to get indoors," he said to Reggie and Mabel. "Well, it's pretty cold," Reggie admitted, "though I suppose my sister will say she likes it." "I do!" declared Mabel. "But it isn't so nice when it's dark," she confessed. They were now on the principal street of Riverside, and the lamps from the shop windows gleamed dimly on the swirling flakes, and drifts of snow. A little later Joe pulled up in front of his own house, and escorted the visitors into the cheery living room. "Here they are, Mother--Clara!" he called, as Mrs. Matson and her daughter came out to welcome their guests. "I am glad to see you," said Clara, simply, as she kissed Mabel----and one look from the sister's eyes told Joe that Clara approved of his friends. "Where's father?" asked Joe. "Bathing his eyes," replied his mother. "He'll be here presently," for Mr. Matson had recently undergone an operation on his eyes, after an accident, and they still needed care. Soon a merry party was gathered about the supper table, where the events of the day were told, from the receipt by Joe of the two letters, to the rescue from the stalled train, and the accident in the snow. "But I sure would like to know what it is Shalleg wants," mused Joe, who had come back from leaving the horses at the livery stable. "I sure would." "Didn't he give you any hint?" asked Clara. "No. But perhaps he wants some advice about baseball matters. I'm getting to be some pumpkins, you know, since St. Louis is after me!" cried Joe, with simulated pride. "Oh, do tell us about it!" cried Mabel, and Joe related the news of the draft that would probably take him to the big league. Reggie and Mabel spent the night at Joe's house. The storm kept up through the hours of darkness, and part of the next day, when it stopped, and the sun came out. Old Sol shone on a scene of whiteness, where big drifts of snow were piled here and there. "I wonder how the stalled train is faring?" remarked Mabel, after breakfast. "We'll have to get our trunks away from it, somehow, Reggie." "Yes, I suppose so," he said. "And I've got to look after those business matters. I think we had better go to the hotel," he added. "Very well," assented Joe. "I'll go down to the station with you, and we'll see about your baggage." "I'll stay here until you boys come back," decided Mabel, who had taken as great a liking to Clara, as the latter had to her. Joe and Reggie found that the train was still stalled in the snow drift, but a large force of shovelers was at work, and the prospect was that the line would be opened that afternoon. Thereupon Reggie went to the hotel to arrange about his own room, and one for his sister. "And I'll go see Shalleg," decided Joe. "Might as well get it over with, though I did tell him I wouldn't come until afternoon. I'm anxious to know what it's all about." "He's making a sort of mystery of it," observed Reggie. "Somewhat," admitted Joe, with a smile. Greatly to his relief (for Joe was anxious to get the matter over with) he found Shalleg at the boarding house when he called. "Come up to my room," invited the baseball player. "It's warmer than down in the parlor." In his room he motioned Joe to a chair, and then, looking intently at the young pitcher, said: "Matson, do you know what it is to be down and out?" "Down and out? What do you mean?" "I mean to have few friends, and less money. Do you know what that means?" "Well, not personally," said Joe, "though I can't boast of a superfluity of money myself." "You've got more than I have!" snapped Shalleg. "I don't know about that," said Joe, slowly, wondering whither the conversation was leading. "Your team won the pennant!" cried the man, and Joe, as he caught the odor of his breath, realized what made Shalleg's manner so excited. The man was partially intoxicated. Joe wished he had not come. "Your team won the pennant," Shalleg went on, "and that meant quite a little money for every player. You must have gotten your share, and I'd like to borrow some of you, Matson. I'm down and out, I tell you, and I need money bad--until I can get on my feet again." Joe did not answer for a moment, but mentally he found a reason for Shalleg's being "off his feet" at present. Bad habits, very likely. "Can you let me have some money--until Spring opens?" proceeded Shalleg. "You'll be earning more then, whether I am or not, for I don't know that I'm going back with Clevefield. I suppose you'll play with the Pittston team?" "I don't know," answered Joe, preferring to reply to that question first. He wanted time to think about the other. "You don't know!" Shalleg exclaimed, in surprise. "No. I hear I am to be drafted to the St. Louis Nationals." "The St. Louis Nationals!" cried Shalleg. "That team! Why, that team is the one I----" He came to a sudden halt. "What is it?" asked Joe, wonderingly. "I--er--I--er--well, never mind, now. Can you let me have--say, two hundred dollars?" "Two hundred dollars!" cried Joe. "I haven't that much money to spare. And, if I had, I don't know that I would be doing my duty to my father and mother to lend it." "But I need it!" cried Shalleg. "Did you ever know what it was to be down and out?" "Well, I've seen such sad cases, and I'm sorry for you," spoke Joe, softly. He thought of John Dutton, the broken-down pitcher whose rescue, from a life of ruin, had been due largely to our hero's efforts, as told in the volume immediately preceding this. "Being sorry isn't going to help," sneered Shalleg, and there was an ugly note in his voice. "I need money! You must have some left from your pennant winnings." "I had to spend a large sum for my father's operation," said Joe. "He has had bad luck, too. I really have no money to spare." "That's not so--I don't believe you!" snapped Shalleg. "You must have money, and I've got to get some. I've been begging from a lot of fellows who played ball with me, but they all turned me down. Now you're doing the same thing. You'd better be careful. I'm a desperate man!" "What do you mean?" asked Joe, in some alarm, for he thought the fellow meditated an attack. Joe looked to see with what he could defend himself, and he noted, though with no cowardly satisfaction, that the door to the hall was close at hand. "I mean just what I say. I'm desperately in need of money." "Well, I'm very sorry, but I'm not in a position to be able to help you," said Joe, firmly. "Why don't you go to the manager of your team, and get him to give you an advance on your salary? That is often done. I'm sure if you told him your need he'd do it." "No, he wouldn't!" growled Shalleg. "I've got to borrow it somewhere else. Then you won't let me have it?" and he glowered at Joe. "I can't, even if I would." "I don't believe it!" snarled the other. "And now I tell you one thing. I'm a bad man to be bad friends with. If you don't let me have this money it will be the worse for you." "I guess you are forgetting yourself," returned Joe, quietly. "I did not come here to be threatened, or insulted. I guess you are not yourself, Mr. Shalleg. I am sorry, and I'll bid you good day." With that Joe walked out, but not before the infuriated man called after him: "And so you're going to St. Louis; are you? Well, look out for me, that's all I've got to say! Look out for Bill Shalleg!" and he slammed the door after Joe. CHAPTER VI A WARNING Joe Matson's brain was in a whirl as he left the boarding house where Shalleg had made his strange threat. The young pitcher had never before gone through such an experience, and it had rather unnerved him. "I wonder what I'd better do?" he mused, as he walked along the street, where many men were busy clearing away the snow. "I don't like to report what he said to me to any of the baseball authorities, for it would look as though I was afraid of him. And I'm not!" declared Joe, sturdily. "Shalleg wasn't himself, or he wouldn't have said such things. He didn't know quite what he was doing, I guess." But, the more Joe thought of it, as he trudged along, the more worried he became. "He has a very bad temper, and he might do me some injury," mused Joe. "But, after all, what _can_ he do? If he stays on the Clevefield team, and I go to St. Louis, we'll be far enough apart. I guess I won't do anything about it now." But the youth could not altogether conceal the emotions that had swayed him during the strange interview. When, a little later, he called at the hotel to see if Reggie and his sister had comfortable rooms, his face must have showed something unusual, for Mabel asked: "Why, Joe, what is the matter?" "Matter? Nothing," he replied, with a laugh, but it was rather forced. "You look as though--something had happened," the girl went on. "Perhaps you haven't recovered from your efforts to rescue us from the stalled train last night." "Oh, yes, I'm all over that," declared Joe, more at his ease now. "It was awfully good of you," proceeded Mabel. "Just think; suppose we had had to stay in that train until now?" "Oh, they've been relieved by this time," spoke Joe. "Yes, but they had to stay there all night. I can't thank you enough for coming after us. Are you sure there is nothing the matter?" she insisted. "You haven't had bad news, about not making the St. Louis team; have you?" "No, indeed. I haven't had any news at all since that one letter from Mr. Gregory. And no news is good news, they say." "Not always," and she smiled. "Are you comfortable here?" asked Joe, as he sat in the parlor between the bedrooms of brother and sister. "Oh, yes. And Reggie likes it very much. He has a lot of business to attend to. Father is putting more and more on his shoulders each year. He wants him finally to take it up altogether. Reggie doesn't care so much for it, but it's good for him," and she smiled frankly at Joe. "Yes, work is good," he admitted, "even if it is only playing baseball." "And that sometimes seems to me like hard work," responded Mabel. "It is," Joe admitted. "How long do you stay in Riverside?" "Three or four days yet. Why?" "Because there'll be good sleighing, and I thought perhaps you'd like to go out for a ride." "I shall be delighted!" "Then I'll arrange for it. Won't you come over to the house this evening?" "I have an engagement," she laughed. Joe looked disappointed. Mabel smiled. "It's with your sister," she said. "I promised to come over and learn a new lace pattern." "I'm just crazy about fancy work myself!" and Joe laughed in turn. "It's as bad as the new dances. I guess I'll stay home, too." "Do," Mabel invited. And when Joe took his leave some of the worry caused by Shalleg's threat had passed away. "I guess I'll say nothing about it," mused our hero. "It would do no good, and if father and mother heard about it they might worry. I'll just fight it out all alone. I guess Shalleg was only a 'bluff,' anyhow. He may be in desperate straits, but he had no right to make threats like that." Riverside was storm-bound for several days, and when she was finally dug out, and conditions were normal, there was still plenty of snow left for sleighing. Joe planned to take Mabel for a ride, and Reggie, hearing of it, asked Clara to be his guest. Two or three days passed, and Joe neither saw nor heard any more of Shalleg, except to learn, by judicious inquiry, that the surly and threatening fellow had left the boarding house to which Joe had taken him. "I guess he's gone off to try his game on some other players in the League," thought the young pitcher. "I hope he doesn't succeed, though. If he got money I'm afraid he'd make a bad use of it." There came another letter from Mr. Gregory, in which he told Joe that, while the matter was still far from being settled, the chances were that the young pitcher would be drafted to St. Louis. "I will let you know, in plenty of time, whether you are to train with us, or with the big league," the manager of the Pittston team wrote. "So you will have to hold yourself in readiness to do one or the other." "They don't give you much choice; do they?" spoke Reggie, when Joe told him this news. "You've got to do just as they tell you; haven't you?" "In a measure, yes," assented Joe. "Baseball is big business. Why, I read an article the other day that stated how over fifty million persons pay fifteen million dollars every year just to see the games, and the value of the different clubs, grounds and so on mounts up to many millions more." "It sure is big business," agreed Reggie. "I might go into it myself." "Well, more than one fortune has been made at it," observed Joe. "But I don't like the idea of the club owners and managers doing as they please with the players. It seems to take away your freedom," argued the other lad. "Well, in a sense I suppose it does," admitted Joe. "And yet the interests of the players are always being looked after. We don't have to be baseball players unless we want to; but, once we sign a contract, we have to abide by it. "Then, too, the present organization has brought to the players bigger salaries than they ever got before. Of course we chaps in the minor leagues aren't bid for, as are those in the big leagues. But we always hope to be." "It seems funny, for one manager to buy a player from another manager," went on Reggie. "I suppose so, but I've grown sort of used to it," Joe replied. "Of course the players themselves don't benefit by the big sum one manager may give another for the services of a star fielder or pitcher, but it all helps our reputations." "Is the St. Louis team considered pretty good?" Reggie wanted to know. "Well, it could be better," confessed Joe, slowly. "They reached one place from the top of the second division last season, but if I play with them I'll try to pull them to the top of the second half, anyhow," he added, with a laugh. "The Cardinals never have been considered so very good, but the club is a money-maker, and we can't all be pennant winners," he admitted, frankly. "No, I suppose not," agreed Reggie. "Well, I wish you luck, whatever you do this Summer. If I ever get out to St. Louis I'll stop off and see you play." "Do," urged Joe. He hoped Mabel would come also. When Joe reached home that afternoon his mother met him in the living room, and said quickly: "Someone is waiting for you in the parlor, Joe." "Gracious! I hope it isn't Shalleg!" thought the young pitcher. "If he has come here to make trouble----" And his heart sank. But as he entered the room a glad smile came over his face. "Hello, Charlie Hall!" he cried, at the sight of the shortstop of the Pittston team, with whom Joe had been quite chummy during the league season. "What good wind blows you here?" "Oh, you know I'm a traveling salesman during the Winter, and I happened to make this town to-day. Just thought I'd step up and see how you were." "Glad you did! It's a real pleasure to see you. Going back at the game in the Spring, I expect; aren't you?" "Sure. I wouldn't miss it for anything. But what's this I hear about you?" "I don't know. Nothing to my discredit, I hope," and Joe smiled. "Far from it, old man. But there's a rumor among some of the old boys that you're to be drafted to the Cardinals. How about it?" "Well, Gregory told me as much, but it isn't all settled yet. Say, Charlie, now you're here, I want to ask you something." "Fire ahead." "Do you know a fellow named Shalleg?" Charlie Hall started. "It's queer you should ask me that," he responded, slowly. "Why?" Joe wanted to know. "Because that's one of the reasons I stopped up to talk to you. I want to warn you against Shalleg." "Warn me! What do you mean?" and Joe thought of the threats the man had made. "Why, you know he's out of the Clevefield team; don't you?" "No, I didn't know it," replied Joe. "But go on. I'll tell you something pretty soon." "Yes, he's been given his unconditional release," went on Charlie. "He got to gambling, and doing other things no good ball player can expect to do, and keep in the game, and he was let go. And I heard something that made me come here to warn you, Joe. There may be nothing in it, but Shalleg----" There came a knock at the door of the parlor, and Joe held up a warning hand. "Wait a minute," he whispered. CHAPTER VII BASEBALL TALK There was silence for a moment, following Joe's warning, and then the voice of his mother was heard: "Joe, you're wanted on the telephone." "Oh, all right," he answered in a relieved tone. "I didn't want her to hear about Shalleg," he added in a whisper to Charlie. "She and father would worry, and, with his recent sickness, that wouldn't be a good thing for him." "I should say not," agreed the other ball player. "I'll be right there, Mother," went on Joe, in louder tones and then he went to the hall, where the telephone stood. It was only a message from a local sporting goods dealer, saying that he had secured for Joe a certain glove he had had made to order. Joe went back to his chum, and the baseball talk was renewed. "What were you going to say that Shalleg was up to?" asked Joe. "As I was saying," resumed Charlie, "there may be nothing in the rumor, but it's the talk, in baseball circles, that Shalleg has been trying his best, since being released, to get a place with the Cardinals." "You don't mean it!" cried Joe. "That accounts for his surprise, and perhaps for his bitter feeling against me when I told him there was a chance that I would go to St. Louis." "Probably," agreed Charlie. "So, having heard this, and knowing that Shalleg is a hard character, I thought I'd warn you." "I'm glad you did," returned Joe warmly. "It was very good of you to go to that trouble. And, after the experience I had with Shalleg, I shouldn't wonder but what there was something in it. Though why he should be vindictive toward me is more than I can fathom. I certainly never did anything to him, except to refuse to lend him money, and I actually had to do that." "Of course," agreed Charlie. "But I guess, from his bad habits, his mind is warped. He is abnormal, and your refusal, coupled with the fact that you are probably going to a team that he has tried his best to make, and can't, simply made him wild. So, if I were you, I should be on the lookout, Joe." "I certainly will. It's queer that I met Shalleg the way I did--in the storm. It was quite an unusual coincidence. It seems he had been to Rocky Ford, a town near here, to see if he could borrow money from somebody there--at least so he said. Then he heard I lived here, and he started for Riverside, and got lost on the way, in the storm. Altogether it was rather queer. I never was so surprised in my life as when, after riding with me for some time, the man said he was looking for me." "It _was_ queer," agreed Charlie. "Well, the only thing to do, after this, is to steer clear of him. And, after all, it may only be talk." "Yes," assented Joe, "and now let's talk about something pleasant. How are you, anyhow? What are your plans for the coming season? And how are all the boys since we played the last pennant game?" "Gracious!" exclaimed Charlie with a laugh. "You fire almost as many questions at a fellow as a lawyer would." Then the two plunged into baseball talk, which, as it has no special interest for my readers, I shall omit. "Have you anything special to do?" asked Joe, as Charlie and he came to a pause in recalling scenes and incidents, many of which you will find set down in the previous book of this series. "No. After I clean up all the orders I can here I will have a few days' vacation," replied Hall. "Good!" cried Joe. "Then spend them with me. Reggie Varley and his sister are here for a while--you remember Reggie; don't you, Charlie?" "As well as you remember his sister, I reckon," was the laughing rejoinder. "Never mind that. Then I'll count on you. I'll introduce you to a nice girl, and we'll get up a little sleigh-riding party. There'll be a fine moon in a couple of nights." "Go as far as you like with me," invited Charlie. "I'm not in training yet, and I guess a late oyster supper, after a long ride, won't do me any particular harm." Charlie departed for the hotel, to get his baggage, for he was going to finish out the rest of his stay in Riverside as Joe's guest, and the young pitcher went to get the new glove, about which he had received the telephone message. It was a little later that day that, as Clara was passing her brother's room, she heard a curious, thumping noise. "I wonder what that is?" she murmured. "Sounds as though Joe were working at a punching bag. Joe, what in the world are you doing?" she asked, pausing outside his door. "Making a pocket in my new glove," he answered. "Come on in, Sis. I'm all covered with olive oil, or I'd open the door for you." "Olive oil! The idea! Are you making a salad, as well?" she asked laughingly, as she pushed open the portal. She saw her brother, attired in old clothes, alternately pouring a few drops of olive oil on his new pitcher's glove, and then, with an old baseball pounding a hollow place in the palm. "What does it mean?" asked Clara. "Oh, I'm just limbering up my new glove," answered Joe. "If I'm to play with a big team, like the St. Louis Cardinals, I want to have the best sort of an outfit. You know a ball will often slip out of a new glove, so I'm making a sort of 'pocket' in this one, only not as deep as in a catcher's mitt, so it will hold the ball better." "But why the olive oil?" "Oh, well, of course any good oil would do, but this was the handiest. The oil softens the leather, and makes it pliable. And say, if you haven't anything else to do, there's an old glove, that's pretty badly ripped; you might sew it up. It will do to practice with." "I'll sew it to-morrow, Joe. I've got to make a new collar now. Mabel and I are going to the matinee, and I want to look my best." "Oh, all right," agreed Joe easily. "There's no special hurry," and he went on thumping the baseball into the hollow of the new glove. "Well, Joe, is there anything new in the baseball situation?" asked Mr. Matson of his son a little later. The inventor, whose eyesight had been saved by the operation (to pay for which most of Joe's pennant money went) was able to give part of his time to his business now. "No, there's not much new, Dad," replied the young player. "I am still waiting to hear definitely about St. Louis. I do hope I am drafted there." "It means quite an advance for you; doesn't it, Joe?" "Indeed it does, Dad. There aren't many players who are taken out of a small league, to a major one, at the close of their first season. I suppose I ought to be proud." "Well, I hope you are, Joe, in a proper way," said Mr. Matson. "Pride, of the right sort, is very good. And I'm glad of your prospective advance. I am sure it was brought about by hard work, and, after all, that is the only thing that counts. And you did work hard, Joe." "Yes, I suppose I did," admitted the young pitcher modestly, as he thought of the times he pitched when his arm ached, and when his nerves were all unstrung on account of the receipt of bad news. "But other fellows worked hard, too," he went on. "You've _got_ to work hard in baseball." "Will it be any easier on the St. Louis team?" his father wanted to know. "No, it will be harder," replied Joe. "I might as well face that at once." And it was well that Joe had thus prepared himself in advance, for before him, though he did not actually know it, were the hardest struggles to which a young pitcher could be subjected. "Yes, there'll be hard work," Joe went on, "but I don't mind. I like it. And I'm not so foolish as to think that I'm going to go in, right off the reel, and become the star pitcher of the team. I guess I'll have to sit back, and warm the bench for quite a considerable time before I'm called on to pull the game out of the fire." "Well, that's all right, as long as you're there when the time comes," said his father. "Stick to it, Joe, now that you are in it. Your mother didn't take much to baseball at first, but, the more I see of it, and read of it, the more I realize that it's a great business, and a clean sport. I'm glad you're in it, Joe." "And I am too, Dad." CHAPTER VIII THE QUARREL "Are we all here?" "Oh, what a glorious night!" "Did you ever see such a moon!" "Looks about as big as a baseball does when you're far from first and the pitcher is heaving it over, to tag you out!" This last observation from Joe Matson. "Oh, what an unpoetical remark to make!" That from Mabel Varley. There came a chorus of laughter, shouts, good-natured jibes, little shrieks and giggles from the girls, and chuckles from the young men. "Well, let's get started," proposed Joe. It was the occasion of the sleigh ride that Joe had gotten up, ostensibly for the enjoyment of a number of his young friends, but, in reality for Mabel, who, with her brother, was still staying on in Riverside, for the Varley business was not yet finished. It was a glorious, wintry night, and in the sky hung the silvery moon, lighting up a few fleecy clouds with glinting beams, and bringing into greater brightness the sparkling snow that encrusted the earth. "Count noses," suggested Charlie Hill, who, with a young lady to whom Joe had introduced him a day or so before, was in the sleighing party. "I'll help," volunteered Mabel, who, of course, was being escorted by Joe, while Reggie had Clara under his care. Mabel and Joe made sure that all of their party were present. They were gathered in the office of the livery stable, whence they were to start, to go to a hotel about twelve miles distant--a hotel famous for its oyster suppers, as many a sleighing party, of which Joe had been a member, could testify. Following the supper there was to be a little dance, and the party, properly chaperoned, expected to return some time before morning. "Yes, I guess we're all here," Joe announced, as he looked among the young people. And it was no easy task to make sure, for they were constantly shifting about, going here and there, friends greeting friends. Four sturdy horses were attached to a big barge, in the bottom of which had been spread clean straw, for it was quite frosty, and, in spite of heavy wraps and blankets, feet would get cold. But the straw served, in a measure, to keep them warm. "All aboard!" cried Charlie Hill, who had made himself a general favorite with all of Joe's friends. "All aboard!" "Why don't you say 'play ball'?" asked Mabel, with a laugh. "It seems to me, with a National Leaguer with us, the least we could do would be to make that our rallying cry!" Mabel was a real "sport." "I'm not a big leaguer yet," protested Joe. "Don't go too strong on that. I may be turned back into the bushes." "Not much danger," commented Charlie, as he thought of the fine work Joe had done in times past. Joe was a natural born pitcher, but he had developed his talents by hard work, as my readers know. Into the sled piled the laughing, happy young folks, and then, snugly tucked in, the word was given, and, with a merry jingle of bells, away they went over the white snow. There were the old-time songs sung, after the party had reached the open country, and had taken the edge off their exuberance by tooting tin horns. "Aunt Dinah's Quilting Party," "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," "Old Black Joe"--all these, and some other, more modern, songs were sung, more or less effectively. But, after all, it was the spirit and not the melody that counted. On over the snowy road went the big sled, pulled by the willing horses, who seemed all the more willing because of the joyous party they were dragging along. "Look out for this grade-crossing," remarked Joe to the driver, for they were approaching the railroad. "I will, Joe," the man replied. "I have good occasion to remember this place, too." "So have I," spoke Mabel, in a low voice to her escort. "There is where we were snowed in; isn't it?" she asked, nodding in the direction of Deep Rock Cut. "That's the place," replied Joe. "Yes, sir, I have occasion to remember this place," went on the driver. "And I'm always careful when I cross here, ever since, two years ago, I was nearly run down by a train. I had just such a load of young folks as I've got now," he went on. "How did it happen?" asked Reggie, as the runners scraped over the bare rails, a look up and down the moon-lit track showing no train in sight. "Well, the party was making quite a racket, and I didn't hear the whistle of the train," resumed the driver. "It was an extra, and I didn't count on it. We were on our way home, and we had a pretty narrow escape. Just got over in time, I tell you. The young folks were pretty quiet after that, and I was glad it happened on the way home, instead of going, or it would have spoiled all their fun. And, ever since then, whether I know there's a train due or not, I'm always careful of this crossing." "It makes one feel ever so much safer to have a driver like him," spoke Mabel to Clara. "Oh, we can always trust Frank," replied Joe's sister. Laughing, shouting, singing and blowing the horns, the party went on its merry way, until the hotel was reached. Everything was in readiness for the young people, for the arrangements had been made in advance, and soon after the girls had "dolled-up," as Joe put it, by which he meant arranged their hair, that had become blown about under the scarfs they wore, they all sat down to a bountifully-spread table. "Reminds me of the dinner we had, after we won the pennant," said Charlie Hall. "Only it's so different," added Joe. "That was a hot night." Talk and merry laughter, mingled with baseball conversation went around the table. Joe did not care to "talk shop," but somehow or other, he could not keep away from the subject that was nearest his heart. Nor could Charlie, and the two shot diamond discussion back and forth, the others joining in occasionally. The meal was drawing to an end. Reggie Varley, pouring out a glass of water, rose to his feet. "Friends and fellow citizens," he began in a sort of "toastmaster voice." "Hear! Hear!" echoed Charlie, entering into the spirit of the occasion. "We have with us this evening," went on Reggie, in the approved manner of after-dinner introductions, "one whom you all well know, and whom it is scarcely necessary to name----" "Hear! Hear!" interrupted Charlie, pounding on the table with his knife handle. All eyes were turned toward Joe, who could not help blushing. "I rise to propose the health of one whom we all know and love," went on Reggie, "and to assure him that we all wish him well in his new place." "Better wait until I get it," murmured Joe, to whom this was a great surprise. "To wish him all success," went on Reggie. "And I desire to add that, as a token of our esteem, and the love in which we hold him, we wish to present him this little token--and may it be a lucky omen for him when he is pitching away in the big league," and with this Reggie handed to Joe a stick-pin, in the shape of a baseball, the seams outlined in diamonds, and a little ruby where the trademark would have been. Poor Joe was taken quite by surprise. "Speech! Speech!" came the general cry. Joe fumbled the pin in his fingers, and for a moment there was a mist before his eyes. This little surprise had been arranged by Reggie, and he had quietly worked up the idea among Joe's many young friends, all of whom had contributed to the cost of the token. "Go on! Say something!" urged Mabel, at Joe's side. "Well--er--well, I--er--I don't know what to say," he stammered, "except that this is a great surprise to me, and that I--er--I thank you!" He sat down amid applause, and someone started up the song "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" It was sung with a will. Altogether the affair was successfully carried out, and formed one of the most pleasant remembrances in the life of Baseball Joe. After the presentation, others made impromptu speeches, even the girls being called on by Reggie, to whom the position of toastmaster particularly appealed. The supper was over. The girls were in the dressing room, donning their wraps, and Joe and Reggie had gone to the office to pay the bill. The proprietor of the hotel was in the men's room, and going there Joe was greeted by name, for the hotel man knew him well. "Everything satisfactory, Mr. Matson?" the host asked, and at the mention of Joe's name, a rough-looking fellow, who was buying a cigar, looked up quickly. "Yes, Mr. Todd, everything was fine," replied Joe, not noticing the man's glance. "Now we'll settle with you." "No hurry," said the proprietor. "I hear you're going to leave us soon--going up to a higher class in baseball, Joe." "Well, there's some talk of it," admitted our hero, and as he took out the money to make the payment, the rough-looking man passed behind him. Joe dropped a coin, and, in stooping to pick it up, he moved back a step. As he did so, he either collided with the man, who had observed him so narrowly, or else the fellow deliberately ran into Joe. "Look out where you're walking! You stepped on my foot!" exclaimed the man in surly tones. "Can't you see what you're doing? you country gawk!" "I beg your pardon," spoke Joe quietly, but a red flush came into his face, and his hands clenched involuntarily. "Huh! Trying to put on high society airs; eh?" sneered the other. "I'll soon take that out of you. I say you stepped on me on purpose." "You are mistaken," said Joe, still quietly. "Huh! Do you mean to say I'm sayin' what ain't so?" demanded the other. "If you like to put it that way; yes," declared Joe, determined to stand upon his rights, for he felt that it had not been his fault. "Be careful," warned Reggie, in a low voice. "Say, young feller, I don't allow nobody to say that to me!" blustered the fellow, advancing on Joe with an ugly look. "You'll either beg my pardon, or give me satisfaction! I'll----" "Now here. None of that!" interposed the proprietor. "You aren't hurt, Wessel." "How do you know? And didn't he accuse me of----" "Oh, get out. You're always ready to pick a quarrel," went on the hotel man. "Move on!" "Well, then let him beg my pardon," insisted the other. "If he don't, I'll take it out of him," and his clenched fist indicated his meaning only too plainly. CHAPTER IX JOE IS DRAFTED For a moment Joe stood facing the angry man--unnecessarily angry, it seemed--since, even if the young ball player had trod on his foot, the injury could not have amounted to much. "I told you once that I was sorry for having collided with you, though I do not believe it was my fault," spoke Joe, holding himself in check with an effort. "That is all I intend to say, and you may make the most of it." "I'll make the most of you, if you don't look out!" blustered the man. "If you'll just step outside we can settle this little argument to the queen's taste," and he seemed very eager to have Joe accept his challenge. "Now see here! There'll be no fighting on these premises," declared the hotel proprietor, with conviction. "No, we'll do it outside," growled the man. "Not with me. I don't intend to fight you," said Joe as quietly as he could. "Huh! Afraid; eh?" "No, not afraid." "Well, you're a coward and a----" "That will do, Wessel. Get out!" and the proprietor's voice left no room for argument. The man slunk away, giving Joe a surly look, and then the supper bill was paid, and receipted. "Who was he?" asked Joe, when the fellow was out of sight. "Oh, I don't know any good of him," replied the hotel man. "He's been hanging around town ever since the ball season closed." "Is he a player?" Joe inquired. "No. I'm inclined to think he's a gambler. I know he was always wanting to make bets on the games around here, but no one paid much attention to him. You don't know him; do you?" "Never saw him before, as far as I recollect," returned Joe slowly. "I wonder why he wanted to pick a quarrel with me? For that was certainly his object." "It was," agreed Reggie, "and he didn't pay much attention to you until he heard your name." "I wonder if he could be----?" began Joe, and then he hesitated in his half-formed question. Reggie looked at his friend inquiringly, but Joe did not proceed. "Don't say anything about this to the girls," requested Joe, as they went upstairs. "Oh, no, of course not," agreed Reggie. "He was only some loafer, I expect, who had a sore head. Best to keep it quiet." Joe was more upset by the incident than he liked to admit. He could not understand the man's motive in trying so hard to force him into a fight. "Not that I would be afraid," reasoned Joe, for he was in good condition, and in splendid fighting trim, due to his clean living and his outdoor playing. "I think I could have held my own with him," he thought, "only I don't believe in fighting, if it can be avoided. "But there was certainly something more than a little quarrel back of it all. Wessel is his name; eh? I must remember that." Joe made a mental note of it, but he little realized that he was to hear the name again under rather strange circumstances. "What's the matter?" asked Mabel, on the way home in the sleigh, drawn by the prancing horses with their jingling bells. "Why?" parried Joe. "You are so quiet." "Well--I didn't count on so much happening to-night." "You mean about that little pin? I think it's awfully sweet." "Did you help pick it out?" asked Joe, seeing a chance to turn the conversation. "Yes. Reggie asked me what I thought would be nice, and I chose that." "Couldn't have been better," declared Joe, with enthusiasm. "I shall always keep it!" They rode on, but Joe could not shake off the mood that had seized him. He could not forget the look and words of the man who endeavored to force a quarrel with him--for what object Joe could only guess. "I'm sure there's something the matter," insisted Mabel, when the song "Jingle Bells!" had died away. "Have I done anything to displease you?" she asked, for she had "split" one dance with Charlie Hall. "No, indeed!" cried Joe, glad that he could put emphasis into his denial. "There's nothing really the matter." "Unless you're sorry you're going away out to Missouri," persisted the girl. "Well, I am sorry--that is, if I really have to go," spoke the young ball player sincerely. "Of course it isn't at all certain that I will go." "Oh, I guess it's certain enough," she said. "And I really hope you do go." "It's pretty far off," said Joe. "I'll have to make my headquarters in St. Louis." "Reggie and I expect to be in the West a good part of the coming Summer," went on Mabel, in even tones. "It's barely possible that Reggie may make his business headquarters in St. Louis, for papa's trade is shifting out that way." "You don't mean it!" cried Joe, and some of his companions in the sleigh wondered at the warmth of his tone. "Oh, yes, I do," said Mabel. "So I shall see you play now and then; for I'm as ardent a 'fan' as I ever was." "That's good," returned Joe. "I'm glad I'm going to a major league--that is, if they draft me," he added quickly. "I didn't know you might be out there." From then on the thought of going to St. Louis was more pleasant to Joe. The sleigh ride was a great success in every particular. The young people reached home rather late--or, rather early in the morning, happy and not too tired. "It was fine; wasn't it?" whispered Clara, as she and her brother tip-toed their way into the house, so as not to awaken their parents. "Dandy!" he answered softly. "Weren't you surprised about the pin?" "Of course I was." "But you don't seem exactly happy. Is something worrying you? I heard Mabel ask you the same thing." "Did you?" inquired Joe, non-committally. "Yes. Is anything the matter?" "No, Sis. Get to bed. It's late." Clara paused for a moment. She realized that Joe had not answered her question as she would have liked. "But I guess he's thinking of the change he may have to make," the sister argued. "Joe is a fine fellow. He certainly has gone ahead in baseball faster than he would have done in some other line of endeavor. Well, it's good he likes it. "And yet," she mused, as she went to her room, "I wonder what it is that is worrying him?" If she could have seen Joe, at that same moment, sitting on the edge of a chair in his apartment, moodily staring at the wall, she would have wondered more. "What was his game?" thought Joe, as he recalled the scene with the man at the hotel. "What was his object?" But he could not answer his own question. Joe's sleep was disturbed the remainder of that night--short as the remainder was. At breakfast table, the next morning, the story of the jolly sleigh ride was told to Mr. and Mrs. Matson. Of course Joe said nothing of the dispute with the surly man. "And here's the pin they gave me," finished the young player as he passed around the emblem that had been so unexpectedly presented to him. His mother was looking at it when the doorbell rang, and the maid, who answered it, brought back a telegram. "It's for Mr. Joseph," she announced. Joe's face was a little pale as he tore open the yellow envelope, and then, as he glanced at the words written on the sheet of paper, he exclaimed: "It's settled! I'm drafted to St. Louis!" CHAPTER X OFF TO ST. LOUIS For a few seconds, after Joe's announcement, there was silence in the room. Then, as the realization of what it meant came to them, Clara was the first to speak. "I'm _so_ glad, Joe," she said, simply, but there was real meaning in her words. "And I congratulate you, son," added Mr. Matson. "It's something to be proud of, even if St. Louis isn't in the first division." "Oh, they'll get there, as soon as I begin pitching," declared Joe with a smile. Mrs. Matson said nothing for a while. Her son, and the rest of the family, knew of her objection to baseball, and her disappointment that Joe had not entered the ministry, or some of the so-called learned professions. But, as she looked at the smiling and proud face of her boy she could not help remarking: "Joe, I, too, am very glad for your sake. I don't know much about sporting matters, but I suppose this is a promotion." "Indeed it is, Mother!" Joe cried, getting up to go around the table and kiss her. "It's a fine promotion for a young player, and now it's up to me to make good. And I will, too!" he added earnestly. "Is that all Mr. Gregory, your former manager, says in the telegram?" asked Mr. Matson. "No, he says a letter of explanation will follow, and also a contract to sign." "Will you get more money, Joe?" asked Clara. "Sure, Sis. I know what you're thinking of," Joe added, with a smile at the girl, as he put his stick-pin in his scarf. "You're thinking of the ring I promised to buy you if I got this place. Well, I'll keep my word. You can go down and get measured for it to-day." "Oh, Joe, what a good brother you are!" she cried. "Then you really will get more money?" asked Mrs. Matson, and her voice was a bit eager. Indeed Joe's salary, and the cash he received as his share of the pennant games, had been a blessing to the family during Mr. Matson's illness, for the inventor had lost considerable funds. "Yes, I'll get quite a bit more," said Joe. "I got fifteen hundred a year with the Pittstons, and Mr. Gregory said I ought to get at least double that if I go with St. Louis. It will put us on Easy Street; won't it, Momsey?" "It will be very welcome," she replied, with a sigh, but it was rather a happy sigh at that. She had known the pinch of hard times in her day, had Mrs. Matson. "I'd have to be at the game of lawyering or doctoring a long while, before I'd get an advance like this," went on Joe, as he read the telegram over a second time. And then he put it carefully in his pocket, to be filed away with other treasures, such as young men love to look at from time to time; a faded flower, worn by "Someone," a letter or two, a--but there, I promised not to tell secrets. The first one who knew of his promotion, after the folks at home, was Mabel. Joe made some excuse to call at the hotel. Reggie was out on business, but Joe did not mind that. "Oh, I'm so glad--for your sake, Joe!" exclaimed Mabel warmly. "I hope you make a great reputation!" "It won't be from lack of trying," he said, with a smile. "And I do hope you can get out to St. Louis this Summer." "We expect to," she answered. "I have been there with Reggie several times." "What sort of a place is it?" asked Joe eagerly, "and where does my team play?" he inquired, with an accent on the "my." "There are two major league teams in St. Louis," explained Mabel, who, as I have said, was an ardent "fan." She was almost as good as a boy in this respect. "The National League St. Louis team, or the 'Cardinals,' as I suppose you know they are nicknamed, plays on Robison Field, at Vandeventer and Natural Bridge road. I've often been out there to games with Reggie, but I'll look forward to seeing them now, with a lot more pleasure," she added, blushing slightly. "Thanks," laughed Joe. "I guess I'll be able to find my way about the city. But, after all, I'll be likely to strike it with the team, for I'll probably have to go South training before I report in St. Louis." "It isn't hard to find your way about St. Louis," went on Mabel. "Just take a Natural Bridge line car, and that'll bring you out to Robison Field. Or you can take a trunk line, and transfer to Vandeventer. But the best way is the Natural Bridge route. Is there anything else you'd like to know?" she asked, with a smile. "Information supplied at short notice. The Browns, or American League team, play at Grand and Dodier----" "Oh, I'm not interested in them!" interrupted Joe. "I'm going to stick to my colors--cardinal." "And I'll wear them, too," said Mabel in a low voice, and the blush in her cheeks deepened. Already she was wearing Joe's color. "This is our last day here," the girl went on, after a pause. "It is?" cried Joe in surprise. "Why, I thought----" "I'm sorry, too," she broke in with. "You have given Reggie and me a lovely time. I've enjoyed myself very much." "Not half as much as _I_ have," murmured Joe. Reggie came in a little later, and congratulated the young player, and then Charlie Hall added his good wishes. It was his last day in town also, and he and the Varleys left on the same train, Joe and his sister going to the station to see them off. "If you get snowed in again, just let me know," called Joe, with a laugh, as the train pulled out. "I'll come for you in an airship." "Thanks!" laughed Mabel, as she waved her hand in a final good-bye. As Joe was leaving the station a train from Rocky Ford pulled in, and one of the passengers who alighted from it was the ill-favored man who had endeavored to pick a quarrel with Joe at the hotel the night before. The fellow favored the young player with a surly glance, and seemed about to approach him. Then, catching sight of Clara at her brother's side, he evidently thought better of it, and veered off. Joe's face must have showed his surprise at the sight of the man, for Clara asked: "Who is that fellow, Joe? He looked at you in such a peculiar way. Do you know him?" Joe was glad he could answer in the negative. He really did not know the man, and did not want to, though it certainly seemed strange that he should encounter him again. "He seems to know you," persisted Clara, for the man had looked back at Joe twice. "Maybe he thinks he does, or maybe he wants to," went on the pitcher, trying to speak indifferently. "Probably he's heard that I'm the coming twirling wonder of the Cardinals," and he pretended to swell up his chest, and look important. "Nothing like having a good opinion of yourself," laughed Clara. That afternoon's mail brought Joe a letter from Mr. Gregory, in which the news contained in the telegram was confirmed. It was also stated that Joe would receive formal notice of his draft from the St. Louis team, and his contract, which was to be signed in duplicate. "I wish he'd said something about salary," mused our hero. "But probably the other letter, from the St. Louis manager, will have that in, and the contract will, that's certain." The following day all the details were settled. Joe received formal notice of his draft from the Pittstons to the St. Louis Cardinals. He was to play for a salary of three thousand dollars a year. In consideration of this he had to agree to certain conditions, among them being that he would not play with any other team without permission from the organized baseball authorities, and, as long as he was in the game, and accepted the salary, he would be subject to the call of any other team in the league, the owners of which might wish to "purchase" him; that is, if they paid the St. Louis team sufficient money. "I wonder what they'll consider me worth, say at the end of the first season?" said Joe to Clara. "What a way to talk!" she exclaimed. "As if you were a horse, or a slave." "It does sound a bit that way," he admitted, "and some of the star players bring a lot more than valuable horses. Why, some of the players on the New York Giants cost the owners ten and fifteen thousand dollars, and the Pittsburgh Nationals paid $22,500 for one star fellow as a pitcher. I hope I get to be worth that to some club," laughed Joe, "but there isn't any danger--not right off the bat," he added with a smile. "Well, that's a part of baseball I'm not interested in," said Clara. "I like to see the game, but I watch it for the fun in it, not for the money." "And yet there has to be money to make it a success," declared Joe. "Grounds, grandstands and trips cost cash, and the owners realize on the abilities of the players. In return they pay them good salaries. Many a player couldn't make half as much in any other business. I'm glad I'm in it." Joe signed and returned the contract, and from then on he was the "property" of the St. Louis team, and subject to the orders of the owners and manager. A few days later Joe received his first instructions--to go to St. Louis, report to the manager, and then go South to the training camp, with the team. There his real baseball work, as a member of a big league, would start. Joe packed his grip, stowing away his favorite bat and his new pitcher's glove, said good-bye to his family and friends in Riverside, and took a train that eventually would land him in St. Louis, at the Union Depot. The journey was without incident of moment, and in due time Joe reached the hotel where he had been told the players were quartered. "Is Mr. Watson here?" he asked the clerk, inquiring for the manager. "I think you'll find him in the billiard room," replied the clerk, sizing up Joe with a critical glance. "Here, boy, show this gentleman to Mr. Watson," went on the man at the register. "Do you know him by sight?" he asked. "No," replied Joe, rather sorry he did not. "I know him!" exclaimed the bellboy, coming forward, with a cheerful grin on his freckled face. "He sure has a good ball team. I hope they win the pennant this year. Are you one of the players?" he asked. "One of the new ones," spoke Joe, modestly enough. "Gee! Dat's great!" exclaimed the lad admiringly. "There's 'Muggins' Watson over there," and he pointed to a man in his shirt sleeves, playing billiards with a young fellow whom Joe recognized, from having seen his picture in the papers, as 'Slim' Cooney, one of the St. Louis pitchers. "Mr. Watson?" inquiringly asked Joe, waiting until the manager had made, successfully, a difficult shot, and stood at rest on his cue. "That's my name," and a pair of steel-blue eyes looked straight at our hero. "What can I do for you?" "I'm Joe Matson, and----" "Oh, yes, the new recruit I signed up from Pittston. Well, this is the first time I've seen you. Took you on the report of one of my men. Glad to meet you," and he held out a firm hand. "Slim," he went on to his opponent at billiards, "let me make you acquainted with one of your hated rivals--Joe Matson. Matson, this is our famous left-hand twirler." Joe laughed and shook hands. He liked the manager and the other player. I might state, at this point, that in this book, while I shall speak of the players of the Cardinals, and of the various National League teams, I will not use their real names, for obvious reasons. However, if any of you recognize them under their pseudonyms, I cannot help it. CHAPTER XI GOING DOWN SOUTH "Well, are you going to help us win the pennant, Matson?" asked Manager Watson, when he had introduced Joe to a number of the other St. Louis players, who were lounging about the billiard room. It was a cold and blustery day outside, and the hotel, where the team had lately taken up quarters, ready for the trip to the South, offered more comfort than the weather without. "I'm going to do my best," replied Joe modestly, and he blushed, for most of the other players were older than he, many of them seasoned veterans, and the heroes of hard-fought contests. "Well, we sure do need help, if we're to get anywhere," murmured Hal Doolin, the snappy little first baseman. "We sure do!" "You needn't look at me!" fired back Slim Cooney. "I did my share of the work last season, and if I'd had decent support----" "Easy now, boys!" broke in Mr. Watson. "You know what the papers said about last year--that there were too many internal dissensions among the Cardinals to allow them to play good ball. You've got to cut that out if I'm going to manage you." I might add that Sidney Watson, who had made a reputation as a left-fielder, and a hard hitter on the Brooklyn team, had lately been offered the position as manager of the Cardinals, and had taken it. This would be his first season, and, recognizing the faults of the team, he had set about correcting them in an endeavor to get it out of the "cellar" class. Quarrels, bickerings and disputes among the players had been too frequent, he learned, and he was trying to eliminate them. "Have a heart for each other, boys," he said to the men who gathered about him, incidentally to covertly inspect Joe, the recruit. "It wasn't anybody's fault, in particular, that you didn't finish in the first division last season. But we're going to make a hard try for it this year. That's why I've let some of your older players go, and signed up new ones. I'm expecting some more boys on in a few days, and then we'll hike for the Southland and see what sort of shape I can pound you into." "Don't let me keep you from your game," said Joe to the manager. "Oh, I'll let Campbell finish it for me, he's better at the ivories than I am," and Watson motioned for the centre fielder to take the cue. "I'll see what sort of a room we can give you," the manager went on. "Nothing like being comfortable. Did you have a good trip?" "Yes, indeed." "Contract satisfactory, and all that?" "Oh, yes. And, by the way, Mr. Watson, if it isn't asking too much I'd like to know how you came to hear of me and sign me up?" "Oh, I had scouts all over last fall," said the manager with a smile. "One of them happened to see you early in the season, and then he saw the game you pitched against Clevefield, winning the pennant. You looked to him like the proper stuff, so I had you drafted to our club." "I hope you won't repent of your bargain," observed Joe, soberly. "Well, I don't think I will, and yet baseball is pretty much of a chance game after all. I've often been fooled, I don't mind admitting. But, Matson, let me tell you one thing," and he spoke more earnestly, as they walked along a corridor to the lobby of the hotel. "You mustn't imagine that you're going in right off the reel and clean things up. You'll have to go a bit slow. I want to watch you, and I'll give you all the opportunity I can. "But you must remember that I have several pitchers, and some of them are very good. They've been playing in the big leagues for years. You're a newcomer, and, unless I'm much mistaken, you'll have a bit of stage fright at first. That's to be expected, and I'm looking for it. I won't be disappointed if you fall down hard first along. But whatever else you do, don't get discouraged and--don't lose your nerve, above all else." "I'll try not to," promised Joe. But he made up his mind that he would surprise the manager and make a brilliant showing as soon as possible. Joe had several things to learn about baseball as it is played in the big leagues. "I guess I'll put you in with Rad Chase," said Manager Watson, as he looked over the page of the register, on which were the names of the team. "His room is a good one, and you'll like him. He's a young chap about your age." "Was he in there?" asked Joe, nodding toward the billiard room, where he had met several of the players. "No. I don't know where he is," went on the manager. "Is Rad out?" he asked of the clerk. That official, stroking his small blonde mustache, turned to look at the rack. From the peg of room 413 hung the key. "He's out," the clerk announced. "Well, you might as well go up and make yourself at home," advised the manager. "I'll tell Rad you're quartered with him. Have his grip taken up," went on Mr. Watson to the clerk. "Front!" called the young man behind the desk, and when the same freckle-faced lad, who had pointed out to Joe the manager, came shuffling up, the lad took our hero's satchel, and did a little one-step glide with it toward the elevator. "Tanks," mumbled the same lad, as Joe slipped a dime into his palm, when the bellboy had opened the room door and set the grip on the floor by the bed. "Say, where do youse play?" he asked with the democratic freedom of the American youth. "Well, I'm supposed to be a pitcher," said Joe. "Left?" "No, right." "Huh! It's about time the Cardinals got a guy with a right-hand delivery!" snorted the boy. "They've been tryin' southpaws and been beaten all over the lots. Got any speed?" "Well, maybe a little," admitted Joe, smiling at the lad's ingenuousness. "Curves, of course?" "Some." "Dat's th' stuff! Say, I hopes you make good!" and the lad, spinning the dime in the air, deftly caught it, and slid out of the room. Joe looked after him. He was entering on a new life, and many emotions were in conflict within him. True, he had been at hotels before, for he had traveled much when he was in the Central League. But this time it was different. It seemed a new world to him--a new and big world--a much more important world. And he was to be a part of it. That was what counted most. He was in a Big League--a place of which he had often dreamed, but to which he had only aspired in his dreams. Now it was a reality. Joe unpacked his grip. His trunk check he had given to the clerk, who said he would send to the railroad station for the baggage. Then Joe changed his collar, put on a fresh tie, and went down in the elevator. He wanted to be among the players who were to be his companions for the coming months. Joe liked Rad Chase at once. In a way he was like Charlie Hall, but rather older, and with more knowledge of the world. "Do you play cards?" was Rad's question, after the formalities of introduction, Joe's roommate having come in shortly after our hero went down. "Well, I can make a stab at whist, but I'm no wonder," confessed Joe. "Do you play Canfield solitaire?" "Never heard of it." "Shake hands!" cried Rad, and he seemed relieved. "Why?" asked Joe. "Well, the fellow I roomed with last year was a fiend at Canfield solitaire. He'd sit up until all hours of the morning, trying to make himself believe he wasn't cheating, and I lost ten pounds from not getting my proper sleep." "Well, I'll promise not to keep you awake that way," said Joe with a laugh. "Do you snore?" Rad wanted next to know. "I never heard myself." Rad laughed. "I guess you'll do," he said. "We'll hit it off all right." Joe soon fell easily into the life at the big hotel. He met all the other players, and while some regarded him with jealous eyes, most of them welcomed him in their midst. Truth to tell, the St. Louis team was in a bad way, and the players, tired of being so far down on the list, were willing to make any sacrifices of professional feeling in order to be in line for honors, and a share in the pennant money, providing it could be brought to pass that they reached the top of the list. Joe spent a week at the hotel while Manager Watson was arranging matters for the trip South. One or two players had not yet arrived, "dickers" being under way for their purchase. But finally the announcement was made that the start for the training camp, at Reedville, Alabama, would be made in three days. "And I'm glad of it!" cried Rad Chase, as he and Joe came back one evening from a moving picture show, and heard the news. "I'm tired of sitting around here doing nothing. I want to get a bat in my hands." "So do I," agreed Joe. "It sure will be great to get out on the grass again. Have you ever been in Reedville?" "No, but I hear it's a decent place. There's a good local team there that we brush up against, and two or three other teams in the vicinity. It'll be lively enough." "Where do you like to play?" asked Joe. "Third's my choice, but I hear I'm to be soaked in at short. I hate it, too, but Watson seems to think I fill in there pretty well." "I suppose a fellow has to play where he's considered best, whether he wants to or not," said Joe. "I hope I can pitch, but I may be sent out among the daisies for all that." "Well, we've got a pretty good outfield as it is," went on Rad. "I guess, from what I hear, that you'll be tried out on the mound, anyhow. Whether you stick there or not will be up to you." "It sure is," agreed Joe. A box-party was given at the theatre by the manager for the players, to celebrate their departure for the South. The play was a musical comedy, and some of the better known players were made the butt of jokes by the performers on the stage. This delighted Joe, and he longed for the time when he would be thought worthy of such notice. The audience entered into the fun of the occasion, and when the chief comedian came out, and, in a witty address, presented Manager Watson with a diamond pin, and wished him all success for the coming season, there were cheers for the team. "Everybody stand up!" called Toe Barter, one of the veteran pitchers. "Seventh inning--everybody stretch!" The players in the two boxes arose to face the audience in the theatre, and there were more cheers. Joe was proud and happy that he was a part of it all. That night he wrote home, and also to Mabel, telling of his arrival in St. Louis, and all that had happened since. "We leave for the South in the morning," he concluded. The departure of the players on the train was the occasion for another celebration and demonstration at the depot. A big crowd collected, several newspaper photographers took snapshots, and there were cheers and floral emblems. Joe wished his folks could have been present. Compared to the time when he had gone South to train for the Pittston team, this was a big occasion. A reporter from the most important St. Louis paper was to accompany the team as "staff correspondent," for St. Louis was, and always has been, a good "fan" town, and loyal to the ball teams. "All aboard!" called the conductor. There were final cheers, final good-byes, final hand-shakes, final wishes of good luck, and then the train pulled out. Joe and his teammates were on their way South. It was the start of the training season, and of what would take place between that and the closing Joe little dreamed. CHAPTER XII THE QUARRELING MAN Quite a little family party it was the St. Louis players composed as they traveled South in their private car, for they enjoyed that distinction. This was something new for Joe, as the Pittston team was not blessed with a wealthy owner, and an ordinary Pullman had sufficed when Joe made his former trip. Now it was travel "de luxe." The more Joe saw of Rad Chase the more he liked the fellow, and the two soon became good friends, being much in each other's company, sharing the upper and lower berths by turns in their section, eating at the same table, and fraternizing generally. Some of the older players were accompanied by their wives, and after the first few hours of travel everyone seemed to know everyone else, and there was much talk and laughter. "Can't you fellows supply me with some dope?" asked a voice in the aisle beside the seats occupied by Joe and Rad. "I've gotten off all the departure stuff, and I want something for a lead for to-morrow. Shoot me some new dope; will you?" "Oh, hello, Jim!" greeted Rad, and then, as Joe showed that he did not recognize the speaker, the other player went on: "This is the _Dispatch-Times's_ staff correspondent, Jim Dalrymple. You want to be nice to him, Joe, and he'll put your name and picture in the paper. Got anything you can give him for a story?" "I'm afraid not," laughed Joe. "Oh, anything will do, as long as I can hang a lead on it," said Dalrymple hopefully. "If you've never tried to get up new stuff every day at a training camp of a ball team, you've no idea what a little thing it takes to make news. Now you don't either of you happen to have a romance about you; do you?" he inquired, pulling out a fold of copy paper. (Your real reporter never carries a note book. A bunch of paper, or the back of an envelope will do to jot down a few facts. The rest is written later from memory. Only stage reporters carry note books, and, of late they are getting "wise" and abstaining from it.) "A romance?" repeated Joe. "Far be it from me to conceal such a thing about my person." "But you _have_ had rather a rapid rise in baseball; haven't you, Joe?" insinuated Rad. "You didn't have to wait long for promotion. Why not make up a yarn about that?" went on Rad, nodding at the reporter. "Sure I'll do it. Give me a few facts. Not too many," the newspaper man said with a whimsical smile. "I don't want to be tied down too hard. I like to let my fancy have free play." "He's all right," whispered Rad in an aside to Joe. "One of the best reporters going, and he always gives you a fair show. If you make an error he'll debit you with it, but when you play well he'll feature you. He's been South with the team a lot of times, I hear." "But I don't like to talk about myself," objected Joe. "Don't let that worry you!" laughed Rad. "Notoriety is what keeps baseball where it is to-day, and if it wasn't for the free advertising we get in the newspapers there would not be the attendance that brings in the dollars, and lets us travel in a private car. Don't be afraid of boosting yourself. The reporters will help you, and be glad to. They have to get the stuff, and often enough it's hard to do, especially at the training camp." In some way or other, Joe never knew exactly how, Dalrymple managed to get a story out of him, about how Joe had been drafted, how he had begun playing ball as a boy on the "sand lots," how he had pitched Yale to victory against Princeton, and a few other details, with which my readers are already familiar. "Say, this'll do first rate!" exulted the reporter, as he went to a secluded corner to write his story, which would be telegraphed back to his daily newspaper. "I'm glad I met you!" he laughed. Dalrymple was impartial, which is the great secret of a newspaper reporter's success. Though he gave Joe a good "show," he also "played up" some of the other members of the team. So that when copies of the paper were received later, they contained an account of Joe's progress, sandwiched in between a "yarn" of how the catcher had once worked in a boiler factory, where he learned to catch red-hot rivets, and how one of the outfielders had inherited a fortune, which he had dissipated, and then, reforming, had become a star player. So Joe had little chance to get a "swelled head," which is a bad thing for any of us. The first part of the journey South was made in record time, but after the private car was transferred to one of the smaller railroad lines there were delays that fretted the players. "What's the matter?" asked Manager Watson of the conductor as that official came through after a long stop at a water tank station, "won't the cow get off the track?" and he winked at the players gathered about him. "That joke's a hundred years old," retorted the ticket-taker. "Think up a new one! There's a freight wreck ahead of us, and we have to go slow." "Well, as long as we get there some time this week, it will be all right, I reckon," drawled the manager. Reedville was reached toward evening of the second day, and the travel-weary ball-tossers piled out of their coach to find themselves at the station of a typical Southern town. Laziness and restfulness were in the air, which was warm with the heat of the slowly setting sun. There was the odor of flowers. Colored men were all about, shuffling here and there, driving their slowly-ambling horses attached to rickety vehicles, or backing them up at the platform to get some of the passengers. "Majestic Hotel right this yeah way, suh! Right over yeah!" voiced the driver of a yellow stage. "Goin' right up, suh!" "That's our place, boys," announced the manager. "Pile in, and let me have your checks. I'll have the baggage sent up." Joe and the others took their place in the side-seated stage. A little later, the manager having arranged for the transportation of the trunks, they were driven toward the hotel that was to be their headquarters while in the South. They were registering at the hotel desk, and making arrangements about who was to room with who, when Joe heard the hotel clerk call Mr. Watson aside. "He says he's with your party, suh," the clerk spoke. "He arrived yesterday, and wanted to be put on the same floor with your players. Says he's going to be a member of the team." "Huh! I guess someone is bluffing you!" exclaimed the manager. "I've got all my team with me. Who is the fellow, anyhow?" "That's his signature," went on the clerk, pointing to it on the hotel register. "Hum! Wessel; eh?" said Mr. Watson. "Never heard of him. Where is he?" "There he stands, over by the cigar counter." Joe, who had heard the talk, looked, and, to his surprise, he beheld the same individual who had tried to pick a quarrel with him the night of the sleigh ride. CHAPTER XIII UNDER SUNNY SKIES "That man!" exclaimed Mr. Watson, as he gave the stranger a quick glance. "No, I don't know him, and he certainly isn't a member of my team. He isn't going to be, either; as far as I know. I'm expecting some other recruits, but no one named Wessel." Joe said nothing. He was wondering if the man would recognize him, and, perhaps, renew that strange, baseless quarrel. And, to his surprise, the man did recognize him, but merely to bow. And then, to Joe's further surprise, the individual strolled over to where the manager and some of the players were standing, and began: "Is this Mr. Watson?" "That's my name--yes," but there was no cordiality in the tone. "Well, I'm Isaac Wessel. I used to play short on the Rockpoint team in the Independent League. My contract has expired and I was wondering whether you couldn't sign me up." "Nothing doing," replied Mr. Watson, tersely. "I have all the material I need." "I spoke to Mr. Johnson about it," naming one of the owners of the St. Louis team, "and he said to see you." "Did he tell you to tell me to put you on?" "No, I wouldn't go so far as to say that," was the hesitating reply. "And did he say I was to give you a try-out?" "Well, he--er--said you could if you wanted to." "Well, I _don't_ want to," declared the manager with decision. "And I want to say that you went too far when you told the clerk here you belonged to my party. I don't know you, and I don't want anything to do with a man who acts that way," and Mr. Watson turned aside. "Well, I didn't mean any harm," whined Wessel. "The--er--I--er--the clerk must have misunderstood me." "All right. Let it go at that," was all the answer he received. "Then you won't give me a chance?" "No." The man evidently realized that this was the end, for he, too, turned aside. As he did so he looked sneeringly at Joe, and mumbled: "I suppose you think you're the whole pitching staff now?" Joe did not take the trouble to answer. But, though he ignored the man, he could not help wondering what his plan was in coming to the training camp. Could there be a hidden object in it, partly covered by the fellow's plea that he wanted to get on the team? "Do you often have cases like that, Mr. Watson?" Joe asked the manager when he had a chance. "Like what, Matson?" "Like that Wessel." "Oh, occasionally. But they don't often get as fresh as he did. The idea of a bush-leaguer thinking he could break into the majors like that. He sure had nerve! Well, now I hope we're all settled, and can get to work. We've struck good weather, anyhow." And indeed the change from winter to summer was little short of marvelous. They had come from the land of ice and snow to the warm beauty of sunny skies. There was a feeling of spring in the air, and the blood of every player tingled with life. "Say, it sure will be great to get out on the diamond and slam the ball about; won't it?" cried Joe to Rad Chase, as the two were unpacking in their hotel room. "That's what! How are you on stick work?" "Oh, no better than the average pitcher," replied Joe, modestly. "I had a record of .172 last season." "That's not so worse," observed Rad. "What's yours?" asked Joe. "Oh, it runs around .250." "Good!" cried Joe. "I hope you get it up to .300 this year." "Not much chance of that. I was picked because I'm pretty good with the stick--a sort of pinch hitter. But then that's not being a star pitcher," he added, lest Joe feel badly at the contrast in their batting averages. "Oh, I'm far from being a star, but I'd like to be in that class. There's my best bat," and he held out his stick. "Oh, you like that kind; eh?" spoke Rad. "Well, I'll show you what I favor," and then the two plunged into a talk that lasted until meal time. The arrival of the St. Louis team in the comparatively small town of Reedville was an event of importance. There was quite a crowd about the hotel, made up mostly of small boys, who wanted a chance to see the players about whom they had read so much. After the meal, as Joe, Rad and some of the others strolled out for a walk about the place, our hero caught murmurs from the crowd of lads about the entrance. "There's 'Toe' Barter," one lad whispered, nodding toward a veteran pitcher. "Yes, and that fellow walking with him is 'Slim' Cooney. He pitched a no-hit, no-run game last year." "Sure, I know it. And that fellow with the pipe in his mouth is 'Dots' McCann, the shortstop. He's a peach!" And so it went on. Joe's name was not mentioned by the admiring throng. "Our turn will come later," said Rad, with a smile. "I guess so," agreed his chum, somewhat dubiously. Reedville was a thriving community, and boasted of a good nine, with whom the St. Louis team expected to cross bats a number of times during the training season. Then, too, in nearby towns, were other teams, some of them semi-professional, who would be called on to sacrifice themselves that the Cardinals might have something to bring out their own strong and weak points. "Let's go over to the grounds," suggested Joe. "I'm with you," agreed Rad. "Say, you fellows won't be so anxious to head for the diamond a little later in the season," remarked "Doc" Mullin, one of the outfielders. "You'll be only too glad to give it the pass-up; won't they?" he appealed to Roger Boswell, the trainer and assistant manager. "Well, I like to see young fellows enthusiastic," said Boswell, who had been a star catcher in his day. But age, and an increasing deposit of fat, had put him out of the game. Now he coached the youngsters, and when "Muggins," as Mr. Watson was playfully called, was not on hand he managed the games from the bench. He was a star at that sort of thing. "Go to it, boys," he advised Joe and Rad, with a friendly nod. "You can't get too much baseball when you're young." The diamond at Reedville was nothing to boast of, but it would serve well enough for practice. And the grandstand was only a frail, wooden affair, nothing like the big one at Robison Field, in St. Louis. Joe and Rad walked about the field, and longed for the time when they would be out on it in uniform. "Which will be about to-morrow," spoke Rad, as Joe mentioned his desire. "We'll start in at light work, batting fungo and the like, limbering up our legs, and then we'll do hard work." "I guess so," agreed Joe. The weather could not have been better. The sun shone warmly from a blue sky, and there was a balmy spiciness to the southern wind. Rad and Joe walked about town, made a few purchases, and were turning back to the hotel when they saw "Cosey" Campbell, the third baseman, standing in front of a men's furnishing store. "I say, fellows, come here," he called to the two. They came. "Do you think that necktie is too bright for a fellow?" went on Campbell, pointing to a decidedly gaudy one in the show window. "Well, it depends on who's going to wear it," replied Rad, cautiously. "Why, I am, of course," was the surprised answer. "Who'd you s'pose?" "I didn't know but what you were buying it to use for a foul line flag," chuckled Rad, for Campbell's weakness for scarfs was well known. He bought one or two new ones every day, and, often enough, grew dissatisfied with his purchase before he had worn it. Then he tried to sell it to some other member of the team, usually without success. "Huh! Foul flag!" grunted Campbell. "Guess you don't know a swell tie when you see it. I'm going to get it," he added rather desperately, as though afraid he would change his mind. "Go ahead. We'll go in and see fair play," suggested Joe, with a smile. The tie was purchased, and the clerk, after selling the bright scarf, seeing that Campbell had a package in his hand, inquired: "Shall I wrap them both up together for you?" "If you don't mind," replied the third baseman. And, in tying up the bundle, the one Campbell had been carrying came open, disclosing three neckties more gaudy, if possible, than the one he had just purchased. "For the love of strikes!" cried Rad. "What are you going to do; start a store?" "Oh, I just took a fancy to these in a window down street," replied Campbell easily. "Rather neat; don't you think?" and he held up a red and green one. "Neat! Say, they look like the danger signals in the New York subway!" cried Rad. "Shade your eyes, Joe, or you won't be able to see the ball to-morrow!" "That shows how much taste you fellows have," snapped Campbell. "Those are swell ties." But the next day Joe heard Campbell trying to dispose of some of the newly purchased scarfs to "Dots" McCann. "Go ahead, 'Dots,' take one," pleaded the baseman. "You need a new tie, and I've got more than I want. This red and green one, now; it's real swell." "Go on!" cried the other player. "Why I'd hate to look at myself in a glass with that around my neck! And you'd better not wear it, either--at least, not around town." "Why not?" was the wondering answer. "Because you might scare some of the mules, and there'd be a runaway. Tie a stone around it, Campbell, and drown it. It makes so much noise I can't sleep," and with that McCann walked off, leaving behind him a very indignant teammate. That night notice was given that all the players would assemble at the baseball diamond in uniform next morning. "That's the idea!" cried Joe. "Now for some real work." CHAPTER XIV HARD WORK The rooms of the ball players were all in one part of the hotel, along the same hall. Joe and Rad were together, near the stairway going down. That night, their first in the training camp, there was considerable visiting to and fro among the members of the team, and some little horse-play, for, after all, the players were like big boys, in many respects. Rad, who had been in calling on some of his fellow players, came back to the room laughing. "What's up?" asked Joe, who was writing a letter. "Oh, Campbell is still trying to get rid of that hideous tie we helped him purchase. He wanted to wish it on to me." "And of course you took it," said Joe, with a smile. "Of course I did _not_. Well, I guess I'll turn in. We'll have plenty to do to-morrow." "That's right. I'll be with you as soon as I finish this letter." But Rad was sound asleep when Joe had finished his correspondence, and slipped downstairs to leave it at the desk for the early mail. Joe looked around the now almost deserted lobby, half expecting to see the strange man, Wessel, standing about. But he was not in sight. "I wonder what his game is, after all?" mused Joe. "I seem to have been running into two or three queer things lately. There's Shalleg, who bears me a grudge, though I don't see why he should, just because I couldn't lend him money, and then there's this fellow--I only hope the two of them don't go into partnership against me. I guess that's hardly likely to happen, though." But Joe little realized what was in store for him, and what danger he was to run from these same two men. Joe awakened suddenly, about midnight, by hearing someone moving around the room. He raised himself softly on his elbow, and peered about the apartment, for a dim light showed over the transom from the hall outside. To Joe's surprise the door, which he had locked from the inside before going to bed, now stood ajar. "I wonder if Rad can be sick, and have gone out?" Joe thought. "Maybe he walks in his sleep." He looked over toward his chum's bed, but could not make out whether or not Rad was under the covers. Then, as he heard someone moving about the apartment he called out: "That you, Rad?" Instantly the noise ceased, to be resumed a moment later, and Joe felt sure that someone, or something, went past the foot of his bed and out into the hall. "That you, Rad?" he called again. "What's that? Who? No, I'm here," answered the voice of his chum. "What's the matter?" Joe sprang out of bed, and in one bound reached the corridor. By means of the one dim electric lamp he saw, going down the stairs, carrying a grip with him, the mysterious man who had tried to quarrel with him. He was evidently taking "French leave," going out in the middle of the night to "jump" his hotel bill. "What's up?" asked Rad, as he, too, left his bed. "What is it, Joe?" The young pitcher came back into the room, and switched on a light. A quick glance about showed that neither his baggage, nor Rad's, had been taken. "It must have been his own grip he had," said Joe. "His? Who do you mean--what's up?" demanded Rad. "It was Wessel. He's sneaking out," remarked Joe in a low voice. "Shall we give the alarm?" "No, I guess not. We don't want to be mixed up in a row. And maybe he's going to take a midnight train. You can't tell." "I think he was in this room," went on Joe. "He was? Anything missing?" "Doesn't seem to be." "Well, then, don't make a row. Maybe he made a mistake." "He'd hardly unlock our door by mistake," declared Joe. "No, that's so. Did you see him in here?" "No, but I heard someone." "Well, it wouldn't be safe to make any cracks. Better not make a row, as long as nothing is gone." Joe decided to accept this advice, and went back to bed, after taking the precaution to put a chair-back under the knob, as well as locking it. It was some time before he got to sleep, however. But Rad was evidently not worried, for he was soon in peaceful slumber. Rad's theory that Wessel had gone out in the middle of the night to get a train was not borne out by the facts, for it became known in the morning that he had, as Joe suspected, "jumped" his board bill. "And he called himself a ball player!" exclaimed Mr. Watson in disgust. "I'd like to meet with him again!" "Maybe you will," ventured Joe, but he did not know how soon his prediction was to come to pass. "Well, boys, we'll see how we shape up," said the manager, a little later that morning when the members of the team, with their uniforms on, had assembled at the ball park. "Get out there and warm up. Riordan, bat some fungoes for the boys. McCann, knock the grounders. Boswell, you catch for--let's see--I guess I'll wish you on to Matson. We'll see what sort of an arm he's got." Joe smiled, and his heart beat a trifle faster. It was his first trial with the big league, an unofficial and not very important trial, to be sure, but none the less momentous to him. Soon was heard the crack of balls as they bounded off the bats, to be followed by the thuds as they landed in the gloves of the players. The training work was under way. "What sort of ball do you pitch?" asked the old player pleasantly of Joe, as they moved off to a space by themselves for practice. "Well, I've got an in, an out, a fadeaway and a spitter." "Quite a collection. How about a cross-fire?" "I can work it a little." "That's good. Now let's see what you can do. But take it easy at first. You don't want to throw out any of your elbow tendons so early in the season." "I guess not," laughed Joe. Then he began to throw, bearing in mind the advice of the veteran assistant manager. The work was slow at first, and Joe found himself much stiffer than he expected. But the warm air, and the swinging of his arm, limbered him up a bit, and soon he was sending in some swift ones. "Go slow, son," warned Boswell. "You're not trying to win a game, you know. You're getting a little wild." Joe felt a bit chagrined, but he knew it was for his own good that the advice was given. Besides the pitching and batting practice, there was some running around the bases. But Manager Watson knew better than to keep the boys at it too long, and soon called the work off for the day. "We'll give it a little harder whack to-morrow," he said. And then Joe, as he went to the dressing rooms, overheard the manager ask Boswell: "What do you think of Matson?" "Oh, he's not such a wonder," was the not very encouraging reply. "But I've seen lots worse. He'll do to keep on your string, but he's got a lot to learn. It's a question of what he'll do when he faces the big teams, and hears the crowd yelling: 'He's rotten! Take him out!' That's what's going to tell." "Yes, I suppose so. But I heard good reports of him--that gameness was one of his qualities." "Well, he'll need it all right," declared the veteran player. Then Joe passed on, not wanting to listen to any more. Truth to tell, he rather wished he had not heard that much. His pride was a little hurt. To give him credit, Joe had nothing like a "swelled head." He knew he had done good work in the Central League, and there, perhaps, he had been made more of than was actually good for him. Here he was to find that, relatively, he counted for little. A big team must have a number of pitchers, and not all of them can be "first string" men. Some must be kept to work against weak teams, to spare the stars for tight places. Joe realized this. "But if hard work will get me anywhere I'm going to arrive!" he said to himself, grimly, as the crowd of players went back to the hotel. The days that followed were given up to hard and constant practice. Each day brought a little more hard work, for the time was approaching when practice games must be played with the local teams, and it was necessary that the Cardinals make a good showing. Life in the training camp of a major league team was different than Joe had found it with the Pittstons. There was a more business-like tone to it, and more snap. The newspaper men found plenty of copy at first, in chronicling the doings of the big fellows, telling how this one was working up his pitching speed, or how that one was improving his batting. Then, too, the funny little incidents and happenings about the diamond and hotel were made as much of as possible. The various reporters had their own papers sent on to them, and soon, in some of these, notably the St. Louis publications, Joe began to find himself mentioned occasionally. These clippings he sent home to the folks. He wanted to send some to Mabel, but he was afraid she might think he was attaching too much importance to himself, so he refrained. Some of the reporters did not speak very highly of Joe's abilities, and others complimented him slightly. All of them intimated that some day he might amount to something, and then, again, he might not. Occasionally he was spoken of as a "promising youngster." It was rather faint praise, but it was better than none. And Joe steeled himself to go on in his own way, taking the well-intentioned advice of the other baseball players, Boswell in particular. Joe had other things besides hard work to contend against. This was the petty jealousy that always crops up in a high-tensioned ball team. There were three other chief pitchers on the nine, Toe Barter, Sam Willard and Slim Cooney. Slim and Toe were veterans, and the mainstays of the team, and Sam Willard was one of those chaps so often seen in baseball, a brilliant but erratic performer. Sometimes he would do excellently, and again he would "fall down" lamentably. And, for some reason, Sam became jealous of Joe. Perhaps he would have been jealous of any young pitcher who he thought might, in time, displace him. But he seemed to be particularly vindictive against Joe. It started one day in a little practice game, when Sam, after some particularly wild work, was replaced by our hero. "Huh! Now we'll see some real pitching," Sam sneered as he sulked away to the bench. Joe turned red, and was nervous as he took his place. Perhaps if Joe had made a fizzle of it Willard might have forgiven him, but Joe, after a few rather poor balls, tightened up and struck out several men neatly, though they were not star batters. "The Boy Wonder!" sneered Willard after the game. "Better order a cap a couple of sizes larger for him after this, Roger," he went on to the coach. "Oh, dry up!" retorted Boswell, who had little liking for Willard. And so the hard work went on. The men, whitened by the indoor life of the winter, were beginning to take on a bronze tan. Muscles hardened and become more springy. Running legs improved. The pitchers were sending in swifter balls, Joe included. The fungo batters were sending up better flies. The training work was telling. CHAPTER XV ANOTHER THREAT "Play ball!" "Batter up!" "Clang! Clang!" The old familiar cries, and the resonant sound of the starting gong, were heard at the Reedville diamond. It was the first real game of the season, and it was awaited anxiously, not only by the players, but by Manager Watson, the coach, and by the owners back home. For it would give a "line" on what St. Louis could do. Of course it was not a league contest, and the work, good, bad or indifferent, would not count in the averages. Joe hoped he would get a chance to pitch, at least part of the game, but he was not likely to, Boswell frankly told him, as it was desired to let Barter and Cooney have a fairly hard work-out on this occasion. "But your turn will come, son," said the coach, kindly. "Don't you fret. I think you're improving, and, to be frank with you, there's lots of room for it. But you've got grit, and that's what I like to see." Reedville was a good baseball town, which was one of the reasons why Manager Watson had selected it as his training camp. The townspeople were ardent supporters of the home team, and they welcomed the advent of the big leaguers. In the vicinity were also other teams that played good ball. The bleachers and grandstand were well filled when the umpire gave his echoing cry of: "Play ball!" The ball-tossers had been warming up, both the Cardinals and the home team, which proved to be a husky aggregation of lads, with tremendous hitting abilities, provided they could connect with the ball. And that was just what the St. Louis pitchers hoped to prevent. "Willard, you can lead off," was the unexpected announcement of Mr. Watson, as he scanned his batting order. "McCann will catch for you. Now let's see what you can do." "I'll show 'em!" exclaimed the "grouchy" pitcher as he unbuttoned his glove from his belt. He had been warming up, and had come to the bench, donning a sweater, with no hope of being put in the game at the start off. But, unexpectedly, he had been called on. "Play ball!" cried the umpire again. Joe wished, with all his heart, that he was going in, but it was not to be. In order to give the home team every possible advantage, they were to go to bat last. And there was some little wonder when the first St. Louis player faced the local pitcher. There were cries of encouragement from the crowd, for Robert Lee Randolph--the pitcher in question--had aspirations to the big league. He was a tall, lanky youth, and, as the Cardinal players soon discovered, had not much except speed in his box. But he certainly had speed, and that, with his ability, or inability, to throw wildly, made him a player to be feared as much as he was admired. He hit three players during the course of the game, and hit them hard. "If they can't beat us any other way they're going to cripple us," said Rad grimly to Joe, as they sat on the bench. "It does look that way; doesn't it?" agreed our hero. The game went on, and, as might have been expected, the St. Louis team did about as they pleased. No, that is hardly correct. Even a country aggregation of players can sometimes make the finest nine of professionals stand on its mettle. And, in this case, for a time, the contest was comparatively close. For Mr. Watson did not send in all his best players, and, from the fact that his men had not been in a game since the former season closed, whereas the Reedville team had been at the game for two months or more, the disadvantage was not as great as it might have seemed. But there was one surprise. When Willard first went in he pitched brilliantly, and struck out the local players in good order, allowing only a few scattering hits. Then he suddenly went to pieces, and was severely pounded. Only excellent fielding saved him, for he was well backed-up by his fellow players. "Rexter will bat for you, Willard," said Manager Watson, when the inning was over. "Cooney, you go out and warm up." "What's the matter. Ain't I pitching all right?" angrily demanded the deposed one. "I'm sorry to say you're not. I'm not afraid of losing the game, but I don't want any more of this sort of stuff going back home," replied the manager, as he nodded over to where the newspaper reporters were chuckling among themselves over the comparatively poor exhibition the St. Louis Cardinals had so far put up. So Willard went to the bench, while crafty Cooney, with his left-hand delivery, went to warm up. And how Joe did wish _he_ would get a chance! But he did not, and the game ended, as might have been expected, with the Cardinals snowing under their country opponents. Hard practice followed that first exhibition game, and there were some shifts among the players, for unexpected weakness, as well as strength had by this time developed in certain quarters. "I wonder when I'll get a chance to show what I can do?" spoke Joe to Rad, as they were on their way back to the hotel, after a second contest with Reedville, in which our hero had still stuck to the bench. "Oh, it's bound to come," his chum told him. Personally, he was joyful, for he had been given a try-out, and had won the applause of the crowd by making a difficult play. "Well, it seems a long time," grumbled Joe, with a sigh. The practice became harder, as the opening of the season drew nearer. Some recruits joined the Cardinals at their training camp, and further shifts were made. Joe was finally given a chance to pitch against a team from Bottom Flats--a team, by the way, not as strong as the Reedville nine. And that Joe made good was little to his credit, as he himself knew. "I could have fanned them without any curves," he told Rad afterward. "Well, it's good you didn't take any chances," his chum said. "You never can tell." Again came a contest with Reedville, but Joe was not called on. Toe Barter, who had gained his nickname from the queer habit he had of digging a hole for his left foot, before delivering the ball, opened the contest, and did so well that he was kept in until the game was "in the refrigerator." Then Joe was given his chance, but there was little incentive to try, with the Cardinals so far ahead. Nevertheless, our hero did his best, and to his delight, he knocked a two-bagger, sliding to second amid a cloud of dust, to be decided safe by the umpire, though there was a howl of protest from the "fans." The Cardinals won handily, and as Joe was walking to the club house with Rad, eagerly talking about the game, he saw, just ahead of him in the crowd of spectators a figure, at the sight of which he started. "That looks like Shalleg," he said, half aloud. "What's that?" asked Rad. "Oh, nothing. I just thought I saw someone I knew. That is, I don't exactly know him, but----" At that moment the man at whose back Joe had been looking turned suddenly, and, to our hero's surprise, it was Shalleg. The man, with an impudent grin on his face, spoke to a companion loudly enough for Joe to hear. "There's the fellow who wouldn't help me out!" Shalleg exclaimed. "He turned me down cold. Look at him." The other turned, and Joe's surprise was heightened when he saw Wessel, the man who had tried to quarrel with him, and who had "jumped" his bill at the hotel. "Oh, I know him all right," Wessel responded to Shalleg. "I've seen him before." Joe and Rad, with the two men, were comparatively alone now. The attitude and words of the fellows were so insulting that Joe almost made up his mind to defy them. But before he had a chance to do so Shalleg snapped out: "You want to look out for yourself, young man. I'll get you yet, and I'll get even with you for having me turned down. You want to look out. Bill Shalleg is a bad man to have for an enemy. Come on, Ike," and with that they turned away and were soon lost in the throng. CHAPTER XVI JOE'S TRIUMPH "Well, what do you know about that?" cried Rad, with a queer look at Joe. "I don't know what to think about it, and that's the truth," was the simple but puzzled answer. "But who are they--what do they mean? The idea of them threatening you that way! Why, that's against the law!" "Maybe it is," agreed Joe. "As for who those men are, you know Wessel, of course." "Yes. The fellow who jumped his board bill at the hotel. Say, I guess the proprietor would like to see him. He has nerve coming back to this town. I've a good notion to tell the hotel clerk he's here. Mr. Watson would be glad to know it, too, for he takes it as a reflection on the team that Wessel should claim to be one of us, and then cheat the way he did." "Maybe it would be a good plan to tell on him," agreed Joe. "And who's the other chap, and why did he threaten you?" his chum asked. "That's another queer thing," the young pitcher went on. "He's angry at me, as near as I can tell, because I had to refuse him a loan," and he detailed the circumstances of his meeting with Shalleg. "But it's odd that he and Wessel should be chumming together. I've said little about it, but I've been wondering for a long time why Wessel quarreled with me. I begin to see a light now. It must have been that Shalleg put him up to it." "A queer game," admitted Rad. "Well, I think I'll put the hotel proprietor wise to the fact that he can collect that board bill from Ike Wessel." But Joe and Rad found their plans unexpectedly changed when they went to put them into effect. They were a little late getting back to the hotel from the grounds, as Joe had some purchases to make. And, as the two chums entered the lobby, they saw standing by the desk the two men in question. Mr. Watson was addressing Shalleg in no uncertain tones. "No, I tell you!" he exclaimed. "I won't have you on the team, and this is the last time I'll tell you. And I don't want you hanging around, either. You don't do us any good." "Is that your last word?" asked Shalleg, angrily. "Yes, my last word. I want you to clear out and leave us alone." "Huh! I guess you can't keep me away from games!" sneered Shalleg. "This is a free country." "Well, you keep away from my club," warned Mr. Watson, with great firmness. "I wouldn't have you as a bat-tender." The flushed and ill-favored face of Shalleg grew more red, if that were possible, and he growled: "Oh, don't let that worry you. Some day you may be glad to send for me to help pull your old club out of the cellar. Someone has been talking about me, that's the trouble; and if I find out who it is I'll make 'em sweat for it!" and he glared at Joe, who was too amazed at the strange turn of affairs to speak. Then the two cronies turned and started out of the hotel lobby. But Rad was not going to be foiled so easily. He slipped over to the clerk and whispered: "Say, that's the fellow who jumped his board bill, you know," and he nodded at Wessel. "Yes, I know," the clerk replied. "He just came in to settle. He apologized, and said he had to leave in a hurry," and the clerk winked his eye to show how much belief he placed in the story. "Hum!" mused Rad. "That's rather queer. He must have wanted to square matters up so he could come back to town safely." "Looks so," returned the clerk. Joe talked the matter over with his roommate, as to whether or not it would be advisable to tell Mr. Watson how Shalleg had threatened the young pitcher, and also whether to speak about the queer actions of Wessel. "But I think, on the whole," concluded Joe, "that I won't say anything; at least not yet a while. The boss has troubles enough as it is." "I guess you're right," agreed Rad. "But what about him being in our room that night?" asked Joe. "I wonder if I hadn't better speak of that?" "Oh, I don't know as I would," replied his chum. "In the first place, we can't be absolutely sure that it was he, though I guess you're pretty certain. Then, again, we didn't miss anything, and he could easily claim it was all a mistake--that he went in by accident--and we'd be laughed at for making such a charge." "Probably," agreed Joe. "As you say, I can't be dead sure, though I'm morally certain." "One of the porters might have opened our door by mistake," went on Rad. "You know the hotel workers have pass-keys. Better let it drop." And they did. Joe, however, often wondered, in case Wessel had entered his room, what his object could have been. But it was not until some time later that he learned. Shalleg and his crony were not seen around the hotel again, nor, for that matter, at the ball grounds, either--at least during the next week. Practice went on as usual, only it grew harder and more exacting. Joe was made to pitch longer and longer each day, and, though he did not get a chance to play in many games, and then only unimportant ones, still he was not discouraged. There were many shifts among the out and infield staff, the manager trying different players in order to get the best results. The pitching staff remained unchanged, however. Some more recruits were received, some of them remaining after a gruelling try-out, and others "falling by the wayside." In addition to pitching balls for Boswell to catch, and doing some stick work, Joe was required to practice with the other catchers of the team. "I want you to get used to all of them, Matson," said the manager. "There's no telling, in this business, when I may have to call on my youngsters. I want you to be always ready." "I'll try," promised Joe, with a smile. "You're coming on," observed Boswell, after a day of hard pitching, which had made Joe's arm ache. "You're coming on, youngster. I guess you're beginning to feel that working in a big league is different than in a minor; eh?" "It sure is!" admitted Joe, rubbing his aching muscles. "Well, you're getting more speed and better control," went on the veteran. "And you don't mind taking advice; that's what I like about you." "Indeed I'd be glad of any tips you could give me," responded Joe, earnestly. He did indeed realize that there was a hard road ahead of him, and he was a little apprehensive of the time when he might be called on to pitch against such a redoubtable team as the Giants. "Most folks think," went on Boswell, "that the chief advantage a pitcher has over a batter is his speed or his curves. Well, that isn't exactly so. The thing of it is that the batter has to guess whether the ball that's coming toward him is a swift straight one, or a comparatively slow curve. You see, he's got to make up his mind mighty quickly as to the speed of the horsehide, and he can't always do it. "Now, if a batter knew in advance just what the pitcher was going to deliver--whether a curve or a straight one, why that batter would have a cinch, so to speak. You may be the best twirler in the league, but you couldn't win your games if the batters knew what you were going to hand them--that is, knew in advance, I mean." "But that's what signals are for," exclaimed Joe. "I watch the catcher's signals, and if I think he's got the right idea I sign that I'll heave in what he's signalled for. If not, I'll make a switch." "Exactly," said the old player, "and that's what I'm coming to. If your signals are found out, where are you? Up in the air, so to speak. So you want to have several sets of signals, in order to change them in the middle of an inning if you find you're being double-crossed. There's lots of coaches who are fiends at getting next to the battery signs, and tipping them off to their batters. Then the batters know whether to step out to get a curve, or lay back to wallop a straight one. The signal business is more important than most players think." Joe believed this, and, at his suggestion, and on the advice of Boswell, a little later, a new signal system was devised between the pitchers and catchers. Joe worked hard to master it, for it was rather complicated. He wrote the system out, and studied it in his room nights. "Well, boys, a few weeks more and we'll be going home for the opening of the season," said Mr. Watson in the hotel lobby one day. "I see the Boston Braves are about through training, the Phillies are said to be all primed, and the Giants are ready to eat up all the rest of us." "Whom do we open with?" asked Joe. "The Cincinnati Reds," answered the manager. "The exact date isn't set yet, but it will be around the last of April. We've got some hard games here yet. I'm going to play some exhibitions on the way up North, to break you in gradually." More hard work and practice, and the playing of several games with the Reedville and other local nines soon brought the time of departure nearer. "This is our last week," Mr. Watson finally announced. "And I'm going to put you boys up against a good stiff proposition. We'll play the Nipper team Saturday, and I want to warn you that there are some former big leaguers on it, who can still hit and run and pitch, though they're not qualified for the big circuit. So don't go to the grounds with the idea that it'll be a cinch. Play your best. Of course I know you will, and win; but don't fall down!" Joe hoped he would be called on to pitch, but when the game started, before the biggest crowd that had yet assembled at the Reedville grounds, the umpire announced the Cardinal battery as Slim Cooney and Rob Russell. "Play ball!" came the signal, and the game was under way. To make the contest a little more even the St. Louis team were to bat first, giving the visitors the advantage of coming up last in the ninth inning. "Doolin up!" called the score keeper, and the lanky left-handed hitter strolled up to the plate, while Riordan, who was on deck, took up a couple of bats, swinging them about nervously to limber his arms. "Strike one!" bawled the umpire, at the first delivery of the visiting pitcher. Doolin turned with a look of disgust and stared at the arbiter, but said nothing. There was an exchange of signals between catcher and pitcher, and Joe watched to see if he could read them. But he could not. "Ball," was the next decision, and this time the pitcher looked pained. It got to be three and two, and the St. Louis team became rather interested. Doolin swung at the next with vicious force--and missed. "Strike three--batter's out!" announced the umpire, as the ball landed with a thud in the deep pit of the catcher's mitt. Doolin threw down his bat hard. "What's he got?" whispered Riordan, as he went forward. "Aw, nothing so much! This light bothers me, or I'd have hit for a three-sacker, believe me!" Riordan smiled, but he did little better. He hit, but the next man flied out. Rad was up next and hit a twisting grounder that just managed to evade the shortstop, putting Rad on first and advancing Riordan. But that was the end. The next man was neatly struck out, and a goose-egg went up in St. Louis's frame. "Got to get 'em, boys," announced the manager grimly, as the team went to the field. Cooney did not allow a hit that inning, but he was pounded for two when he was on the mound again, St. Louis in the meanwhile managing to get a run, through an error. "Say, this is some little team," declared Boswell admiringly. "I told you they were," replied the manager. "I want to see our boys work." And work they had to. The best pitcher in the world has his off days, and the best pitcher in the world may occasionally be pounded, as Slim Cooney was hit that day. How it happened no one could say, but the Nippers began to slide ahead, chiefly through hard hitting and excellent pitching. "This won't do," said Manager Watson as the sixth inning saw the score tied. "Matson, go out and warm up. I'm going to see what you can do. I'm taking a chance, maybe; but I'll risk it." Joe's heart beat fast. Here was his chance. Willard, who sat near him on the bench, muttered angrily under his breath. "If I can only do something!" thought Joe, anxiously. CHAPTER XVII "PLAY BALL!" "Come on, Joe, I'll catch for you," good-naturedly offered Doc Mullin, who had been "warming" the bench, Russell being behind the bat. "That'll give Rob a chance to rest, and he can take you on just before we go out." "Thanks," replied the young pitcher, and, flushing with pleasure, in this his triumph, though it was but a small one, he went out to the "bull-pen," to get some practice. "Huh! He'll make a fine show of us!" sneered Willard. "He can't make a much worse show than we've made of ourselves already," put in Cooney quickly. "I sure am off my feed to-day. I don't know what makes it." "Trained a little too fine, I guess," spoke the manager. "We'll take it a bit easy after this." "Speed 'em in, Joe. Vary your delivery, and don't forget the signals," advised Mullin, as the two were warming up. "And don't get nervous. You'll do all right." "I'm sure I hope so," responded Joe. He was getting more confidence in himself, but at that, when he stood on the mound, and had the ball in his hand he could not help a little twinge of "stage fright," or something akin to it. The batter stepped back, to allow the usual interchange of balls between pitcher and catcher, and then, when Joe nodded that he was ready, moved up to the plate, where he stood, swinging his bat, and waiting for the first one. The catcher, Russell, signalled for a swift, straight one, and, though Joe would rather have pitched his fadeaway, he nodded his head to show that he accepted. The ball whizzed from Joe's hand, and he felt a wave of apprehension, a second later, that it was going to be slammed somewhere out over the centre field fence. But, to his chagrin, he heard the umpire call: "Ball one!" The batter grinned cheerfully at Joe. "That won't happen again!" thought our hero fiercely. This time the catcher signalled for a teasing curve, and again Joe signified that he would deliver it. He did, and successfully, too. The batter made a half motion, as though he were going to strike at it, and then refrained, but the umpire called, in tones that were musical to Joe's ear: "Strike--one!" "He's feedin' 'em to 'em!" joyfully exclaimed Boswell to the manager. "Joe's feedin' 'em in, all right." "Too early to judge," replied the cautious manager. "Wait a bit." But Joe struck out his man, and a little applause came from his fellow players on the bench. "That's the way to do it, boy!" "Tease 'em along!" "We only need two more!" Thus they called encouragingly to him. Joe was hit once that half of the inning, and no runs came in. The score was still tie. "Now, boys, we've got to bat!" said the manager when his team came in. "We need three or four runs, or this game will make us ashamed to go back to St. Louis." There was a noticeable improvement as the Cardinals went to bat. Tom Dugan slammed out one that was good for three bases, and Dots McCann, by a double, brought in the needed run. The St. Louis boys were themselves again. The fact that the visiting pitcher was "going to pieces" rather helped, too. The Cardinals were two runs to the good when the inning ended. "Now we want to hold them there. It's up to you, Joe, and the rest of you boys!" exclaimed Mr. Watson as the leaguers again took the field. Joe had more confidence in himself now, though it oozed away somewhat when the first man up struck the ball savagely. But it was only a foul, and, though Russell tried desperately to get it, he could not. It was a case of three and two again, and Joe's nerves were tingling. "Hit it now, Red!" the friends of the visiting player besought him. "Bang it right on the nose!" "He hasn't anything on you!" "Nothing but a slow out!" "Slam out a home run!" There was a riot of cries. Joe calmed himself by an effort, and then sent in his fadeaway. It completely fooled the batter, who struck at it so hard that he swung around in a circle. "You're out!" called the umpire. Joe's heart beat with pride. But I must not dwell too long on that comparatively unimportant game, as I have other, and bigger ones, of which to write. Sufficient to say that, though there were a few scattering hits made off Joe, the visitors did not get another run, though they tried desperately in the last half of the ninth. But it was not to be, and St. Louis had the game by a good margin. "That's fine work, boys!" the manager greeted them. "Matson, you're coming on. I won't promise to pitch you against the Giants this season, unless all my other pitchers get 'Charlie-horse,'" he went on, "but I'll say I like your work." "Thanks!" murmured Joe, his heart warming to the praise. "Congratulations, old man!" cried Rad, as they went to the dressing rooms together. "You did yourself proud!" "I'm glad you think so. I wonder what sort of a story it will be when I go up against a big league team?" "Oh, you'll go up against 'em all right!" predicted his chum, "and you'll win, too!" Preparations for leaving Reedville were made. The training was over; hard work was now ahead for all. Nothing more was seen of Shalleg and Wessel, though they might have been at that last game, for all Joe knew. In order not to tire his players by a long jump home, especially as they were not to open at once on Robison Field, Manager Watson planned several exhibition games to be played in various cities and towns on the way. Thus the journey would occupy a couple of weeks. The players were on edge now, a little rest from the Nipper game having put them in fine trim. "They're ready for Giants!" energetically declared Boswell, who took great pride in his training work. "Hardly that," replied the manager, "but I think we can take care of the Cincinnati Reds when we stack up against them on opening day." The journey North was enjoyed by all, and some good games took place. One or two were a little close for comfort, but the Cardinals managed to pull out in time. Joe did some pitching, though he was not worked as often as he would have liked. But he realized that he was a raw recruit, in the company of many veterans, and he was willing to bide his time. Joe had learned more about baseball since getting into the big league than he ever imagined possible. He realized, as never before, what a really big business it was, involving, as it did, millions of dollars, and furnishing employment to thousands of players, besides giving enjoyment to millions of spectators. The home-coming of the Cardinals, from their trip up from the South, was an event of interest. St. Louis always did make much of her ball teams, and though the American Brown nine had arrived a day or so before our friends, and had been noisily welcomed, there was a no less enthusiastic reception for the Cardinals. There was a band, a cheering throng at the station, and any number of reporters, moving picture men and newspaper photographers. "Say, it's great; isn't it?" cried Joe to Rad. "It sure is, old man!" Joe wrote home an enthusiastic account of it all, and also penned a note to Mabel, expressing the hope that she and her brother would get to St. Louis on the occasion of some big game. "And I hope I pitch in it," Joe penned. A day of rest, then a week of practice on their own grounds, brought the opening date nearer for St. Louis. Joe and the other players went out to the park the morning of the opening day of the season. The grounds were in perfect shape, and the weather man was on his good behavior. "What kind of ball have the Reds been playing?" asked Joe of Rad, who was a "fiend" on baseball statistics. "Snappy," was the answer. "We'll have our work cut out for us!" "Think we can do 'em?" "Nobody can tell. I know we're going to try hard." "If I could only pitch!" murmured Joe. The grandstand was rapidly filling. The bleachers were already overflowing. The teams had marched out on the field, preceded by a blaring band. There had been a presentation of a floral horseshoe to Manager Watson. Then came some fast, snappy practice on both sides. Joe, who had only a faint hope of being called on, warmed up well. He took his turn at batting and catching, too. "They look to be a fast lot," observed Joe to Rad, as they watched the Reds at work. "Oh, yes, they're there with the goods." The game was called, and, as is often done, a city official pitched the first ball. This time it was the mayor, who made a wild throw. There was laughter, and cheers, the band blared out, and then the umpire called: "Play ball!" CHAPTER XVIII HOT WORDS That opening game, between the St. Louis Cardinals and the Cincinnati Reds, was not remarkable for good playing. Few opening games are, for the teams have not that fierce rivalry that develops later in the pennant season, and, though both try hard to win, they are not keyed up to the pitch that makes for a brilliant exhibition. So that opening game was neither better nor worse than hundreds of others. But, as we have to deal mostly with Baseball Joe in this book, I will centre my attention on him. His feelings, as he watched his fellow players in the field, the pitcher on the mound, and the catcher, girded like some ancient knight, may well be imagined. I fancy my readers, even if they are not baseball players, have been in much the same situation. Joe sat on the bench, "eating his heart out," and longing for the chance that he had small hopes would come to him. How he wished to get up there, and show what he could do, only he realized. But it was not to be. Manager Watson's Cardinals went into the game with a rush, and had three runs safely stowed away in the ice box the first inning, after having gracefully allowed the Reds to score a goose egg. Then came an uninteresting period, with both pitchers working their heads off, and nothing but ciphers going up on the score board. "By Jove, old man, do you think we'll win?" asked Cosey Campbell, as he came to the bench after ingloriously striking out, and looked at Joe. "I don't see why we shouldn't," responded Joe. "We've got 'em going." "Yes, I know, but you never can tell when we may strike a slump." "You seem terribly worried," laughed Joe. "Have you wagered a new necktie on the result?" "No," he answered, "but I am anxious. You see, Matson, there's a girl--I could point her out to you in one of the boxes; but maybe she wouldn't like it," he said, craning his neck and going out from under the shelter of the players' bench and looking at the crowd in the grandstand. "Oh, that's all right, I'll take your word for it," said Joe, for he appreciated the other's feelings. "A girl, you understand, Matson. She's here to see the game," went on Campbell. "I sent her tickets, and I told her we were sure to win. She's here, and I'm going to take her out to supper to-night. I've got the stunningest tie----" He fumbled in his pocket. "Thought I had a sample of it here with me," he said. "But I haven't. It's sort of purple--plum color--with a shooting of gold, and it shimmers down into a tango shade. It's a peach! I was going to wear it to-night, but, if we don't win----" His face showed his misery. "Oh, cut it out!" advised Rad, coming up behind him. "We can't lose. Don't get mushy over an old tie." "It isn't an old tie!" stormed Campbell. "It's a new one I had made to order. Cost me five bones, too. It's a peach!" "Well, you'll wear it, all right," said Joe with a laugh. "I don't see how we can lose." The Cardinals were near it, though, in the seventh inning, when, with only one out, and three on bases, Slim Cooney was called on to face one of the hardest propositions in baseball. But he made good, and not a man crossed home plate. And so the game went on, now and then a bit of sensational fielding, or a pitcher tightening up in a critical place, setting the crowd to howling. It was nearing the close of the contest. It looked like the Cardinals, for they were three runs to the good, and it was the ending of the eighth inning. Only phenomenal playing, at this stage, could bring the Reds in a winner. Some of the crowd, anticipating the event, were already leaving, probably to catch trains, or to motor to some resort. "Well, it's a good start-off," said Rad to Joe, as he started out to the field, for the beginning of the ninth. "Yes, but it isn't cinched yet." "It will be soon." The Reds were at bat, and Joe, vainly wishing that he had had a chance to show what he could do, pulled his sweater more closely about him, for the day was growing cool. Then Batonby, one of the reserve players, strolled up to him. "You didn't get in, either," he observed, sitting down. "No. Nor you." "But I've been half-promised a chance in the next game. Say, it's fierce to sit it out; isn't it?" "It sure is." "Hear of any new players coming to us?" Batonby wanted to know. "Haven't heard," said Joe. The game was over. The Cardinals did not go to bat to end the last inning, having the game by a margin of three runs. The players walked across the field to the clubhouse, the spectators mingling with them. "Did you hear anything about a fellow named Shalleg, who used to play in the Central League, coming to us?" asked Batonby, as he caught up to Joe and Rad, who had walked on ahead. "No," answered Joe quickly. "That is, I have heard of him, but I'm pretty sure he isn't coming with us." "What makes you think so?" "Why, I heard Mr. Watson tell him----" "Say, if I hear you retailing any more stuff about me I'll take means to make you stop!" cried an angry voice behind Joe, and, wheeling around, he beheld the inflamed face of Shalleg, the man in question. "I've heard enough of your talk about me!" the released player went on. "Now it's got to quit. I won't have it! Cut it out! I'll settle with you, Matson, if I hear any more out of you," and he shook his fist angrily at Joe. CHAPTER XIX JOE GOES IN Batonby looked wonderingly, first at Joe, and then at Shalleg. The latter's crony did not seem to be with him. "What's the row, old top?" asked Batonby easily. "Who are you, anyhow, and what's riled you?" "Never you mind what's riled me! You'll find out soon enough," was the sharp answer. "I heard you two chaps talking about me, and I want it stopped!" "Guess you're a little off, sport. I wasn't talking about you, for I haven't the doubtful honor of your acquaintance." "None of your impudence!" burst out Shalleg. Joe had not yet spoken. "And I don't want any of yours," fired back Batonby, slapping his glove from one hand to the other. "I say I wasn't talking about you!" "I say you were. My name is Shalleg!" Batonby let out a whistle of surprise. "Is that the one?" he asked of Joe. The latter nodded. "Well, all I've got to say," went on Batonby, "is that I hope you don't get on our team. And, for your information," he went on, as he saw that Shalleg was fairly bursting with passion, "I'll add that all I said about you was that I heard you were trying to get on the Cardinals. As for Matson, he said even less about you." "That's all right, but you fellows want to look out," mumbled Shalleg, who seemed nonplused on finding that he had no good grounds for a quarrel. "And I want to add," broke in Joe, who felt that he had a right to say something in his own behalf, "I want to add that I'm about through with hearing threats from you, Mr. Shalleg," and he accented the prefix. "I haven't said anything against you, and I don't expect to, unless you give me cause. You've been following me about, making unjustified remarks, and it's got to stop!" "Hurray!" cried Batonby. "That's the kind of mustard to give him. Heave at it again, Joe!" The young pitcher stood facing his enemy fearlessly, but he had said enough. Shalleg growled out: "Well, somebody's been talking about me to the manager, giving me a bad name, and it's got to stop. If I find out who did it, he'll wish he hadn't," and he glared vindictively at Joe. "I guess his own actions have given him the bad name," remarked Batonby, as the dismissed player turned aside and walked off to join the throng that had surged away from the little group. "That's about it," agreed Joe, as Rad came up and joined them. "Good work, old man!" said our hero, for Rad had done well. "I came mighty near making an error, though, toward the last," Rad responded. "Guess I'm not used to such strenuous life as playing nine innings in a big game. My heart was in my throat when I saw that fly ball coming toward me." "But you froze on to it," said Batonby. "Hello, what's up?" asked Rad quickly, for Joe's face still showed the emotion he felt at the encounter with Shalleg. "Had a row?" asked Rad. "Rather," admitted the young pitcher. "Shalleg was on deck again." "Say, that fellow, and his side partner, Wessel, ought to be put away during the ball season!" burst out Rad. "They're regular pests!" Joe heartily agreed with him, as he related the circumstances of the last affair. Then the friends passed on to the clubhouse, where the game was played over again, as usual, a "post-mortem" being held on it. Only, in this case the Cardinals, being winners, had no excuses to make for poor playing. They were jubilant over the auspicious manner in which the season had opened. "Boys. I'm proud of you!" exclaimed Manager Watson as he strolled through. "Do this often enough, and we'll have that pennant sure." "Yes, a fat chance we have!" muttered Willard, sulkily. "That's no way for a member of the team to talk!" snapped "Muggins." Willard did not reply. It was clear that he was disgruntled because he had not had a chance to pitch. Then the splashing of the shower baths drowned other talk, and presently the players, fresh and shining from their ablutions, strolled out of the clubhouse. "Got anything on to-night?" asked Rad of Joe, as they reached the hotel. "Nothing special--why?" "Let's go down to the Delaware Garden, and hear the Hungarian orchestra. There's good eating there, too." "I'm with you. Got to write a letter, though." "Tell her how the game went, I s'pose?" laughed Rad. "Something like that," agreed Joe, smiling. He bought an evening paper, which made a specialty of sporting news. It contained an account of the opening game, with a skeletonized outline of the plays, inning by inning. The Cardinals were properly congratulated for winning. Joe wished he could have read his name in the story, but he felt he could bide his time. Joe and Rad enjoyed their little excursion to the Delaware Garden that evening, returning to the hotel in good season to get plenty of sleep, for they were to play the Reds again the next day. There were four games scheduled, and then the Cardinals would go out on the circuit, remaining away about three weeks before coming back for a series on Robison Field. The tables were turned in the next game. The Cincinnati team, stinging from their previous defeat, played strong ball. They sent in a new pitcher, and with a lead of three runs early in the contest it began to look bad for the Cardinals. "I'll get no chance to-day," reasoned Joe, as he saw a puzzled frown on Mr. Watson's face. Joe knew that only a veteran would be relied on to do battle now, and he was right. Mr. Watson used all his ingenuity to save the game. He put in pinch hitters, and urged his three pitchers to do their best. Willard was allowed to open the game, but was taken out after the first inning, so fiercely was he pounded. Cooney and Barter had been warming up, and the latter went in next. "You go warm up, too, Matson," directed Boswell, "though it's doubtful if we'll have to use you." Joe hoped they would, but it was only a faint hope. Barter did a little better, but the Reds had a batting streak on that day, and found his most puzzling curves and drops. Then, too, working the "hit and run" feature to the limit and stealing bases, which in several cases was made possible by errors on the part of the Cardinals, soon gave the Reds a comfortable lead of five runs. "I'm afraid they've got us," grumbled the manager, as he substituted a batter to enable Cooney to go in the game. "You've got to pull us out, Slim," he added. Slim grinned easily, not a whit disconcerted, for he was a veteran. But though he stopped the winning streak of the Reds, he could not make runs, and runs are what win ball games. With his best nine in the field the manager tried hard to overcome the advantage of his opponents. It looked a little hopeful in the eighth inning, when there were two men on bases, second and third, and only one out, with "Slugger" Nottingham at the plate. "Now, then, a home run, old man!" pleaded the crowd. "Soak it on the nose!" "Over the fence!" "A home run means three tallies, old man. Do it now!" Nottingham stood easily at the plate, swinging his bat. There was an interchange of signals between catcher and pitcher--a slight difference of opinion, it seemed. Then the ball was thrown. There was a resounding crack, and the crowd started to yell. "Go it, old man, go it!" "That's the pie!" "Oh, that's a beaut!" But it was not. It was a nice little fly, to be sure, but the centre fielder, running in, had it safely before the batter reached first. Then, with Nottingham out, the ball was hurled home to nip the runner at the plate. Dugan, who had started in from third, ran desperately, and slid in a cloud of dust. "You're out!" howled the umpire, waving him to the bench. "He never touched me!" retorted Dugan. "I was safe by a mile!" "Robber!" shrieked the throng in the bleachers. "Get a pair of glasses!" "He was never out!" The umpire listened indifferently to the tirade. Dugan dusted off his uniform, and, losing his temper, shook his fist at the umpire, sneering: "You big fat----" and the rest of it does not matter. "That'll cost you just twenty-five dollars, and you can go to the clubhouse," said the umpire, coolly. Dugan's face fell, and Manager Watson flushed. He bit his lips to keep from making a retort. But, after all, the umpire was clearly within his rights. In silence Dugan left the field, and the Reds, who were jubilant over the double play, came in from the diamond. "The fat's in the fire now, for sure," sighed Rad, "with Dugan out of the game. Hang it all, anyhow!" "Oh, we can't win every time," and Joe tried to speak cheerfully. And so the Reds won the second of the first series of games. There was a rather stormy scene in the clubhouse after it was over, and Mr. Watson did some plain talking to Dugan. But, after all, it was too common an occurrence to merit much attention, and, really, nothing very serious had occurred. The contest between the Reds and Cardinals was an even break, each team taking two. Then came preparations for the Cardinals taking the road. A series of four games with the Chicago Cubs was next in order, and there, in the Windy City, St. Louis fared rather better, taking three. "I wonder if I'm ever going to get a chance," mused Joe, who had been sent to the "bull-pen" many times to warm up, but as yet he had not been called on. After games with the Pittsburg Pirates, in which an even break was registered, the Cardinals returned to St. Louis. As they had an open date, a game was arranged with one of the Central League teams, the Washburgs. "Say, I would like to pitch against them!" exclaimed Joe. And he had his chance. When the practice was over Manager Watson, with a smile at our hero, said, with a friendly nod: "Joe, you go in and see what you can do." Joe was to have his first big chance. CHAPTER XX STAGE FRIGHT Joe was a little nervous at first, but it was like being among old friends to work against the Washburg team. "How's your head, Joe?" asked some of the players whom he knew well, from having associated with them in the Central League. "Had to get larger sized caps?" asked another. "Don't you believe it!" exclaimed the Washburg catcher. "Joe Matson isn't that kind of a chap!" and Joe was grateful to him. The game was not so easy as some of the Cardinal players had professed to believe it would be. Not all of the first string men went in, but they were in reserve, to be used if needed. For baseball is often an uncertainty. Joe looked around at the grandstands and bleachers as he went out for warm-up practice. There was a fair-sized crowd in attendance, but nothing like the throng that would have been present at a league game. "But I'll pitch before a big crowd before I'm through the season!" declared Joe to himself, though it was not clear how this was to be brought about. Washburg had a good team, and knew how to make everything tell. They led off with a run, which, however, was due to an error on the part of two of the Cardinals. Joe was a little put out by it, for he had allowed only scattering hits that inning. "Better try to tighten up--if you can," advised Boswell, as our hero came to the bench. "They're finding you a bit." "They won't--any more!" exclaimed Joe, fiercely. The Washburg pitcher was a good one, as Joe knew, so it was not surprising that he was not so very badly batted. In fact, it was hard work for the Cardinals to garner three runs during their half of the first inning. But they got them. Joe had the advantage of knowing considerable about the various batters who faced him, so it was easier than it would have been for another pitcher to deceive them. He varied his delivery, used his fadeaway and his cross-fire, and had the satisfaction of pitching three innings during which he did not allow a hit. "That's the way to do it!" exclaimed his friend Boswell, the coach. "Hold 'em to that, and you'll have a look-in at a big game, soon." And Joe did. In vain did the Washburgs send in their best pinch hitters; in vain did they try to steal bases. Twice Joe nipped the man at first, who was taking too big a lead, and once the young pitcher stopped a hot liner that came driving right at him. Then the story was told, and the Cardinals romped home easy winners. Joe had done well, even though the Washburgs were not exactly big leaguers. In the weeks that followed, Joe worked hard. There was constant morning practice, when the weather allowed it, and the work on the circuit was exacting. Occasionally Joe went in as relief pitcher, when the game was safe in the "ice box," but the chance he wanted was to pitch against the New Yorks at St. Louis. For the Giants were at the top of the league now, and holding on to their pennant place with grim tenacity. In turn Joe and his fellow players went to Philadelphia, New York and Boston, eventually playing all around the circuit, but, as yet, the young pitcher had had no real chance to show what he could do. It was irksome--it was even heart-breaking at times; but Joe had to stand it. Sometimes he felt that he could do better than Barter, Willard and Cooney, the seasoned veterans, and especially was this so when the game went against the Cardinals. For the St. Louis team was falling sadly behind. They were next to the tail-enders for some time, and the outlook was dubious. The papers alternately roasted and poked fun at the Cardinals, and Manager Watson was urged to "do something." Various remedies were suggested. New players might be had, and in fact some exchanges were made. Another catcher was imported, from the Detroits, and a new shortstop engaged in a trade. But the pitching staff remained unchanged. Then some reporter, looking for "copy," saw a chance in Joe, and in a snappy little article reviewed Joe's career, ending with: "If Mr. Watson wants to see his Cardinals crawl up out of the subway why doesn't he give Matson a chance? The youngster can pitch good ball, and the line of twirling that has been handed out by the Cardinals thus far this season would be laughable, were it not lamentable." Of course that article made trouble for Joe, especially with the pitching staff. "Say, how much did you slip that reporter to pull off that dope about you?" inquired Willard with a sneer. "What do you mean?" asked Joe indignantly. "I mean how much coin did you pay him?" "You know I didn't have anything to do with it!" our hero fired back. "He asked me for my record, and I gave it to him. I didn't know he was going to write that." "A likely story," grumbled Willard. The other pitchers did not say so much, but it was clear they did not like the "roasting" they got. But it was not Joe's doing. There were shifts and re-shifts, there were hard feelings manifested, and gotten over. But nothing could disguise the fact that the Cardinals were in a "slump." Loyal as the St. Louis "fans" were to their teams, when they were on the winning side, it was not in human nature to love a losing nine. So that it got to be the fashion to refer to the Cardinals as "losing again." And this did not make for good ball playing, either. There were sore hearts among the players when they assembled in the clubhouse after successive defeats. Not that the Cardinals lost all the time. No team could do that, and stay in the big league. But they never got to the top of the second division, and even that was not much of an honor to strive for. Still, it was better than nothing. Joe pitched occasionally, and, when he did there was a little improvement, at times. But of course he was not a veteran, and once or twice he was wild. Then the paper which bore the least friendliness to the Cardinals took a different tack. It laughed at the manager for sending in a young pitcher when a veteran was needed. "Say, I'd like to know just what those fellows want me to do!" Mr. Watson exclaimed one day, after a particularly severe roast. "I can't seem to please 'em, no matter what I do." "Don't let 'em get your goat," advised his coach. "Go on. Keep going. We'll strike a winning streak yet, and mark my words, it will be Joe Matson who'll pull us out of a hole." "He hasn't done so well yet," objected Mr. Watson, dubiously. "No, and it's because he hasn't exactly found himself. He is a bit nervous yet. Give him time." "And stay in the cellar?" "Well, but what are you going to do?" reasoned the other. "Cooney and Barter aren't pitching such wonderful ball." "No, that's true, but they can generally pull up in a tight place. I'd send Matson in oftener than I do, only I'm afraid he'll blow up when the crises comes. He is a good pitcher, I admit that, but he isn't seasoned yet. The Central League and the National are a wide distance apart." "That's true. But I'd like to see him have his chance." "Well, I'll give it to him. We play Boston next week. They happen to be in the second division just at present, although they seem to be going up fast. I'll let Joe go up against them." "That won't be as good as letting him go against New York," said Boswell. "Well, it'll have to do," decided the manager, who could be very set in his ways at times. The Braves proved rather "easy," for the Cardinals and, as Boswell had indicated, there was little glory for Joe in pitching against them. He won his game, and this, coupled with the fact that the reporter friendly to Joe made much of it, further incensed the other pitchers. "Don't mind 'em," said Rad, and Joe tried not to. The season was advancing. Try as the Cardinals did, they could not get to the top of the second division. "And if we don't finish there I'll feel like getting out of the game," said the manager gloomily, after a defeat. "Pitch Matson against the Giants," advised the coach. "By Jove! I'll do it!" cried the manager, in desperation. "We open with New York at St. Louis next week for four games. I'll let Matson see what he can do, though I reckon I'll be roasted and laughed at for taking such a chance." "Well, maybe not," the coach replied, chuckling. In the meanwhile Joe had been working hard. Under the advice of Boswell he adopted new training tactics, and he had his arm massaged by a professional between games. He was surprised at the result of the new treatment, and he found he was much fresher after a hard pitching battle than he had been before. "He thinks he's going to be a Boy Wonder," sneered Willard. "Oh, cut it out!" snapped Boswell. "If some of you old stagers would take better care of yourselves there'd be better ball played." "Huh!" sneered Willard. The Cardinals came back to St. Louis to play a series with New York. "Wow!" exclaimed Rad as he and Joe, discussing the Giants' record, were sitting together in the Pullman on their way to their home city, "here's where it looks as if we might get eaten up!" "Don't cross a bridge before you hear it barking at you," advised Joe. "Maybe they won't be so worse. We're on our own grounds, that's sure." "Not much in that," decided his chum, dubiously. When Joe reached the hotel he found several letters awaiting him. One, in a girl's handwriting, he opened first. "Does she still love you?" laughed Rad, noticing his friend's rapt attention. "Dry up! She's coming on to St. Louis." "She is? Good! Will she see you play?" "Well, I don't know. It doesn't look as though I was going to get a game--especially against New York." "Cheer up! There might be something worse." "Yes, I might have another run-in with Shalleg." "That's so. Seen anything of him lately?" "No, but I hear he's been writing letters to Mr. Watson, intimating that if the boss wants to see the team come up out of the subway, Shalleg is the man to help." "Some nerve; eh?" "I should say so!" It was a glorious sunny day, perhaps too hot, but that makes for good baseball, for it limbers up the players. The grandstand and bleachers were rapidly filling, and out on the well-kept diamond of Robison Field the rival teams--the Cardinals and the Giants--were practicing. Mabel Varley and her brother had come to St. Louis, stopping off on business, and Joe had called on them. "I'm coming out to see you play," Mabel announced after the greetings at the hotel. "I'm afraid you won't," said Joe, somewhat gloomily. "Why not?" she asked in surprise. "Aren't you on the pitching staff?" "Yes, but perhaps you haven't been keeping track of where the Cardinals stand in the pennant race." "Oh, yes, I have!" she laughed, and blushed. "I read the papers every day." "That's nice. Then you know we're pretty well down?" "Yes, but the season isn't half over yet. I think you'll do better." "I sure do hope so," murmured Joe. "But, for all that, I am afraid you won't see me pitch to-day. Mr. Watson won't dare risk me, though I think I could do some good work. I'm feeling fine." "Oh, I do hope you get a chance!" Mabel exclaimed enthusiastically. "Anyhow, I'm going to have one of the front boxes, and there are to be some girl friends with me. You know them, I think--Hattie Walsh and Jean Douglass." "Oh, yes, I remember them," Joe said. "Well, I hope you see us win, but I doubt it." And now, as the game was about to start, Joe looked up and saw, in one of the front boxes, Mabel and her friends. He went over to speak to them, as he walked in from practice. "For good luck!" said Mabel softly, as she gave him one of the flowers she was wearing. "Thanks," and Joe blushed. As yet the battery of the Cardinals had not been announced. Clearly Manager Watson was in a quandary. He and Boswell consulted together, while the players waited nervously. Some of the newspaper reporters, anxious to flash some word to their papers, asked who was to pitch. "I'll let you know in a few minutes," was the manager's answer. And then, as the time for calling the game approached, Mr. Watson handed his batting order to the umpire. The latter stared at it a moment before making the announcement. He seemed a trifle surprised. "Batteries!" he called through his megaphone. "For New York, Hankinson and Burke--for St. Louis--Matson and Russell." Joe was to pitch, and in the biggest game he had ever attempted! There was a rushing and roaring in his ears, and for a moment he could not see clearly. "Go to it, Matson," said the manager. "I'm going to try you out." Joe's lips trembled. He was glad his teammates could not know how he felt. Nervously he walked out to the mound, and caught the new ball which the umpire divested of its foil cover and tossed to him. Russell girded himself in protector and mask, and the batter stepped back to allow the usual practice balls. Someone in a box applauded. Joe could not see, but he knew it was Mabel. "Oh, Joe's going to pitch!" she exclaimed to her girl friends. "I hope he strikes them all out!" "Not much chance," her brother said, rather grimly. Joe sent the first ball whizzing in. It went so wild that the catcher had to jump for it. There was a murmur from the stands, and some of the Giants grinned at one another. Russell signalled to Joe that he wanted to speak to him. Pitcher and catcher advanced toward one another. "What's the matter?" Russell wanted to know, while some in the crowd laughed at the conference. "Got stage fright?" "Ye--yes," stammered Joe. Poor Joe, he had a bad case of nerves. "Say, look here!" exclaimed Russell with a intentional fierceness. "If you don't get over it, and pitch good ball, I'll give you the best beating up you ever had when we get to the clubhouse! I'm not going to stand being laughed at because you're such a rotten pitcher! Do you get me!" and he leered savagely at Joe. The effect on the young pitcher was like an electric shock. He had never been spoken to like that before. But it was just the tonic he needed. "I get you," he said briefly. "It's a good thing you do!" said Russell brutally, and, as he walked back to his place his face softened. "I hated to speak that way to the lad," he murmured to himself, "but it was the only way to get him over his fright." CHAPTER XXI A QUEER MESSAGE The next practice ball Joe sent in went cleanly over the plate, and landed with a thud in the catcher's glove. Russell nodded at Joe, to indicate that was what he wanted. "Play ball!" directed the umpire, and the batter moved up closer to the plate. Stooping low, and concealing his signal with his big glove, Russell called for a straight, swift ball. Joe gave it, and as it was in the proper place, though the striker did not attempt to hit it, the umpire called: "Strike--one!" Indignantly the batter looked around, but it was only done for effect. He knew it was a strike. "That's the way. Now we've got 'em!" cried Boswell from the coaching line. "Ball one," was the next decision of the umpire, and Joe felt a little resentment, for he had made sure it went over the plate. But there was little use to object. A curve was next called for, and Joe succeeded in enticing the batter to strike at it. But the stick missed the horsehide cleanly. It was two strikes. "Pretty work! Oh, pretty work!" howled Boswell. A foul next resulted, and Russell missed it by inches. The batter had still another chance. But it availed him little, for Joe fooled him on the next one. "Good!" nodded the catcher to the young pitcher, and Joe felt his vision clearing now. He looked over toward where Mabel was sitting. She smiled encouragingly at him. The New Yorks got one hit off Joe that inning, but, though the man on first stole second, after Joe had tried to nip him several times, the other two men struck out, and a goose egg went up in the first frame. "Well, if you can do that eight more times the game is ours, if we can only get one run," said Manager Watson, as Joe came up to the bench, smiling happily. "I'll try," was all he said. But the Cardinals did not get their run that inning, nor the next nor the next nor next. The game ran along for five innings with neither side crossing home plate, and talk of a "pitchers' battle" began to be heard. Joe was pitching remarkably well, allowing only scattering hits. The Giants could not seem to bunch them. Then, as might have been expected, Joe had a bit of bad luck. There had been hard work for him that day--hard and nervous work, and it told on him. He was hit for a two-bagger, and the next man walked, though Joe thought some of the decisions unfair. Then the runner attempted to steal third. There was a wild throw, and the man came in, scoring the first run. Joe felt a wave of chagrin sweep over him. He felt that the game was going. "Tighten up! Tighten up!" he heard Boswell call to him. By a determined effort he got himself well in hand, and then amid the cheers of the crowd he succeeded in striking out the other men up, so that only the one run was in. But the pace was telling on Joe. He gave two men their base on balls the next time he pitched, and by a combination of circumstances, two more runs were made before the Giants were retired. "This won't do," murmured Mr. Watson. "I'm afraid I'll have to take Joe out." "Don't," advised Boswell. "He'll be all right, but if you take him out now you'll break him all up. I think he could have a little better support." "Possibly. The fielding is a bit shaky. I'll send in Lawson to bat for Campbell." This change resulted in a marked improvement With a mighty clout Lawson knocked a home run, and, as there was a man on third, that two. From then on the Cardinals seemed to find themselves. They began coming back in earnest, and everyone "got the habit." Even Joe, proverbially poor hitters as pitchers are supposed to be, did his share, and, by placing a neat little drive, that eluded the shortstop, he brought in another needed run. "One ahead now! That's fine!" cried Rad to his chum, though Joe "died" on second. "If we can only hold 'em down----" and he looked questioningly at the young pitcher. "I'll do it!" cried Joe, desperately. It did not look as though he would, though, when the first man up, after receiving three and two, was allowed to walk. Joe felt a bit shaky, but he steeled himself to hold his nerve. The man at first was a notorious base-stealer, and Joe watched him closely. Twice he threw to the initial sack, hoping to nip him, and he almost succeeded. Then he slammed in a swift one to the batter, only to know that the runner started for second. But it did him little good to do it, for though he made third, Joe struck out his three men amid a wave of applause. "One more like that, and we've got the game!" cried Mr. Watson. "It's up to you, Joe. But if you can't stand it I'll send in Slim." "I'll stand it," was the grim answer, though Joe's arm ached. And stand it Joe did. He was hit once in that last inning, and one man got his base on balls. And then and there Joe gave a remarkably nervy exhibition. He nipped the man on first, and then in quick succession succeeded in fooling the two batters next up. "That's the eye!" "The Cardinals win!" "What's the matter with Joe Matson?" "He's all right!" The crowd went wild, as it had a right to do, and Joe's face was as red with pleasure as the nickname of his team. For he had had a large share in defeating the redoubtable Giants, though to the credit of that team be it said that several of its best players were laid up, and, at a critical part in the game their best hitter was ruled out for abusing the umpire. But that took away nothing from Baseball Joe's glory. "Oh, I'm so glad you won!" cried Mabel, as he passed her box. "Isn't it glorious?" "It sure is," he admitted with a smile. "Can't you take dinner with us at the hotel?" she went on, and Joe blushingly agreed. The other girls smiled at him, and Reggie nodded in a friendly manner. "Great work, old man!" called Mabel's brother. "It was a neat game." Then Joe hurried off to have a shower, and dress, and in the clubhouse he was hailed genially by his fellow players. "Good work, Joe!" "I didn't think you had it in you." "This sure will make the Giants feel sore." As for Manager Watson, he looked at Joe in a manner that meant much to the young pitcher. "I told you so!" said the old coach to the manager, later that day. "Yes, you did," admitted the latter. "Of course I knew Joe had good stuff in him, but I didn't think it would come out so soon. He may help pull us up out of the cellar yet." Joe enjoyed the little dinner with Mabel and her friends that night, as he had seldom before taken pleasure in a gathering. Rad was one of the guests, and later they went to the theatre, as there was no game next day. But if the Cardinals expected to repeat their performance they were disappointed. Joe was started in another contest, and he was glad Mabel was not present, for somehow he could not keep control of the balls, and following a rather poor exhibition, he was taken out after the fourth inning. But it was too late to save the game. "Never mind, we got one of the four, and it was due to you," consoled Rad, when the series was over. "And you've found out what it is to stack up against the Giants." Joe had had his "baptism of fire," and it had done him good. The St. Louis team was to take the road again, after a time spent in the home town, where they had somewhat improved their standing. "Got anything to do this evening?" asked Rad, as they were coming back from the ball park, after a final game with Boston. "No." "Then let's go to the Park Theatre. There's a good hot-weather show on." "I'm with you." "All right. I've got to go down town, but I'll be back before it's time to go," Rad went on. Joe dressed, and waited around the hotel lobby for his friend to return. It grew rather late, and Joe glanced uneasily at the clock. He was rather surprised, as he stood at the hotel desk, to hear his name spoken by a messenger boy who entered. "Matson? There he is," and the clerk indicated our hero. "Sign here," said the boy, shortly. Joe wondered if the telegram contained bad news from home. Giving the lad a dime tip, Joe opened the envelope with fingers that trembled, and then he read this rather queer message: "If you want to do your friend Rad a good turn, come to the address below," and Joe recognized the street as one in a less desirable section of the city. CHAPTER XXII IN DANGER "Bad news?" asked the hotel clerk, as he noticed the look on Joe's face. "No--yes--well, it's unexpected news," hesitated Joe, as he made up his mind, on the instant, not to tell the contents of the note. He wanted a little time to think. Rapidly he read the message over again. The boy was just shuffling out of the hotel. "Wait a minute!" Joe called after him. "Where'd you get this note?" the young pitcher asked. "At de office." "Yes, I know. But who brought it in?" "I dunno. Youse'll have to see de manager." "Oh, all right," Joe assented, and then he turned aside. He was still in a quandary as to what to do. Once more he read the note. "'If you want to do your friend Rad a good turn,'" he repeated. "Of course I do, but what does it mean? Rad can't be in trouble, or he'd have sent me some word himself. That isn't a very good neighborhood at night, but I guess I can take care of myself. The trouble is, though, if I go out, and Rad comes back here in the meanwhile, what will happen?" Joe was thinking hard, trying to find some solution of the mystery, and then a flash came to him. "Baseball!" he whispered to himself. "Maybe it is something to do with baseball! Someone may be scouting for Rad, and want to find out, on the quiet, if he's willing to help in making a shift to some other team. They want me to aid them, perhaps." Joe had been long enough in organized baseball to know that there are many twists and turns to it, and that many "deals" are carried on in what might be considered an underhand manner. Often, when rival organizations in the baseball world are at war, the various managers, and scouts, go to great lengths, and secretly, to get some player they consider valuable. "Maybe some rival club is after Rad and doesn't want its plans known," mused Joe. "That must be it. They know he and I are chums, and they come to me first. Well, I sure do want to help Rad, but I don't want to see him leave the Cardinals. I guess I'll take a chance and go down there. I'll leave word at the desk that I'll meet Rad at the theatre. That will be the best. I can telephone back to the hotel, after I go to this address, and find out if Rad has been back here. I'll go." Stuffing the queer note into his pocket, Joe started off, catching a car that would take him near the address given. Before leaving, he arranged with the hotel clerk to tell Rad that he would meet him at the theatre. It was a rather dark, and quite lonesome, street in which Joe found himself after leaving the street car. On either side were tall buildings that shut out much of the light by day, while at night they made the place a veritable canyon of gloom. There were big warehouses and factories with, here and there, a smaller building, and some ramshackle dwellings that had withstood the encroachment of business. Some of these latter had fallen into decay, and others were being used as miserable homes by those who could afford no better. In one or two, saloons held forth, the light from their swinging doors making yellow patches on the dark pavement. "I wouldn't like to have to live down here," mused Joe, as he picked his way along, looking, as best he could, for the number given in the note. "It's a queer place to appoint a meeting, but I suppose the baseball fellows don't want to be spied on. I'll be glad when I'm through." Joe walked on a little farther. The neighborhood seemed to become more deserted and lonesome. From afar off came the distant hum and roar of the city, but all around Joe was silence, broken, now and then, by the sound of ribald laughter from the occasional saloons. "Ah, here's the place!" exclaimed Joe, as he stood in front of one of the few dwellings in the midst of the factories. "It looks gloomy enough. I wonder who can be waiting to see me here about Rad? Well, there's a light, anyhow." As Joe approached the steps of the old house he saw, at one side of the door, a board on which were scrawled the words: _Peerless Athletic Club_ "Hum! Must be a queer sort of club," mused Joe. "I guess they do more exercise with their tongues, and with billiard cues, than with their muscles." For, as he mounted the steps, he heard from within the click of billiard and pool balls, and the noise of talk and laughter. It was one of the so-called "athletic" clubs, that often abound in low neighborhoods, where the name is but an excuse for young "toughs" to gather. Under the name, and sometimes incorporation of a "club," they have certain rights and privileges not otherwise obtainable. They are often a political factor, and the authorities, for the sake of the votes they control, wink at minor violations of the law. It was to such a place as this that Joe had come--or, in view of what happened afterward, had been lured would be the more proper term. "Well, what do youse want?" asked an ill-favored youth, as Joe entered the poorly lighted hall. The fellow had his hat tilted to one side, and a cigarette was glued to one lip, moving up and down curiously as he spoke. "I don't know who I want," said Joe, as pleasantly as he could. "I was told to come here to do my friend Rad Chase a favor. I'm Joe Matson, of the Cardinals, and----" "Oh, yes. He's expectin' youse. Go on in," and the fellow nodded toward a back room, the door of which stood partly open. Joe hesitated a moment, while the youth who had spoken to him went out and stood on the half-rotting steps. Then, deciding that, as he had come thus far, he might as well see the thing through, Joe started for the rear room. But, as he reached the door, and heard a voice speaking, he hesitated. For what he heard was this: "S'posin' he don't come?" "Aw, he'll come all right, Wessel," said another voice. "He sure is stuck on his friend Rad, and he'll want to know what he can do for him. He'll come, all right." "Shalleg!" gasped Joe, as he recognized the tones. "It's a trick. He thinks he can trap me here!" As he turned to go, Joe heard Wessel say: "There won't be no rough work; will there?" "Oh, no! Not too rough!" replied Shalleg with a nasty laugh. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, Joe was hastening away when he accidentally knocked over a box in the hall. Instantly the door to the rear room was thrown wide open, giving the young pitcher, as he turned, a glimpse of Shalleg, Wessel and several other men seated about a table, playing cards. "Who's there?" cried Shalleg. Then, as he saw Joe hurrying away, he added: "Hold on, Matson. I sent for you. I want to see you!" "But I don't want to see you!" Joe called back over his shoulder. "Say, this is straight goods!" cried Shalleg, pushing back his chair from the table, the legs scraping over the bare boards of the floor. "It's all right. I've got a chance to do your friend Rad Chase a good turn, and you can help in it. Wait a minute!" But Joe fled, unheeding. Then Shalleg, seeing that his plans were about to miscarry, yelled: "Stop him, somebody!" Joe was running along the dim hallway. As he reached the outside steps the youth who had first accosted him turned, and made a grab for him. "What's your hurry?" he demanded. "Hold on!" Joe did not answer, but, eluding the outstretched hands, made the sidewalk in a jump and ran up the street. He was fleet of foot--his training gave him that--and soon he was safe from pursuit, though, as a matter of fact, no one came after him. Shalleg and his tools were hardly ready for such desperate measures yet, it seemed. Joe passed a side street, and, looking up it, saw at the other end, a more brilliantly lighted thoroughfare. Arguing rightly that he would be safer there, Joe turned up, and soon was in a more decent neighborhood. His heart was beating rapidly, partly from the run, and partly through apprehension, for he had an underlying fear that it would not have been for his good to have gone into the room where Shalleg was. "Whew! That was a happening," remarked Joe, as he slowed down. "I wonder what it all meant? Shalleg must be getting desperate. But why does he keep after me? Unless he thinks I am responsible for his not getting a place on the Cardinals. It's absurd to think that, but it does seem so. I wonder what I'd better do?" Joe tried to reason it out, and then came the recollection of Rad. "I'll telephone to the hotel, and see if he's come back," he said. "Then, when I meet him, I'll tell him all that happened. It's a queer go, sure enough." A telephone message to the hotel clerk brought the information that Rad had telephoned in himself, saying that he had been unexpectedly detained, and would meet Joe at the theatre entrance. "That's good!" thought our hero. For one moment, after running away from the gloomy house, he had had a notion that perhaps Rad had also been lured there. Now he knew his friend was safe. "Sorry I couldn't come back to the hotel for you," Rad greeted Joe, as they met in front of the theatre. "But my business took me longer than I counted on. We're in time for the show, anyhow. It starts a little later in summer." "That's all right," said Joe. "As a matter of fact I have been away from the hotel myself, for some time." "So the clerk said. Told me you'd gone out and left a message for me. Say, what's up, Joe? You look as though something had happened," for now, in the light, Rad had a glimpse of his chum's face, and it wore a strange look. "Something did happen," said Joe in a low voice. "I believe I was in danger. I'll tell you all about it," which he did, in a low voice, between the acts of the play. It is doubtful if either Joe or Rad paid much attention to what occurred on the stage that evening. CHAPTER XXIII A LAME ARM "But, great Scott, Joe!" exclaimed Rad, when he had been given all the facts of the strange occurrence, "that was a raw sort of deal!" "I think so myself." "Why don't you get the police after them?" "What would be the good? Nothing really happened, and just because I have an idea it would have, if I'd given them the chance to get at me, doesn't make them liable to arrest. I would look foolish going to the police." "Maybe so. But then there's that note. They didn't have any idea of doing me a good turn. That was almost a forgery." "The trouble is we can't prove it, though. I think the only thing I can do is to let it go, and be more careful in the future." "Well, maybe it is," agreed Rad slowly. "But what do you think was their object?" "I haven't the least idea," replied Joe. "That is, the only thing I can imagine is that Shalleg wanted to scare me; or, perhaps, threaten me for what he imagines I have done to him." "And that is?" questioned Rad. "That I've been spreading false reports about him to our manager, in order to keep him off the team. As a matter of fact, I don't believe I have ever mentioned him to Mr. Watson. It's all imagination on Shalleg's part." "What condition was he in to-night?" asked Rad, as he and Joe were on their way to the hotel after the play. "As far as I could judge, he was about as he has been most of the time lately--scarcely sober. That, and his gambling and irregular living, took him off the team, you know." "And he thinks, with that record behind him, that he can get on the Cardinals!" exclaimed Rad. "He's crazy!" "He's dangerous, too," added Joe. "I'm going to be more careful after this." "And you thought you were doing me a favor, old man?" "I sure did, Rad. I thought maybe some scout from another club was trying to secure your valuable services." "Now you're stringing me!" "No, I'm not, really. You know there are queer doings in baseball." "Yes, but none as queer as that. Well, I'm much obliged, anyhow. But after this you stick to me. If there's any danger we'll share it together!" "Thanks!" exclaimed Joe warmly. "Going to say anything to the boss about this?" asked Rad, after a pause. "I think not. Would you?" "Well, perhaps we might just as well keep still about it," agreed Rad. "We'll see if we can't trap this Shalleg and his crony, and put a stop to their game." "All they have been is a nuisance, so far," spoke Joe. "But there's no telling when they might turn to something else." "That's so. Well, we'll keep our weather eyes open." Joe was not a little unnerved by his experience, and he was glad there was not a game next day. The Cardinals had crept up a peg. They were now standing one from the top of the second division of clubs, and there began to be heard talk that they would surely lead their column before many more games had been played. "And maybe break into the first division!" exclaimed Trainer Boswell. "If you keep on the way you've started, Matson, we sure will do it!" "I'll do my best," responded Joe. In a series of four games with the Brooklyn Superbas the Cardinals broke even, thus maintaining their position. But they could not seem to climb any higher. Joe's pitching helped a lot, and he was regarded as a coming star. He was acquiring more confidence in himself, and that, in playing big baseball, helps a lot. Of course I am not saying that Joe did all the work for his team. No pitcher does, but a pitcher is a big factor. It takes batters to make hits and runs, however, and the Cardinals had their share of them. They could have done better with more, but good players brought high prices, and Manager Watson had spent all the club owners felt like laying out. The other pitchers of the Cardinals worked hard. It must not be imagined that because I dwell so much on Joe's efforts that he was the "whole show." Far from it. At times Joe had his "off days" as well as did the others, and there were times when he felt so discouraged that he wanted to give it all up, and go back to a smaller league. But Joe had grit, and he stuck to it. He was determined to make as great a name for himself as is possible in baseball, and he knew he must take the bitter with the sweet, and accept defeat when it came, as it is bound to now and then. Nor did his determination to overcome obstacles fail of its object. With the other members of the team, Joe played so surprisingly well that suddenly the Cardinals took one of those remarkable "braces" that sometimes come in baseball, and from eighth position the club leaped forward into fifth, being aided considerably by some hard luck on the part of the other teams. In other words, "things broke right" for the Cardinals and the St. Louis "fans" began to harbor hopes of a possible pennant. Joe had several incentives for doing his best. There were his folks. He wanted to justify his father's faith in him, and also his sister's. Joe knew that his mother, in spite of her kind and loving ways, was secretly disappointed that he had quit his college career to become a baseball player. "But I'll show her that it's just as honorable as one of the learned professions, and that it pays better in a great many cases," reasoned Joe. "Though of course the money end of it isn't the biggest thing in this world," he told himself. "Still it is mighty satisfactory." Then there was another reason why Joe wanted to make good. Or, rather, there was another person he wanted to have hear of his success. I guess you know her name. And so the young pitcher kept on, struggling to perfect himself in the technicalities of the big game, playing his position for all it was capable of. As the season went on Joe's name figured more and more often in the papers. "He's got reporters on his staff!" sneered Willard. "Well, I wish we all had," observed Manager Watson. "Publicity counts, and I want all I can get for my players. It's a wonder some of you fellows wouldn't have your name in the papers oftener." "I don't play to the grandstand," growled the grouchy pitcher. "Maybe it would help some if you did," the manager remarked quietly. The baseball practice and play went on. Joe was called on more often now to pitch a game, as Mr. Watson was kind enough to say some of the club's success was due to him, and while of course he was not considered the equal of the veteran pitchers, he was often referred to as a "comer." What Joe principally lacked was consistency. He could go in and pitch a brilliant game, but he could not often do it two days in succession. In this respect he was not unlike many celebrated young pitchers. Joe was not fully developed yet. He had not attained his full growth, and he had not the stamina and staying power that would come with added years. But he was acquiring experience and practice that would stand him in good stead, and his natural good health, and clean manner of living, were in his favor. The Cardinals had come back to St. Louis in high spirits over their splendid work on the road. "We ought to take at least three from the Phillies," said Boswell, for they were to play four games with the Quaker City nine. "That will help some." "If we win them," remarked Joe, with a smile. "Well, we're depending on you to help," retorted the trainer. Joe only smiled. There was some discussion in the papers as to who would pitch the first game against the Phillies, and it was not settled until a few minutes before the game was called, when Slim Cooney was sent in. "I guess Mr. Watson wants to make sure of at least the first one," remarked Joe, as he sat on the bench. "Oh, you'll get a chance," Boswell assured him. "You want to keep yourself right on edge. No telling when you'll be called on." It was a close game, and it was not until the eleventh inning that the home team pulled in the winning run. Then, with jubilant faces, the members hurried to the clubhouse. "Whew!" whistled Cooney, as he swung his southpaw arm about. "I sure will be lame to-morrow." "You can have a rest," the manager informed him. "And be sure to have your arm massaged well. This is going to be a stiffer proposition than I thought." "Did you see him at the game?" asked Rad of Joe, as they walked along together. "See who?" "Shalleg." "No. Was he there?" "He sure was! I had a glimpse of him over in the bleachers when I ran after that long drive of Mitchell's. He was with that Wessel, but they didn't look my way." "Humph!" mused Joe. "Well, I suppose he's got a right to come to our games. If he bothers me, though, I'll take some action." "What?" "I don't know, yet. But I'm through standing for his nonsense." "I don't blame you." If Joe could have seen Shalleg and Wessel talking to a certain "tough" looking character, after the game, and at the same time motioning in his direction, he would have felt added uneasiness. "Oh, let's go out to some summer garden and cool off," proposed Rad after supper. It was a hot night, and sitting about the hotel was irksome. "All right," agreed Joe, and they started for a car. The same "tough" looking character who had been talking with Wessel and Shalleg took the car as well. Coming back, after sitting through an open-air moving picture performance, Joe and Rad found all the cars crowded. It was an open one, and Joe and Rad had given their seats to ladies, standing up and holding to the back of the seat in front of them. Just beyond Joe was a burly chap, the same one who had left the hotel at the time they did. He kept his seat. Then, as the car reached a certain corner, this man got up hurriedly. "Let me past! I want to get off!" he exclaimed, in unnecessarily rough tones to Joe, at the same time pressing hard against him. "Certainly," the young pitcher replied, removing his hands from the seat in front of him. At that moment the car stopped with a sudden jerk, and the fellow grabbed Joe by the right arm, twisting it so that the ball player cried out, involuntarily. "'Scuse me!" muttered the fellow. "I didn't mean to grab youse so hard. I didn't know youse was so tender," he sneered. "Seems to me you could have grabbed the seat," objected Joe, wincing with pain. The other did not answer, but afterward Rad said he thought he saw him wink and grin maliciously. "Hurt much?" asked Rad of Joe, as the fellow got off and the car went on again. "It did for a minute. It's better now." "It looked to me as though he did that on purpose," said Rad. "He certainly was very clumsy," spoke one of the ladies to whom Joe and Rad had given their places. "He stepped on my foot, too." Joe worked his arm up and down to limber the muscles, and then thought little more about the incident. That is, until the next morning. He awoke with a sudden sense of pain, and as he stretched out his pitching arm, he cried out. "What's the matter?" asked Rad. "My arm's sore and lame!" complained Joe. "Say, this is tough luck! And maybe I'll get a chance to pitch to-day." CHAPTER XXIV A TIGHT GAME Rad gave a look at his chum, and then, sliding out of bed, ran to the window. "No luck!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean?" asked Joe. "I mean it isn't raining." "What has that got to do with it?" the young pitcher wanted to know, as he moved his sore arm back and forth, a little frown of pain showing on his face at each flexing movement. "Why, if it rained we wouldn't have any game, and you'd get a chance to rest and get in shape. It's a dead cinch that you or Barter will be called on to-day. Willard has 'Charlie-horse,' and he can't pitch. So it's you or Barter." "Then I guess it will have to be Barter," said Joe with a grimace. "I'm afraid I can't go in. And yet I hate to give up and say I can't pitch. It's tough luck!" "Does it hurt much?" Rad wanted to know. "Enough, yes. I could stand it, ordinarily, but every time I move it will make it worse." "Is it where that fellow pinched you, in getting off the car last night?" "He didn't pinch me," said Joe, "it was a deliberate twist." "Deliberate?" questioned Rad in surprise. "It sure was!" exclaimed the young pitcher decidedly. "The more I think of it the more I'm certain that he did it deliberately." "But why should he?" went on Rad. "You didn't prevent him from getting out of the car. There was plenty of room for him to pass. Why should he try to hurt you?" "I don't know," answered Joe, "unless he was put up to it by----" "By Jove! Shalleg! Yes!" cried Rad. "I believe you're right. Shalleg is jealous of you, and he wants to see you kept out of the game, just because he didn't make the nine. And I guess, too, he'd be glad to see the Cardinals lose just to make Manager Watson feel sore. That's it, Joe, as sure as you're a foot high!" "Oh, I don't know as he thought the Cardinals would lose because I didn't pitch," said Joe, slowly, "but he may have been set on me by Shalleg, out of spite. Well, there's no use thinking about that now. I've got to do something about this arm. I think I'll send word that I won't be in shape to-day." "No, don't you do it!" cried Rad. "Maybe we can fix up your arm. I know how to make a dandy liniment that my mother used on me when I was a small chap." "Liniment sounds good," said Joe with a smile. "But I guess I'd better have Boswell look at it. He's got some of his own----" "Yes, and then you'd have to admit that you're lame, and give the whole thing away!" interrupted Rad. "Don't do it. Leave it to me. There's some time before the game and I can give you a good rubbing, meanwhile. I'll send out to the drug store, get the stuff made up, and doctor you here. "There'll be no need to tell 'em anything about it if I can get you into shape, and then, if you're called on, you can go in and pitch. If they think you're crippled they won't give you a chance." "That's so," admitted Joe. "Still, you wouldn't go in if you didn't think you could do good work," went on his chum. "Certainly I would not," agreed Joe. "That would be too much like throwing the game. Well, see what you can do, Rad. I'd like to get a good whack at the fellow who did this, though," he went on, as he worked his arm slowly back and forth. Rad rang for a messenger, and soon had in from a drug store a bottle of strong-smelling liniment, with which he proceeded to massage Joe's arm. He did it twice before the late breakfast to which they treated themselves, and once afterward, before it was time to report at the park for morning practice. "Does it feel better?" asked Rad, as his chum began to do some pitching work. "A whole lot, yes." It was impossible to wholly keep the little secret from Boswell. He watched Joe for a moment and then asked suddenly: "Arm stiff?" "A bit, yes," the pitcher was reluctantly obliged to admit. "You come in the clubhouse and have it attended to!" ordered the trainer. "I can't have you, or any of the boys, laid up." Then, as he got out his bottle of liniment, and looked at Joe's arm, one of the ligaments of which had been strained by the cruel twist, Boswell said, sniffing the air suspiciously: "You've been using some of your own stuff on that arm; haven't you?" "Yes," admitted Joe. "I thought so. Well, maybe it's good, but my stuff is better. I'll soon have you in shape." He began a scientific massage of the sore arm, something of which, with all his good intentions, Rad was not capable. Joe felt the difference at once, and when he went back to practice he was almost himself again. "How about you?" asked Rad, when he got the chance. "I guess I'll last out--if I have to pitch," replied Joe. "But it's not certain that I shall go in." "The Phillies are out to chew us up to-day," went on his chum. "It's going to be a tight game. Don't take any chances." "I won't; you may depend on that." There was a conference between Boswell and the manager. "Who shall I put in the box?" asked the latter, for he often depended in a great measure on the old trainer. "Let Barter open the ball, and see how he does. It's my notion that he won't stand the pace, for he's a little off his feed. But I want to take a little more care of Matson, and this will give him a couple of innings to catch up." "Matson!" cried the manager. "Has he----" "Just a little soreness," said Boswell quickly, for that was all he imagined it to be. He had not asked Joe how it happened, for which the young pitcher was glad. "It'll be all right with a little more rubbing." He knew Joe's hope, and wanted to do all he could to further it. "All right. Announce Barter and Russell as the battery. And you look after Matson; will you?" "I sure will. I think Joe can pitch his head off if he gets the chance." "I hope he doesn't lose his head," commented the manager grimly. "It's going to be a hard game." Which was the opinion of more than one that day. Joe was taken in charge by Boswell, and in the clubhouse more attention was given to the sore arm. "How does it feel now?" asked the trainer, anxiously. "Fine!" replied Joe, and really the pain seemed all gone. "Then come out and warm up with me. You'll be needed, if I am any judge." To Joe's delight he found that he could send the ball in as swiftly as ever, and with good aim. "You'll do!" chuckled Boswell. "And just in time, too. There goes a home run, and Barter's been hit so hard that we'll have to take him out." It was the beginning of the third inning, and, sure enough, when it came the turn of the Cardinals to bat, a substitution was made, and the manager said: "Get ready, Joe. You'll pitch the rest of the game." Joe nodded, with a pleased smile, but, as he raised his arm to bend it back and forth, a sharp spasm of pain shot through it. "Whew!" whistled Joe, under his breath. "I wonder if the effects of that liniment are wearing off? If they are, and that pain comes back, I'm done for, sure. What'll I do?" There was little time to think; less to do anything. Joe would not bat that inning, that was certain. He took a ball, and, nodding to Rad, who was not playing, went out to the "bull-pen." "What's up?" asked Rad, cautiously. "I felt a little twinge. I just want to try the different balls, and find which I can deliver to best advantage to myself. You catch." Rad nodded understandingly. To Joe's delight he found that in throwing his swift one, the spitter, and his curves he had no pain. But his celebrated fadeaway made him wince when he twisted his arm into the peculiar position necessary to get the desired effect. "Wow!" mused Joe. "I can't deliver that, it's a sure thing. Well, I'm not going to back out now. I'll stay in as long as I can. But it's going to hurt!" He shut his teeth, and, trying to keep away from his face the shadow of pain, threw his fadeaway to Rad again. The pain shot through his arm like a sharp knife. "But I'll do it!" thought Joe, grimly. CHAPTER XXV IN NEW YORK "That's good," called Rad, as he caught a swift one. "You'll do, Joe." But only the young pitcher knew what an effort it was going to cost him to stay in that game. And stay he must. It was time for the Cardinals to take the field. The Phillies were two runs ahead, and that lead must be cut down, and at least one more tally made if the game were to be won. "Can we do it?" thought Joe. He felt the pain in his arm, but he ground his teeth and muttered: "I'm going to do it!" The play started off with the new pitcher in the box. The news went flashing over the telegraph wires from the reporters on the ground to the various bulletin boards through the country, and to the newspaper offices. Baseball Joe was pitching for the Cardinals. But Joe was not thinking of the fame that was his. All he thought of was the effort he must make to pitch a winning game. Fortunately for him three of the weakest batters on the Phillies faced him that inning. Joe knew it, and so did the catcher, for he did not signal for the teasing fadeaway, for which Joe was very glad. Joe tried a couple of practice balls, but he did not slam them in with his usual force, at which the man in the mask wondered. He had not heard of Joe's lame arm, and he reasoned that his partner was holding back for reasons best known to himself. "Ball one!" yelled the umpire when Joe had made his first delivery to the batter. Joe winced, partly with pain, and partly because of the wasted effort that meant so much to him. "The next one won't be a ball!" he muttered fiercely. He sent in a puzzling curve that enticed the batter. "Strike one!" "That's better!" yelled Boswell, from the coaching line. "Serve 'em some more like that, Joe." And Joe did. No one but himself knew the effort it cost him, but he kept on when it was agony to deliver the ball. Perhaps he should not have done it, for he ran the chance of injuring himself for life, and also ran the chance of losing the game for his team. But Joe was young--he did not think of those things. He just pitched--not for nothing had he been dubbed "Baseball Joe." "You're out!" snapped the umpire to the first batter, who turned to the bench with a sickly grin. Joe faced the next one. To his alarm the catcher signalled for a fadeaway. Joe shook his head. He thought he could get away with a straight, swift one. But when the batter hit it Joe's heart was in his throat until he saw that it was a foul. By a desperate run Russell caught it. Joe pitched the next man out cleanly. "That's the way to do it!" "Joe, you're all right!" "Now we'll begin to do something!" Thus cried his teammates. And from then on the Phillies were allowed but one more tally. This could not be helped, for Joe was weakening, and could not control the ball as well as at first. But the run came in as much through errors on the part of his fellow players as from his own weakness. Meanwhile the Cardinals struck a batting streak, and made good, bunching their hits. The ending of the eighth inning saw the needed winning run go up in the frame of the Cardinals, and then it was Joe's task to hold the Phillies hitless in their half of the ninth. How he did it he did not know afterward. His arm felt as though someone were jabbing it with a knife. He gritted his teeth harder and harder, and stuck it out. But oh! what a relief it was when the umpire, as the third batter finished at the plate, called: "You're out!" The Cardinals had won! Joe's work for the day was finished. But at what cost only he knew. Pure grit had pulled him through. "Say, did you pitch with that arm?" asked Boswell in surprise as he saw Joe under the shower in the clubhouse later. "Well, I made a bluff at it," said Joe, grimly and gamely. "Well, I'll be Charlie-horsed!" exclaimed the trainer. "Say, you won't do any more pitching for a week! I've got to take you in hand." Of course the story of Joe's grit got out, and the papers made much of how he had pitched through nearly a full game, winning it, too, which was more, with a badly hurt arm. "But don't you take any such chances as that again!" cried Manager Watson, half fiercely, when he heard about it. "I can't have my pitchers running risks like that. Pitchers cost too much money!" This was praise enough for Joe. And so he had a much-needed rest. Under the care of Boswell the arm healed rapidly, though, for some time, Joe was not allowed to take part in any big games, for which he was sorry. Whether it was the example of Joe's grit, or because they had improved of late was not made manifest, but the Cardinals took three of the four games with the Phillies, which made Manager Watson gleeful. "They called us tail-enders!" he exulted, "but if we don't give the Giants a rub before the end of the season I'll miss my guess!" The Cardinals were on the move again. They went from city to city, playing the scheduled games, winning some and losing enough to keep them about in fifth place. Joe saw much of life, of the good and bad sides. Many temptations came to him, as they do to all young fellows, whether in the baseball game, or other business or pleasure. But Joe "passed them up." Perhaps the memory of a certain girl helped him. Often it does. The Cardinals came to New York, once more to do battle with the redoubtable Giants. "But you won't get a game!" declared Manager McGraw to "Muggins" Watson. "Won't we? I don't know about that. I'm going to spring my colt slab artist on you again." "Who, Matson?" "Um," said the manager of the Cardinals. "Um," responded the manager of the Giants, laughing. St. Louis did get one game of a double-header, and Joe, whose arm was in perfect trim again, pitched. It was while he was on the mound that a certain man, reputed to be a scout for the Giants, was observed to be taking a place where he could watch the young pitcher to advantage. "Up to your old tricks; eh, Jack?" asked a man connected with the management of the Cardinals. "Who are you scouting for now?" "Well, that little shortstop of yours looks pretty good to me," was the drawling answer. "What you s'pose you'll be asking for him." "He's not for sale. Now if you mentioned the centre fielder, Jack----" "Nothing doing. I've got one I'll sell you cheap." "I don't suppose you want to make an offer for Matson; do you?" asked the Cardinal man with a slow wink. "Oh, no, we've got all the pitchers we can use," the Giant scout responded quickly. It is thus that their kind endeavor to deceive one another. But, as the game went on, it might have been observed that the Giant scout changed his position, where he could observe Joe in action from another angle. "Didn't see anything of Shalleg since we struck Manhattan; did you, Joe?" asked Rad, as he and his chum, taking advantage of a rainy day in New York, were paying a visit to the Museum of Natural History. "No," replied Joe, pausing in front of a glass case containing an immense walrus. "I don't want to see him, either. I'm sure he planned to do me some harm, and I'm almost positive that some of his tools had to do with my sore arm. But I can't prove it." "That's the trouble," admitted Rad. "Well, come on, I want to see that model of the big whale. They say it's quite a sight." The rain prevented games for three days, and the players were getting a bit "stale" with nothing to do. Then the sun came out, the grounds dried up and the series was resumed. But the Cardinals were not very lucky. Philadelphia was the next stopping place, and there, once again, the Cardinals proved themselves the masters of the Quakers. They took three games straight, and sweetened up their average wonderfully, being only a game and a half behind the fourth club. "If we can only keep up the pace!" said the manager, wistfully. "Joe, are you going to help us do it?" "I sure am!" exclaimed the young pitcher. There was one more game to play with the Phillies. The evening before it was scheduled, which would close their stay in the Quaker City, Joe left the hotel, and strolled down toward the Delaware River. He intended to take the ferry over to Camden, in New Jersey, for a friend of his mother lived there, and he had promised to call on her. Joe did not notice that, as he left the hotel, he was closely followed by a man who walked and acted like Wessel. But the man wore a heavy beard, and Wessel, the young pitcher remembered was usually smooth-shaven. But Joe did not notice. If he had perhaps he would have seen that the beard was false, though unusually well adjusted. Joe turned his steps toward the river front. It was a dark night, for the sky was cloudy and it looked like rain. Joe just missed one ferryboat, and, as there would be some little time before the other left, he strolled along the water front, looking at what few sights there were. Before he realized it, he had gone farther than he intended. He found himself in a rather lonely neighborhood, and, as he turned back a bearded man, who had been walking behind the young pitcher for some time, stepped close to him. "I beg your pardon," the man began, speaking as though he had a heavy cold, "but could you direct me to the Reading Terminal?" "Yes," said Joe, who had a good sense of direction, and had gotten the "lay of the land" pretty well fixed in his mind. "Let's see now--how I can best direct you?" He thought for a moment. By going a little farther away from the ferry he could put the stranger on a thoroughfare that would be more direct than traveling back the way he had come. "If you wouldn't mind walking along a little way," said the man eagerly. "I'm a stranger here, and----" "Oh, I'll go with you," offered Joe, good-naturedly. "I'm not in any hurry." Be careful, Joe! Be careful! CHAPTER XXVI ADRIFT "There," said Baseball Joe, coming to a halt at a dark street corner, the stranger close beside him, "if you go up that way, and turn as I told you to, it will take you directly to the Reading Terminal." "I don't know how to thank you," mumbled the other. He seemed to be fumbling in his pocket. "I'll give you my card," he went on. "If you are ever in San Francisco----" But it was not a card that he pulled from the inner pocket of his coat. It was a rag, that bore a strange, faint odor. Joe stepped back, but not quickly enough. He suspected something wrong, but he was too late. An instant later the stranger had thrown one powerful arm about the young pitcher, and, with his other hand he pressed the chloroform-saturated rag to Joe's nose and mouth. Joe tried to cry out, and struggled to free himself. But his senses seemed leaving him under the influence of the powerful drug. At that moment, as though it had been timing itself to the movements of the man who had followed Joe, there drove up a large ramshackle cab, and out of it jumped two men. "Did you get him, Wes?" one asked eagerly. "I sure did. Here, help me. He's gone off. Get him into the cab." Poor Joe's senses had all but left him. He was an inert mass, but he could hear faintly, and he recognized the voice of Shalleg. He tried to rouse himself, but it was as though he were in a heavy sleep, or stupor. He felt himself being lifted into a cab. The door slammed shut, and then he was rattled away over the cobbles. "I wonder what they're going to do with me?" Joe thought. He had enough of his brain in working order to do that. Once more he tried to struggle. "Better tie him up," suggested a voice he now recognized as that of the fellow who had twisted his arm on the street car. "Yes, I guess we had," agreed Shalleg. "And then to the Delaware with him!" Joe was too weak, and too much under the influence of the drug, to care greatly what they did with him--that is, in a sense, though a feeling of terror took possession of him at the words. "The river!" gasped Wessel. "I thought you said there'd be no violence, Shalleg." "And there won't!" promised the leader of the conspirators. "But you said to tie him, and then to the river with him." "You don't s'pose I'm going to chuck him in; do you?" was the angry question. "I don't know." "Well, I'm not! I'm just going to put him out of the way for a time. I told him I'd get even with him for not helping me out of a hole, and then for spreading reports about me, that kept me from getting a place on the Cardinals, as well as on any other team. I told him I'd fix him!" So, this was the secret of Shalleg's animosity! He had a fancied grievance against Joe, and was taking this means of gratifying his passion for revenge. Joe, dimly hearing, understood now. He longed to be able to speak, to assure Shalleg that he was all wrong, but they had bound a rag about his mouth, and he could not utter a sound, even had not the chloroform held his speech in check. "Pass over those ropes," directed Shalleg to his cronies in the cab, which lurched and swayed over the rough stones. The cab held four, on a pinch, and Joe was held and supported by one of the men. The gag in the young pitcher's mouth was made tighter, and ropes were passed about his arms and feet. He could not move. "What's the game?" asked Wessel, as the trussing-up was finished. "Well, I don't want to do him any real harm," growled Shalleg, "but I'm going to put him out of the game, just as I was kept out of it by his tattling tongue. I'm going to make him fail to show up to-morrow, and the next day, too, maybe. That'll put a crimp in his record, and in the Cardinals', too, for he's been doing good work for them. I'll say that about him, much as I hate him!" Joe heard this plot against him, heard it dimly, through his half-numbed senses, and tried to struggle free from his bonds. But he could not. On rattled the cab. Joe could not tell in which direction they were going, but he was sure it was along the lonely river front. The effects of the chloroform were wearing off, but the gag kept him silent, and the ropes bound his hands and feet. "Have any trouble trailing him?" asked Shalleg of Wessel, who had disguised himself with a false beard. "Not a bit," was the answer. "It was pie! I pretended I had lost my way." The men laughed. Either they thought Joe was still incapable of hearing them, or they did not care if their identity and plans were known. A multitude of thoughts rushed through Joe's head. He did not exactly understand what the men were going to do with him. They had spoken of taking him to the river. Perhaps they meant to keep him prisoner on a boat until his contract with the St. Louis team would be void, because of his non-appearance. And Joe knew how hard it would be to get back in the game after that. True, he could explain how it had happened, and he felt sure he would not be blamed. But when would he get a chance to make explanations? And there was the game to-morrow! He knew he would be called on to pitch, for Mr. Watson had practically told him so. And Joe would not be on hand. "Aren't we 'most there?" asked Wessel. "Yes," answered Shalleg, shortly. "What are we to do?" asked the other. "You'll know soon enough," was the half-growled reply. The cab rattled on. Then it came to a stop. Joe could smell the dampness of the river, and he realized that the next act in the episode was about to be played. He felt himself being lifted out of the cab, and he had a glimpse of a street, but it was too dark to recognize where it was, and Joe was not well enough acquainted with Philadelphia to know the neighborhood. Then a handkerchief was bound over his eyes, and he was in total darkness. He heard whispered words between Shalleg and the driver of the cab, but could not make out what they were. Then the vehicle rattled off. "Catch hold of him now," directed Shalleg to his companions. "We'll carry him down to the river." "To the river!" objected Wessel, and Joe felt a shiver go through him. "Well, to the boat then!" snapped Shalleg. "Don't talk so much." Joe felt himself being carried along, and, a little later, he was laid down on what he felt was the bottom of a boat. A moment later he could tell by the motion of the craft that he was adrift on the Delaware. CHAPTER XXVII THE RESCUE For a few moments Joe was in a sort of daze. He was extremely uncomfortable, lying on the hard bottom of the boat, and there seemed to be rough water, for the craft swayed, and bobbed up and down. Joe wondered if he was alone, for he did not hear the noise of oars in the locks, nor did he catch the voices of the three rascals. But it soon developed that they were with him, for, presently Wessel asked: "Where are we going with him?" "Keep still!" snapped Shalleg in a tense whisper. "Do you want someone to hear us?" "Who, him?" "No, someone on these ships. We're right alongside of 'em yet. Keep still; can't you!" Wessel subsided, but one of Joe's questions was answered. There were other problems yet unsolved, though. What were they going to do with him? He could only wait and learn. The bandage was still over his eyes, and he tried, by wrinkling the skin of his forehead, to work it loose. But he could not succeed. He wished he could have some glimpse, even a faint one, in the darkness, of where he was, though perhaps it would have done him little good. "Take the oars now," directed Shalleg, after a pause. "I guess it's safe to row out a bit. There aren't so many craft here now. But go easy." "Hadn't we better show a light?" asked the man who had twisted Joe's arm. "We might be run down!" "Light nothing!" exclaimed Shalleg, who now spoke somewhat above a whisper. "I don't want some police launch poking her nose up here. It's light enough for us to see to get out of the way if anything comes along. I'm not going to answer any hails." "Oh, all right," was the answer. Joe's head was beginning to clear itself from the fumes of the chloroform, and he could think more clearly. He wondered more and more what his fate was to be. Evidently the men were taking him somewhere in a rowboat. But whether he was to be taken wherever they were going, in this small craft, or whether it was being used to transport them to a larger boat, he could not, of course, determine. The men rowed on for some time in silence. "It's getting late," ventured Wessel at length. "Not late enough, though," growled Shalleg. Joe went over, in his mind, all the events that had been crowded into the last few hours. He had told Rad that he was going to see his mother's friend in Camden, but had given no address. "They won't know but what I'm staying there all night," he reasoned. "And they won't start to search for me until some time to-morrow. When I don't show up at the game they'll think it's queer, and I suppose they'll fine me. I wouldn't mind that if they only come and find me. But how can they do it? There isn't a clue they could follow, as far as I know. Not one!" He tried to think of some means by which he could be traced, and rescued by his friends, but he could imagine none. No one who knew him had seen him come down to the ferry, or walk through the deserted neighborhood. And, as far as he knew, no one had seen the bearded stranger accost him. "I'll just have disappeared--that's all," mused poor Joe, lying on the hard and uncomfortable bottom of the boat. For some time longer the three men, or rather two of them, rowed on, paying no attention to Joe. Then Shalleg spoke. "I guess we're far enough down the river," he said. "We can go ashore now." "And take him with us?" asked Wessel. "Well, you don't think I'm going to chuck him overboard; do you?" demanded Shalleg. "I told you I wasn't going to do anything violent." "But what are you going to do?" "Wait, and you'll see," was the rather unsatisfactory answer. Joe wished it was settled. He, too, was wondering. The course of the boat seemed changed. By the motion the men were rowing across a choppy current, probably toward shore. Joe found this to be so, a little later, for the boat's side grated against what was probably a wooden pier. "Light the lantern," directed Shalleg. "But I thought you didn't want to be seen," objected Wessel. "Do as I tell you," was the sharp rejoinder. "We're not going to be seen. We're going to leave the boat." "And leave him in it?" asked the other man. "Yes, I'm going to turn him adrift down the river," went on the chief conspirator. "I'll stick a light up, though, so he won't be run down. I don't wish him that harm." "Are you going to leave him tied?" Wessel wanted to know. "I sure am!" was the rejoinder. "Think I want him giving the alarm, and having us nabbed? Not much!" Dimly, from beneath the handkerchief over his eyes, Joe saw the flash as a match was struck, and the lantern lighted. Then he heard it being lashed to some upright in the boat. A little later Joe felt the craft in which he lay being shoved out into the stream, and then he realized that he was alone, drifting down the Delaware, toward the bay, and tied hand and foot, as well as being gagged. He was practically helpless. "There, I guess that'll teach him not to meddle in my affairs any more!" said Shalleg bitterly. Then Joe heard no more, save the lapping of the waves against the side of the craft. For a time his senses seemed to leave him under the terrible strain, and when he again was in possession of his faculties he could not tell how long he had been drifting alone, nor had he any idea of the time, save that it was still night. "Well, I've got to do something!" decided Joe. "I've got to try and get rid of this gag, and yell for help, and to do that I've got to have the use of my hands." Then he began to struggle, but the men who had trussed him up had done their evil work well, and he only cut his wrists on the cruel bonds. He was on his back, and he wished there was some rough projection in the bottom of the boat, against which he could rub his rope-entangled wrists. But there was none. How the hours of darkness passed Joe never knew. He was thankful for one thing--that there was a light showing in his boat, for he would not be run down in the darkness by some steamer, or motor craft. By daylight he hoped the drifting boat might be seen, and picked up. Then he would be rescued. Even now, if he could only have called, he might have been saved. Gradually Joe became aware that morning had come. He could see a film of light beneath the bandage over his eyes. The boat was bobbing up and down more violently now. "I must be far down the bay," thought Joe. He was cramped, tired, and almost parched for a drink. He had dozed fitfully through the night, and his eyes smarted and burned under the bandage. Suddenly he heard voices close at hand, above the puffing of a motorboat. "Look there!" someone exclaimed. "A boat is adrift. Maybe we can work that into the film." "Maybe," assented another voice. "Let's go over and see, anyhow. We want this reel to be a good one." Dimly Joe wondered what the words meant. He heard the voices, and the puffing of the motor coming nearer. Then the latter sound ceased. Some craft bumped gently against his, and a man cried: "Someone is in this boat!" CHAPTER XXVIII MOVING PICTURES For a moment silence followed the announcement that meant so much to Joe. He could hear murmurs of surprise, and the violent motion of the craft in which he lay, bound helpless and unseeing, told him that the work of rescue was under way. The motor boat, he reflected, must be making fast to the other. The bandage over Joe's eyes prevented him from seeing what went on. Then came a series of exclamations and questions, and, to Joe's surprise, the voices of women and girls mingled with those of men. "My, look, Jackson!" a man's voice exclaimed. "He's bound, and gagged. There's been some crime here!" "You're right. We must get him aboard our boat." Joe could tell, by the motion of the boat which contained him, that some of the rescue party were getting into it to aid him. Then he felt the bandage being taken from his eyes, and the gag from his mouth. "Hand me a knife, somebody!" called a man. "I'll cut these ropes." Joe opened his eyes, and closed them again with a feeling of pain. The sudden light of a bright, sunny morning was too much for him. "He's alive, anyhow," a girl's voice said. Joe half opened his eyes this time, and saw a strange sight. Alongside his boat was a cabin motor craft, and on the rear deck he could see gathered a number of men, women and girls. What took Joe's attention next was a queer oblong box, with a crank at one side, and a tube projecting from it, mounted on a tripod. Then, as his eyes became more accustomed to the light, Joe saw bending over him in the boat, two men. One of them had a knife, with which he quickly cut the ropes that bound Joe's arms and feet. It was a great relief. He sat up and looked about him. The motor boat was a large and fine one, and was slowly drifting down into Delaware Bay, for Joe could see a vast stretch of water on all sides. "Too bad we can't work this rescue into a scene," spoke one of the men on the motor craft. Joe looked at him wonderingly, and then at the machine on the bow of the boat. All at once he realized what it was--a moving picture camera. He had seen them before. "Are you folks in the movies?" he asked as he stood up, with the help of the two men. "That's what we are," was the answer. "We came out early this morning to do a bit of 'water stuff,' when we saw your boat adrift. We put over to it, and were surprised to see you tied in it. Can you tell us what happened?" "Yes," answered Joe, "I was practically kidnapped!" "Come aboard, and have some coffee," urged a motherly-looking woman of the party. "Yes, do," added another member of the company. "We have just had breakfast." The aroma of coffee was grateful to Joe, and soon he was aboard the motorboat, sipping a steaming cup. "Kidnapped; eh?" remarked one of the men. "Then we'd better save that boat for you. It will be a clue to those who did it." "Oh, I know who did it, all right," answered Joe, who was rapidly feeling more like himself. "I don't need the boat for evidence. But, since you have been so kind to me, I wish you'd do one thing more." "Name it," promptly said the man who seemed to be in charge of the company. "Get me somewhere so I can send word to Philadelphia--to Manager Watson of the St. Louis Cardinals. I want to explain what happened, so he won't expect me in the game to-day." "Are you a member of the St. Louis team?" asked one of the men, quickly. "One of the pitchers--my name is Matson." The two leading men of the company looked at each other in an odd manner. "It couldn't have happened better; could it, Harry?" one asked. Our hero was a trifle mystified until the man called Harry explained. "You see, it's this way," he said. "My name is Harry Kirk, and this is James Morton," nodding toward the other man. "We manage a moving picture company, most of whom you now see," and he indicated those about him. "We have been doing a variety of stuff, and we want to get some baseball pictures. We've been trying to induce some of the big teams to play an exhibition game for us, but so far we haven't been successful. Now if you would use your influence with your manager, and he could induce some other team to play a short game, why we'd be ever so much obliged." "Of course I'll do all I can!" cried Joe. "I can't thank you enough for your rescue of me, and the least I could do would be to help you out! I'm pretty sure I can induce Mr. Watson to let his team give an exhibition, anyhow." "That's all we want--an opening wedge," said Mr. Kirk, "but we couldn't seem to get it. Our finding of you was providential." "It was for me, anyhow," said Joe. "I don't know what might have happened to me if I had drifted much farther." Joe explained how it had happened, and the unreasoning rage of Shalleg toward him. "He ought to be sent to jail for life, to do such a thing as that!" burst out Mr. Kirk. "You'll inform the police; won't you?" "I think I had better," said Joe, thoughtfully. The motor began its throbbing, and the big boat cut through the water, towing the small craft, in which Joe had spent so many uncomfortable hours. The young pitcher was himself again, thanks to a good breakfast, and when the dock was reached was able to talk to Manager Watson over the telephone. It was then nearly noon, and Joe was in no shape to get in the game that day. To say that the news he gave the manager astonished Mr. Watson is putting it mildly. "You stay where you are," directed his chief. "I'll send someone down to see you, or come myself. We'll get after this Shalleg and his gang. This has gone far enough!" "What about the game to-day?" asked Joe. "Don't you worry about that. We'll beat the Phillies anyhow, though I was counting on you, Joe. But don't worry." CHAPTER XXIX SHALLEG'S DOWNFALL Plans to capture Shalleg and his cronies were carefully made, but were unsuccessful, for, it appeared, the scoundrel and his cronies had fled after putting Joe into the boat. The moving picture people readily agreed to keep silent about the affair, and Manager Watson said he would explain Joe's absence from the game in a way that would disarm suspicion. Joe soon recovered from his unpleasant and dangerous experience and, true to his promise, used his influence to induce Mr. Watson to play an exhibition game for the moving picture people. "Of course we'll do it!" the manager exclaimed. "That would be small pay for what they did for you. I'll see if we can't play the Phillies right here. Of course it will have to be arranged with the high moguls, but I guess it can be." And it was. The game was not to count in the series, for some changes and new rules had to be adopted to make it possible to get it within the scope of the moving picture cameras. And the picture managers agreed to pay a sum that made it worth while for the players, Joe included, to put up a good game of ball. To his delight Joe was selected to pitch for his side, and fully himself again, he "put up a corking good game," to quote his friend Rad. "Well, I'm not sorry to be leaving Philadelphia," remarked Joe to Rad, when their engagement in the Quaker City was over, and they were to go on to Brooklyn. "I always have a feeling that Shalleg will show up again." "I only wish he would!" exclaimed Rad. "I don't!" said Joe, quickly. "I mean and be captured," his chum added, quickly. "Oh, that's different," laughed Joe. Taking three of the four games from the Superbas, two of them on the same day, in a double-header, the St. Louis team added to their own prestige, and, incidentally, to their standing in the league, gaining fourth place. "I think we have a good chance of landing third place," the manager exulted when they started West. They were to play Chicago in their home town, then work their way to New York for a final set-to with the Giants, and end the season on Robison Field. And in St. Louis something happened that, for a long time, took Shalleg out of Joe's path. The first game with Chicago had been a hard one, but by dint of hard work, and good pitching (Joe going in at the fourth inning to replace Barter), the Cardinals won. "And we'll do the same to-morrow," good-naturedly boasted Manager Watson, to Mr. Mandell of the Cubs. "Well, maybe you will, but I have a good chance to put it all over you," said the Chicago manager, and there was that in his manner which caused Mr. Watson to ask quickly: "What do you mean?" "Just this. How much chance do you think you'd have to win if our men knew your battery signals?" "Not much, of course, but the thing is impossible!" "Is it?" asked the other, quietly. "Not so impossible as you suppose. I have just received an offer to have the signals disclosed to me before the game to-morrow." "By whom?" cried Manager Watson. "If any of my players is trying to throw the team----" "Go easy," advised the other with a smile. "It's nothing like that. The offer came from a man, who, I understand, tried unsuccessfully to become a member of the Cardinals." "Not Shalleg!" "That's who it was." "Where can I get him?" asked Mr. Watson, eagerly. "He's wanted on a good deal more serious charge than that. Where can I get him?" "I thought you might want to see him," said the Chicago manager, "so I put him off. I've made an appointment with him----" "Which the police and I will keep!" interrupted Mr. Watson. "Perhaps that would be better," agreed Mr. Mandell. So the plot for the downfall of Shalleg was laid. It appeared that he had come back to St. Louis, and, by dint of careful watching, and by his knowledge of the game, he had managed to steal the signal system used between the Cardinal pitchers and catchers. This he proposed disclosing to the Chicago team, but of course the manager would have nothing to do with the scheme. Shalleg had named a low resort for the transfer of the information he possessed, he to receive in exchange a sum of money. He was in desperate straits, it appeared. The Cubs' manager, Joe and Mr. Watson, with a detective, went to the appointed meeting place. The manager went in alone, but the others were hiding, in readiness to enter at a signal. "Did you bring the money?" asked Shalleg, eagerly, as he saw the man with whom he hoped to make a criminal "deal." "I have the money, yes," was the cool answer. "Are you prepared to disclose to me the Cardinal battery signals?" "Yes, but don't speak so loud, someone might hear you!" whined Shalleg. "That's just what I want!" cried the manager in loud tones, and that was the signal for the officer to come in. He, Joe and Mr. Watson had heard enough to convict Shalleg. "Ha! A trap!" cried the released player, as he saw them close in on him. He made a dash to get away, but, after a brief struggle, the detective overpowered him, for Shalleg's manner of life was not such as to make him a fighter. He saw that it was no use to bluff and bluster, and, his nerve completely gone, he made a full confession. After his unsuccessful attempt to borrow money of Joe, he really became imbued with the idea that our hero had injured him, and was spreading false reports about him. So he set out to revenge himself on Joe. It was Shalleg who induced Wessel to pick a quarrel with Joe, hoping to disable the pitcher so he could not play ball that season. It was a mean revenge to plot. And it was Shalleg's idea, in luring Joe to the lonely house, on the plea of helping Rad, to involve him in a fight that might disable, or disgrace, him so that he would have to resign from the Cardinals. Likewise it was a tool of Shalleg's who kept track of Joe, who boarded the same car as did our hero, and who so cruelly twisted his arm, hoping to put him out of the game. Shalleg denied having induced Wessel to enter Joe's room that night in question, but his denial can be taken for what it was worth. As to Weasel's object, it could only be guessed at. It may have been robbery, or some worse crime. And then, when all else failed, Shalleg tried the desperate plan of kidnapping Joe, but, as he explained, he did not really intend bodily harm. And perhaps he did not. He was a weak and criminally bad man, but perhaps there was a limit. "Well, this is the end!" the former ball player said, bitterly, as he was handcuffed, and led away. "I might have known better." Some time afterward, when the ball season had closed, Shalleg was tried on the charge of mistreating Joe, and was convicted, being sentenced to a long term. His cronies were not caught, but as they were only tools for Shalleg no one cared very much whether or not they were punished. CHAPTER XXX THE HARDEST BATTLE Filled to overflowing were the big bleachers. Crowded were the grandstands. Above the noise made by the incoming elevated trains, and the tramp of thousands of feet along the boarded run-ways leading to the big concrete Brush Stadium at the Polo Grounds, could be heard the shrill voices of the vendors of peanuts, bottled ginger ale and ice cream cones. Out on the perfect diamond, laid out as though with rule and compass, men in white and other men in darker uniforms were practicing. Balls were being caught, other balls were being batted. It was a sunny, perfect day, hot enough to make fast playing possible, and yet with a refreshing breeze. "Well, Joe, are we going to win?" asked Rad, as he and his chum went to the bench after their warm-up work. "I don't know," answered the young pitcher slowly. "They're a hard team to beat." It was the final game between the Giants and the Cardinals. To win it meant for the St. Louis team that they would reach third place. And if they did get third position, it was practically certain that they could keep it, for their closing games in St. Louis were with the tail-enders of the league. "Are you going to pitch, Joe?" "I don't know that, either. Haven't heard yet," was the answer. Just then a messenger came up to Joe. "There's somebody in that box," he said, indicating one low down, and just back of home plate, "who wants to speak to you." Joe looked around, and a delighted look came over his face as he saw his father and mother, Clara, and one other. "Mabel!" exclaimed Joe, and then he hurried over. "Say, this is great!" he cried, with sparkling eyes. "I didn't know you folks were coming," and he kissed his mother and sister, and wished--but there! I said I wouldn't tell secrets. "Your father found he had some business in New York," explained Mrs. Matson, "so we thought we would combine pleasure with it, and see you play." "And they looked me up, and brought me along," added Mabel. "I just happened to be in town. Now we want to see you win, Joe!" "I don't even know that I'll play," he said, wistfully. Joe felt that he could bide his time, and yet he did long to be the one to open the game, as it was an important one, and a record-breaking crowd was on hand to see it. But it was evident that Manager Watson's choice of a pitcher must be changed. It needed but two innings to demonstrate that, for the Giants got four hits and three runs off Slim Cooney, who, most decidedly, was not in form. The substitution of a batter was made, and the manager nodded at Joe. "You'll pitch!" he said, grimly. "And I want you to win!" "And I want to," replied Joe, as he thought of those in the box watching him. It was to be Baseball Joe's hardest battle. Opposed to him on the mound for the Giants was a pitcher of world-wide fame, a veteran, well-nigh peerless, who had won many a hard-fought game. I might describe that game to you in detail, but I will confine myself to Joe's efforts, since it is in him we are most interested. I might tell of the desperate chances the Cardinals took to gain runs, and of the exceptionally good stick work they did, against the redoubtable pitcher of the Giants. For a time this pitcher held his opponents to scattering hits. Then, for a fatal moment, he went up in the air. It was a break that was at once taken advantage of by the Cardinals. They slammed out two terrific hits, and, as there were men on bases, the most was made of them. Two wild throws, something exceptional for the Giants, added to the luck, and when the excitement was over the Cardinals had tied the game. "Oh, wow!" "Now, we've got 'em going!" "Only one run to win, boys!" "Hold 'em down, Joe!" Thus came the wild cries from the stands. Excitement was at its height. There was a hasty consultation between the peerless pitcher and the veteran catcher. They had gone up in the air, but now they were down to earth again. From then on, until the beginning of the ninth inning, the Cardinals did not cross home plate, and they got very few hits. It was a marvelous exhibition of ball twirling. But if the Giant pitcher did well, Joe did even better, when you consider that he was only rounding out his first season in a big league, and that he was up against a veteran of national fame, the announcement that he was going to be in the game being sufficient to attract a large throng. "Good work, old man! Good work!" called Boswell, when Joe came to the bench one inning, after having allowed but one hit. "Can you keep it up?" "I--I hope so." It was a great battle--a hard battle. The Giants worked every trick they knew to gain another run, but the score remained a tie. Goose egg after goose egg went up on the score board. The ninth inning had started with the teams still even. "We've just _got_ to get that run!" declared Manager Watson. "We've just _got_ to get it. Joe, you are to bat first. See if you can't get a hit!" Pitchers are proverbially weak hitters. One ingenious theory for it is that they are so used to seeing the ball shooting away from them, and toward the batter, that, when the positions are reversed, and they see the ball coming toward them they get nervous. "Ball!" was the umpire's first decision in Joe's favor. The young pitcher was rather surprised, for he knew the prowess of his opponent. And then Joe decided on what might have proved to be a foolish thing. "I'm going to think that the next one will be a swift, straight one, and I'm going to dig in my spikes and set for it," he decided. And he did. He made a beautiful hit, and amid the wild yells of the crowd he started for first. He beat the ball by a narrow margin, and was declared safe. A pinch hitter was up next, and amid a breathless silence he was watched. But the peerless pitcher was taking no chances, and walked him, thinking to get Joe later. But he did not. For, as luck would have it, Rad Chase made the hit of his life, a three-bagger, and with the crowd going wild, two runs came in, giving the Cardinals the game, if they could hold the Giants down. And it was up to Joe to do this. Could he? As Joe walked to the mound, for that last momentous inning, he glanced toward the box where his parents, sister and Mabel sat. A little hand was waved to him, and Joe waved back. Then he faced his first man. "Thud!" went the ball in Doc Mullin's big mitt. "Ball!" droned the umpire. "Thud!" went another. The batter stood motionless. "Strike!" The batter indignantly tapped the rubber. "Crack!" "You can't get it!" yelled the crowd, as the ball shot up in a foul. The umpire tossed a new ball to Joe, for the other had gone too far away to get back speedily. Joe wet the horsehide, and sent it drilling in. The batter made a slight motion, as though to hit it, but refrained: "Strike! You're out!" said the umpire, stolidly. "Why, that ball was----" "You're out!" and the umpire waved him aside, impatiently. Joe grinned in delight. But when he saw the next man, "Home Run Crater," facing him, our hero felt a little shaky. True, the chances were in favor of the Cardinals, but baseball is full of chances that make or break. "If he wallops it!" thought Joe. But Crater did not wallop it. In his characteristic manner he swung at the first delivery, and connected with it. Over Joe's head it was going, but with a mighty jump Joe corraled it in one hand, a sensational catch that set the crowd wild. Joe was playing the game of his life. "Only one more!" "Strike him out!" "The game is ours, Joe!" But another heavy hitter was up, and there was still work for Baseball Joe to do. To his alarm, as he sent in his first ball, there came to his arm that had been twisted on the car, a twinge of pain. "My! I hope that doesn't bother me," thought Joe, in anxiety. "Ball one," announced the umpire. Joe delivered a straight, swift one. His arm hurt worse, and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. "Strike!" grunted the umpire, and there was some balm for Joe in that. The batter hit the next one for a dribbler, and just managed to reach first. "If I could only have managed to get him out!" mused Joe. "I'd be done now. But I've got to do it over again. I wonder if I can last out?" To his relief the next batter up was one of the weakest of the Giants, and Joe was glad. And even yet a weak batter might make a hit that would turn the tables. "I've got to do it!" murmured Joe, and he wound up for the delivery. "Strike!" announced the umpire. Joe's heart beat hard. "Here goes for the fadeaway," he said to himself, "though it will hurt like fun!" It did, bringing a remembrance of the old hurt. But it fooled the batter, and there were two strikes on him. The game was all but over. With two out, and two strikes called, there could be but one result, unless there was to be something that occurs but once in a lifetime. And it did not occur. "Strike! You're out!" was the umpire's decision, and that was the end. The Cardinals had won, thanks, in a great measure, to Joe Matson's splendid work. "That's the stuff!" "Third place for ours!" "Three cheers for Joe Matson--Baseball Joe!" called his teammates, who crowded around him to clap him on the back and say all sorts of nice things. Joe stood it, blushingly, for a moment, and then he made his way over to the box. As he walked along, a certain quiet man who had been intently watching the game said softly to himself. "He must be mine next season. I guess I can make a trade for him. He'd be a big drawing card for the Giants." "Oh, Joe, it was splendid! Splendid!" cried Mabel, enthusiastically. "Fine!" said his father. "Do you get any extra when your side wins?" asked his mother, while the crowd smiled. "Well, yes, in a way," answered Joe. "You get treated extra well." "And it's going to be my treat this time," said Mabel, with a laugh. "I want you all to come to dinner with me. You'll come; won't you, Joe?" she asked, pleadingly. "Of course," he said. "And bring a friend, if you like," and she glanced at Clara. "I'll bring Rad," Joe answered. They lived the great game over again at the table of the hotel where Mable was stopping. "Is your arm lame?" asked Mrs. Matson, noticing that her son favored his pitching member a trifle. "Oh, I can finish out the season," said Joe. "The remainder will be easy--only a few more games." "And then what?" asked Rad. "Well, a vacation, I suppose, and then get ready for another season with the Cardinals." But Joe was not destined to remain with the Western team. The horizon was widening, and those of you who wish to follow further the adventures of our hero may do so in the succeeding volume, which will be called "Baseball Joe on the Giants; Or, Making Good as a Ball Twirler in the Metropolis." In that we shall see how Joe rose to even higher fame, through grit, hard work and ability. "Well, you turned the trick, old man!" declared Manager Watson, when, a few days later, the team was on the way back to St. Louis. "You did it. I felt sure you could." "Well, _I_ didn't, at one time," was the rejoinder. "My arm started to go back on me." "Well, there's one consolation, Shalleg and his crowd will never get another chance at you," went on the manager. "Now take care of yourself. I'm only going to let you play one game--the closing one at St. Louis. We won't need our stars against the tail-enders." And the Cardinals did not, winning handily with a number of second string men playing. "Where are you going, Joe?" asked Rad, as they sat in their hotel room one evening, for Joe was "dolling up." "Out to a moving picture show." "Moving pictures?" "Yes. That film of the exhibition game we played in Philadelphia is being shown in town. Come on up." "Sure," assented Rad; and as they went out together we will take leave of Baseball Joe. THE END * * * * * BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK A Story of College Football BATTING TO WIN A Story of College Baseball THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN A Story of College Football THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS A Story of College Water Sports THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES _12mo. Illustrated. Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration: BASEBALL JOE PITCHING WIZARD LESTER CHADWICK] 1. BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS _or The Rivals of Riverside_ 2. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE _or Pitching for the Blue Banner_ 3. BASEBALL JOE AT YALE _or Pitching for the College Championship_ 4. BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE _or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_ 5. BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE _or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles_ 6. BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS _or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_ 7. BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES _or Pitching for the Championship_ 8. BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD _or Pitching on a Grand Tour_ 9. BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING _or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record_ 10. BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE _or Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy_ 11. BASEBALL JOE CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM _or Bitter Struggles on the Diamond_ 12. BASEBALL JOE CHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE _or The Record that was Worth While_ 13. BASEBALL JOE CLUB OWNER _or Putting the Home Town on the Map_ 14. BASEBALL JOE PITCHING WIZARD _or Triumphs Off and On the Diamond_ _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CHAMPION SPORTS STORIES By NOEL SAINSBURY, JR. _Every boy enjoys sport stories. Here we present three crackerjack stories of baseball, football, and basketball, written in the vernacular of the boy of to-day, full of action, suspense and thrills, in language every boy will understand, and which we know will be enthusiastically endorsed by all boys._ _Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in color. Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional_ [Illustration: CRACKER STANTON] 1. CRACKER STANTON _Or The Making of a Batsman_ Ralph Stanton, big, rawboned and serious, is a product of the backwoods and a crack rifle shot. Quick thinking and pluck bring him a scholarship to Clarkville School where he is branded "grind" and "dub" by classmates. How his batting brings them first place in the League and how he secures his appointment to West Point make CRACKER STANTON an up-to-the-minute baseball story no lover of the game will want to put down until the last word is read. 2. GRIDIRON GRIT _Or The Making of a Fullback_ A corking story of football packed full of exciting action and good, clean competitive rivalry. Shorty Fiske is six-foot-four and the product of too much money and indulgence at home. How Clarkville School and football develop Shorty's real character and how he eventually stars on the gridiron brings this thrilling tale of school life and football to a grandstand finish. 3. THE FIGHTING FIVE _Or the Kidnapping of Clarkville's Basketball Team_ Clarkville School's basketball team is kidnapped during the game for the State Scholastic Championship. The team's subsequent adventures under the leadership of Captain Charlie Minor as he brings them back to the State College Gymnasium where the two last quarters of the Championship game are played next evening, climaxes twenty-four pulsating hours of adventure and basketball in the FIGHTING FIVE.... CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York 
34100	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 34100-h.htm or 34100-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/34100/34100-h/34100-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/34100/34100-h.zip) LEFTY LOCKE PITCHER-MANAGER by BURT L. STANDISH Author of "Lefty o' the Bush," "Lefty o' the Big League," "Lefty o' the Blue Stockings," "Brick King, Backstop," "The Making of a Big Leaguer," etc. Illustrated by Charles L. Wrenn [Illustration: Lefty had sprained his ankle so seriously that he required assistance to walk from the field. (_See Page 103_)] Publishers Barse & Co. New York, N. Y.--Newark, N. J. Copyright, 1916 By Barse & Co. LEFTY LOCKE, PITCHER-MANAGER Printed in the United States of America CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I An Unexpected Offer 11 II Something Queer 20 III The Federal Policy 28 IV The Magnetized Ball 37 V A Man of Mystery 48 VI Peculiar Behavior 56 VII The Test 64 VIII At Necessity's Demand 72 IX Torturing Doubt 79 X The Only Door 86 XI Burning Speed 93 XII Too Much Temptation 103 XIII The Perplexing Question 113 XIV Only One Way 120 XV Signing the Manager 132 XVI The Wrong Stool Pigeon 139 XVII Getting into Action 146 XVIII The First Deal 155 XIX A Fleeting Glimpse 165 XX A Riddle to Solve 175 XXI The Man Ahead 180 XXII A Doubtful Victory 186 XXIII All Wrong 194 XXIV Wheels Within Wheels 202 XXV Hidden Tracks 210 XXVI Not Much Show 219 XXVII The Suspended Ax 226 XXVIII The Gage of War 233 XXIX The Jaws of the Trap 240 XXX One Against Three 248 XXXI Light on a Dark Spot 255 XXXII One Chance 266 XXXIII One in a Million 274 XXXIV Weegman's Proposal 281 XXXV The Shattering Stroke 288 XXXVI The Test of Mysterious Jones 296 XXXVII The Return of Lefty 308 LEFTY LOCKE, PITCHER-MANAGER CHAPTER I AN UNEXPECTED OFFER Lefty Locke gave the man a look of surprise. The soft, bright moonlight was shining full on Weegman's face, and he was chuckling. He was always chuckling or laughing outright, and Locke had grown tired of it. It was monotonous. "What do you mean?" the pitcher asked. "Tinware for Kennedy! I don't believe I get you." Weegman snapped his fingers; another little trick that was becoming monotonous and irritating. "That's poor slang perhaps," he admitted; "but you've been in the game long enough to understand it. Collier is going to tie the can to old Jack." Lefty moved his chair round on the little vine-covered porch in order to face his visitor squarely. Frogs were chorusing in the distance, and the dynamo in the electric power house on the edge of the town kept up its constant nocturnal droning. "I could scarcely believe you meant just that," said the star slabman of the Blue Stockings soberly. "Being Charles Collier's private secretary, and therefore to a large extent aware of his plans, I presume you know what you're talking about." "You can bet on it," laughed Weegman, leaning back and puffing at his cigar. "I'm the man Collier left to carry out his orders regarding the team. I have full instructions and authority." "But I'm sure Kennedy has no inkling of this. I correspond with him regularly, and I know he expected a new contract to sign before Mr. Collier went abroad. He wrote me that the contract was to be mailed him from New York, but that he supposed Collier, being a sick man, forgot it at the last moment." Weegman took the cigar from his mouth, and leaned forward on the arm of his chair. "A new manager of the right sort is hard to find," he stated confidentially, "and Collier wasn't ready to let go all holds until he had some one else in view at least." Locke uttered a smothered exclamation of incredulity. "Do you mean to tell me that Charles Collier was handing old Jack Kennedy a deal as deceitfully crooked as that?" he cried. "I can't believe it. Kennedy has been a faithful and loyal manager. Three years ago, when Collier secured the controlling interest in the club, his bad judgment led him to drop Kennedy and fill his place with Al Carson. You know what happened. Carson made a mess of it, and old Jack was called back at the last moment to save the day. He did it and won the championship for the Blue Stockings by a single game. Since then--" "Come now!" chuckled Weegman, snapping his fingers again. "You know you were the man who really won that championship by your air-tight pitching. Why do you want to give somebody else the credit? Kennedy merely went in as a pinch hitter--" "And pounded the only run of the game across the rubber. No matter how air-tight a pitcher's work may be, to win games the team behind him has got to hit. Kennedy was there with the goods." "That's ancient history now. What has he done since then? As a player, he's a has-been. He's lost his eyes so that he can't even bat in the pinches now. His sun has set, and he may as well retire to his farm and settle down for old age." "He hasn't lost his brains," asserted Locke warmly. "Playing or pinch hitting is a small part of a manager's business. Once since then he's copped the bunting for us, and last year it was hard luck and injury to players that dropped us into third position." "I don't blame you," said Weegman good naturedly. "You ought to stand up for him. It shows the right spirit. He gave you your chance--practically plucked you from the brambles. But," he supplemented disparagingly, "he was desperately hard up for twirlers that season. You were sort of a lucky guess on his part. Save for the fact that he's never been able to win a world's championship, old Jack's been picking four-leaf clovers all his life. He's too soft and easy-going for a manager; not enough drive to him." It was Lefty Locke's turn to laugh, but his merriment held more than a touch of irony. "Jack Kennedy has won pennants or kept in the first division, at least, with teams that would have been fighting for the subcellar under any other manager. When meddlers have not interfered he's always been able to get the last ounce of baseball out of every man under him. While he has handled it the club has always been a big paying proposition. What he has done has been nothing short of miraculous considering the niggardly policy forced upon him by those in power. It's the lowest-salaried team in the league. We have men getting twenty-five hundred or three thousand who should be drawing down twice as much, and would be with any other winning Big League club. Only a man with Kennedy's magnetism and tact could have kept them going at high pressure, could have kept them from being dissatisfied and lying down. What they've accomplished has been done for him, not for the owners. And now you tell me he's to be canned. There's gratitude!" "My dear man," chirruped Weegman, "baseball is business, and gratitude never goes far in business. Granting what you say may have been true in the past, it's plain enough that the old man's beginning to lose his grip. He fell down last season, and now that the Feds are butting in and making trouble, he's showing himself even more incompetent. Talk about gratitude; it didn't hold Grist or Orth, and now it's reported that Dillon is negotiating with the outlaws. You know what that means; our pitching staff is all shot to pieces. If the players were so true to Kennedy, why didn't they wait for their contracts?" "How could Jack send them contracts when he hasn't one himself? If he had the authority now, perhaps he could save Dillon for us even yet. Billy Orth is hot-headed and impulsive, and he thought he wasn't given a square deal. As for Grist, old Pete's days are numbered, and he knows it. He was wise to the talk about asking waivers on him. It was a ten-to-one shot he'd have been sent to the minors this coming season. With the Federals offering him a three-year contract at nearly twice as much as he ever received, he'd have been a fool to turn it down. All the same, he had a talk with Kennedy before he signed. Jack couldn't guarantee him anything, so he jumped." "That's it!" exclaimed Weegman triumphantly. "There's a sample of Kennedy's incompetence right there. He should have baited Grist along, and kept him away from the Feds until the season was well under way, when they would have had their teams made up, and probably wouldn't have wanted Pete. Then, if he didn't come up to form, he could be let out to the minors." Lefty's face being in the shadow, the other man did not see the expression of contempt that passed over it. For a few minutes the southpaw was too indignant to reply. When he did, however, his voice was level and calm, though a trifle hard. "So that would have been your way of doing it! Grist has had hard luck with all his investments; I understand he's saved very little. He's a poor man." Weegman lolled back again, puffing at his cigar. "That's his lookout. Anyway, he's not much loss. But these confounded Feds aren't through; they're after Dirk Nelson, too. What d'ye know about that! Our best catcher! They seem to be trying to strip our whole team." "Knowing something about the salaries our players get, probably they figure it should be easy stripping." Suddenly the visitor leaned forward again, and gazed hard at Locke. He was not laughing now. "Have they been after you?" he asked. "Yes." "I thought likely. Made you a big offer?" "Yes." "What have you done?" "Nothing." "Good!" exclaimed Weegman. "It's a good thing for you that you kept your head. They're outside organized ball, and any man who jumps to them will be blacklisted. All this talk about the money they have behind them is pure bluff." "Think so?" "I know it. They're plunging like lunatics, and they'll blow up before the season's over. They haven't got the coin." "Then how does it happen they are signing players for three years, and handing over certified checks in advance for the first year, besides guaranteeing salaries by bank deposits for the full tenure of contracts?" "Oh, they've got some money, of course," admitted Weegman lightly; "but, as I say, they're spending it like drunken sailors. When the Feds explode, the fools who have jumped to them will find themselves barred from organized ball for all time; they'll be down and out. The outlaws may hurt us a little this year, but after that--nothing doing. Just the same, I own up we've got to put a check on 'em before they rip the Blue Stockings wide open. That's what brings me down here to Fernandon to see you." "Really!" said Lefty interestedly. "You seem to be shouldering a lot of responsibility." "I am," chuckled Charles Collier's private secretary. "It was all arranged with Mr. Collier before he sailed. He left me with proper authority. I am to sign up the manager for the team." "Is that right?" exclaimed Locke, surprised. "Then, according to your own statement, if you want to save the Blue Stockings from being riddled, you'd better be about it." "I am," said Weegman. "That's why I've come to you." "For advice?" "Oh, no!" He laughed heartily. "I don't need that. I know what I'm about. I've brought a contract. I want you to put your name to it. Your salary will be advanced fifteen hundred dollars." "The Feds offered to double it. As a pitcher--" "You're not getting this extra money on account of your pitching," interposed Weegman promptly. "I'm offering you the increase of salary to assume the additional duties of manager." CHAPTER II SOMETHING QUEER The expression of amazement that leaped into the eyes of Lefty Locke was masked by a shadow. He stiffened, and sat bolt upright, speechless. Bailey Weegman, having stated the business that had unexpectedly brought him down from the North to the Florida town where the great left-hander of the Blue Stockings was spending the winter with his wife, once more settled back, taking a long, satisfied pull at the stump of his fragrant Havana. He was chuckling beneath his breath. A gentle breeze crept into the leaves of the vine-covered porch and set them whispering like gossips. The dynamo droned drowsily in the distance. Presently Lefty found his voice. "What's the joke?" he asked a trifle harshly. "No joke," assured the jovial visitor. "I'm not given to joking. I'm a man of business." "But it's preposterous! A pitcher for manager!" "Clark Griffith isn't the only pitcher who has succeeded as a manager." "Griffith's success came when he was on the decline as a pitcher." "What's the use to argue, Locke? There's really no good reason why a pitcher shouldn't manage a ball team. You've been doing it with the little amateur club you've been running down here in Fernandon this winter." "Because necessity compelled. Nobody else would take hold of it. I organized the team for a special reason. It's made up mainly of visitors from the North. No salaries are paid. I had located here for the winter, and I wanted to keep in trim and work my arm into shape for the coming season. I couldn't find anybody else to organize the club and handle it, so I had to. I have only three other players who have been with me from the start. The rest of the nine has been composed of changing players who came and went, college men, or just plain amateurs who have taken to the sport. We have played such teams as could be induced to come here from Jacksonville, St. Augustine, and other places. Handling such a club has given me absolutely no reason to fancy myself qualified to manage one in the Big League." "I've been keeping my eye on you," said Weegman patronizingly, "and I am satisfied that you can fill the position of playing manager for the Blue Stockings." "You're satisfied--you! How about Charles Collier?" "As you know, he's a sick man, a very sick man. Otherwise he'd never have dropped everything just at this time to go to Europe along with a physician and trained nurses. He has been too ill to attend properly to his regular business outside baseball, and therefore his business has suffered. He has had heavy financial reverses that have worried him. And now the meddling of the Feds has hurt the value of the ball club. The stock wouldn't bring at a forced sale to-day half what it should be worth. Mr. Collier trusts me. He was anxious to get some of the load off his shoulders. He has left me to straighten out matters connected with the team." "Where is Mr. Collier now?" asked Locke quietly. "He was taking the baths at Eaux Chaudes when last heard from, but he has since left there. I can't say where he is at the present time." "Then how may he be communicated with in case of emergency?" Chuckling, Weegman lighted a fresh cigar, having tossed the remnant of the other away. The glow of the match fully betrayed an expression of self-satisfaction on his face. "He can't be," he said. "It was his doctor's idea to get him away where he could not be troubled by business of any nature. He may be in Tunis or Naples for all I know." "It's very remarkable," said Lefty slowly. "Oh, I don't know," purred the other man, locking his fingers over his little round stomach which seemed so incongruous for a person who was otherwise not overfat. "Really, he was in a bad way. Worrying over business reverses was killing him. His only salvation was to get away from it all." Locke sat in thought, watching the serene smoker through narrowed lids. There was something queer about the affair, something the southpaw did not understand. True, Collier had seemed to be a nervous, high-strung man, but when Lefty had last seen him he had perceived no indications of such a sudden and complete breakdown. It had been Collier's policy to keep a close and constant watch upon his baseball property, but now, at a time when such surveillance was particularly needed because of the harassing activities of the Federals, having turned authority over to a subordinate, not only had he taken himself beyond the range of easy communication, but apparently he had cut himself off entirely from the sources of inside information concerning baseball affairs. Furthermore, it seemed to Locke that the man who claimed to have been left in full control of that branch of Collier's business was the last person who should have been chosen. What lay behind it all the pitcher was curious to divine. Presently Weegman gave a castanet-like snap of his fingers. "By the way," he said sharply, "how about your arm?" "My arm?" said Lefty. "You mean--" "It's all right, isn't it? You know there was a rumor that you hurt it in the last game of the season. Some wise ginks even said you'd never pitch any more." "I've been doing some pitching for my team here in Fernandon." "Then, of course, the old wing's all right. You'll be in form again, the greatest left-hander in the business. How about it?" "I've never been egotistical enough to put that estimate on myself." "Well, that's what lots of the sharps call you. The arm's as good as ever?" "If you stop over to-morrow you'll have a chance to judge for yourself. We're scheduled to play a roving independent nine known as the Wind Jammers, and I hear they're some team, of the kind. I shall pitch part of the game, anyhow." "You've been pitching right along?" "A little in every game lately. I pitched four innings against the Jacksonville Reds and five against the Cuban Giants. We've lost only one game thus far, and that was our second one. The eccentric manager and owner of the Wind Jammers, who calls himself Cap'n Wiley, threatens to take a heavy fall out of us. He has a deaf-mute pitcher, Mysterious Jones, who, he claims, is as good as Walter Johnson." Weegman laughed derisively. "There's no pitcher as good as Johnson anywhere, much less traveling around with a bunch of hippodromers and bushwhackers. But about your arm--is it all right?" "I hope to win as many games with it this year as I did last." "Well, the team's going to need pitchers. The loss of Orth is bound to be felt, and if Dillon jumps--Look here, Locke, we've got to get busy and dig up two or three twirlers, one of top-notch caliber." "We!" "Yes, you and I. Of course we can't expect to get a first-stringer out of the bushes; that happens only once in a dog's age. But perhaps Kennedy has some good youngsters up his sleeve. You should know about that. I'm wise that he has consulted you regularly. He's sought your advice, and listened to it; so, in a way, you've had considerable to do with the management of the team. You say you've corresponded with him right along. You ought to know all about his plans. That's one reason why I came to figure on you as the man to fill his place." "I wondered," murmured Locke. "That's one reason. For another thing, you've got modesty as well as sense. You don't think you know it all. You're not set in your ways, and probably you'd listen to advice and counsel. Old Jack is hard-headed and stiff; when he makes up his mind there's no turning him. He takes the bit in his teeth, and he wants full swing. He's always seemed to feel himself bigger than the owners. He's butted up against Mr. Collier several times, and Collier's always had to give in." "As I understand it," said Lefty smoothly, "you think the manager should be a man with few fixed opinions and no set and rigid policy." "In a way, that's something like it," admitted Weegman. "He mustn't go and do things wholly on his own initiative and without consulting anybody, especially those who have a right to say something about the running of the team. Mr. Collier has placed me in a position that makes it imperative that I should keep my fingers on the pulse of things. I couldn't conscientiously discharge my duty unless I did so. I know I could never get along with Kennedy. The manager must work with me; we'll work together. Of course, in most respects he'll be permitted to do about as he pleases as long as he seems to be delivering the goods; but it must be understood that I have the right to veto, as well as the right to direct, policies and deals. With that understanding to start with, we'll get along swimmingly." He finished with a laugh. Lefty rose to his feet. "You're not looking for a manager, Weegman," he said. "What you want is a putty man, a figurehead. Under any circumstances, you've come to the wrong market." CHAPTER III THE FEDERAL POLICY Weegman was startled. "What--what's that?" he spluttered, staring upward at the towering figure in white. "What do you mean?" "Just what I've said," replied the pitcher grimly. "Under no circumstances would I think of stepping into old Jack Kennedy's shoes; but even if he were a perfect stranger to me you could not inveigle me into the management of the Blue Stockings on the conditions you have named. Management!" he scoffed. "Why, the man who falls for that will be a tame cat with clipped claws. It's evident, Mr. Weegman, that you've made a long journey for nothing." For a moment the visitor was speechless. Lefty Locke's modest, unassuming ways, coupled with undoubted ambition and a desire to get on, had led Charles Collier's secretary to form a very erroneous estimate of him. "But, man alive," said Weegman, "do you realize what you're doing? You're turning down the chance of a lifetime. I have the contract right here in my pocket, with Collier's name properly attached and witnessed. If you doubt my authority to put the deal through, I can show you my power of attorney from Mr. Collier. In case sentiment or gratitude is holding you back, let me tell you that under no circumstances will Kennedy again be given control of the team. Now don't be a chump and--" "If I were in your place," interrupted Locke, "I wouldn't waste any more breath." Weegman snapped his fingers, and got up. "I won't! I didn't suppose you were quite such a boob." "But you did suppose I was boob enough to swallow your bait at a gulp. You thought me so conceited and greedy that I would jump at the chance to become a puppet, a manager in name only, without any real authority or control. It's plainly your purpose to be the real manager of the team, for what reason or design I admit I don't quite understand. Just how you hypnotized Charles Collier and led him to consent to such a scheme I can't say; but I do say that no successful ball team has ever been run in such a way. You're not fit to manage a ball club, and you wouldn't dare assume the title as well as the authority; probably you know Collier wouldn't stand for that. Yet you intend to force your dictation upon a pseudo-manager. Such meddling would mean muddling; it would knock the last ounce of starch out of the team. If the Blue Stockings didn't finish a bad tailender it would be a miracle." Bailey Weegman was furious all the way through, but still he laughed and snapped his fingers. "You're a wise guy, aren't you?" he sneered. "I didn't dream you were so shrewd and discerning. Now let me tell you something, my knowing friend: I've tried to save your neck, and you won't have it." "My neck!" exclaimed the pitcher incredulously. "You've tried to save my neck?" "Oh, I know your old soup bone's on the blink; you didn't put anything over me by dodging and trimming when I questioned you about your arm. You knocked it out last year, and you've been spending the winter down here trying to work it back into shape. You can pitch a little against weak bush teams, but you can't even go the whole distance against one of them. That being the case, what sort of a figure do you expect to cut back in the Big League? Up against the slugging Wolves or the hard-hitting Hornets, how long would you last? I've got your number, and you know it." "If that's so, it seems still more remarkable that you should wish to hold me. Certainly I'd be a great addition to a pitching staff that's smashed already!" "Did I say anything about your strengthening the pitching staff? I offered to engage you in another capacity. Think I didn't know why you declined to dicker with the Feds when they made you a big offer? You didn't dare, for you know you couldn't deliver the goods. Having that knowledge under my hat, I've been mighty generous with you." Weegman descended to the top step, chuckling. "Good night," said Locke, longing to hasten the man's departure. "Think it over," invited Charles Collier's representative. "Now that I'm here, I'll stick around and watch you pitch against these bushwhacking Wind Jammers to-morrow. I imagine your efforts should be amusing. Perhaps you'll change your mind before I catch the train north at Yulee." His chuckling became open laughter. Lefty turned and entered the cottage, while Weegman walked away in the moonlight, the smoke of his cigar drifting over his shoulder. Certain circumstances had led Philip Hazelton to enter professional baseball under the pseudonym of "Tom Locke," to which, as he was a left-hander, his associates had added the nickname of "Lefty." These names had stuck when he abruptly moved upward into the Big League. His rise having been rocketlike, the pessimistic and the envious had never wholly ceased to look for the fall of a stick. Thus far, in spite of the fact that each year of his service with the Blue Stockings saw him shouldering more and more of the pitching load, until like Jack Coombs and Ed Walsh he had become known as "the Iron Man," they had looked in vain. And it came to pass that even the most prejudiced was forced to admit that it was Lefty who kept his team "up there" fighting for the bunting all the time. Toward the close of the last season, however, with the jinx in close pursuit of the Blue Stockings, Locke had pushed himself beyond the limit. At one time the club had seemed to have the pennant cinched, but through the crippling of players it had begun to slip in the latter part of the season. In the desperate struggle to hold on, going against Manager Kennedy's judgment and advice, Lefty did more pitching than any other two men on the staff, and with a little stronger team to support him his winning percentage would have been the highest of any pitcher in the league. It was not his fault that the Blue Stockings did not finish better than third. In the cozy living room of the little furnished cottage Locke had leased for the brief winter months a remarkably pretty young woman sat reading by a shaded lamp. She looked up from the magazine and smiled at him as he came in. Then she saw the serious look upon his face, and the smile faded. "What is it, Phil?" she asked, with a touch of anxiety. "Is anything wrong?" He sat down, facing her, and told her all about his interview with Bailey Weegman. As she listened, her mobile face betrayed wonderment, annoyance, and alarm. "It's a raw deal for Kennedy," he asserted in conclusion; "and I believe it's wholly of Weegman's devising. I'm sure, when the season ended, Collier had no idea of changing managers. There isn't a more resourceful, astute man in the business than old Jack." "You're always thinking of others, Phil," she said. "How about yourself? What will happen to you if you don't come to Weegman's terms?" "Hard to tell," he admitted frankly. "In fact, I've been wondering just where I'd get off. If my arm fails to come back--" She uttered a little cry. "But you've been telling me--" "That it was growing better, Janet, that's true. But still it's not what it should be, and I don't dare put much of a strain on it. I don't know that I'd last any time at all in real baseball. Weegman is wise, yet he offered me a contract to pitch and to manage the team. On paper it would seem that he had retained one star twirler for the staff, but if I failed to come back we wouldn't have a single first-string slabman. As a manager, I would be sewed up so that I couldn't do anything without his consent. There's a nigger in the woodpile, Janet." She had put the magazine aside, and clasped her hands in her lap. He went on: "It looks to me as if somebody is trying to punch holes in the team, though I don't get the reason for it. Following Jack Kennedy's advice, I've invested every dollar I could save in the stock of the club. As Weegman says, it's doubtful if the stock would bring fifty cents on the dollar at a forced sale to-day. Collier has met with heavy financial reverses in other lines. He's sick, and he's in Europe where no one can communicate with him. Is somebody trying to knock the bottom out of his baseball holdings in order to get control of the club? It looks that way from the offing." "But you," said Janet, still thinking of her husband, "you're not tied up with Weegman, and the Federals have made you a splendid offer. You can accept that and land on your feet." He smiled, shaking his head slowly. "There are several reasons why I don't care to follow that course. The first, and strongest, is my loyalty to Jack Kennedy, the man who gave me a square deal. Then I don't care to bunko anybody, and unless my arm comes back I won't be worth the money the Feds have offered for my services. Lastly, I'm not sure the new league is going to be strong enough to win out against organized baseball." "But you've said that they seem to have plenty of money behind them. You've said, too, that their plan of dealing directly with players, instead of buying and selling them like chattels or slaves, was the only system that gave the players a just and honest deal." "That's right," affirmed Lefty. "Slavery in baseball is something more than a joke. The organization has been one of the biggest trusts in the country, and it has dealt in human beings. It has been so that when a man signed his first contract he signed away his right to say what he would do as long as he remained in the game. After that he could be bought, sold, or traded without receiving a dollar of the purchasing or trading price. He had to go where he was sent, regardless of his personal likes, wishes, or convenience. He had to accept whatever salary a manager chose to give him, or get out. Even if his contract had expired with one manager, he couldn't go to another and make a bargain, no matter how much the other manager was willing to give him; the reserve clause held him chained hand and foot. To-day, if the powers chose, I could be sent down to the minors at any old salary the minors chose to pay. I could be sold, like a horse or a dog, and if I didn't like it I could quit the game. That would be my only recourse." "It's terribly unfair," said Janet. "Unfair? That's a tame word! On the other hand, the Federals are dealing directly with the players. If they think he's worth it, they give a man a good salary and a bonus besides. The bonus goes to the player, not to the club owner. Added to that, the Federal contracts provide that a club must increase a player's salary at least five per cent. each year, or give him his unconditional release, thus making it possible for him to deal with any other club that may want him." "It's plain your sympathy is with the Federals." "If they're not trying to jack up organized baseball and sell out," said Lefty, "I hope they come through." CHAPTER IV THE MAGNETIZED BALL "What are your plans?" asked Janet, after they had discussed the situation in all its phases. "Have you decided on anything?" The southpaw answered: "I'm going to put Jack Kennedy wise. I'm going to write him a letter to-night, and I shall send him a telegram as soon as the office opens in the morning. It's up to him to get in communication with Collier if there's any way of doing it. You have not received a letter from Virginia lately?" Virginia Collier, the charming daughter of the owner of the Blue Stockings, was Janet's closest friend. "No, I have not heard from her in over three weeks, and I don't understand it," returned his wife. "She seems to have stepped off the map, along with her father. The whole business is mysterious. Why don't you write her at once, explaining what is going on, and send the letter to her last address?" "I will." "It may not reach her, but there's no harm in trying. Meanwhile, I'll get busy on mine to Kennedy. There doesn't seem to be much chance to spike Weegman's guns, but it's worth trying." Locke had the knack of writing a succinct letter; the one he wrote old Jack was concise, yet it was clear and complete. Within two minutes after opening it, doubtless Kennedy would know as much about the situation as did Lefty himself. Yet it was probable that, like the pitcher, the manager would be mystified by the surprising and seemingly sinister maneuvers of Bailey Weegman. Following Lefty's advice, Janet wrote to Virginia Collier. Locke rose early the following morning and posted the letters for the first outward mail. He sent a telegram also. Returning past the Magnolia Hotel, to his surprise he perceived Collier's private secretary sitting on the veranda, smoking. Weegman beamed and chuckled. "Morning," he cried, waving his cigar between two fingers. "The early bird, eh? Been firing off a little correspondence, I presume. Our communications will reach Kennedy in the same mail; and I wired him, too. Quite a little jolt for the old man, but it can't be helped. Of course, he'll have the sense to bow gracefully to the inevitable, and that will clear the air. Afterward, perhaps, you may change your mind regarding my offer." "Perhaps so," returned Lefty pleasantly. "But if I do, I shall be a fit subject for a padded cell." The agreeable look was wiped from Weegman's face as Locke passed on. Some time after breakfast Lefty returned to the Magnolia to learn if Cap'n Wiley and his ball players had arrived. Approaching, he perceived a queer assortment of strangers lounging on the veranda, and from their appearance he judged that they were members of the team. Many of them looked like old stagers, veterans who had seen better days; some were youthful and raw and inclined to be cock-a-hoop. There was a German, an Italian, an Irishman, and a Swede. One was lanky as a starved greyhound, and apparently somewhere near six feet and six inches tall from his heels to his hair roots. Another was short and fat, and looked as if he had been driven together by some one who had hit him over the head with a board. In a way, these strangers in Fernandon were most remarkable for their attire. With scarcely an exception, the clothes they wore were weird and fantastic samples of sartorial art; various, and nearly all, prevailing freaks of fashion were displayed. With colored shirts, flaring socks, and giddy neckties, they caused all beholders to gasp. They were most amazingly bejeweled and adorned. With difficulty Locke suppressed a smile as his quick eyes surveyed them. Near the head of the broad steps leading up to the veranda sat a somewhat stocky but exceptionally well-built man of uncertain age. He was almost as swarthy as an Indian, and his dark eyes were swift and keen and shrewd. His black hair was graying on the temples. His coat and trousers, of extravagant cut, were made from pronounced black-and-white-striped material. His fancy waistcoat, buttoned with a single button at the bottom, was adorned with large orange-colored figures. His silk socks were red, his four-in-hand necktie was purple, and the band that encircled the straw hat cocked rakishly upon his head was green. He was smoking a cigar and pouring a steady flow of words into the ear of Bailey Weegman, who made a pretense of not noticing Locke. "Yes, mate," he was saying, "old man Breckenridge was the most painfully inconsiderate batter I ever had the misfortune to pitch against. Smoke, curves, twisters, slow balls, low balls, and high balls--they all looked alike to him. Now I have a preference; I prefer a high ball, Scotch and carbonic. But it made no difference to Breck; when he put his fifty-five-ounce ash wand against the pill, said pill made a pilgrimage--it journeyed right away to some land distant and remote and unknown, and it did not stay upon the order of its going. When it came right down to slugging, compared with old Breck your Home-run Bakers and Honus Wagners and Napoleon Lajoies are puny and faded shines. And he always seemed able to make connections when he desired; if he rambled forth to the dish yearning for a hit, there was no known method by which the most astute and talented pitcher could prevent him from hitting." "Quite a wonder, I must admit!" laughed Weegman, in high amusement. "Rather strange the Big Leagues didn't get hold of such a marvelous batsman, isn't it?" "Oh, he was on the roster of some Class A team at various times, but he had one drawback that finally sent him away to the remote and uncharted bushes: 'Charley horse' had him in its invidious grip. A spavined snail could beat Breck making the circuit of the sacks, and cross the pan pulled up. Yet, with this handicap, the noble old slugger held the record for home runs in the Tall Grass League. Naturally I had heart failure and Angie Pectoris every time I was compelled to face him on the slab. Likewise, naturally I began meditating with great vigor upon a scheme to circumvent the old terror, and at last my colossal brain concocted a plan that led me to chortle with joy." "I am deeply interested and curious," declared Weegman, as the narrator paused, puffing complacently at his weed. "Go on." Locke had stopped near at hand, and was listening. Others were hovering about, their ears open, their faces wreathed in smiles. "It was a simple matter of scientific knowledge and a little skulduggery," pursued the story-teller obligingly. "I possessed the knowledge, and I bribed the bat boy of old Breck's team to perform the skulduggery. I sent to the factory and had some special baseballs manufactured for me, and in the heart of each ball was hidden a tiny but powerful magnet. Then I secretly furnished the rascally bat boy with a specially prepared steel rod that would violently repel any magnet that chanced to wander around into the immediate vicinity of the rod. I instructed the boy to bore Breck's pet bat surreptitiously when the shades of night had fallen, insert the steel rod, and then craftily plug the hole. And may I never sail the briny deep again if that little scoundrel didn't carry out my instructions with the skill of a cutthroat, or a diplomat, even! Nature intended him for higher things. If he isn't hanged some day it won't be his fault. "Well, the next time old Breck brought his team to play against us upon our field, I used the magnetized baseballs. I was doing the hurling and in the very first inning the old swatter came up with the sacks charged and two out. He smiled a smile of pity as he bent his baleful glance upon me. 'You'd better walk me, Walter,' says he, 'and force a run; for if you put the spheroid over I'm going to give it a long ride.' I returned his smile with one of the most magnanimous contempt. 'Don't blow up, old boy,' says I. 'With the exception of your batting, you're all in; and I've a notion that your batting eye is becoming dim and hazy. Let's see you hit this.' Then I passed him a slow, straight one right over the middle of the rubber. He took a mighty swing at it, meaning to slam it over into the next county. Well, mate, may I be keelhauled if that ball didn't dodge the bat like a scared rabbit! Mind you, I hadn't put a thing on it, but the repulsion of that deneoutronized steel rod hidden in the bat forced the ball to take the handsomest drop you ever beheld, and the violence with which old Breck smote the vacant ozone caused him to spin round and concuss upon the ground when he sat down. It was a tremendous shock to his nervous system, and it filled me with unbounded jubilance; for I knew I had him at my mercy, literally in the hollow of my hand. "He rose painfully, chagrined and annoyed, but still confident. 'Give me another like that, you little wart!' he ordered savagely, 'and I'll knock the peeling off it.' Beaming, I retorted: 'You couldn't knock the peeling off a prune. Here's what you called for.' And I threw him another slow, straight one. "Excuse these few tears; the memory of that hallowed occasion makes me cry for joy. He did it again, concussing still more shockingly when he sat down. It was simply an utter impossibility for him to hit that magnetized ball with his doctored bat. But, of course, he didn't know what the matter was; he thought I was fooling him with some sort of a new drop I had discovered. The fact that I was passing him the merry cachinnation peeved him vastly. When he got upon his pins and squared away for the third attempt, his face was the most fearsome I ever have gazed upon. He shook his big bat at me. 'One more,' he raged; 'give me one more, and drop flat on your face the moment you pitch the ball, or I'll drive it straight through the meridian of your anatomy!' "Let me tell you now, mate, that Breck was a gentleman, and that was the first and only time I ever knew him to lose his temper. Under the circumstances, he was excusable. I put all my nerve-shattering steam into the next pitch, and, instead of dropping, the ball hopped over his bat when he smote at it. I had fanned the mighty Breckenridge, and the wondering crowd lifted their voices in hosannas. Yet I know they regarded it in the nature of an accident, and not until I had whiffed him three times more in the same game did either Breck or the spectators arrive at the conviction that I had something on him. "After that," said the narrator, as if in conclusion, "I had him eating out of my hand right up to the final and decisive game of the season." Weegman begged the fanciful romancer to tell what happened in the last game. "Oh, we won," was the assurance; "but we never would have if Breck had been wise the last time he came to bat. It was in the ninth inning, with the score three to two in our favor, two down, and runners on second and third. Knowing it was Breck's turn to hit, I was confident we had the game sewed up. But the confidence oozed out of me all of a sudden when I saw the big fellow paw the clubs over to select a bat other than his own. Clammy perspiration started forth from every pore of my body. With any other swat stick beside his own, I knew he was practically sure to drive any ball I could pitch him over the fence. The agony of apprehension which I endured at that moment gave me my first gray hairs. "Although I did not know it at the time, it chanced that Breck had selected the bat of another player who had had it bored and loaded with an ordinary steel rod. This, you can clearly understand, made it more than doubly certain that he would hit the magnetized ball, which would be attracted instead of repelled. Had I known this, I shouldn't have had the heart to pitch at all. "As the noble warrior stood up to the pan, I considered what I could pitch him. Curves could not fool him, and he literally ate speed. Therefore, without hope, I tossed him up a slow one. Now it chanced that the old boy had decided to try a surprise, having become disheartened by his efforts to slug; he had resolved to attempt to bunt, knowing such a move would be unexpected. So he merely stuck out his bat as the sphere came sailing over. The magnet was attracted by the steel rod, and the ball just jumped at the bat, against which it struck--and stuck! I hope never to tell the truth again, mate, if I'm not stating a simple, unadulterated, unvarnished fact. The moment the ball touched the bat it stuck fast to it as if nailed there. Breck was so astonished that he stood in his tracks staring at the ball like a man turned to stone. I was likewise paralyzed for an extemporaneous fraction of time, but my ready wit quickly availed me. Bounding forward, I wrenched the ball from the bat and tagged old Breck with it, appealing to the umpire for judgment. There was only one thing his umps could do. He had seen the batter attempt to bunt, had seen bat and ball meet, and had seen me secure the ball on fair ground and put it on to the hitter. He declared Breckenridge out, and that gave us the game and the championship." Bailey Weegman lay back and roared. In doing so, he seemed to perceive Lefty for the first time. As soon as he could get his breath, he said: "Oh, I say, Locke, let me introduce you. This is Cap'n Wiley, owner and manager of the Wind Jammers." CHAPTER V A MAN OF MYSTERY The swarthy little fabulist rose hastily to his feet, making a quick survey of the southpaw. "Am I indeed and at last in the presence of the great Lefty Locke?" he cried, his face beaming like the morning sun in a cloudless sky. "Is it possible that after many weary moons I have dropped anchor in the same harbor with the most salubriously efficacious port-side flinger of modern times? Pardon my deep emotion! Slip me your mudhook, Lefty; let me give you the fraternal grip." He grabbed Locke's hand and wrung it vigorously, while the other members of the Wind Jammers pressed nearer, looking the Big League pitcher over with interest. "In many a frozen igloo," declared Wiley, "I have dreamed of this day when I should press your lily-white fingers. Oft and anon during my weary sojourn in that far land of snow and ice have I pictured to myself the hour when we should stand face to face and exchange genuflections and greetings. And whenever a smooched and tattered months-old newspaper would drift in from civilization, with what eager and expectant thrills did I tremulously turn to the baseball page that I might perchance read thereon how you had stung the Hornets, bitten the Wolves, clipped the claws of the Panthers, or plucked the feathers from the White Wings!" "And I have been wondering," confessed Lefty, "if you could be the original Cap'n Wiley of whom I heard so many strange tales in my boyhood. It was reported that you were dead." "Many a time and oft hath that canard been circulated. According to rumor, I have demised a dozen times or more by land and sea; but each time, like the fabled Phoenix, I have risen from my ashes. During the last few fleeting years I have been in pursuit of fickle fortune in far-off Alaska, where it was sometimes so extremely cold that fire froze and we cracked up the congealed flames into little chunks which we sold to the Chilkoots and Siwashes as precious bright red stones. Strange to say, whenever I have related this little nanny goat it has been received with skepticism and incredulity. The world is congested with doubters." "When you wrote me," admitted Locke, "proposing to bring your Wind Jammers here to play the Fernandon Grays, I thought the letter was a hoax. At first I was tempted not to answer it, and when I did reply it was out of curiosity more than anything else; I wanted to see what the next twist of the joke would be." "Let me assure you that you will find playing against the Wind Jammers no joke. I have conglomerated together the fastest segregation of baseball stars ever seen outside a major league circuit, and I say it with becoming and blushing modesty. Look them over," he invited, with a proud wave of his hand toward the remarkable group of listeners. "It has always been my contention that there are just as good players to be found outside the Big League as ever wore the uniform of a major. I have held that hard luck, frowning fate, or contumelious circumstances have conspired to hold these natural-born stars down and prevent their names from being chiseled on the tablet of fame. Having gathered unto myself a few slippery shekels from my mining ventures in the land where baseball games begin at the hour of midnight, I have now set out to prove my theory, and before I am through I expect to have all balldom sitting up agog and gasping with wonderment." "I wish you luck," replied Lefty. "If you don't do anything else, you ought to get some sport out of it. I presume you still ascend the mound as a pitcher?" "Oh," was the airy answer, "on rare occasions I give the gaping populace a treat by propelling the sphere through the atmosphere. When my projector is working up to its old-time form, I find little difficulty in leading the most formidable batters to vainly slash the vacant ether. The weather seeming propitious, I may burn a few over this p.m. I trust you will pitch also." "I think I shall start the game, at least." Bailey Weegman butted in. "But he won't finish it, Wiley. Like yourself, he's not doing as much pitching as he did once." His laugh was significant. The owner of the Wind Jammers looked startled. "Tell me not in mournful numbers that your star is already on the decline!" he exclaimed, looking at Locke with regret. "That's what the Big Leagues do to a good man; they burn him out like a pitch-pine knot. I've felt all along that the Blue Stockings were working you too much, Lefty. Without you on their roster ready to work three or four times a week in the pinches, they never could have kept in the running." "You're more than complimentary," said Locke, after giving Weegman a look. "But I think I'll be able to shake something out of my sleeve this season, the same as ever." "Then don't let them finish you, don't let them grind you to a frazzle," advised Wiley. "For the first time in recent history you have a chance for your white alley; the Federals are giving you that. If you're not already enmeshed in the folds of a contract, the Feds will grab you and hand you a square deal." Weegman rose, chuckling and snapping his fingers. "All this talk about what the Feds can do is gas!" he declared. "They're getting nothing but the soreheads and deadwood of organized baseball, which will be vastly better off without the deserters. Cripples and has-beens may make a good thing out of the Feds for a short time. Perhaps Locke would find it profitable to jump." His meaning was all too plain. Lefty felt like taking the insinuating fellow by the neck and shaking him until his teeth rattled, but outwardly he was not at all ruffled or disturbed. "Mr. Weegman," he said, "is showing pique because I have not seen fit to sign up as manager of the Blue Stockings. He professes to have authority from Charles Collier to sign the manager, Collier having gone abroad for his health." "If anybody doubts my authority," shouted Weegman, plunging his hand into an inner pocket of his coat, "I can show the documents that will--" The southpaw had turned his back on him. "I understand you have a clever pitcher in the man known as Mysterious Jones, Wiley," he said. "A pippin!" was the enthusiastic answer. "I'll give you a chance to see him sagaciate to-day." "He is a deaf-mute?" "He couldn't hear a cannon if you fired it right under the lobe of his ear, and he does his talking with his prehensile digits. Leon Ames in his best days never had anything on Jones." "Strange I never even heard of him. Our scouts have scoured the bushes from one end of the country to the other." "I never collided with any baseball scouts in Alaska," said Wiley. "Oh! You found Jones in Alaska?" "Pitching for a team in Nome." "But baseball up there! I didn't know--" "Oh, no; nobody ever thinks of baseball up there, but in the all too short summer season there's something doing in that line. Why, even modern dances have begun to run wild in Alaska, so you see they're right up to the present jiffy." "Where did this Jones originally hail from?" "Ask me! I don't know. Nobody I ever met knew anything about him, and what he knows about himself he won't tell. He's mysterious, you understand; but his beautiful work on the slab has caused my classic countenance to break into ripples and undulations and convolutions of mirth." "Where is he? I'd like to give him the once over." "I think he's out somewhere prowling around the town and sizing up the citizens. That's one of his little vagaries; he has a combustable curiosity about strangers. Every place we go he wanders around for hours lamping the denizens of the burg. Outside baseball, strange people seem to interest him more than anything in the world; but once he has taken a good square look at a person, henceforth and for aye that individual ceases to attract him; if he ever gives anybody a second look, it is one of absolute indifference. Oh, I assure you with the utmost voracity that Jones is an odd one." "He must be," agreed Lefty. "Ay tank, cap'n," said Oleson, the Swede outfielder, "that Yones now bane comin' up the street." Wiley turned and gazed at an approaching figure. "Yes," he said, "that's him. Turn your binnacle lights on him, Lefty; behold the greatest pitcher adrift in the uncharted regions of baseball." CHAPTER VI PECULIAR BEHAVIOR Jones was rather tall and almost slender, although he had a fine pair of shoulders. His arm was as long as Walter Johnson's. His face was as grave as that of the Sphinx, and held more than a touch of the same somber sadness. His eyes were dark and keen and penetrating; with a single glance they seemed to pierce one through and through. And they were ever on the move, like little ferrets, searching, searching, searching. As he approached the hotel, he met a man going in the opposite direction, and he half paused to give the man a sharp, lance-like stare. Involuntarily the man drew aside a trifle and, walking on, turning to look back with an expression of mingled questioning and resentment. But Jones had resumed his habitual pace, his appearance that of a person who, already overburdened, had received one more disappointment. Barney O'Reilley, the shortstop, laughed. "Sure," said he, "it's a bit of a jump old Jonesy hands any one he looks at fair and hard." Lefty Locke felt a throb of deep interest and curiosity. There was something about the deaf-mute pitcher of the Wind Jammers that aroused and fascinated him instantly. His first thought was that the man might be mentally unbalanced to a slight degree; but, though he knew not why, something caused him to reject this conviction almost before it was formed. Apparently Jones was well named "Mysterious." "There's the bird, Lefty," said Cap'n Wiley proudly. "There's the boy who'd make 'em sit up and take notice if ever he got a show in the Big League. Yours truly, the Marine Marvel, knew what he was doing when he plucked that plum in the far-away land of lingering snows." A queer sound behind him, like a hissing, shuddering gasp, caused Locke to look around quickly. The sound had come from Weegman, who, face blanched, mouth agape, eyes panic-stricken, was staring at the approaching pitcher. Amazement, doubt, disbelief, fear--he betrayed all these emotions. Even while he leaned forward to get a better view over the shoulder of a man before him, he shrank back, crouching like one ready to take to his heels. Like a person pleased by the sound of his own voice, Cap'n Wiley rattled on in laudation of his mute pitcher. No one save Locke seemed to notice Weegman; and so wholly fascinated by the sight of Jones was the latter that he was quite oblivious to the fact that he had attracted any attention. "Smoke!" Wiley was saying. "Why, mate, when he uses all his speed, a ball doesn't last a minute; the calorie friction it creates passing through the air burns the cover off." "Ya," supplemented Shaeffer, the catcher, "und sometimes it sets my mitt afire." "Some speed!" agreed Lefty, as Jones, his head bent, reached the foot of the steps. "He looks tired." "He's always that way after he tramps around a strange town," said the owner of the Wind Jammers. "Afterward he usually goes to bed and rests, and he comes out to the games as full of fire and kinks as a boy who has stuffed himself with green apples. I'll introduce you, Locke." The southpaw looked round again. Weegman was gone; probably he had vanished into the convenient door of the hotel. Cap'n Wiley drew Lefty forward to meet the voiceless pitcher, and, perceiving a stranger, Mysterious Jones halted at the top of the steps and stabbed him with a stare full in the face. Lefty had never looked into such searching, penetrating eyes. Wiley made some deft and rapid movements with his hands and fingers, using the deaf-and-dumb language to make Jones aware of the identity of the famous Big League pitcher. Already the mute had lapsed into disappointed indifference, but he accepted Locke's offered hand and smiled in a faint, melancholy way. "He's feeling especially downcast to-day," explained Wiley, "and so he'll pitch like a fiend this afternoon. He always twirls his best when he's gloomiest; appears to entertain the delusion that he's taking acrimonious revenge on the world for handing him some sort of a raw deal. It would be a shame to use him against you the whole game, Lefty; he'd make your Grays look like a lot of infirm prunes." "Spare us," pleaded Locke, in mock apprehension. Jones did not linger long with his teammates on the veranda. With a solemn but friendly bow to Lefty, he passed on into the hotel, Wiley explaining that he was on his way to take his regular daily period of rest. Through the open door the southpaw watched the strange pitcher walk through the office and mount a flight of stairs. And from the little writing room Locke saw Bailey Weegman peer forth, his eyes following the mysterious one until the latter disappeared. Then Weegman hurried to the desk and interviewed the clerk, after which he made an inspection of the names freshly written upon the hotel register. The man's behavior was singular, and Lefty decided that, for some reason, Weegman did not care to encounter Jones. This suspicion was strengthened when, scarcely more than an hour later, Charles Collier's private secretary appeared at the little cottage occupied by Locke and his wife, and stated that he had made a change from the Magnolia Hotel to the Florida House, a second-rate and rather obscure place on the edge of the colored quarter. "Couldn't stand for Wiley and his gang of bushwhackers," Weegman explained. "They made me sick, and I had to get out, even though I'm going to leave town at five-thirty this afternoon. That's the first through train north that I can catch. Thought I'd let you know so you could find me in case you changed your mind about that offer." "You might have spared yourself the trouble," said Locke coldly. Weegman made a pretense of laughing. "No telling about that. Mules are obstinate, but even they can be made to change their minds if you build a hot enough fire under them. Don't forget where you can find me." Lefty watched him walking away, and noted that his manner was somewhat nervous and unnatural. "I wonder," murmured the pitcher, "why you put yourself to so much discomfort to avoid Mysterious Jones." Directed by Locke, the Grays put in an hour of sharp practice that forenoon. As Lefty had stated, the team was practically comprised of winter visitors from the North. Some of them had come South for their health, too. Three were well along in the thirties, and one had passed forty. Yet, for all such handicaps, they were an enthusiastic, energetic team, and they could play the game. At least five of them had once been stars on college nines. Having never lost their love for the game, they had rounded into form wonderfully under the coaching of the Big League pitcher. Also, in nearly every game they pulled off more or less of the stuff known as "inside baseball." They had been remarkably successful in defeating the teams they had faced, but Locke felt sure that, in spite of the conglomerate and freakish appearance of the Wind Jammers, it was not going to be an easy thing to take a fall out of Cap'n Wiley's aggregation of talent. The self-styled "Marine Marvel" had a record; with players culled from the brambles as he knocked about the country, he had, in former days, put to shame many a strong minor league outfit that had patronizingly and somewhat disdainfully consented to give him an engagement on an off date. Unless the eccentric and humorously boastful manager of the Wind Jammers had lost much of his judgment and cunning during the recent years that he had been out of the public eye, the fastest independent team would have to keep awake and get a fair share of the breaks in order to trounce him. Locke warmed up his arm a little, but, even though he felt scarcely a twinge of the lameness and stiffness that had given him so much apprehension, he was cautious. At one time, when the trouble was the worst, he had not been able to lift his left hand to his mouth. A massage expert in Fernandon had done much for him, and he hoped that he had done not a little for himself by perfecting a new style of delivery that did not put so much strain upon his shoulder. Still, until he should be forced to the test, he could never feel quite sure that he would be the same puzzle to the finest batsmen that he had once been. And it must be confessed that he had looked forward with some dread to the day when that test should come. Suddenly he resolved that, in a way, he would meet the test at once. Doubtless the Wind Jammers were batters of no mean caliber, for Wiley had always got together a bunch of sluggers. "I'll do it," he decided; "I'll go the limit. If I can't do that now, after the rest I've had and the doctoring my arm has received, there's not one chance in a thousand that I'll ever be able to pitch in fast company again." CHAPTER VII THE TEST Nearly all Fernandon turned out to the game. Many residents of the town, as well as a large number of the visitors from the North, came in carriages and automobiles. The covered reserved seats were filled, and, shielding themselves from the sun with umbrellas, an eager crowd packed the bleachers. On the sandy grass ground back of third base a swarm of chattering, grinning colored people sat and sprawled. Holding themselves proudly aloof from the negroes, a group of lanky, sallow "poor whites," few of whom could read or write, were displaying their ignorance by their remarks about the game and the players. The mayor of the town had consented to act as umpire. At four o'clock he called "play." "Now we're off!" sang Cap'n Wiley, waltzing gayly forth to the coaching position near third. "Here's where we hoist anchor and get away with a fair wind." Nuccio, the olive-skinned Italian third baseman, selected his bat and trotted to the pan, grinning at Locke. "Oh, you Lefty!" said he. "We gotta your number." "Put your marlinespike against the pill and crack the coating on it," urged Wiley. George Sommers, catcher for the Grays, adjusted his mask, crouched, signaled. Locke whipped one over the inside corner, and Nuccio fouled. "Nicked it!" cried the Marine Marvel. "Now bust it on the figurehead and make for the first mooring. Show our highly steamed friend Lefty that he's got to pitch to-day if he don't want the wind taken out of his sails." The southpaw tried to lead Nuccio into reaching, but the batter caught himself in his swing. "Puta the ball over, Left," he pleaded. "Don't givea me the walk." The pitcher smiled and handed up a hopper. The batter fouled again, lifting the ball on to the top of the covered seats. "I don't think you need worry about walking," said Sommers, returning after having made a vain start in pursuit of the sphere. "You're in a hole already." Nuccio smiled. "Wait," he advised. "I spoil the gooda ones." Another ball followed, then Lefty warped one across the comer. Nuccio drove it into right for a pretty single, bringing shouts of approval from the bench of the Wind Jammers. Wiley addressed Locke. "Really," he said, "I fear me much that you undervalue the batting capacity of my players. One and all, individually and collectively, they are there with the healthy bingle. Please, I beg of you, don't let them pound you off the slab in the first inning, for that would puncture a hard-earned reputation and bring tears of regret to my tender eyes. For fear that you may be careless or disdainful, I warn you that this next man can't touch anything down around his knees; his arms being attached to his shoulders at such a dim and distant altitude, he finds it difficult to reach down so far, even with the longest bat." Luther Bemis, the player referred to, was the marvelously tall and lanky center fielder of the Wind Jammers. He had a queer halting walk, like a person on stilts, and his appearance was so ludicrous that the spectators tittered and laughed outright. Their amusement did not disturb him, for he grinned cheerfully as he squared away, waving his long bat. "Don't you pay no 'tention to the cap 'n, Lefty," he drawled, in a nasal voice. "I can hit um acrost the knees jest as well as anywhere else. He's tryin' to fool ye." "Let's see about that," said Locke, putting one over low and close on the inside. Bemis smashed out a hot grounder and went galloping to first with tremendous, ground-covering strides. For all of his awkward walk and the fact that he ran like a frightened giraffe, it would have required an excellent sprinter to beat him from the plate to the initial sack. Norris, the shortstop, got his hand on the ball and stopped it, but it twisted out of his fingers. It was an error on a hard chance, for by the time he secured the sphere there was no prospect of getting either runner. "Now that's what I call misfortune when regarded from one angle, and mighty lucky if viewed from another," said Wiley. "Beamy carries a rabbit's foot; that's why he's second on our batting disorder. He does things like that when they're least expected the most." Schaeffer was coaching at first. "Is it Lefty Locke against us pitching?" he cried. "And such an easiness! Took a lead, efrybody, and move along when the Irisher hits." "I hate to do ut," protested Barney O'Reilley, shaking his red head as he walked into position. "It's a pain it gives me, Lefty, but I have to earn me salary. No bad feelings, ould man. You understand." "Just one moment," called Wiley, holding up his hand. "Sympathy impels me. I have a tender heart. Lefty, I feel that I must warn you again. This descendant of the Irish nobility can hit anything that sails over the platter. If it were not a distressing fact that Schepps, who follows, is even a more royal batter, I would advise you to walk O'Reilley. As it is, I am in despair." The crowd was not pleased. It began to beg Locke to fan O'Reilley, and when the Irishman missed the first shoot the pleadings increased. "Barney is sympathetic also," cried Cap'n Wiley; "but he'd better not let his sympathy carry him amain, whatever that is. I shall fine him if he doesn't hit the ball." Locke had begun to let himself out in earnest, for the situation was threatening. It would not be wise needlessly to permit the Wind Jammers to get the jump. They were a confident, aggressive team, and would fight to the last gasp to hold an advantage. The southpaw realized that it would be necessary to do some really high-grade twirling to prevent them from grabbing that advantage in short order. Tug Schepps, a tough-looking, hard-faced person, was swinging two bats and chewing tobacco as he waited to take his turn. He was a product of the sand lots. "Land on it, Barney, old top!" urged Tug. "Swat it on der trade-mark an' clean der sacks. Dis Lefty boy don't seem such a much." Locke shot over a high one. "Going up!" whooped O'Reilley, ignoring it. "Get 'em down below the crow's nest," entreated Wiley. "You're not pitching to Bemis now." The southpaw quickly tried a drop across the batter's shoulders, and, not expecting that the ball had so much on it, Barney let it pass. He made a mild kick when the mayor-umpire called a strike. "It's astigmatism ye have, Mr. Mayor," he said politely. The next one was too close, but O'Reilley fell back and hooked it past third base. Even though the left fielder had been playing in, Nuccio might possibly have scored had he not stumbled as he rounded the corner. Wiley started to grab the fallen runner, but remembered the new rule just in time, and desisted. "Put about!" he shouted. "Head back to the last port!" The Italian scrambled back to the sack, spluttering. He reached it ahead of the throw from the fielder. Cap'n Wiley pretended to shed tears. "Is it possible," he muttered, shaking his head, "that this is the great Lefty Locke? If so, it must be true that his star is on the decline. Alas and alack, life is filled with such bitter disappointments." Whether the regret of Wiley was real or pretended, it was shared by a large part of the spectators, who were friendly to the local team; for Locke had become very well liked in Fernandon, both by the citizens of the place and the Northern visitors. It must not be imagined that, with the corners crowded and no one down, Locke was fully at his ease. He had decided to make this game the test of his ability to "come back," and already it looked as if the first inning would give him his answer. If he could not successfully hold in check this heterogeneous collection of bush talent, it was easy to understand what would happen to him the next time he essayed to twirl for the Blue Stockings. A sickening sense of foreboding crept over him, but his lips wore a smile, and he showed no sign of being perturbed. Schepps was at the plate, having discarded one of the bats he had been swinging. He grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Always t'ought I could bump a real league pitcher," he said. "Put one acrost, pal, an' I'll tear der cover off." Locke hesitated. He had been using the new delivery he had acquired to spare his shoulder. In previous games it had proved effective enough to enable him to continue four or five innings, but now-- Suddenly he whipped the ball to third, sending Nuccio diving headlong back to the sack. The crafty little Italian had been creeping off, ready to make a flying dash for the plate. He was safe by a hair. "Not on your movie film!" cried Cap'n Wiley. "It can't be done!" Lefty did not hear him. He was gazing past the Marine Marvel at the face of a man who, taking care to keep himself unobtrusively in the background, was peering at him over the shoulders of a little group of spectators--a grinning, mocking derisive face. It was Weegman. And Weegman knew! CHAPTER VIII AT NECESSITY'S DEMAND Even after the ball was thrown back from third, and Lefty had turned away, that grinning, mocking face continued to leer at him. Wherever he looked it hovered before his mental vision like a taunting omen of disaster. He was "all in," and Weegman knew it. The man had told him, with sneering bluntness, that his "old soup bone was on the blink." Yet, entertaining this settled conviction regarding Locke's worthlessness as a pitcher, Weegman had made a long and wearisome journey in order that he might be absolutely sure, by putting the deal through in person, of signing the southpaw for the Blue Stockings at an increased salary. The very fact that he had been offered the position of manager, under conditions that would make him a mere puppet without any real managerial authority, gave the proposition a blacker and more sinister look. Sommers was signaling. Lefty shook his head to rid himself of that hateful chimera. Misunderstanding, the catcher quickly changed the sign. The pitcher delivered the ball called for first, and it went through Sommers like a fine shot through an open sieve. Nuccio scored from third with ease, Bemis and O'Reilley advancing at the same time. The Wind Jammers roared from the bench. Cap'n Wiley threw up his hands. "Furl every stitch!" cried the manager of the visitors. "Batten the hatches! The storm is upon us! It's going to be a rip-sizzler. I'm afraid the wreck will be a total loss." Covering the plate, Lefty took the ball from Sommers. "How did you happen to cross me?" asked the catcher. "It was my fault," was the prompt acknowledgment; "but it won't happen again." "I hope not," said Sommers. He wanted to suggest that Locke should retire at once and let Matthews take up the pitching, but he refrained. The southpaw was doing some serious thinking as he walked back to the mound. However well his newly acquired delivery had seemed to serve him on other occasions, he was convinced that it would not do now; either he must pitch in his own natural way and do his best, or he must retire and let Dade Matthews try to check the overconfident aggressors. If he retired, he would prolong the uncertainty in his own mind; he would leave himself in doubt as to whether or not there was any prospect of his return to the Big League as a twirler worthy of his hire. More than doubt, he realized, he would be crushed by a conviction that he was really down and out. "I've pampered my arm long enough," he decided. "I'm going to find out if there's anything left in it." Perhaps the decision was unwise. The result of the game with the Wind Jammers was of no importance, but Locke felt that, for his own peace of mind, he must know what stuff was left in him. And there was no one present with authority, no coach, no counselor, to restrain him. There was a strange, new gleam in his eyes when he once more toed the slab. His faint smile had not vanished, but it had taken lines of grimness. Schepps tapped the plate with his bat. "Come on, pal," he begged; "don't blow up. Gimme one of der real kind, an' lemme have a swat at it." The crowd was silent; even the chattering darkies had ceased their noise. Only the Wind Jammers jubilated on the bench and the coaching lines. Poising himself, Locke caught Sommer's signal, and nodded. Then he swung his arm with the old free, supple, whiplash motion, and the ball that left his fingers cut the air like a streak of white, taking a really remarkable hop. Schepps' "swat" was wasted. "Now, dat's like it!" cried the sandlotter. "Where've you been keepin' dat kind, old boy? Gimme a duplicate." Lefty watched Bemis, the long-legged ground coverer, working away toward the plate, and drove him back. But he seemed to have forgotten O'Reilley, and the Irishman was taking a lead on which he should have little trouble in scoring if Schepps drove out a safety. Farther and farther he crept up toward third. Sommers tugged at his mask with an odd little motion. Like a flash the southpaw whirled about and shot the ball to second, knowing some one would be there to take the throw. Mel Gates was the man who covered the bag, and O'Reilley found himself caught between second and third. Gates went after him, and the Irishman ran toward third. But Locke had cut in on the line, and he took a throw from Gates that caused O'Reilley to turn back abruptly. Behind Gates, Norris was covering the cushion. Tremain came down a little from third to back Lefty up. Colby had raced from first base to the plate in order to support Sommers, for Bemis was swiftly creeping down to make a dash. On the coaching line, Cap'n Wiley did a wild dance. The spectators were thrilled by the sudden excitement of the moment. Lefty ran O'Reilley back toward second, and he knew Bemis was letting himself out in an attempt to score. Swinging instantly, Locke made a rifle-accurate throw to Sommers, who jammed the ball on to the long-geared runner as he was sliding for the plate. The affair had been so skillfully managed that not only was O'Reilley prevented from advancing, but also the attempt to sneak a tally while the Irishman was being run down had resulted disastrously for the Wind Jammers. "Dat's der only way dey can get us out," said Schepps. "Dis Lefty person looks to me like a lemon!" Cap'n Wiley was philosophically cheerful. "Just a little lull in the tornado," he said. "It's due to strike again in a minute." Lefty looked the confident Schepps over, and then he gave him a queer drop that deceived him even worse than the swift hopper. The spectators, who had been worried a short time before, now expressed their approval; and when, a minute later, the southpaw whiffed the sandlotter, there was a sudden burst of handclapping and explosions of boisterous laughter from the delighted darkies. "Wh-who's dat man said lemon?" cried one. "Dat Lefty pusson sho' handed him one dat time!" "Is it possible," said Cap'n Wiley, "that I'm going to be compelled to revise my dates regarding that wreck?" Then he roared at the Swede: "Get into the game, Oleson! It's your watch on deck, and you want to come alive. The wrong ship's being scuttled." "Aye, aye, captain!" responded Oleson. "Mebbe Ay do somethin' when Ay get on the yob. Yust keep your eye on me." Believing himself a hitter superior to the men who had touched Locke up so successfully at the beginning of the game, he strode confidently forth, for all of the failure of Schepps. Sizing up the Swede, Lefty tested him with a curve, but Oleson betrayed no disposition to reach. A drop followed, and the batter fouled it. His style of swinging led the southpaw to fancy that he had a preference for drops, and therefore Locke wound the next one round his neck, puncturing his weakness. Not only did Oleson miss, but he swung in a manner that made it doubtful if he would drive the ball out of the infield if he happened to hit one of that kind. "Hit it where you missed it!" implored Wiley. "Don't let him bamboozle you with the chin wipers." Then he turned on O'Reilley. "Cast off that mooring! Break your anchor loose and get under way! Man the halyards and crack on every stitch! You've got to make port when Ole stings the horsehide." In spite of himself, Lefty was compelled to laugh outright at the Marine Marvel's coaching contortions. "Calm yourself, cap'n," he advised. "The hurricane is over." "How can I calm myself when calamity threatens?" was the wild retort. "You are a base deceiver, Lefty. Such chicanery is shameful! I don't know what chicanery means, but it seems to fit the offense." And now the spectators fell to laughing at the swarthy little man, who did not seem to be so very offensive, after all, and who was injecting more than a touch of vaudeville comedy into the game. Oleson waited patiently, still determined to hit, although somewhat dismayed by his two failures to gauge the left-hander's slants. But when Lefty suddenly gave him another exactly like the last, he slashed at it awkwardly and fruitlessly. The crowd broke into a cheer, and the Swede turned dazedly from the plate, wiping beads of perspiration from his brow. "That Lefty he bane some pitcher," admitted Oleson. "He got a good yump ball." CHAPTER IX TORTURING DOUBT To a degree, Locke had satisfied himself that he still had command of his speed and carves; but the experience had also taught him that his efforts to acquire a new delivery as effective as his former style of pitching, and one that would put less strain upon his shoulder, had been a sheer waste of time. Working against batters who were dangerous, his artificial delivery had not enabled him to pitch the ball that would hold them in check. He had mowed them down, however, when he had resorted to his natural form. But what would that do to his shoulder? Could he pitch like that and go the full distance with no fear of disastrous results? Should he attempt it, even should he succeed, perhaps the morrow would find him with his salary wing as weak and lame and lifeless as it had been after that last heart-breaking game in the Big League. Involuntarily, as he left the mound, he looked around for Weegman, who had disappeared. It gave Lefty some satisfaction to feel that, for the time being, at least, he had wiped the mocking grin from the schemer's face. Cap'n Wiley jogged down from third, an expression of injured reproof puckering his countenance. "I am pained to the apple core," he said. "My simple, trusting nature has received a severe shock. Just when I thought we had you meandering away from here, Lefty, you turned right round and came back. If you handed us that one lone tally to chirk us along, let me reassure you that you made the mistake of your young life; I am going to ascend the hillock and do some volleying, which makes it extensively probable that the run we have garnered will be sufficient to settle the game." "Don't be so unfeeling!" responded Locke. "Give us Mysterious Jones." "Oh, perchance you may be able to get on the sacks with me pushing 'em over; but if Jones unlimbered his artillery on you, he'd mow you down as fast as you toddled up to the pentagon. You see, I wish the assemblage to witness some slight semblance of a game." In action upon the slab, Wiley aroused still further merriment. His wind-up before delivering the ball was most bewildering. His writhing, squirming twists would have made a circus contortionist gasp. First he seemed to tie himself into knots, pressing the ball into the pit of his stomach like a person in excruciating anguish. On the swing back, he turned completely away from the batter, facing second base for a moment, at the same time poising himself on his right foot and pointing his left foot toward the zenith. Then he came forward and around, as if he would put the sphere over with the speed of a cannon ball--and handed up a little, slow bender. But he need not have troubled himself to put a curve on that first one, for Fred Hallett, leading off for the Grays, stood quite still and stared like a person hypnotized. The ball floated over, and the umpire called a strike, which led Hallett to shake himself and join in the laughter of the crowd. "What's the matter? What's the matter?" spluttered Wiley. "Was my speed too much for you? Couldn't you see it when it came across? Shall I pitch you a slow one?" Hallett shook his head, unable to reply. "Oh, vurry, vurry well," said the Marine Marvel. "As you choose. I don't want to be too hard on you." Then, after going through with a startling variation of the former convulsions, he did pitch a ball that was so speedy that the batsman swung too slowly. And, a few minutes later, completing the performance to his own satisfaction, he struck Hallett out with a neat little drop. "I preen myself," said he, "that I'm still there with the huckleberries. As a pitcher of class, I've got Matty and a few others backed up against the ropes. Bring on your next victim." Charlie Watson found the burlesque so amusing that he laughed all the way from the bench to the plate. The eccentric pitcher looked at him sympathetically. "When you get through shedding tears," he said, "I'll pitch to you. I hate to see a strong man weep." Then, without the slightest warning, using no wind-up whatever, he snapped one straight over, catching Watson unprepared. That sobered Watson down considerably. "I'm glad to see you feeling better," declared the manager of the Wind Jammers. "Now that you're quite prepared, I'll give you something easy." The slow one that he tossed up seemed to hang in the air with the stitches showing. Watson hit it and popped a little fly into Wiley's hands, the latter not being compelled to move out of his tracks. He removed his cap and bowed his thanks. Doc Tremain walked out seriously enough, apparently not at all amused by the horseplay that was taking place. With his hands on his hips, Wiley stared hard at Tremain. "Here's a jolly soul!" cried the pitcher. "He's simply laughing himself sick. I love to see a man enjoy himself so diabolically." "Oh, play ball!" the doctor retorted tartly. "This crowd isn't here to see monkeyshines." "Then they won't look at you, my happy friend. And that's a dart of subtle repartee." Wiley's remarkable wind-up and delivery did not seem to bother Tremain, who viciously smashed the first ball pitched to him. It was a savage line drive slightly to the left of the slabman, but the latter shot out his gloved hand with the swiftness of a striking rattlesnake, and grabbed the whistling sphere. Having made the catch, the Marine Marvel tossed the ball carelessly to the ground and sauntered toward the bench with an air of bored lassitude. There was a ripple of applause. "You got off easy that time, cap'n," said Locke, coming out. "When are you going to let us have a crack at Jones?" "A crack at him!" retorted Wiley. "Don't make me titter, Lefty! Your assemblage of would-bes never could get anything remotely related to a crack off Jones. However, when ongwee begins to creep over me I'll let him go in and polish you off." "Colonel" Rickey, leading off for the Wind Jammers in the second, hoisted an infield fly, and expressed his annoyance in a choice Southern drawl as he went back to the bench. Peter Plum, the fat right fielder, followed, poling out an infield drive which, to the amazement of the crowd, he nearly turned into a safety by the most surprising dash to first. Impossible though it seemed, the chunky, short-legged fellow could run like a deer, and when he was cut down by little more than a yard at the hassock he vehemently protested that it was robbery. Locke was taking it easy now; he almost seemed to invite a situation that would again put his arm to the test. There was a queer feeling in his shoulder, a feeling he did not like, and he wondered if he could "tighten" in repeated pinches, as he had so frequently done when facing the best batters in the business. But, though he grooved one to Schaeffer, the catcher boosted an easy fly to Watson in left field. Wiley went through the second inning unharmed, although, with two down, Colby landed on the horsehide for two sacks. Coming next, Gates bit at a slow one and lifted a foul to the third baseman. "Now give me my faithful bludgeon," cried the Marine Marvel, making for the bats. "Watch me start something! I'm going to lacerate the feelings of this man Lefty. I hate to do it, but I hear the clarion call of duty." Locke decided to strike Wiley out. Wiley picked out a smoking shoot, and banged it on a line for one sack. "Nice tidy little bingle, wasn't it, mate?" he cried. "I fancied mayhap Dame Rumor had slandered you, but alas! I fear me you are easy for a real batter with an eye." Nuccio was up again, and he also hit safely, Wiley going to third on the drive. Locke's teeth clicked together. Was it possible that real batters could find him with such ease? If so, the Big League would see him no more; he would not return to it. If so, his days as a pitcher were surely ended. For a moment Bailey Weegman's grinning face again rose vaguely before him. "I must know!" he muttered. "I must settle these infernal doubts that are torturing me." CHAPTER X THE ONLY DOOR Luther Bemis blundered. He had been given the signal to let Nuccio steal, but he hit at the ball and raised a foul to Colby, who stepped back upon first and completed a double play unassisted, the Italian having made a break for second. Nuccio was disgusted, and Cap'n Wiley made a few remarks to Bemis that caused the lengthy center fielder to retire to the bench in confusion. "There has been a sudden addition to the bone crop," concluded the vexed manager of the Wind Jammers. "Beamy, in order to avoid getting your dates mixed, you should carry a telescope and take an occasional survey of the earth's surface." "Niver mind, cap'n," called O'Reilley. "I'll put ye across whin I hit." With a twinge of apprehension, Locke sought to trick the confident Irishman into biting at a curve. And, even as he pitched, he was annoyed with himself because apprehension prevented him from bending the ball over. O'Reilley stubbornly declined to bite. There was a sudden chorus of warning shouts as Sommers returned the ball, and the pitcher was surprised to see Cap'n Wiley running for the registry station. The foxy old veteran was actually trying to steal home on the Big League pitcher. Laughing, Lefty waited for the ball, aware that Sommers was leaping into position to nail the runner. Without undue haste, yet without wasting a second, the slabman snapped the sphere back to the eager hands of the catcher, who poked it into the sliding man's ribs. Wiley was out by four feet, at least. "Why didn't you wait for O'Reilley to hit?" Locke asked. "I wanted to spare your already tattered nerves," was the instant answer. "You see, sympathy may be found elsewhere than in the dictionary." Still floundering in the bog of doubt, Lefty was far from satisfied. He had told himself that he invited the test which would give him the answer he sought, yet he realized that, face to face with it, he had felt a shrinking, a qualm, akin to actual dread; and he was angry with himself because he drew a breath of relief when the blundering and reckless playing of the Wind Jammers postponed the ordeal, leaving him still groping in the dark. Sommers led off with a hot grounder, which O'Reilley booted. Playing the game, Locke bunted, advancing Sommers and perishing himself at first. "Cleverly done," admitted Cap'n Wiley, "but it will avail you naught. I shall now proceed to decorate the pill with the oil of elusion." A friend called to Lefty in the crowd back of first, and the pitcher walked back to exchange a few words with him. He was turning away when a hand fell on his arm, and he looked round to find Weegman there. The man's face wore a supercilious and knowing smile. "I didn't mean to attend this game," said Weegman, "but, having the time, I decided to watch part of it, as it would give me a good chance to settle a certain point definitely in my mind. What I've seen has been quite enough. Your arm is gone, Locke, and you know it. You're laboring like a longshoreman against this bunch of bushers, and, working hard as you are, you couldn't hold them only for their dub playing. I admit that you struck out some of their weakest stickers, but you were forced to the limit to do it, and it made that injured wing of yours wilt. They had you going in the last round, and threw away their chance by bonehead playing." "Weegman," said Locke, "I'm tired of hearing you talk. The sound of your voice makes me weary." But instead of being disturbed the man chuckled. "The truth frequently is unpleasant," he returned; "and you know I am speaking the raw truth. Now I like you, Locke; I've always liked you, and I hate to see you go down and out for good. That's what it means if you don't accept my offer. As manager of the Blue Stockings, you can hold your job this season if you don't pitch a ball; it'll enable you to stay in the business in a new capacity, and you'll not be dependent on your arm. A pitcher's arm may fail him any time. As a manager, you may last indefinitely." "It would be a crime if the sort of a manager you want lasted a month." "If you don't come at my terms, you may kiss yourself good-by. The Feds are going to learn that your flinger is gone; be sure of that." "That's a threat?" "A warning. If their crazy offer has tempted you, put the temptation aside. That offer will be withdrawn. Every manager and magnate in the business is going to know that as a pitcher you have checked in. There's only one door for you to return by, and I'm holding it open." He laughed and placed his hand again ingratiatingly upon Locke's arm. Locke shook it off instantly. "Were I as big a rascal as you, Weegman," he said, with limitless contempt, "I'd make a dash through that door. Thank Heaven, I'm not!" The baffled man snapped his fingers. "You are using language you'll regret!" he harshly declared, although he maintained his smiling demeanor to such a degree that any one a few yards distant might have fancied the conversation between the two was of the pleasantest sort. Lefty returned to the coaching line, taking the place of Tremain; for Wiley had issued a pass to Hallett, Watson was at bat, and the doctor followed Watson. Instantly sizing up the situation, the southpaw signaled for a double steal, and both runners started with the first movement of the pitcher's delivery. Schaeffer's throw to third was not good, and Sommers slid under. Hallett had no trouble about reaching second. "What are you trying to pull off here?" cried the manager of the Wind Jammers. "Such behavior is most inconsiderate, or words to that effect. However it simply makes it necessary for me to inject a few more kinks into the horsehide." Admittedly he did hand up some peculiar curves to Watson, but his control was so poor that none of the twisters came over and like Hallett, the left fielder walked. This peopled the corners. "Here," said Wiley, still chipper and undisturbed, "is that jolly soul who obligingly batted an easy one into my fin the last time. I passed the last hitter in order to get at this kind party again." Tremain let one pitch go by, but the next one pleased him, and he cracked the ball on the nose. It was a two-base drive, which enabled the runners already on to score. As the three raced over the plate, one after another, Wiley was seen violently wigwagging toward the bench. In response to his signal, Mysterious Jones rose promptly and prepared to warm up with the second catcher. "I'm off to-day; perhaps I should say I'm awful," admitted the Marine Marvel. "A spazoozum like that is sufficient to open my eyes to the humiliating fact that I'm not pitching up to class. In a few minutes, however, you'll have an opportunity to see Mr. Jones uncork some of the real stuff." Wiley dallied with the next batter for the purpose of giving the dummy pitcher time to shake the kinks out of his arm. Apparently Jones did not need much time in which to get ready, for when the sailor presently dealt out another pass the relief twirler signified his willingness to assume the burden. As Jones walked out upon the diamond, Locke looked around vainly for Weegman. It was possible, of course, that Collier's private secretary had departed at once following his last rebuff, but somehow Lefty felt that he was still lingering and taking pains not to be seen by Mysterious Jones. Suddenly the southpaw felt a desire to bring the two men face to face, wondering what would happen. There was more than a possibility that such a meeting might present some dramatic features. Turning back, Lefty's eyes followed Jones. The interest and fascination he had felt at first sight of the man returned, taking hold upon him powerfully and intensely. There was something in the solemn face of the mute that spoke of shattered hopes, deep and abiding sorrow, despair, tragedy. He was like one who stood aloof even while he mingled with mankind. Knowing other mutes, many of whom seemed happy and contented, Locke could not believe that the peculiarities of Mysterious Jones were wholly due to resentment against the affliction which fate had placed upon him. Behind it all there must lay a story with perhaps more than one dark page. CHAPTER XI BURNING SPEED As a pitcher, Jones displayed no needless flourishes. His style of delivery was simple but effective. Into the swing of his long arm he put the throwing force of his fine shoulder and sinewy body. Wiley had exaggerated in boasting of the mute's speed; nevertheless that speed was something to marvel at. Norris, the clean-up man of the Grays, who preferred smokers to any other kind, was too slow in striking at the first two pitched to him by Jones. Norris looked astounded and incredulous, and the spectators gasped. "That's his slow one, mates!" cried Wiley. "Pretty soon, when he gets loosened up, he'll let out a link or two and burn a few across. The daisies are growing above the only man he ever hit with the ball." Although Norris was not slow in swinging at the next one, the sphere took a shoot that deceived him, and the mute had disposed of the first hitter with three pitched balls. "And the wiseacres say there are no real heavers left in the bushes!" whooped Cap'n Wiley. Locke was thrilled. Could it be that here was a discovery, a find, a treasure like a diamond in the rough, left around underfoot amid pebbles? The Big League scouts are the grubstakers, the prospectors, the treasure hunters of baseball; ceaselessly and tirelessly they scour the country even to the remote corners and out-of-the-way regions where the game nourishes in the crude, lured on constantly by the hope of making a big find. To them the unearthing of a ball player of real ability and promise is like striking the outcroppings of a Comstock or a Kimberly; and among the cheering surface leads that they discover, a hundred peter out into worthlessness, where one develops into a property of value. More and more the scouts complain that the ground has been raked over again and again and the prizes are growing fewer and farther between; yet every now and then, where least expected, one of them will turn up something rich that has been overlooked by journeying too far afield. The fancy that Mysterious Jones might be one of these unnoticed nuggets set Locke's pulses throbbing. Jones had appeared to be a trifle slender in street clothes, but now Lefty could see that he was the possessor of fine muscles and whipcord sinews. There was no ounce of unnecessary flesh upon him anywhere; he was like an athlete trained to the minute and hardened for an enduring test by long and continuous work. There seemed little likelihood that protracted strain would expose a flaw. He had speed and stamina; if he possessed the required skill and brains, there was every reason to think that he might "deliver the goods." With the advent of the silent man upon the mound, Locke's attention became divided between doubts about himself and interest in the performance of the mute. Hampton, who followed Norris, was quite as helpless against the dazzling speed of Jones; he could not even foul the ball. "Great smoke, Locke!" he exclaimed, pausing on his way to center field. "That man's a terror! He seems to groove them all, but you can't see them come over." "Perhaps he can't keep it up," said Lefty. "I hope not. If he does, we've got to win on the runs we've made already; there'll be no more scoring for us. It's up to you to hold them down." The southpaw held them in the fourth, but he did so by working his head fully as much as his arm. By this time he had learned something of the hitting weaknesses of the Wind Jammers, and he played upon those weaknesses successfully. To his teammates and the spectators the performance was satisfactory; to him it proved only that his brain, if not his arm, was still in perfect condition. Mysterious Jones came back with two strikeouts; in fact, he struck Sommers, the third man, out also; but the whistling, shooting sphere went through the catcher, and Sommers raced to first on the error. This brought Locke up, and he was eager to hit against Jones. He missed the first one cleanly, but fouled the next two, which was better than any one else had done. Then the silent man put something more on the ball, and Lefty failed to touch it. "Nice little pitcher, don't you think?" inquired Cap'n Wiley blandly. "He behaves well, very well," admitted the southpaw. The Grays implored Locke to keep the enemy in hand; the crowd entreated him. This was the game they desired to win. To them it was a struggle of vital importance, and the winning or losing of it was the only question of moment. They did not dream of something a thousand times more momentous involving Lefty Locke. Loyal to the team and its supporters, the southpaw could not take needless chances of losing, no matter how much he longed to be put upon his mettle and forced to the last notch. Therefore he continued to work his head while on the slab. Schaeffer fouled out, Jones fanned indifferently, and Nuccio popped to shortstop. "Lucky boy!" called Wiley. "But things won't always break so well for you. You'll have to go your limit before the game is over." "I hope so," said Lefty. Hallett caught one of Jones' whistlers on the end of his bat and drove it straight into the hands of the first baseman. "Hooray!" laughed Watson. "At least that shows that he can be hit." "A blind man might hit one in a million if he kept his bat swinging," scoffed Wiley. "Let's see you do as much." Watson could not do as much; he fanned three times. Then Jones pitched four balls to Tremain, and the doctor placed himself in Watson's class. The game had become a pitchers' battle, with one twirler cutting the batters down with burning speed and shoots, while the other held them in check through the knowledge he had swiftly acquired regarding their shortcomings with the stick. In every way the performance of Jones was the most spectacular, and in the crowd scores of persons were beginning to tell one another that the mute was the greater pitcher. The truth was, experience in fast company had taught Lefty Locke to conserve his energies; like Mathewson, he believed that the eight players who supported him should shoulder a share of the defensive work, and it was not his practice to "put everything on the ball," with the cushions clean. Only when pinches came did he tighten and burn them across. Nor was he in that class of pitchers who are continually getting themselves into holes by warping them wide to lure batters into reaching; for he had found that a twirler who followed such a method would be forced to go the limit by cool and heady batters who made a practice of "waiting it out." Having that prime requisite of all first-class moundmen, splendid control, he sought out an opponent's weakest spot and kept the ball there, compelling the man to strike at the kind from which he was least likely to secure effective drives. This had led a large number of the fans who fancied themselves wise to hold fast to their often-expressed belief that the southpaw was lucky, but they were always looking for the opposition to fall on him and hammer him all over the lot. Therefore it was not strange that the crowd, assembled to watch the game in Fernandon, should soon come to regard the mute, with his blinding speed and jagged shoots, as the superior slabman. Apparently without striving for effect, Jones was a spectacular performer; mechanical skill and superabundant energy were his to the limit. But Locke knew that something more was needed for a man to make good in the Big League. Nevertheless, with such a foundation to build upon, unless the fellow should be flawed by some overshadowing natural weakness that made him impossible, coaching, training, and experience were the rungs of the ladder by which he might mount close to the top. Loyal to the core, Lefty was thinking of the pitching staff of the Blue Stockings, weakened by deflections to the Federals, possibly by his own inability to return. For a little time, even Weegman was forgotten. Anyway, the southpaw had not yet come to regard it as a settled thing that Bailey Weegman would be permitted to undermine and destroy the great organization, if such was his culpable design; in some manner the scoundrel would be blocked and baffled. The sixth inning saw no break in the run of the game between the Grays and the Wind Jammers. Bemis, O'Reilley, and Schepps all hit Locke, but none hit safely, while Jones slaughtered three of the locals by the strike-out method. As Wiley had stated was the silent man's custom, he seemed to be seeking revenge on the world for giving him a raw deal. When Oleson began the seventh with a weak grounder and "got a life" through an error, Lefty actually felt a throb of satisfaction, for it seemed that the test might be forced upon him at last. But the Swede attempted to steal on the first pitch to Rickey, and Sommers threw him out. Rickey then lifted a high fly just back of first base, and Colby put him out of his misery. Plum batted an easy one to second. "There's only one thing for me to do," thought Locke. "I've got to work the strike-out stuff in the next two innings, just as if men were on bases, and see if I've got it. The game will be over if I wait any longer for a real pinch." When Jones had polished off Gates and Sommers, Locke stepped out to face the mute the second time. Having watched the man and analyzed his performance, the southpaw felt that he should be able to obtain a hit. "If I can't lay the club against that ball," he told himself, "then that fellow's putting something on it beside speed and curves; he's using brains also." Cap'n Wiley jumped up from the bench and did a sailor's hornpipe. "This is the life!" he cried. "The real thing against the real thing! Take soundings, Lefty; you're running on shoals. You'll be high and dry in a minute." Straight and silent, Jones stood and looked at the Big League player, both hands holding the ball hidden before him. Wiley ceased his dancing and shouting and a hush settled on the crowd. To Locke it seemed that the eyes of the voiceless pitcher were plumbing the depths of his mind and searching out his hidden thoughts; there came to Lefty a ridiculous fancy that by some telepathic method the man on the slab could fathom his purposes and so make ready to defeat them. An uncanny feeling crept upon him, and he was annoyed. Jones pitched, and the batsman missed a marvelous drop, which he had not been expecting. "Perhaps I'll have to revise my theory about him not using brains," was the southpaw's mental admission. The next two pitches were both a trifle wide, and Lefty declined to bite at either. For the first time, as if he knew that here was a test, Jones appeared to be trying to "work" the batter. Locke fouled the following one. "That's all there is to it," declared Wiley, "and I'm excruciatingly surprised that there should be even that much. Go 'way back, Mr. Locke!" Again Jones surveyed Lefty with his piercing eyes, and for the third time he pitched a shoot that was not quite across. As if he had known it would not be over, the batsman made not even the slightest move to swing. "Some guessing match!" confessed the Marine Marvel. "Now, however, let me give you my plighted word of dishonor that you're going to behold a specimen of the superfluous speed Jonesy keeps on tap for special occasions. Hold your breath and see if you can see it go by." The ball did not go by; Lefty hit it fairly and sent a safety humming to right. CHAPTER XII TOO MUCH TEMPTATION "Is it poss-i-bill!" gasped Cap'n Wiley, staggering and clutching at his forehead. "I am menaced by a swoon! Water! Whisky! I'll accept anything to revive me!" Fred Hallett hurried to the pan with his bat. "It's my turn now," he said. "We've started on him, and we should all hit him." Locke signalled that he would steal, and Hallett let the first one pass. Lefty went down the line like a streak, but Schaeffer made a throw that forced him to hit the dirt and make a hook slide. He caught his spikes in the bag and gave his ankle a twist that sent a pain shooting up his leg. "Safe!" declared the umpire. Locke did not get up. The crowd saw him drag himself to the bag and sit on it, rubbing his ankle. Schepps bent over him solicitously. "Dat was a nice little crack, pal," said the sandlotter, "and a nifty steal. Hope youse ain't hoited." But Lefty had sprained his ankle so seriously that he required assistance to walk from the field. A runner was put in his place, although Wiley informed them that they need not take the trouble. And Wiley was right, for Jones struck Hallett out. It was impossible for Locke to continue pitching, so Matthews took his place. And the southpaw was left still uncertain and doubtful; the game had not provided the test he courted. Weegman apparently had departed; there was no question in the mind of Charles Collier's representative, and, angered by the rebuff he had encountered, he was pretty certain to spread the report that the great southpaw was "all in." He had practically threatened to do this when he declared that every manager and magnate in the business would soon know that Locke's pitching days were over. The Wind Jammers, spurred on by Cap'n Wiley, went after Matthews aggressively, and for a time it appeared certain that they were going to worry him off his feet. With only one down, they pushed a runner across in the eighth, and there were two men on the sacks when a double play blighted their prospect of tying up, perhaps of taking the lead, at once. As Jones continued invulnerable in the last of the eighth, the visitors made their final assault upon Matthews in the ninth. But fortune was against them. The game ended with Wiley greatly disappointed, though still cheerful. "A little frost crept into my elbow in the far-away regions of the North," he admitted. "I'll shake it out in time. If I'd started old Jonesy against Lefty, there would have been a different tale to tell." The Wind Jammers were booked to play in Jacksonville the following afternoon, but they remained in Fernandon overnight. Seated on the veranda of the Magnolia, Wiley was enjoying a cigar after the evening meal, and romancing, as usual, when Locke appeared, limping, with the aid of a cane. "It grieves me to behold your sorry plight," said the Marine Marvel sympathetically. "I cajole with you most deprecatingly. But why, if you were going to get hurt at all, weren't you obliging enough to do it somewhat earlier in the pastime? That would have given my faithful henchmen a chance to put the game away on ice." "You can't be sure about that," returned Lefty. "You collected no more scores off Matthews than you did off me." "But you passed us six nice, ripe goose eggs, while he dealt out only one. There was a difference that could be distinguished with the unclothed optic. Nevertheless, it seems to me that Jones had something on you; while he officiated, you were the only person who did any gamboling on the cushions, and what you did didn't infect the result. What do you think of Jones?" "Will you lend me your ear while I express my opinion privately?" "With the utmost perspicacity," said Wiley, rising. "Within my boudoir--excuse my fluid French--I'll uncork either ear you prefer and let you pour it full to overflowing." In the privacy of Wiley's room, without beating around the bush, Locke stated that he believed Jones promising material for the Big League, and that he wished to size up the man. "While I have no scouting commission or authority," said Lefty, "if Kennedy should manage the Blue Stockings this season, he'd stand by my judgment. The team must have pitchers. Of course, some will be bought in the regular manner, but I know that, on my advice, Kennedy would take Jones on and give him a show to make good, just as he gave me a chance when I was a busher. I did not climb up by way of the minors; I made one clean jump from the back pastures into the Big League." "Mate," said Wiley, "let me tell you something a trifle bazaar: Jones hasn't the remotest ambition in the world to become a baseball pitcher." Locke stared at him incredulously. The swarthy little man was serious--at least, as serious as he could be. "Then," asked the southpaw, "why is he pitching?" "Tell _me!_ I've done a little prognosticating over that question." "You say he does not talk about himself. How do you--" "Let me elucidate, if I can. I told you I ran across Jones in Alaska. I saw him pitch in a baseball match in Nome. How he came to ingratiate himself into that contest I am unable to state. Nobody seemed able to tell me. All I found out about him was that he was one of three partners who had a valuable property somewhere up in the Jade Mountain region--not a prospect, but a real, bony-fido mine. Already they had received offers for the property, and any day they could sell out for a sum salubrious enough to make them all scandalously wealthy. They had entered into some sort of an agreement that bound them all to hold on until two of the three should vote to sell; Jones was tied up under this contraction. "I had grown weary of the vain search for the root of all evil. For me that root has always been more slippery than a squirming eel; every time I thought I had it by the tail it would wriggle out of my eager clutch and get away. I longed for the fleshpots of my own native heath. Watching that ball game in Nome, my blood churned in my veins until it nearly turned to butter. Once more, in my well-fertilized fancy, I saw myself towering the country with my Wind Jammers; and, could I secure Jonesy for my star flinger, I knew I would be able to make my return engagement a scintillating and scandalous success. With him for a nucleus, I felt confident that I could assemble together a bunch of world beaters. I resolved to go after Jones. I went, without dalliance. I got him corralled in a private room and locked the door on him. "Mate, I am a plain and simple soul, given not a jot or tittle to exaggeration, yet I am ready to affirm--I never swear; it's profane--that I had the tussle of my life with Jones. Parenthetically speaking, we wrestled all over that room for about five solid hours. I had supplied myself with forty reams of writing paper, a bushel basket full of lead pencils, and two dictionaries. When I finally subdued Jones, I was using a stub of the last pencil in the basket, was on the concluding sheet of paper, had contracted writer's cramp, and the dictionaries were mere torn and tattered wrecks. In the course of that argument, I am certain I wrote every word in the English language, besides coining a few thousand of my own. I had practically exhausted every form of persuasion, and was on the verge of lying down and taking the count. Then, by the rarest chance, I hit upon the right thing. I wrote a paregoric upon the joys of traveling around over the United States from city to city, from town to town, of visiting every place of importance in the whole broad land, of meeting practically every living human being in the country who was alive and deserved to be met. Somehow that got him; I don't know why, but it did. I saw his eyes gleam and his somber face change as he read that last wild stab of mine. It struck home; he agreed to go. I had conquered. "Now, mark ye well, the amount of his salary had not a whit to do with it, and he entertained absolutely no ambish to become a baseball pitcher. He was compelled to leave his partners up there running the mine, and to rely upon their honesty to give him a square deal. You have been told how he promulgates around over every new place he visits and stares strangers out of countenance. Whether or not he's otherwise wrong in his garret, he's certainly 'off' on that stunt. That's how I'm able to keep him on the parole of this club of mine." "In short, he's a sort of monomaniac?" "Perhaps that's it." Lefty did a bit of thinking. "You've been touring the smaller cities and the towns in which an independent ball team would be most likely to draw. In the large cities of a Big League circuit there are thousands upon thousands of persons Jones has never met. He could work a whole season in such a circuit and continue to see hosts of strangers every time he visited any one of the cities included. Under such circumstances he would have the same incentive that he has now. If he can be induced to make the change, I'll take a chance on him, and I'll see that you are well paid to use your persuasive powers to lead him to accept my proposition." "But you stated that you had no legal authority to make such a deal." "I haven't; but I am willing to take a chance, with the understanding that the matter is to be kept quiet until I shall be able to put through an arrangement that will make it impossible for any manager in organized ball to steal him away." Wiley shook his head. "I couldn't get along without him, Lefty; he's the mainsheet of the Wind Jammers. It would be like chucking the sextant and the compass overboard. We'd be adrift without any instrument to give us our position or anything to lay a course by." "If you don't sell him to me, some manager is going to take him from you without handing you as much as a lonesome dollar in return. You can't dodge the Big League scouts; it's a wonder you've dodged them as long as you have. They're bound to spot Jones and gobble him up. Do you prefer to sell him or to have him snatched?" "What will you give for him?" "Now you're talking business. If I can put through the deal I'm figuring on, I'll give you five hundred dollars, which, considering the conditions, is more than a generous price." "Five hundred dollars! Is there that much money to be found in one lump anywhere in the world?" "I own some Blue Stockings stock, so you see I have a financial, as well as a sentimental, interest in the club. I'm going to fight hard to prevent it from being wrecked. As long as it can stay in the first division it will continue to be a money-maker, but already the impression has become current that the team is riddled, and the stock has slumped. There are evil forces at work. I don't know the exact purpose these forces are aiming at, but I'm a pretty good guesser. The property is mighty valuable for some people to get hold of if they can get it cheap enough." "They're even saying that you're extremely to the bad. What do you think about it yourself, Lefty?" Locke flushed. "Time will answer that." "You look like a fighter," said Wiley. "I wish you luck." "But what do you say to my proposition? Give me a flat answer." "Five hundred dollars!" murmured the Marine Marvel, licking his lips. "I'm wabbling on the top rail of the fence." "Fall one way or the other." Heaving a sigh, the sailor rose to his feet, and gave his trousers a hitch. "Let's interview Jones," he proposed. CHAPTER XIII THE PERPLEXING QUESTION The following morning Lefty Locke received two letters. One was from the Federal League headquarters in Chicago, urging him to accept the offer of the manager who had made such a tempting proposal to him. The position, it stated, was still his for the taking, and he was pressed to wire agreement to the terms proposed. The other letter was from Locke's father, a clergyman residing in a small New Jersey town. The contents proved disturbing. The Reverend Mr. Hazelton's savings of a lifetime had been invested in a building and loan association, and the association had failed disastrously. Practically everything the clergyman possessed in the world would be swept away; it seemed likely that he would lose his home. Lefty's face grew pale and grim as he read this letter. He went directly to his wife and told her. Janet was distressed. "What can be done?" she cried. "You must do something, Lefty! Your father and mother, at their age, turned out of their home! It is terrible! What can you do?" Locke considered a moment. "If I had not invested the savings of my baseball career in Blue Stockings stock," he said regretfully, "I'd have enough now to save their home for them." "But can't you sell the stock?" "Yes, for half what I paid for it--perhaps. That wouldn't he enough. You're right in saying I must do something, but what can I--" He stopped, staring at the other letter. He sat down, still staring at it, and Janet came and put her arm about him. "Here's something!" he exclaimed suddenly. "What, dear?" "This letter from Federal League headquarters, urging me to grab the offer the Feds have made me. Twenty-seven thousand dollars for three years, a certified check for the first year's salary, and a thousand dollars bonus. That means that I can get ten thousand right in my hand by signing a Federal contract--more than enough to save my folks." Janet's face beamed, and she clapped her hands. "I had forgotten about their offer! Why, you're all right! It's just the thing." "I wonder?" She looked at him, and grew sober. "Oh, you don't want to go to the Federals? You're afraid they won't last?" "It isn't that." "No?" "No, girl. If there was nothing else to restrain me, I'd take the next train for Chicago, and put my fist to a Fed contract just as soon as I could. I need ten thousand dollars now, and need it more than I ever before needed money." Janet ran her fingers through his hair, bending forward to scan his serious and perplexed face. She could see that he was fighting a battle silently, grimly. She longed to aid him in solving the problem by which he was confronted, but realizing that she could not quite put herself in his place, and that, therefore, her advice might not come from the height of wisdom and experience, she held herself in check. Should he ask counsel of her she would give the best she could. "I know," she said, after a little period of silence, "that you must think of your financial interest in the Blue Stockings." "I'm not spending a moment's thought on that now. I'm thinking of old Jack Kennedy and Charles Collier; of Bailey Weegman and his treachery, for I believe he is treacherous to the core. I'm thinking also of something else I don't like to think about." "Tell me," she urged. He looked up at her, and smiled wryly. Then he felt of his left shoulder. "It's this," he said. She caught her breath. "But you said you were going to give your arm the real test yesterday. The Grays won, and the score was three to one when you hurt your ankle and were forced to quit. I thought you were satisfied." "I very much doubt if the Grays would have won had not Cap'n Wiley insisted upon pitching the opening innings for his team. The man who followed him did not permit us to score at all. I was the only one who got a safe hit off him. The test was not satisfactory, Janet." Her face grew white. It was not like Lefty to lack confidence in himself. During the past months, although his injured arm had seemed to improve with disheartening slowness, he had insisted that it would come round all right before the season opened. Yet lately he had not appeared quite so optimistic. And now, after the game which was to settle his doubts, he seemed more doubtful than before. She believed that he was holding something back, that he was losing heart, but as long as there was any hope remaining he would try not to burden her with his worries. Suddenly she clutched his shoulders with her slender hands. "It's all wrong!" she cried. "You've given up the best that was in you for the Blue Stockings. You've done the work of two pitchers. They won't let you go now. Even if your arm is bad at the beginning of the season, they'll keep you on and give you a chance to get it back into condition." "Old Jack Kennedy would, but I have my doubts about any other manager." "You don't mean that they'd let you go outright, just drop you?" "Oh, it's possible they'd try to sell me or trade me. If they could work me off on to some one who wasn't wise, probably they'd do it. That's not reckoning on Weegman. He's so sore and vindictive that he may spread the report that I've pitched my wing off. I fancy he wouldn't care a rap if that did lose Collier the selling price that could be got for me." "Oh, I just hate to hear you talk about being traded or sold! It doesn't sound as if you were a human being and this a free country. Cattle are traded and sold." "Cattle and ball players." "It's wrong! Isn't there any way--" "The Federals are showing the way." "Your sympathy's with them. You're not bound to the Blue Stockings; you're still your own free agent." "Under the circumstances what would you have me do?" At last he had asked her advice. Now she could speak. She did so eagerly. "Accept the offer the Federals have made you." "My dear," he said, "would you have me do that, with my own mind in doubt as to whether or not I was worth a dollar to them? Would you have me take the ten thousand I could get, knowing all the time that they might be paying it for a has-been who wasn't worth ten cents? Would that be honest?" "You can be honest, then," she hurriedly declared. "No one knows for a certainty, not even yourself, that you can't come back to your old form. You can go to the manager and tell him the truth about yourself. Can't you do that?" "And then what? Probably he wouldn't want me after that at any price." "You can make a fair bargain with him. You can have it put in the contract that you are to get that money if you do come back and make good as a pitcher." Lefty laughed. "I think it would be the first time on record that a ball player ever went to a manager who was eager to sign him up, and made such a proposition. It would be honest, Janet; but if the manager believed me, if he saw I was serious, do you fancy he'd feel like coming across with the first year's salary in advance and the bonus? You see I can't raise the money I need, and be honest." She wrung her hands and came back to the first question that had leaped from her lips: "What can you do?" "I don't think I'll make any decisive move until I find out what sort of queer business is going on in the Blue Stockings camp. I could get money through Kennedy if he were coming back. Everything is up in the air." "How can you find out, away down here? You're too far away from the places where things are doing." "I've been looking for a telegram from old Jack, an answer to mine. I feel confident I'll get a wire from him as soon as he reads my letter. Meanwhile I'll write to my parents and try to cheer them up. It's bound to take a little time to settle up the affairs of that building and loan association. Time is what I need now." That very day Locke received a telegram from Jack Kennedy: Meet me at the Grand, Indianapolis, the twenty-third. Don't fail. A train carried Lefty north that night. CHAPTER XIV ONLY ONE WAY The registry clerk stated that no Mr. Kennedy was stopping at the Grand Hotel. Locke was disappointed, for he had expected old Jack would be waiting for him. However, the veteran manager would, doubtless, appear later. Lefty registered, and the clerk tossed a room key to the boy who was waiting with the southpaw's traveling bag. As the pitcher turned from the desk he found himself face to face with a man whom he had seen on the train. The man, Locke believed, had come aboard at Louisville. There was something familiar about the appearance of the stranger, yet Lefty had not been able to place him. He had narrow hips, a rather small waist, fine chest development, and splendid shoulders; his neck was broad and swelling at the base; his head, with the hair clipped close, was round as a bullet; his nose had been broken, and there was an ugly scar upon his right cheek. He did not look to be at all fat, and yet he must have weighed close to one hundred and ninety. His hands, clenched, would have resembled miniature battering-rams. This person had not taken a look at the register, yet he addressed the pitcher by name. "How are you, Locke?" he said, with a grin that was half a sneer, half a menace. "I guessed you'd bring up here." Lefty knew Mit Skullen the moment he spoke. One-time prize fighter and ball player, Skullen now posed as a scout employed by the Rockets; more often he acted as the henchman and bodyguard of Tom Garrity, owner of the team, and the best-hated man in the business. Garrity had so many enemies that he could not keep track of them; a dozen men had tried to "get" him at different times, and twice he had been assaulted and beaten up. Skullen had saved him from injury on other occasions. Garrity was the most sinister figure in organized baseball. Once a newspaper reporter, he had somehow obtained control of the Rockets by chicanery and fraud. Sympathy and gratitude were sentiments unknown to him. He would work a winning pitcher to death, and then send the man shooting down to the minors the moment he showed the slightest symptom of weakness. He scoffed at regulations and bylaws; he defied restraint and control; he was in a constant wrangle with other owners and managers; and as a creator of discord and dissension he held the belt. And he snapped his fingers in the face of the national commission. The league longed to get rid of him, but could not seem to find any method of doing so. "Been lookin' 'em over a little down South," explained Skullen superfluously. "Not much doin' this season, but I spotted one pitcher with a rovin' bunch o' freaks who had more smoke and kinks than you ever showed before you broke your arm, old boy. And he won't cost a cent when we get ready to grab him. Nobody's wise to him but me, either. S'pose you've come on to meet Weegman, hey?" "Where'd you run across this find?" asked Locke casually, endeavoring not to appear curious. Skullen pulled down one corner of his mouth, and winked. "T'ink I'll tell youse, old boy. But then Texas is a big bunch o' the map." Texas! The Wind Jammers had come to Florida from Galveston. "Did you have a talk with this unknown wizard?" questioned Lefty. "He didn't talk much," returned the scout. "Oh, you can't pump me! I know your old Blue Stocks ain't got a pitcher left that's worth a hoot in Halifax, or hardly a player, for that matter; but I ain't goin' to help you out--you an' Weegman. You gotter get together an' do your own diggin'." "Weegman is in Indianapolis?" "As if you didn't know! Never had no use for that guy; but, all the same, I advise you to grab on with him. It's your only chanct for a baseball job; everybody in the game's wise that you'll never do no more hurlin'." Boiling inwardly, Locke permitted himself to be conducted to the elevator. While he was bathing he thought, with increasing wrath and dismay, of the insolent words of Skullen. The question that perplexed him most was how the bruiser knew anything of Weegman's business, especially the attempt to sign Locke as a manager. And Weegman was in Indianapolis! Coming down, Lefty went again to the desk to inquire about Kennedy. He was handed a telegram. Tearing it open, he saw that it was from the Federal manager who had offered him a three years' contract. It stated curtly that the offer was withdrawn. Skullen was right; the story had gone forth that the star southpaw of the Blue Stockings would do no more pitching. Weegman was getting in his fine work. Lefty felt a hand grip his elbow. "Locke!" A well-dressed, youngish man grasped his hand and shook it. It was Franklin Parlmee, who, for a long time, had evinced deep interest in Virginia Collier. Parlmee, with family behind him, and a moderate income, had shown a distaste for business and a disposition to live the life of an idler. Collier had refused to countenance his daughter's marriage to Parlmee until the latter should get into some worthy and remunerative employment, and make good. For two years Parlmee had been hustling, and he had developed into a really successful automobile salesman. "By Jove!" said Parlmee. "I didn't expect to run across you here, old man. I'm mighty glad to see you. Perhaps you can tell me something about Virginia. What has Mrs. Hazelton heard from her?" The man seemed worried and nervous, and his question surprised Lefty. "If any one should know about Miss Collier, you are the person," returned the pitcher. "Janet has scarcely heard from her since she sailed with her father. We supposed you were corresponding with her regularly." Parlmee drew him toward a leather-covered settee. "I'm pegged out," he admitted, and he looked it. "Business forced me to run on or I'd not be here now. I'm going back to New York to-night. Do you know, I've received only two letters from Virginia since she reached the other side, one from London, the other from Eaux Chaudes, in France. The latter was posted more than a month ago. It stated that Virginia and her father were leaving Eaux Chaudes for Italy. Since then no letters have come from her." "Do you mean to say you haven't an idea where Miss Collier and her father are at the present time?" Parlmee lighted a cigarette. His hands were not steady. "I haven't an idea where Charles Collier is. As for Virginia, she cabled me that she was sailing on the _Victoria_, which reached New York four days ago. I was at the pier to meet her, but she didn't arrive, and her name was not on the passenger list." Lefty uttered an exclamation. "That was strange!" The other man turned on the settee to face him. "The whole thing has been queer. I had practically overcome Mr. Collier's prejudice and won his entire approval. Then he broke down; his health went to the bad, and his manner toward me seemed to change. I had an idea he went abroad more to take Virginia away than for any other reason. Anyway, I knew there was something wrong, and the two letters I got from her added to that conviction. Her father was trying to get her to break with me! There was another man whom he preferred." "Another!" "Yes, Bailey Weegman." Locke gave a great start, as if he had received an electric thrust. "Weegman!" he cried guardedly. "That scoundrel! Collier is crazy, Parlmee!" "Now you've said something! I believe the man's mind is affected. Business reverses may have done it." "Do you know that he left his baseball interests practically in the control of Weegman?" "No; but it doesn't surprise me. In some way, that scoundrel has got a hold on him. Weegman has tried hard to undermine me with Virginia. I've always disliked him and his detestable laugh. Who is he, anyway? Where did he come from, and what are his antecedents?" "You'll have to ask somebody else." "It's Virginia I'm worrying about now," said Parlmee, tossing aside his half-smoked cigarette. "But if she was contemplating sailing for the United States with her father--" "Her cablegram to me didn't mention her father. I got the impression that she was sailing alone." "Alone! Great Scott!" "And she didn't sail! Where is she? What happened to her? Do you wonder I'm rattled? I've made arrangements so that I can have a month, if necessary, to dig into this business. If that isn't enough, I'll take all the time needed. It's the deuce to pay, Locke, as sure as you're a foot high." "In more ways than one," agreed Lefty. "I could tell you some other things, but you've got enough to worry about. We must arrange to keep in touch with each other. I presume I'll go back to Fernandon when I get through here." "Here's my New York address," said Parlmee, handing over his card, and rising. Five minutes after they separated old Jack Kennedy arrived, dusty and weary from his railroad journey. His shoulders were a trifle stooped, and he looked older by years, but his keen eyes lighted with a twinkle as he grasped Locke's hand. "I knew you'd beat me to it, Lefty," he said. "Wouldn't have called on you to make the jaunt, but I had to chin with you face to face. Let's talk first and feed our faces afterward." The veteran registered, and they took the elevator. Carrying Kennedy's traveling bag, a boy conducted them. A bar boy, bearing a tray that was decorated with drinks, was knocking on a door. Within the room somebody called for him to enter, and he did so as Locke was passing at old Jack's heels. By chance Lefty obtained a glimpse of the interior of that room before the door closed behind the boy. Two men, smoking cigars, were sitting at opposite sides of a table on which were empty glasses. They were Mit Skullen and Bailey Weegman. Left together in Kennedy's room, Locke told the old manager what he had seen, and immediately Kennedy's face was twisted into a wrathful pucker. "You're sure?" "Dead sure," replied Locke. "Well, it sorter confirms a little suspicion that's been creepin' inter my noddle. The Blue Stockings are up against somethin' more'n the Feds, and the Feds have chewed the team to pieces. Within the last three days they've nailed Temple, Dayly, and Hyland. There's only the remnants of a ball club left." Locke was aghast. "Gene Temple, too!" he cried. "The boy I found! I thought he would stick." "Money gets the best of 'em. Why shouldn't it, when them lads ought to have been tied up before this with Blue Stockings contracts? The bars have been left down for the Feds, and they've raided the preserves. Seems just like they've been invited to come in and help themselves. Why not, with a team without a manager, and everything left at loose ends? Never heard of such criminal folly! But mebbe it ain't folly; mebbe it's plain cadougery. I've had an idea there was somethin' crooked behind it, but couldn't just quite nose it out. Now, with Weegman and Mit Skullen gettin' together private, I see a light. Garrity's the man! You know how he got his dirty paws on the Rockets. Well, if he ain't workin' to gobble the Blue Stockings I'll eat my hat! I'll bet that right now Tom Garrity's gathered in all the loose stock of the club that he could buy, and he's countin' on havin' enough to give him control before the season opens. He saw his chance, with the Feds reachin' for every decent player they could lay their hands on, and he went for it. What if the Blue Stockings do have a busted team this season? In three years the club might be built up again, and it's a sure money-maker just as long as it can keep in the first division. Lynchin' is what a crook like Garrity deserves!" Kennedy's eyes were flashing, and he was literally quivering with wrath. Despite the fact that he was tired, he strode up and down the room. "Weegman must be Garrity's tool, the creature who is helping him do the dirty work," said Locke. "You've got his number! How he came to pick you for a mark, I don't know, unless it was because he thought you let me work you to death, havin' no mind of your own. He knew he couldn't put anythin' over with me, and so he decided to get rid of me; but he had to have somebody for a manager who would appear to be all right. He's got to be blocked. There's only one way." "How?" "You'll have to accept, and sign a contract to manage the team." Lefty gasped. "But," he said, "I can't do that! You--" "I'm out. He wouldn't have me, even if I'd do the work for no salary." "But I can't agree to Weegman's terms. I couldn't do anything of my own accord; I couldn't sign a player unless he agreed. He made that plain." "But he wouldn't dare put anything like that in the contract. It would be too barefaced. The minute you have the authority you can get to work savin' the remnants of the team by signin' up the players the Feds haven't grabbed already. I have a line on a few good youngsters who went back to the minors last year because there wasn't room for them. Put proof of Weegman's treachery before Collier, and Weegman's done for! It's the one play that's got to be made in this here pinch." There was a knock on the door. "Come in!" called Kennedy. Bailey Weegman entered, smiling. CHAPTER XV SIGNING THE MANAGER Weegman came in boldly. His manner was ingratiating, yet somewhat insolent, and he chuckled as he saw the look of surprise on the face of Lefty Locke. "Well, well!" he said. "Here we are! This is first rate. Now we can get together and do things." To the southpaw's increasing astonishment, Kennedy stepped forward quickly, seized Weegman's hand, and shook it cordially and heartily. "I wired for Locke," said the old manager. "I felt sure I could talk sense into his head. Didn't like to see him make a fool of himself and let a great opportunity slip through his fingers just because of a false notion about loyalty to me. But I didn't expect you before to-morrow." Lefty was a trifle bewildered. Kennedy had known Weegman was coming to Indianapolis; in fact, had arranged to meet him there. Collier's representative beamed on Locke. "Sorry I couldn't wait to see the finish of that game in Fernandon," he said; "but I saw enough to satisfy me. You did well to beat the Wind Jammers with that bunch of half invalids behind you, and your own arm all to the bad. Still, Wiley sort of handed you the game." "The score was three to two," reminded Lefty. "The Wind Jammers couldn't hit. They were a lot of freaks, a burlesque baseball team." Weegman turned again to old Jack. "If you can talk some sense into Locke, you'll succeed where I failed. I wasted time, money, and breath on him; gave him up then. Let me tell you a joke." He began to laugh, and the southpaw writhed inwardly. "Who do you think wants to manage the Blue Stockings? You can't guess? Well, it's Skullen; yes, Mit Skullen. Actually came after the job. Got me cornered and gave me a great game of talk, trying to convince me that he could fill the bill. I was listening to his spiel when I caught a glimpse of you two passing the door of my room. Called the desk and asked the number of your room. Then I shook old Mit and came around. The idea of Mit Skullen managing a Big League club! Isn't that funny?" His whole body shook with merriment as he spoke. Kennedy seemed to be amused also, and joined in Weegman's laughter. "Wonder what Tom Garrity would say to that? Skullen must have forgotten his old nemesis, John Barleycorn. It was John that put him down and out as a prize fighter and a ball player." "He says he hasn't looked at the stuff for four months. You should have heard him trying to convince me that he had the makings of a great manager." Lefty knew Weegman was lying regarding the nature of the private consultation that had been held in a nearby room. But Kennedy seemed to be unaware of this. "You wouldn't take Skullen under any conditions, would you?" asked old Jack. "I wouldn't have him if he was ready to pay to manage the team. Collier would lift my scalp if I fell for anything like that. But I've got a line on a good man if--if--" He faltered, and looked at Locke, smiling. "We'll settle that right here," declared Kennedy, with a growl. "Locke's the lad. I haven't had time to talk to him much, but I was telling him before you came in that he'd have to accept. As for me, a Class AA team ain't so worse. You're dead sure I can hook up with St. Paul?" "I wired you about the proposition from Byers. He wants you, but he wasn't going to try to cut in on us. Did you send him word?" "Not yet. Decided to have my talk with Lefty first." "I've always liked you, Kennedy," said Weegman. "You've been a great man in your day. You're a good man now, but it needs younger blood, especially in this fight against the Feds, confound them! About so often a team needs to change managers, especially when it begins to slip. The Blue Stockings began to slip last year, and the Feds have given us a push. Locke's young, and he's got the energy to build the team up. Working together, we can put it on its feet again. He'll have the very best counsel and advice. He's a favorite with the fans, and he'll be tolerated where you would be blamed. He'll come through and win out. Of that I am certain. The Feds will blow before the season's over, and the woods will be full of first-class players begging for jobs. Next season should see the Stockings stronger than ever, and the man who's managing the team's bound to be popular. He'll get a lot of credit." Lefty had taken a chair. He opened his lips to speak, but stopped when he caught a warning sign from old Jack behind Weegman's shoulder. "Is that contract ready for the boy?" asked Kennedy. "I've got it in my pocket." "Then nail him right now. Push it at him, and we'll make him sign. Don't let him get away." Weegman produced the document. Then, for a moment, he seemed to hesitate, flashing old Jack a look and giving Locke a hard stare. "You understand the conditions?" he said, addressing the latter. "Yes," answered Lefty, "you made them plain enough for a child to understand when you talked to me in Fernandon." "Course he understands," cut in Kennedy. "He told me, and I told him to grab on without makin' no further talk. Just as you say, Weegman, with proper advice he can swing the thing. It looks pretty big to him, and he's doubtful. Let him look at that paper." He took it from Weegman's hand and looked it over himself. It was practically the same sort of an agreement old Jack had signed himself when he took control of the team, and the name of Charles Collier, properly witnessed, had already been affixed to it. With the contract in his possession, along with Collier's power of attorney, Weegman could sign up any one he chose to manage the Blue Stockings. For a fleeting instant Kennedy's face was twisted into an expression of rage, which, however, Collier's private secretary did not catch. Locke saw that flash of anger and understood; old Jack was playing the fox, and losing no time about it. "Skullen will do for the other witness," said Weegman, going to the room telephone. "He'll feel bad, of course, but I told him he didn't have a show in the world." He called the operator and gave the number of a room. While Weegman was engaged, Kennedy handed the agreement over to Locke. "You sign it just as it is," he directed. "You've had your talk with Mr. Weegman, and you know what he said to you. You don't have to chin it over any more." By this time Weegman had got Skullen on the phone and asked him to come round to Kennedy's room, giving him the number. Locke sat grimly reading the contract until Skullen knocked at the door. "Maybe you'll feel bad, Mit," said Weegman, admitting the man, "but you know I told you there wasn't a show in the world of me signing you up as manager. It's settled with Locke, and I want you to witness him put his autograph to the paper. Now don't make a growl, but do as you're wanted." Skullen kept still as directed, but he looked as if Weegman's first words had surprised him a trifle. Kennedy had produced a fountain pen and thrust it into Locke's hand. "Sign right here, son," he urged. "Let's see how pretty you write." "Wait!" cried Weegman, his eyes on the southpaw, who had promptly moved up to the little table. "You haven't forgotten our talk? You understand?" "I haven't forgotten a thing," asserted Lefty, boldly and swiftly writing his name. "There it is!" CHAPTER XVI THE WRONG STOOL PIGEON Skullen and Kennedy attached their names as witnesses. The thing was done; Lefty Locke--Philip Hazelton was the name he wrote on the contract--was now manager of the Blue Stockings. He received a duplicate copy, which he folded and slipped into his pocket. "Now we're all set for business," said Bailey Weegman. "I congratulate you, Locke. One time I was afraid you didn't have sense enough to welcome Opportunity when she knocked. I'll see you later, Mit, if you're around. We've got to square away now and have a little conference. Don't cry because you didn't get the job." "Cry--nothin'!" said Skullen. "I wouldn't have taken it if you'd handed it to me with twice the salary." "Old Mit's disappointed," chuckled Weegman, when the door closed behind him, "but he doesn't want anybody to know it. He'll deny he came looking for the position, of course." Kennedy had seated himself, and Weegman drew a chair up to the table, producing a packet of papers and running them over until he found the one he wanted. "Here's a list of the men the Feds have grabbed off us," he said. "Grist, Orth, Temple, Nelson, Hyland, and Lewis. Grist is no particular loss, but Temple and Orth knock a hole in the pitching staff. Nelson was our reliance behind the bat. With Dayly and Lewis gone, the whole side of the infield is wide open. We ought to be able to fill Hyland's place in right garden." "It's a swell team that's left!" said Locke. "And you told me that Dillon was negotiating with the outlaws." "He hasn't jumped; he hasn't had the nerve," sneered Weegman, snapping his fingers. "Instead, he's been howling for a contract. You'd find him waiting if you didn't sign him until the first of April." For just a flicker he had actually seemed to betray annoyance because Pink Dillon had not followed the example of the deserters, but he ended with a laugh. "It seems to me," said the new manager, "that I'd better get busy and try to save the pieces. The men who haven't jumped should be signed up without delay." "Of course," agreed Weegman blandly. "You must send out the contracts. Unluckily, I haven't any blanks with me, but I'll see that you are furnished with them to-morrow." "Every day counts, perhaps every hour; by to-morrow we may lose another good man, or more." "Not much danger, and you don't want to make the mistake of getting into a panic and trying to do things in too much of a hurry. We've been farming some clever youngsters, more than enough to make up a team; but you should consult with Kennedy about them, and take only the right ones. You'll have the most trouble getting hold of pitchers." "Youngsters," said Locke, "are all right; but do you mean to suggest that we should stop the gaps wholly with men who lack Big League experience? You know how much show that sort of a team would have in the race. We've got to make some deals that will give us some players who have ripened. It'll cost money, too." "Right there," said Weegman, "is where you're going to need the check-rein. Charles Collier won't stand for needless extravagance in that line, I know, and I shall not countenance the purchasing of high-priced men." The blood rose into Lefty's face; he tingled to tell the rascal something, but again a warning flicker of Kennedy's left eye restrained him. "There are lots of good youngsters coming on," said the veteran soothingly. "There were three or four I could have used last season if I'd had room for them. We'll run over the list and see how they'll fit in." For another hour they continued in conclave, and a dozen times Weegman took occasion to impress upon Locke that he should do nothing definite without receiving Weegman's approval. When he seemed to feel that he had driven this into the new manager's head, he excused himself on the pretext of attending to a pressing matter, and departed, leaving old Jack and Lefty together. Kennedy quietly locked the door. Lefty jumped to his feet and began pacing the floor like a caged tiger. "Never had such a job to keep my hands off a man!" he raged. "Only for you, I'd--" "I know," said old Jack, returning and sitting down heavily. "I wanted to kick him myself, and I think I shall do it some day soon. He's crooked as a corkscrew and rotten as a last year's early apple. But he ain't shrewd; he only thinks he is. He's fooled himself. You never agreed to his verbal terms, and, just as I said, he didn't dare put them in writing. According to that contract, you've got as much power as I ever had, and you can exercise it. It's up to you to get busy. Don't wait for contract forms from Weegman; they'll be delayed. I have plenty. Wire the old players who are left that contracts will be mailed to them to-night." Locke stopped by Kennedy's chair and dropped a hand on the old man's shoulder. "And you're going to St. Paul?" he said. "You've been handed a wretched deal." "Nix on the St. Paul business, son; there's nothing to it. That wolf thought I swallowed that guff. Byers is Garrity's friend, and it's plain now that Garrity's mixed up in this dirty business. It was easy enough to ask if I'd consider hooking up with St. Paul. By the time I got round to saying yes, Byers could tell me it was off. This time, Lefty, I'm out of the game for good." His voice sounded heavy and dull, and his shoulders sagged. The southpaw was silent, words failing him. After a few minutes old Jack looked up into the face of his youthful companion, and smiled wryly. "You've got a little glimpse of what goes on behind the scenes in baseball," he said. "The fans that pay their money to see the games look on it, generally, as a fine, clean sport--which, in one way, it is. That part the public pays to see, the game, is on the level. There's a good reason: the crookedest magnate in the business--and, believe me, there's one who can look down the back of his own neck without trying to turn round--knows it would spell ruin to put over a frame-up on the open field. By nature the players themselves are like the average run of human critters, honest and dishonest; but experience has taught them that they can't pull off any double deals without cutting their own throats. People who talk about fixed games, especially in the World's Series, show up their ignorance. It can't be done. "But when it comes to tricks and holdups, and highway robberies and assassination, there's always somethin' doing off stage. What you've seen is only a patch. The men who run things are out for the coin, and they aren't any better, as a rule, than the high financiers who plunder railroads and loot public treasuries. They'll smile in a man's face while they're whetting the knife for his back. Some of them have put the knife into Charles Collier now, and they intend to sink it to the hilt. You've been picked as a cat's-paw to help them pull their chestnuts off the coals. They intend to fatten their batting average at your expense, and when it's all over you'll be knocked out of the box for good. You'll get the blame while they pluck the plums." "Kennedy," said Locke, his voice hard as chilled steel, "they've picked the wrong stool pigeon. My eyes aren't sewed up. With your help, I'm going to find a way to spoil their villainous schemes. I know you'll help me." The veteran sprang up, a bit of the old-time fire in his face. "You bet your life, son! That's why I wired for you to come on, and that's why I wanted you to pretend to take the hook and sign up with Weegman. I knew we could work together, and it puts us in position to get the harpoon into them before they wise up to what's doing. Let's get busy." CHAPTER XVII GETTING INTO ACTION Locke was for open work and defiance of Weegman, but Kennedy argued against it. "You want to get the jump on that snake," said the old man, digging a package of contract forms for players out of his traveling bag. "He won't be looking for you to get into action so sudden, and you'll gain a lap before he knows it. When it comes to fighting a polecat, a wise man takes precautions. Weegman's gone to send word to his pals of the slick job he's put over, and he'll be coming back to bother us pretty soon. We don't want to be here when he comes." So, for the purpose of conducting their private business, another room was engaged, and an arrangement made whereby no person, no matter how insistent he might be, should be told where to find them. Then a telegraph messenger boy was summoned to that room, and telegrams were sent to the still loyal Blue Stockings players, stating that contracts were being mailed for their signatures. Then the contracts were filled out, sealed, and dropped into the mail chute. A square meal was ordered and served in the private room, and for nearly three hours Lefty and Jack talked. They had many things to tell each other, but their principal topic was the filling of the frightful gaps made in the team by the Federal raids, and both agreed that the time had come when the close-fisted financial policy of the Blue Stockings must be abandoned; players fully as good as the ones lost, or better, if possible, must be obtained at any cost. Various team combinations that seemed to balance to a nicety were made up on paper, but how to get the men coveted was the problem. "We've got two catchers left," said Kennedy, "but the best of the pair ain't in the same class as the man we've lost. We've got to have a backstop as good as Nelson. And when it comes to pitchers--say, son, is it possible there ain't any show at all of your coming back?" "I wish I could answer that," confessed Locke. "At any rate, we've got to have two more first-string men. If this Mysterious Jones I told you of is anywhere near as good as he looked to--" "Not one chance in a hundred that he's good enough to carry a regular share of the pitching the first season, no matter what he might develop into with experience. The Wolves have been hurt least by the Feds, and you might pick something worth while off Ben Frazer if you paid his price. Last fall he offered to trade me that youngster, Keeper, for Dayly, and since then he's bought Red Callahan from Brennan. That'll put Keeper on the bench. You know what Keeper is, and I've always regretted letting Frazer get him off me for five thousand, but it was Collier's idea. The boy'd look well on our third cushion about now. But don't lose sight of the fact that it's pitchers we've _got_ to have." Locke took the five-fifty train for New York, leaving Weegman, whom he had succeeded in avoiding, frothing around the Grand in search of him. Kennedy knew how to reach Frazer by wire, and he had received a reply to his telegram that the manager of the Wolves would meet Lefty at the Great Eastern the following night. Between Kennedy and Frazer there had always existed a bond of understanding and friendship. Despite the burden he had assumed, the new manager of the Blue Stockings slept well. It was this faculty of getting sleep and recuperation under any circumstances that had enabled him to become known as the "Iron Man." At breakfast the following morning he received a slight shock. Three tables in front of him, with his back turned, sat a man with fine shoulders, a bull neck, and a bullet head. Mit Skullen was traveling eastward by the same train. Lefty cut his breakfast short and left the diner without having been observed. "If he should see me, he'd probably take the first opportunity to wire back to Weegman," thought Locke, "and I'm going to follow old Jack's advice about leaving Weegman in the dark for a while." There was a possibility, of course, that Skullen would come wandering through the train and discover him, but, to his satisfaction, nothing of the kind happened. All the long forenoon he was whirled through a snow-covered country without being annoyed by the appearance of Garrity's henchman, and he had plenty of time to meditate on the situation and the plans laid by himself and Kennedy. But it was necessary to eat again, and shortly before Albany was reached he returned to the diner, hoping Skullen had already had lunch. The man was not there when he sat down, but he had scarcely given his order when the fellow's hand dropped on his shoulder. "Hully smokes!" exclaimed Mit, staring down, wide-eyed, at the southpaw. "What's this mean? I can hardly believe me lamps. You must have left Indianap' same time I did, and Weeg asked me twice if I'd seen anything of you." "Weegman?" said Lefty, startled, but outwardly serene. "Is he on this train?" "Nix. Last I know, he was tearing up the Grand looking for you. How's it happened you skipped without dropping him word?" "I'm going to see my folks, who live in Jersey," Locke answered, truthfully enough. "But you'll stop in the big town to-night? Where do you hang out?" "Usually at the Prince Arthur." This was likewise true, although the southpaw had now no intention of putting up there on this occasion. Mit looked at his watch. "We must be pulling into Albany," he said. "I want to get a paper. See you later." "Go ahead and shoot your telegram to Weegman," thought Locke. "Any message sent me at the Prince Arthur is liable to remain unopened for some time." He had finished his lunch and was back in the Pullman when Skullen found him again. The man planted himself at Lefty's side and passed over a newspaper, grinning as he pointed out an item on the sporting page: Even though it was rumored that old Jack Kennedy was to be let out, the selection of Locke as his successor is a surprise. As a pitcher Locke has had an amazingly successful career and has made an enviable reputation, but he has had no managerial experience, having come to the Big League directly from the bushes. Whether or not he has the stuff of which capable managers are made is a matter of uncertainty; but, with the Blue Stockings badly chewed to pieces by the Feds, Collier might have been expected, had he decided to drop Kennedy, to replace the veteran with a man of some practical knowledge in that line. The policy of the Stockings for the last year or two has been rather queer, to say the least, and the effect upon the team can be seen in its present rating. That was the final paragraph. Collier, sick and absent in Europe, was credited with the deal; not a word about Weegman. The rascal, pulling the wires, was keeping himself in the background. For a moment Lefty thought of Jack Stillman, a reporter friend, and felt a desire to give him some inside information which, in cold type, would be pretty certain to make the interested public sit up and take notice. But the time was not ripe for a move like that, and he dismissed the thought. Still grinning, Skullen jammed his elbow into Locke's ribs. "How do you like that?" he inquired gloatingly. "That's the way them cheap newspaper ginks pans you out when they get a chance." The southpaw was suddenly attacked by an intense distaste for the company of Tom Garrity's coarse hireling. He handed the paper back in silence. But the feeling of dislike and antagonism was evidently felt by Skullen, for, after a few minutes' silence, he got up and walked out of the car; and, to his satisfaction, Lefty saw no more of him during the remainder of the journey. An uncomfortable storm of rain and sleet was raging when New York was reached shortly after nightfall. A taxi bore Locke to the Great Eastern, where he learned that Frazer had not yet arrived. Having registered, he took the elevator for his room on the seventh floor, and, as he was borne upward, a descending car, well filled with people, slipped silently past, and Lefty caught a momentary glimpse of their faces through the iron grillwork. One face he saw quite plainly, that of a charming young woman in her early twenties--a face he recognized at once. "Virginia Collier!" gasped Lefty, in astonishment. He did not leave the car; back to the main floor he went. After hastily looking around for the young woman he sought, he made inquiries at the desk. He was informed that no Miss Collier was stopping in the hotel. Still confident that he had not been mistaken, and thinking it probable she was dining there with friends, he had her paged. Even when the report came that no one answered to the name, he did not give up. From various vantage points, he spent at least twenty minutes looking over the people at dinner in the main dining room, the grill, and the palm room. At the end of that time he was confident that Charles Collier's daughter was not dining at the Great Eastern. "Of course," he admitted to himself, "it's possible I was mistaken, but I would have sworn it was Virginia." He went up to his room and prepared for dinner, burdened by the conviction that he had been baffled; that fate had played him a trick. He would have given much for fifteen minutes' conversation with the daughter of the Big Chief, and he was impressed with the belief that he had passed her almost within an arm's reach. This feeling was followed by one of uncertainty regarding Frazer. Old Jack had assured him that the manager of the Wolves would meet him at the Great Eastern, and he had relied on Kennedy without attempting to get into direct communication with Frazer, and perhaps, after all, he would not come. "Then I'll have to run him down," considered Lefty. "And I want to get to him before Weegman can get to me. If I don't, he'll be sure to try to ball up any deal I attempt to put across." Choosing to eat in the grill, he notified the desk where he could be found should any one ask for him. But he had scarcely begun on the first course when he heard his name spoken, and looked up to find Ben Frazer smiling down upon him. CHAPTER XVIII THE FIRST DEAL "Just in time to get in on the eats, I see," said the manager of the famous Wolves, shaking hands with Locke. "It's a rotten night, my feet are wet, and I'm awfully hungry. Only for Kennedy's message I'd be on my way to Chicago." A waiter placed a chair, and he sat down, took the menu card, and quickly gave his order. He was a short, thick-set, shrewd-faced man; his hair was turning gray on the temples, but he seemed to have lost little of the nervous energy and alertness that had been his in the old days when he had been called the swiftest second sacker in the business. He had been an umpire baiter then, but in later years his methods had changed, and never once since becoming a manager had he been given the gate. Nevertheless, while he had gained in diplomacy, he had relaxed no whit in aggressiveness. Led by old Ben, the Wolves fought to the last ditch. "Now, tell me about it," he requested, turning to Lefty. "How in thunder did you happen to let them rope you into such a mess?" "You mean--" "Getting tied up as manager of the Blue Stockings. Boy, you're the goat; you've been chosen for the sacrifice. Somebody had to fall, of course, but it's a shame that you should be the victim. I'd thought you too wise to tumble into that trap." "Then you think it is a trap?" asked the southpaw, feeling the blood hot in his cheeks. "Of course it is! The Stockings have been undermined and blown wide open. They've got as much show this year as a snowball would have in a baker's oven. They'll land in the subcellar with a sickening thud, and there's no way of stopping them." "No way--" "No way under heaven, take it from me! I've been in the business long enough to know what I'm talking about. It takes years to build up such a fighting machine, and, when it's torn to pieces, rebuilding is bound to be another job of years. The public won't understand. You'll get the kicks and the curses. As a successful pitcher you've been a favorite; as an unsuccessful manager you'll be about as popular as a rusty spike in an automobile tire. Crowds are always fickle. When a man's winning they howl their heads off for him; but let him strike a losing streak and they scramble like mad to pelt him with mud and brick-bats." "But somebody has to build up a team." "Somebody has to start it and get the blame. He's the goat. Where's Burkett, who managed the Wolves before I came in? Out in the Border League. Where's Ashton and Gerrish, who struggled with the Blue Stockings before Kennedy stepped in on the turn of the tide? One's running a cigar store in Kewanee, the other's drinking himself to death in Muskegon; both left the game with busted reputations and broken hearts. Where's McConnell, who tried to make a ball team of the Hornets before Brennan's day? He took to the coke, and his friends are paying for his keep in a private bug-house. Where's Decker, who had a crack at the Panthers--But what's the use! There's no surer way for a good man to ruin his career than to manage a losing ball team." "In that case," said Locke, "I've got to manage a winner." Frazer gazed at him pityingly. "Swell chance you've got! About one in fifty thousand. You haven't got the makings of an ordinary second-division team left." "I know the Feds have copped off some of our best men, but--" "Some! Some! I should so remark! But don't blame it all on the Feds. They were practically invited to come in and take their pick. The bars were let down. All your players knew there was trouble. They heard all sorts of rumors that made them nervous and uncertain. They didn't see any contracts coming their way to be signed. They knew there was something the matter with Collier. It was even said he'd gone crazy. They knew Kennedy was going to get out from under. There was gossip about old men being shunted and new blood taken on. What they didn't know was where they were at. It was all nicely worked to get them to take the running long jump." "Then you believe there was a plot to smash the team?" "You don't have to be a mind reader to get my opinion, but I'm saying this here private, man to man. I'm not goin' round talking for publication." "But you're wrong about Kennedy getting out; he was dropped." "Was he?" "Sure." Frazer twisted his face into a queer grimace. "Old Jack Kennedy was too wise to stick on under any such conditions. He knew what it meant, and I'll guarantee that he wouldn't have managed the Blue Stockings this year for twice the salary he got last. What I've got against him is that he didn't put you wise before you tied up." "It was on his advice that I consented to manage the team," replied Locke. "What?" exclaimed Frazer. "Is that straight? He advised you to--The infernal old scoundrel!" Locke warmed immediately in defense of Kennedy. The manager of the Wolves listened, uncertain, shaking his head doubtfully. "He may not have meant it," he admitted presently, "but he's got you in bad, boy. You haven't got a show against the powers you'll have to buck, and the conditions that were fixed up for you in advance." "As to that, time will tell," said Lefty. "I'm going to make one almighty try. First, I've got to plug the gaps. What have you got to sell that I want?" "Nothing that you'll pay the price for. I know Collier's policy." "Collier is in Europe, and I'm manager of the team, with full authority to make any deals I please. Here's my contract." He placed it before old Ben. "Collier will have to stand for any trade I put through. I'll buy Smoke Jordan off you." "You won't! I won't sell him." "Then how about Jack Keeper? You've got Red Callahan, and I need a third baseman." Frazer finished his soup. "I won't sell you Keeper," he said; "but I'll trade him. I need a center fielder in the place of Courtney, who's retired. I'll trade Keeper for Herman Brock." At first Locke had no relish for a trade that would add to the Blue Stockings infield at the expense of the outfield, even though in his secret heart he knew Brock had during last season shown vague symptoms of slowing down. Then he remembered the list of reserves given him by Kennedy, on which there was one fast, hard-hitting youngster who had been sent back to the Western Canada League, and had made a brilliant record covering the middle garden for Medicine Hat. "I don't want to trade, I want to buy," he persisted. Then, as if struck by second thought: "I'll tell you what I will do; I'll give you Brock for two men. That'll help. We need a catcher. After King broke his leg you found a great catcher in Darrow. I'll trade you Brock for Keeper and King." "Brick King!" exploded Frazer indignantly. "What do you take me for?" "A business man. You've got three first-string catchers now; two are all you need. You don't even know that King's leg is all right. I'm willing to take a chance on him. Brock batted over three hundred last season. He's the hitter you need to fill that vacancy." "Not Brick King," said the manager of the Wolves. "If I didn't use him behind the bat for the whole season, he's a fancy pinch hitter. You've gotter have pitchers. How about O'Brien?" But Locke knew that Chick O'Brien, the veteran, had cracked already. Even though on hot days, when he could get his wing to work, he showed flashes of his former brilliant form, and had, under such conditions, last year pitched three shut-out games for the Wolves, Chick's record for the season showed a balance on the wrong side. The southpaw held out for King. Frazer offered one of the second-string catchers. Lefty waved the offer aside. "Hang it!" snapped Frazer. "Give me Brock and ten thousand dollars, and you may have Keeper and King." "You don't want much!" laughed Locke. "I'll give you Brock and five thousand." All the way through to the dessert they dickered and bargained. Frazer wanted Brock, and wanted him bad. Sympathetic though he might feel toward Lefty, he never permitted sympathy to interfere with business. Brock was the man to fill the position left vacant by Bob Courtney, and he was sure the Wolves would not be weakened by the loss of Keeper. But Brick King--"What salary are you paying King?" Lefty suddenly asked. "Five thousand. The Feds got after him, and I had to make it that." The southpaw laughed. "With Darrow doing most of the backstopping, and Larson ready to fill in any moment he's needed, you're going to keep a five-thousand-dollar catcher on the bench for a pinch hitter! I just called you a business man, but I feel like taking it back. Isn't Madden likely to kick over a five-thousand-dollar pinch hitter?" Madden owned the team. "Madden be hanged!" rasped Frazer, biting off the end of a cigar he had taken from his case. "I'm the manager! Madden isn't always butting in and paring down expenses, like Collier." He pulled vigorously at the cigar, while the attentive waiter applied a lighted match. Lefty had declined a cigar. He smoked occasionally, and would have done so now, but to do so would indicate an inclination to settle down and continue the dickering, and he had decided to make a bluff at bringing the affair to an end. He called for the check, and insisted on paying the bill for both. "Sorry I've put you to so much trouble, Frazer," he said. "It was Kennedy's idea that I might do business with you, but it's evident he was mistaken. I've got some other cards to play, and time is precious." He settled the bill and tipped the waiter. Old Ben sat regarding Locke thoughtfully, rolling out great puffs of smoke. The younger man was about to rise. "Hold on," requested the manager of the Wolves. "You're a regular mule, aren't you? How do you expect to make a trade without compromising at all? You won't even meet me halfway, confound you! You--" "I'll own up that I was a bit hasty," said Lefty, showing a nervous desire to get away. "I made that five-thousand offer without thinking much, but you understand I'm rather desperate. If Collier were here, he'd probably put the kibosh on it--if he found out before the trade was closed. After that he'd have to stand for it, no matter how hard he kicked. Let's forget it." Then Frazer showed that peculiar trait of human nature that makes a person doubly eager for something that seems to be on the point of slipping away. In his mind he had already fitted Herman Brock into that gap in center field that had given him more or less worry. The adjustment had pleased him; it seemed to balance the team to a hair. It would give him renewed assurance of another pennant and a slice of the World's Series money. It was Courtney's hitting in the last series that had enabled the Wolves to divide the big end of that money; and, like Courtney, Brock was a terror with the ash. "You mule!" said Frazer. "Let's go up to your room and fix up the papers. It's a trade." CHAPTER XIX A FLEETING GLIMPSE Locke betrayed no sign of the triumph that he felt. Had Frazer held out, he would have given the ten thousand asked, and considered himself lucky to get a catcher and a third sacker, both young men, and coming, in exchange for an outfielder who could not possibly last more than another season or two. Collier might squirm when he learned of the trade, but perhaps he could be made to see the desperate necessity of it. The thought that Bailey Weegman would gnash his teeth and froth at the mouth gave Lefty an added thrill of pleasure. The first move to circumvent Weegman and the scheming scoundrel behind him, Garrity, had been put through. "All right," he said, with something like a sigh. "If you hold me to my word, I suppose it's a trade. We may as well make out the papers." "What's that about a trade?" asked a voice at the southpaw's back. "What are you two ginks cooking up? I saw you chinnin', and thought there was something in the wind." Skullen had entered the grill and come up without being observed. There was nothing thin-skinned about Mit, and apparently he had forgotten the rebuff given him by Locke on the train. "Hello, Mit!" said Frazer. "You're just in time to be a witness. I've traded King and Keeper for Herm Brock. We're going up to make out the papers now. Come on!" Locke rose, his eyes on the intruder, repressing a laugh as he noted the man's expression of incredulity. "Traded!" exclaimed Skullen. "With Locke? Say, who's backing Locke in this deal? Weeg told me--when I talked with him about being manager--that any trade that was made would have to be confirmed by him. Has he agreed to this deal?" "He don't have to," said Lefty. "There's nothing in my contract that gives him any authority to interfere with any deal I may choose to make." Mit followed them from the room and to the elevator. He was bursting to say more, but he did not know just how to say it. When they were in Locke's room he began: "Keeper and King for that old skate Brock! What's the matter with you, Ben? You've got bats in your belfry! Why, you've gone clean off your nut! You've--" Frazer cut him short. "That'll be about enough from you, Mit! Don't try to tell me my business. I'm getting five thousand bones in the bargain." "Hey?" shouted Skullen, turning on the young manager of the Blue Stockings. "Five thousand bucks! You're coughing up that sum without consulting anybody? Say, you're going in clean over your head. You'd better hold up and wire Weegman what you're thinking about. If you don't--" "When I want your advice I'll ask for it," interrupted Locke sharply. "You seem to be greatly interested in this business, for an outsider." Skullen was choked off, but he gurgled and growled while the papers were being filled out; he even seemed disposed to refuse to sign as a witness, but finally did so, muttering: "There's going to be the devil to pay over this, you can bet your sweet life on that!" Lefty didn't care; it was settled, and neither Collier nor his representative could repudiate the bargain. Let the crooks rage. The only thing the southpaw regretted was that Weegman would, doubtless, quickly learn what had been done; for it was a practical certainty that Skullen would lose little time in wiring to him. In fact, Mit soon made an excuse to take his departure, and, in fancy, Locke saw him making haste to send the message. Frazer was wise, also. "You're going to find yourself bucking a rotten combination, Locke," he said. "They're bound to put it over you before you're through." "I should worry and lose my sleep!" was the light retort. "Give me a cigar now, Ben; I haven't felt so much like smoking in a month." Locke slept that night in peace. In the infield there were two big holes left to be filled, short and second; but the reserve list afforded a dozen men to pick from, and it was Lefty's theory that a certain number of carefully chosen youngsters, mixed in with veterans who could steady them, frequently added the needed fire and dash to a team that was beginning to slow down. Herman Brock was gone, but out in Medicine Hat Jock Sheridan had covered the middle garden like a carpet, and had batted four hundred and ten--some hitting! With Welch and Hyland on his right and left, Sheridan might compel the Big League fans to give him something more than a casual once over. But Locke's great pleasure lay in the fact that he had secured a backstop he had not dared to hope for. Even now he could not understand why Frazer had been induced to part with Brick King, the catcher whose almost uncanny skill in getting the very limit out of second-rate and faltering pitchers had lifted the Wolves out of the second division two years ago, and made them pennant contenders up to the final game of the season. There was the possibility, of course, that old Ben believed that King had not thoroughly recovered from the injury that had sent him to the hospital last August; but a broken leg was something that rarely put an athlete down and out indefinitely. "In my estimation," thought Lefty serenely, as sleep was stealing over him, "King has got more brains and uses them better than any backstop in the league." The morning papers had something to say about the deal: The new manager of the Blue Stockings has been getting busy. By good authority we are informed that he has traded Center Fielder Herman Brock for two of Ben Frazer's youngsters, King and Keeper. Through this deal he has obtained a catcher and a third baseman, but has opened up a hole in the outfield big enough to roll an _Imperator_ cargo of base hits through. Of course, the gaping wounds of the Stockings must be plugged, but it seems like bad surgery to inflict further mutilation in order to fill the gashes already made. And when it comes to driving in scores when they count, we predict that old Herman and his swatstick are going to be lamented. Keeper is more or less of an unknown quantity. It's true that Brick King, in condition, is an excellent backstop and a good hitter, but it must not be forgotten that he has not played since he was injured last August. And, incidentally, it should be remembered that Ben Frazer has a head as long as a tape measure. An expert appraiser should be called in to inspect any property on which Frazer shows a disposition to relinquish his grip. It is a good, even-money proposition that old Ben and the Wolves will get their hooks into the World's Series boodle again this year. Lefty smiled over this, his lips curling a bit scornfully. The opening of the real baseball season was yet a long distance away, but the newspaper writers were compelled to grind out a required amount of "dope" each day, and were working hard to keep up their average. Some of them were clever and ingenious in their phrasing, but nearly all of them betrayed a lack of originality or courage in forming and expressing individual opinions. The Wolves had won the pennant and the world's championship last season, and up to date they had been damaged less than any club in organized ball by the raids of the Federals; some wise pen pusher had therefore predicted that the Wolves would cop the bunting again, and was supported in this opinion by all the little fellows, who ran, bleating, after the wise one, like a flock of sheep chasing a bellwether. It was evident that, with no apparent exceptions, this bleating flock looked on the Blue Stockings as a drifting derelict that was due to be blown up and sunk. For Locke they had only pity and mild contempt because he had permitted himself to be dragged into the impossible attempt to salvage the worthless hulk. Even old Ben Frazer, than whom none was reckoned more keen and astute, had expressed such a sentiment without concealment. A weak man would have felt some qualms; Lefty felt none. He had not sought the job; in a way, fate had thrust it upon him; and now the more unsurmountable the difficulties appeared the stronger he became to grapple with them. Like a soldier going into battle, exulted and fired by a high and lofty purpose, his heart sang within him. Before going to bed, Lefty had wired Kennedy concerning the deal with Frazer, and he believed Skullen had made haste to telegraph Weegman. He rose in the morning fully expecting to get a red-hot message from Collier's private secretary, and was surprised when nothing of the sort reached him. While at breakfast, however, he received an answer from old Jack: Good work! Congratulations. Keep it up. KENNEDY. Weegman's silence led Locke to do some thinking, and suddenly he understood. Skullen had discovered him on the Knickerbocker Special just before the train had pulled into Albany, and immediately Mit had hastened away to buy a paper. Of course he had then sent word to Weegman, who was now on his way to New York. "But he can't get here before six o'clock to-night," thought Lefty, "and my train for the South leaves at three-thirty-four." He did not relish running away from Weegman, and it had gone against the grain when, upon the advice of Kennedy, he had suddenly left Indianapolis. But he knew old Jack was wise, and the more he could accomplish without being interfered with by the rascal he despised, the stronger his position for open fighting would be when it became necessary to defy him to his face. His first duty that day was to visit his parents, and, shortly after breakfast, he took the tube for Jersey. Less than an hour's journey brought him to the Hazelton home, and, after something like an hour spent with them, he left them in a much more cheerful and hopeful frame of mind. On returning to the city he called up the office of Franklin Parlmee. To his disappointment, he was informed that Parlmee had not returned since leaving for Indianapolis. He had expected the man could inform him whether or not Virginia Collier was in New York, and, if she were, how to find her and obtain the brief interview he desired. For he was sure that a short talk with Charles Collier's daughter would serve to clear away many of the uncertainties with which he was surrounded. But there were other things to be done, and Lefty was kept on the jump, without time, even, to snatch a hasty lunch. When a person attempts to accomplish a great deal in a brief period in New York, he often finds he has shouldered a heavy load. By two o'clock in the afternoon he realized that it would be impossible for him to take the three-thirty-four southbound from the Pennsylvania Station. There was a slower train leaving at nine-thirty; that was the best he could do. He believed Weegman would rush to the Great Eastern as soon as he arrived. Locke had left the Great Eastern, and there was little chance of encountering the man elsewhere. Once or twice he thought of Skullen, and wondered if he had made an effort to keep track of him. "If so," laughed the southpaw, "he has been some busy person." At six o'clock he was appeasing a ravenous appetite in a quiet restaurant. With the exception of the fact that he had not been able to find Virginia Collier, he had done everything he had set out to do. And he had wired Cap'n Wiley that he would soon be on his way with a Blue Stockings contract for Mysterious Jones to sign. In order to pass the time and obtain a little diversion, he went to a motion-picture show after dinner, having first secured accommodations on the train, and checked his bag at the station. He left the theater shortly before nine o'clock, and had reached Broadway and Thirty-third Street, when a lighted limousine, containing two persons besides the driver, drove past him. He obtained a good look at both passengers, a man, who was talking earnestly, and a woman, smiling as she listened. He knew he was not mistaken this time: the man was Bailey Weegman; the woman was Virginia Collier. CHAPTER XX A RIDDLE TO SOLVE Locke stood still, staring after the swiftly receding car. He thought of pursuit, but, as a heavy rain was falling, there was no available taxi in the immediate vicinity. By the time he could secure one the limousine would have vanished, leaving no possible hope of tracing it. Weegman and Virginia Collier together and on terms plainly more than usually friendly! What was the explanation? She had arrived in New York, after all, and it was apparent that Weegman knew where to find her when he reached the city. That his company was distinctly agreeable to her was evident from the fleeting glimpse Lefty had obtained. As Parlmee's rival, the man held the favor of Charles Collier. Had the baseball magnate at last succeeded in breaking down the prejudice and opposition of his daughter? Was it possible that Weegman, not Parlmee, was the magnet that had drawn the girl back from Europe? "Impossible!" exclaimed Lefty. "She'd never throw over Frank for that chuckling scoundrel." But was it impossible? Vaguely he recalled something like a change in the tone of Virginia's last letters to Janet; somehow they had not seemed as frank and confiding as former letters. And eventually, to Janet's worriment and perplexity, Virginia had ceased to write at all. Before Locke flashed a picture of Parlmee as he had appeared in Indianapolis, nervous, perplexed, and, by his own admission, greatly worried. Parlmee had confessed that he had received only two very unsatisfactory letters from Virginia since she had sailed for Europe with her father, and more than a month had elapsed since the second of these had come to his hands. Of itself, this was enough to upset a man as much in love with Miss Collier as Parlmee undoubtedly was. But, at the time, Lefty had vaguely felt that the automobile salesman was holding something back, and now he was sure. Parlmee's pride, and his secret hope that he was mistaken, had prevented him from confessing that the girl had changed in her attitude toward him. True, Virginia had cabled that she was sailing on the _Victoria_, and had asked him to meet her, and although she had not sailed on that ship, yet she was now in New York. Here was a riddle to solve. Did the solution lie in the assumption that, having decided to break her tentative engagement in a face-to-face talk with Parlmee, the girl's courage had failed her, leading her to change her plans? The fact that he was with her now seemed to prove that Weegman's information regarding her movements and intentions had been more accurate than Parlmee's. It did not appear plausible that such a girl could be persuaded, of her own free will, to throw over Franklin Parlmee for Bailey Weegman. But perhaps she was not exercising her own free will; perhaps some powerful and mastering influence had been brought to bear upon her. Was it not possible, also, that her father, whose singular behavior had lately aroused comment and speculation, was likewise a victim of this mastering influence? While the idea was a trifle bizarre, and savored of sensational fiction, such things did happen, if reports of them, to be found almost daily in the newspapers, could be believed. But when Locke tried to imagine the chuckling and oily Weegman as a hypnotist, dominating both Collier and his daughter by the power of an evil spell, he failed. It was too preposterous. One thing, however, was certain: evil powers of a materialistic nature were at work, and they had succeeded in making a decided mess of Charles Collier's affairs. To defeat them, the strategy and determination of united opposition would be required, and, in view of the task, the opposition seemed weak and insufficient. Even Parlmee, who might render some aid, was not to be reached. He had obtained a month's leave from business in order to settle his own suspicions and fears, but he had not returned to New York. Where was he? Lefty glanced over his shoulder as the _Herald_ clock began to hammer out the hour of nine. Then he set his face westward and made for the Pennsylvania Station at a brisk pace. Reaching his destination, he wrote and sent to Parlmee's office address a message that contained, in addition to the positive assurance that Virginia was in town and had been seen with Weegman, a statement of the southpaw's suspicions, which amounted almost to convictions, concerning the whole affair. There didn't seem to be much more that he could do. He had secured his accommodations on the Florida Mail, but he expected to be back on the field of battle in the North within the shortest possible time. Before going aboard his train, he bought the latest edition of an evening newspaper, and, naturally, turned at once to the sporting page. Almost by instinct his eyes found something of personal concern, a statement that Manager Garrity would strengthen the Rockets by securing an unknown "dummy" pitcher who had been discovered by Scout Skullen, and was said to be a wizard. Skullen, it was intimated, was off with a commission from Garrity to sign up his find. There was no longer any doubt in Locke's mind that Skullen had watched the work of Mysterious Jones, and intended to nail the mute for the Rockets. Even now, he had departed on his mission. Probably he had left at three-thirty-four on the very train Lefty had meant to take. If so, he would reach Florida many hours ahead of the southpaw, and would have plenty of time to accomplish his purpose. True, Locke had made a fair and square bargain with Wiley and Jones, but, having been unable to get Jones' signature on a Blue Stockings contract at the time, the deal would not be binding if the mute chose to go back on it. Not a little apprehensive, Lefty sent still another message to Cap'n Wiley. After which he went aboard the train, found his berth, and turned in. CHAPTER XXI THE MAN AHEAD Locke was the first passenger to leap off the train when it stopped at Vienna. He made for one of the two rickety carriages that were drawn up beside the station platform. The white-wooled old negro driver straightened on his seat, signaling with his whip, and called: "Right dis way, sah; dis way fo' the Lithonia House." "Is there a baseball game in this town to-day, uncle?" asked Lefty. "Yes, sah, dere sho am. Dey's gwine to be some hot game, so ever'body say. Our boys gwine buck up against dem Wind Jabbers, an' dere'll be a reg'ler ruction out to de pahk." "What time does the game begin?" "Free o'clock am de skaduled hour fo' de obsequies, sah. Dey's out to de pahk now, sah, an' 'most ever'body could git dere has gone, too." Locke looked at his watch. "Thirty minutes before the game starts. How far is your park?" "'Bout a mile, sah, mo' uh less." "Two dollars, if you get me there in a hurry." "Two dollahs, sah? Yes, sah! Step right in, sah, an' watch dis heah streak o' locomotion transpose yo' over de earth surface. Set tight an' hol' fast." Tossing his overcoat and bag into the rear of the carriage, Lefty sprang in. The old negro gave a shrill yell, and cracked his whip with a pistol-like report. The yell and the crack electrified the rawboned old nag into making a wild leap as if trying to jump out of the thills. It was a marvel that the spliced and string-tied harness held. The southpaw was flung down upon the rear seat, and it was a wonder that he did not go flying over the low back of it and out of the carriage. He grabbed hold with both hands, and held fast. Round the corner of the station spun the carriage on two wabbly wheels, and away it careened at the heels of the galloping horse, the colored driver continuing to yell and crack his whip. Two dollars! The ride from the station to the baseball park was brief but exciting. The distance could not have been more than half a mile, and, considering the conveyance, it was made in record time. "Whoa, yo' Nancy Hanks!" shouted the driver, surging back on the reins and stopping the animal so abruptly that Lefty was nearly pitched into the forward seat. "Did I heah yo' say you wanted to git heah in a hurry, sah?" Locke jumped out. "That's the shortest mile I ever traveled," he said, handing over the price promised. "But then, when it comes to driving, Barney Oldfield has nothing on you." Carrying his overcoat and bag, he hurried to the gate and paid the price of admission. A goodly crowd had gathered, and the local team was practicing on the field. Over at one side some of the visitors were getting in a little light batting practice. Mysterious Jones was warming up with Schaeffer. A short distance behind Jones stood Cap'n Wiley, his legs planted wide, his arms folded, his ear cocked, listening to Mit Skullen, who was talking earnestly. Lefty strode hastily toward the pair. "Sell him!" said the Marine Marvel, in reply to the scout, as the southpaw approached behind them. "Of course I will. But you made one miscue, mate; you should have come straight to me in the first place, instead of superflouing away your time seeking to pilfer him off me by stealth. What price do you respectfully tender?" Locke felt a throb of resentful anger. Regardless of a square bargain already made, Wiley was ready to negotiate with Skullen. However, Mit had not yet succeeded in his purpose, and the southpaw was on hand to maintain a prior claim. Involuntarily he halted, waiting for the scout's offer. "As you aren't in any regular league," said Mit, "by rights I don't have to give you anything for him; but if you'll jolly him into putting his fist to a contract, I'll fork over fifty bones out of my own pocket. Garrity won't stand for it, so I'll have to come through with the fifty myself." "Your magnanimous offer staggers me!" exclaimed Wiley. "Allow me a moment to subdue my emotions. However and nevertheless, I fear me greatly that my bottom price would be slightly more than that." "Well, what is your bottom price?" demanded Skullen. "Put it down to the last notch." "I will. I'll give you bed-rock figures. Comprehend me, mate, I'll pare it right down to the bone, and you can't buy Jones a measly, lonesome cent less. I'll sell him to you for just precisely fifty thousand dollars." The scout's jaw dropped, and he stared at the little man, who stared up at him in return, one eyelid slightly lowered, an oddly provocative expression on his swarthy face. Slowly the look of incredulous disbelief turned to wrath. The purple color surged upward from Mit's bull neck into his scarred face; his huge hands closed. "What are you trying to hand me, you blamed little runt?" he snarled. "Where's the joke?" "No joke at all, I hasten to postulate," said Wiley. "The scandalous fact is that I couldn't sell him to you at all without scuttling and sinking my sacred honor. But human nature is frail and prone to temptation, and for the sum of fifty thousand dollars I'd inveigle Jones into signing with you, even though never again as long as I should dwell on this terrestrial sphere could I look my old college chump, Lefty Locke, in the countenance." Skullen's astonishment was a sight to behold. He made strange, wheezing, gurgling sounds in his throat. Presently one of his paws shot out and fastened on Cap'n Wiley's shoulder. "What's that you're saying about Lefty Locke?" he demanded. "What are you giving me?" "Straight goods, Mit," stated the southpaw serenely, as he stepped forward. "Too bad you wasted so much time making a long and useless trip." Skullen came round with something like his old deftness of whirling in the ring when engaged in battle. Never in all his life had his battered face worn an uglier look. For a moment, however, he seemed to doubt the evidence of his eyes. "Locke!" he gasped. "Here!" "Yes, indeed," returned the new manager of the Blue Stockings pleasantly. "I reckoned you would be ahead of me, Mit; but, as a man of his word, Wiley couldn't do business with you. And without his aid there was little chance for you to make arrangements with Jones." Skullen planted his clenched fists upon his hips and gazed at the southpaw with an expression of unrepressed hatred. His bearing, as well as his look, threatened assault. Lefty dropped his traveling bag to the ground, and tossed the overcoat he had been compelled to wear in the North upon it. He felt that it would be wise for him to have both hands free and ready for use. CHAPTER XXII A DOUBTFUL VICTORY "Who sent you here?" demanded the belligerent individual. "What business have you got coming poking your nose into my affairs? You'd better chase yourself sudden." Instead of exhibiting alarm, Lefty laughed in the man's face. "Don't make a show of yourself, Mit," he advised. "Bluster won't get you any ball players; at least, it won't get you this one. I've already made a deal for Jones." "You haven't got his name on a contract; you hadn't time. If you had, Wiley'd told me." "I made a fair trade for him before I went North." Into Skullen's eyes there came a look of understanding and satisfaction. His lips curled back from his ugly teeth. "You didn't have any authority to make a trade then, for you weren't manager of the Stockings. You can't put anything like that over on me. If you don't chase yourself, I'll throw you over the fence." Sensing an impending clash, with the exception of the mute and the catcher, the Wind Jammers ceased their desultory practice and watched for developments. A portion of the spectators, also becoming aware that something unusual was taking place, turned their attention to the little triangular group not far from the visitors' bench. "You couldn't get Jones if you threw me over into Georgia," said Locke, unruffled. "It won't do you any good to start a scrap." "Permit me to impersonate the dove of peace," pleaded Cap'n Wiley. "Lefty is absolutely voracious in his statement that he made a fair and honorable compact with me, by which Jones is to become the legitimate chattel of the Blue Stockings. Still," he added, shaking his head and licking his lips, "flesh is weak and liable to err. If I had seen fifty thousand simoleons coming my way in exchange for the greatest pitcher of modern times, I'm afraid I should have lacked the energy to side-step them. The root of all evil has sometimes tempted me from the path of rectitude. But now Lefty is here, and the danger is over. It's no use, Skully, old top; the die is cast. You may as well submit gracefully to the inveterable." Muttering inaudibly, Skullen turned and walked away. "I have a contract in my pocket ready for the signature of Jones," said Lefty. "Will you get him to put his name to it before the game starts?" "It will give me a pang of pleasure to do so," was the assurance. There on the field, envied by his teammates, Mysterious Jones used Locke's fountain pen to place his signature--A. B. Jones was the name he wrote--upon the contract that bound him to the Blue Stockings. What the initials stood for not even Wiley knew. For a moment the mute seemed to hesitate, but the Marine Marvel urged him on, and the deed was done. "If you cater to his little giddyocyncracies," said the sailor, "you'll find him a pearl beyond price. Unless you're afraid Skully may return and mar your pleasure, you may sit on the bench with us and watch him toy with the local bric-a-brac. It is bound to be a painfully one-sided affair." "Skullen," laughed Lefty, "has ceased to cause me special apprehension. The contract is signed now." So Locke sat on the bench and watched his new pitcher perform. When he walked to the mound, Jones seemed, if possible, more somber and tragic than usual, and he certainly had his speed with him. Yet neither the ominous appearance of the mute nor his blinding smoke was sufficient to faze the Vienna batters, who cracked him for three clean singles in the last half of the opening inning, and then failed to score because of foolish base running. "He seems to be rather hittable to-day," observed Locke. "What's the matter, Wiley? This Vienna bunch doesn't look particularly good to me; just a lot of amateurs who never saw real players, I should say." "That's it; that's what ails them, for one thing," replied the manager of the Wind Jammers. "They have accumulated together no special knowledge of Simon poor baseball talent, and so they don't know enough to be scared. Even the great Mathewson has confessed that the worst bumping he ever collided with was handed out by a bunch of bushers who stood up to the dish, shut their blinkers when he pitched, and swung blind at the pill. These lobsters don't realize that Jonesy's fast one would pass right through a batter without pausing perceptibly if it should hit him, and so they toddle forth without qualms, whatever they are, and take a slam at the globule. Next round I'll have to get out there on the turf and warn them; I'll put the fear of death into their hearts. Get them to quaking and they won't touch the horsehide." But such a program didn't suit Locke. "If all Jones has is his speed and the fear it inspires, he won't travel far in fast company. You ought to know that, Wiley. Big League batters will knock the cover off the fast one unless a pitcher puts something else on it. Sit still once, to please me, and let's see what Jones can do without the assistance of your chatter." "It's hardly a square deal," objected the Marine Marvel. "The jinx has been keeping company with us ever since we struck Fernandon. From that occasion up to the present date, Anno Domino, we haven't won a single consecutive game. Such bad luck has hurt my feelings; it has grieved me to the innermost abscess of my soul." "Do you mean to say that these country teams have been trimming you, with Jones in the box?" "Alas and alack! I can't deny it unless I resort to fabrication, which I never do. The Euray Browns tapped Jonesy for seventeen heart-breaking bingles, and the Pikeville Greyhounds lacerated his delivery even more painfully. My own brilliant work in the box has been sadly insufficient to stem, the tide of disaster." Locke frowned. What success, or lack of it, Wiley had had as a pitcher was a matter of no moment; but the statement that amateur teams of no particular standing had found Mysterious Jones an easy mark was disturbing. Was it possible that he had been led, with undue haste, to fritter away good money for a pitcher who would prove worthless in the Big League? True, the mute had seemed to show something in the Fernandon game, but in similar contests Lefty had seen many a pinheaded, worthless country pitcher give a fine imitation of Walter Johnson in top-notch form. The test of the bush was, in reality, no test at all. Throughout five innings the southpaw succeeded in restraining Wiley, and during that portion of the game the Viennas found Jones for nine singles and two doubles, accumulating four runs. Only for bad judgment on the paths they might have secured twice as many tallies. In the same period the local pitcher, using a little dinky slow curve, held the visitors to one score. The mute seemed to be trying hard enough, but he could not keep his opponents from hitting. With the opening of the sixth, Wiley broke the leash of restraint. "I've got to get out and get under," he declared. "You can't expect me to sit still and watch my barkentine go upon the rocks. Here's where we start something. Get into 'em, Schepps! Begin doing things! We'll back you up, for in onion there is strength." Schepps led off with a hit, and immediately the Wind Jammers, encouraged by Wiley, leaped out from the bench, dancing wildly and tossing the bats into the air. Locke smiled as he watched them. He had seen Big League teams do the same thing in an effort to drive away the jinx and break a streak of bad luck. But although Lefty smiled, he was not wholly happy. "If Jones is a quince," he thought, "I've wasted my time trying to brace up our pitching staff. Even Mit Skullen will have the laugh on me." His anxiety had led him to come straight from New York to Vienna, without stopping at Fernandon. He had sent a message to Janet telling her that he would be home the following day. The Wind Jammers kept after the local twirler, and succeeded in pounding two men round to the registry station. Then Wiley did some wigwagging to Jones, and the gloomy mute nodded assurance. After which he walked out and fanned three batters in a row. "You see, Lefty!" exulted the Marine Marvel. "That's what he needs. Give him proper encouragement, and he's there with the damsons." "Temperamental or yellow, which?" speculated the southpaw. "Either sort of a pitcher is worthless in pinches." The visitors failed to continue their hitting streak in the seventh. Whether or not Jones was disheartened by this, he let down in the last half of the inning, and Vienna added another score, Wiley's warnings having no impression upon them. Nor did the mute show any remarkable form in the remainder of the game, which terminated with the score six to four in favor of the locals. "The old jinx is still with us," lamented the dejected manager of the Wind Jammers. "Wouldn't it congeal your pedal extremities!" "It is enough to give one cold feet," admitted Locke. "But with Jones doing any real pitching to-day four tallies would have been sufficient for you." Picking up his overcoat and traveling bag, he started to follow the well-satisfied crowd from the field. As he approached the gate, Mit Skullen stood up on the bleachers and singled him out. Mit's face wore a leering grin. "You're welcome to that lemon, Locke!" he cried. "I wouldn't take him now for a gift. You've got stung good and proper." Lefty walked on without replying. CHAPTER XXIII ALL WRONG When Locke reached Fernandon, he found, as he expected, a furious message from Weegman awaiting him. In it he was savagely reprimanded, and warned under no circumstances to make any further deals without consulting Collier's private secretary. He was also commanded to report at the office of the Blue Stockings baseball club without unnecessary delay. Lefty merely smiled over this, but he did not smile over a long telegram from Franklin Parlmee, stating that he had not seen Virginia Collier nor heard anything further from her. Parlmee averred that he could not believe Virginia was in New York; he expressed the conviction that Locke had not seen her in the limousine with Bailey Weegman, but had been deceived by a resemblance. But if she were not in New York, where was she? And why had he received no word from her? Janet watched Lefty frowning and biting his lip over Parlmee's message. Her own face showed the anxiety she felt. "What do you think?" she asked. "It doesn't seem possible that Virginia could have been with that man, as you thought. You must have been mistaken." He shook his head. "I'm positive, Janet. I would be willing to wager anything that I made no mistake." "Then what does it mean? I can't imagine Virginia being in New York without letting Frank know." "It's got me guessing," Locke admitted. "There's a snarl that needs to be untangled." She grabbed his arm. "You don't suppose--" "What?" he asked, as she hesitated. "You don't suppose anything terrible could have happened to Virginia? Perhaps that villain has carried her off--shut her up somewhere! Perhaps she is helpless in his power this minute. He may be trying to force her into marrying him." Lefty laughed. "That sounds too much like a dime novel, my dear. Scoundrel though he is, Weegman would scarcely have the nerve to try anything like that with the daughter of Charles Collier. That's not the answer." "But something's wrong," insisted Janet. "No doubt about that," her husband replied. "A lot of things seem to be wrong. Somebody is dealing the cards under the table." "I know," said Janet, "that Virginia didn't care for Mr. Weegman, and the more her father sought to influence her the less she thought of him. She was proud of Franklin because he had proved his business ability, and she thought Mr. Collier would give in soon. But I can't understand why she stopped writing to me. She hasn't written since arriving on this side." "We're not getting anywhere by speculating like this," said Lefty. "Can you be ready to go North with me to-morrow?" "You are going back so soon?" "Just as soon as we can start. I'm thinking I ought to have remained there. I only came South at all in order to make sure of Mysterious Jones, and now it looks as though I wasted both time and money by doing so. Perhaps I would have been better off if Skullen had succeeded in getting Jones away from me." "But the cottage--our lease runs another full month." "It can't be helped. We'll have to pay the rental and give it up." "And your arm--you thought another month down here might give you time to work it back into condition." "I've got plenty to worry about besides my arm. I've been told plainly that I've been picked to be the goat by a set of scoundrels who are trying to put over a dirty piece of work, and, if I fool them, I'll have to do it with my head, not my arm. I'm going to stake everything on my ability to put the kibosh on their crooked game, and to stand any chance of succeeding I must be on the field of battle. So we must leave Fernandon to-morrow, my dear." To accomplish this necessitated no small amount of hustling, but Janet did her part. With the assistance of her maid and a colored man, the work was speedily done. There were tears in Janet's eyes when she looked back at the deserted little cottage, as they drove away in a carriage to catch the train. "It has been pleasant here," she said. "I'll never forget it. We were so quiet and so happy. Now, somehow, I have a feeling that there's nothing but trouble ahead of us. You've taken a big contract, Phil." "Are you afraid?" he asked. She looked up at him and smiled proudly. "Not a bit. You are not the sort of man who fails. I know you'll win out." His cheeks glowed and a light leaped into his eyes. "After hearing you say that, I couldn't fail, Janet, dear," he said quietly but earnestly. "It's going to be some fight, but let it come--I'm ready." The journey northward was uneventful. Locke had wired both Kennedy and Parlmee when he would arrive in New York, asking them to meet him at the Great Eastern. He did not stop off at the home town of the Blue Stockings, choosing to disregard for the present Weegman's imperative order for him to report at once at the office of the club. By mail he had formally notified the secretary of the club of the trade with Frazer and the purchase of Mysterious Jones, directing that checks be sent immediately to the manager of the Wolves and to Cap'n Wiley. He had done this as a matter of formality, but he felt sure that Weegman would interfere and hold up the payments, even though they could, sooner or later, be legally enforced. Delay matters as he might, the rascal could not bring about the repudiation of business deals entered into by the properly authorized manager of the team. Locke hoped to have the situation well in hand before he should find it necessary to beard the lion in all his fury. The showdown must come before long, but ere that time the southpaw hoped to fill his hand on the draw. When he had sent out the players' contracts from Indianapolis he had instructed the men, after signing, to mail them directly to him in New York. He had made this request emphatic, warning each man not to return his signed contract to the office of the Blue Stockings. He had Kennedy to thank for suggesting this procedure. "If the contracts go back to the club office," old Jack had said, "Weegman may get hold of them and hold out on you. That would leave you in the dark; you wouldn't know who had signed up and who hadn't, and so you couldn't tell where you stood. It would keep you muddled so you wouldn't know what holes were left to be plugged. If you undertook to find out how the land lay by wiring inquiries to the players, you'd make them uneasy, and set them wondering what was doing. Some of them might even try belated dickering with the Feds, and, while you could hold them by law, it would complicate things still more. If the newspapers got wise and printed things, the stock of the club would slump still more, which would help the dirty bunch that's trying to knock the bottom out of it." Beyond question, Kennedy was foxy and farseeing, and Locke looked forward expectantly to another heart-to-heart talk with the old man at the Great Eastern. A big bundle of mail was delivered to Lefty after he registered at the hotel. Immediately on reaching his rooms he made haste to open the letters. "Look, Janet!" he cried exultantly, after he had torn open envelope after envelope. "Here are the contracts--Grant, Welsh, Hyland, Savage, Dillon, Reilley, and Lumley all have signed, as well as the youngsters who didn't attract special attention from the Feds. Not a man lost that the outlaws hadn't gobbled up before Weegman so kindly forced the management upon me. We've got the makings of a real team left. Some of the deadwood has been cleared away, that's all." With scarcely an exception, the players had sent, along with their contracts, brief, friendly letters congratulating Locke and expressing confidence in his ability to manage the Blue Stockings successfully. He had won the regard of them all; in some cases that regard fell little short of genuine affection. With him as their leader they would fight with fresh spirit and loyalty. "It's fine, Lefty!" exclaimed Janet, as she read some of those cheery letters. "There was a time when I could not have believed professional ball players were such a fine lot of men." "I might have had some doubts myself before I was associated with them," he admitted; "but experience has taught me that they measure up in manhood as well as any other class. Of course, black sheep may be found in every business." As he spoke, he hurriedly opened a letter that had just attracted his attention among those remaining. He read it aloud: MY DEAR HAZELTON: I am writing in haste before sailing for Liverpool on the _Northumberland_. As I thought, you were wrong about having seen Virginia in New York. She is in London, and in trouble. I've had a cablegram from her which, however, explains very little. She needs me, and I am going to her at once. If you should wish to communicate with me, my address will be the Cecil. As I know that both you and Mrs. Hazelton feel some anxiety about Virginia, I shall let you hear from me as soon as I have any news. Wishing you the success and good fortune you deserve as a baseball manager, I remain, sincerely yours, FRANKLIN PARLMEE. When he had finished reading, he stood staring at the letter in surprise. CHAPTER XXIV WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS "Well, now, what do you know about that?" cried Lefty. "Sailed for Liverpool! The man's crazy!" "But he says he has had a cable message from Virginia," said Janet. "She is in trouble in London. You were mistaken." "Was I?" queried the southpaw, as if not yet convinced. "You must have been. All along I have thought it likely, but you persisted--" "I saw her distinctly in that passing limousine, which was brightly lighted. True, I obtained only one passing glance at her, but it was enough to satisfy me." "You are so persistent, Phil! That's your one fault; when you think you're right, all the argument and proof in the world cannot change you." "In short, I'm set as a mule," he admitted, smiling. "Well, there are worse faults. A mistake may prove costly or humiliating to an obstinate person who persists in his error, but, when he is right, such a person is pretty well qualified to win over all opposition. If I did not see Virginia Collier in that car, she has a perfect double in New York. I have great confidence in the reliability of my eyes." Janet, however, thoroughly convinced that her husband had been deceived by a resemblance, made no reply. Lefty had looked for some word from Kennedy, but had found nothing from him in his bundle of mail. It was possible, of course, that old Jack had found it inconvenient to make the trip to New York just then; but, naturally, if he could not come on he would have let Locke know. Lefty and Janet had not dined on the train, preferring to do so after reaching their destination. As they were passing the desk on their way to the dining room, Locke stopped short, staring at the back of a slender, well-dressed young man who was talking to one of the clerks. Then the southpaw sprang forward and clapped a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Jack Stillman!" he exclaimed impulsively. The man turned quickly. "If it isn't Lefty Locke!" he cried, grabbing the pitcher's hand. "And you're the one man I've been palpitating to get hold of. You're like the nimble flea. But I've got you now!" "Murder!" said the southpaw. "My joy at spotting you caused me to forget. I should have passed you by, old man. For the moment I completely forgot your profession, and your knack of digging a column or so of sacred secrets out of any old ball player who knows anything he shouldn't tell." Stillman was the baseball man of the _Blade_, a newspaper with a confirmed habit of putting over scoops. With the exception of Phil Chatterton, who was more of a special writer than reporter, Stillman was almost universally acknowledged to be the best informed pen pusher who made a specialty of dealing with the national game. He possessed an almost uncanny intuition, and was credited with the faculty of getting wise in advance to most of the big happenings in the baseball world. "So you would have ducked me, would you?" said the reporter reprovingly. "Well, I didn't think that of you!" "I believe I should, if I'd stopped to figure out the proper play in advance," confessed Lefty. "I don't care to do much talking for the papers--at present." "Hang you for an ungrateful reprobate!" exclaimed Stillman, with a touch of earnestness, although he continued to laugh. "Why, I made you, son! At least, I'm going to claim the credit. When you first emerged from the tangled undergrowth I picked you for a winner and persistently boosted you. I gave you fifty thousand dollars' worth of free advertising." "And made my path the harder to climb by getting the fans keyed up to look for a full-fledged wonder. After all that puffing, if I'd fallen down in my first game, Rube Marquard's year or two of sojourning on the bench would have looked like a brief breathing spell compared to what would have probably happened to me." "But you didn't fall down. I told them you wouldn't, and you didn't. Let the other fellows tout the failures; I pick the winners." "Modest as ever, I see," said Locke. "Here's Mrs. Hazelton waiting. We're just going to have a late dinner. Won't you join us?" Janet knew Stillman well, and she shook hands with him. "Mrs. Hazelton!" he said, smiling. "By Jove! I looked round to see who you meant when you said that, Lefty. Somehow I've never yet quite got used to the fact that your honest-and-truly name isn't Locke. I'll gladly join you at dinner, but a cup of coffee is all I care for, as I dined a little while ago. Shan't want anything more before two or three o'clock in the morning, when I'm likely to stray into John's, where the night owls gather." When they had seated themselves at a table in the almost deserted dining room, Lefty warned Janet. "Be careful what you say before him, my dear," he said. "He's looking for copy every minute that he's awake, and nobody knows when he sleeps." Stillman became serious. "Locke," he said, "I've never yet betrayed a confidence. Oh, yes, I'm a reporter! But, all the same, I have a method of getting my copy in a decent fashion. My friends don't have to be afraid of me, and close up like clams; you should know that." "I do," declared the southpaw promptly. "I didn't think you were going to take me quite so seriously. You have been a square friend to me, Jack." "Then don't be afraid to talk. I'll publish only what you're willing I should. You can tell me what that is. And if you've seen the _Blade_ right along you must be aware that it's the one paper that hasn't taken a little poke at you since you were tagged to manage the Blue Stockings. Nevertheless, here to your face I'm going to say that I'm afraid you've bitten off more than you can chew." Lefty shrugged his shoulders. "As to that, time will tell. For once your judgment may be at fault." "I don't mean that you couldn't manage the team successfully if you were given a half-decent show," the reporter hastened to make clear. "I think you could. But I'm afraid you're going to find yourself in a mess that no man living could crawl out of with credit to himself." The southpaw gave the waiter the order. Then he turned to Stillman. "I thought I might hear something new from you, Jack," he said, "but you're singing the same old song. To be frank with you, it's getting a bit tiresome. If I were dull enough not to know I'd been picked for a fall guy, I could have obtained an inkling of it from the newspapers. It's plain every baseball scribe knows the fact that there's a put-up job, although none of them has had the nerve to come out flat and say so." "They've said all they really dared to--without absolute proof of a conspiracy. If you know so much, take my advice, hand me the proof, and give me permission to publish it. But it must be real proof." "I can't do it yet. Perhaps, when the time comes, I'll pass you what you're asking for. Just now, considering your statement that you never double cross a friend, I'm going to talk freely and tell you how much I know." Sipping his coffee, Stillman listened to Locke's story. That there was sufficient interest in it the attention of the reporter attested. Janet watched the newspaper man closely, and once or twice she caught the flicker of an incredulous smile that passed over his face, giving her the impression that Stillman had a notion that there were holes in Lefty's narrative. "Do you mind if I smoke?" asked the reporter, when dinner was over, and the dessert had been placed on the table. Having received Janet's permission, Stillman lit a cigarette, and for a few moments said nothing, being apparently engrossed with his thoughts. Presently he said: "I wonder." "Wonder what?" Lefty wanted to know. "What I've told you is the straight fact. Weegman's the crook. Kennedy knew it. I knew it when I took the position of manager. Garrity's behind Weegman. What ails Collier, and why he was crazy enough to run away and bury himself while his team was wrecked, is the unexplained part of the mystery. But if we can block Weegman we may be able to put the whole game on the fritz." "I wonder," repeated Stillman, letting the smoke curl from his mouth. Locke felt a touch of irritation. "What are you wondering over? I've talked; now I'm ready to listen." The reporter gave Locke a steady look. "Evidently the possibility hasn't occurred to you that you may not even suspect the real crook who is at the bottom of the affair." "Weegman conceived it," replied Lefty. "He knew Garrity's reputation. He was sure Garrity would jump at the chance to help, and to grab a fat thing at the same time, by stepping in and gobbling the Stockings when the moment came. Of course, Weegman will get his, for without his undermining work in our camp the thing couldn't be pulled off. And Weegman's looking to cop the big chief's daughter when he gets the chief pinched just where he wants him." "Wheels within wheels," said Stillman, "and Weegman only one of the smallest of them. He's one of those egotistical scoundrels who can easily be flattered and fooled into doing scurvy work for a keener mind." "You mean Garrity?" "I wasn't thinking of him when I spoke." "Then who--" "I had a man named Parlmee in mind," stated the reporter. CHAPTER XXV HIDDEN TRACKS His lips parted, his eyes wide and incredulous, Locke sat up straight on his chair and stared at Stillman. Janet, who had been listening attentively, gave a little cry, and leaned forward, one slim, protesting hand uplifted. The reporter drew his case from his pocket and lit another cigarette. Presently Lefty found his voice. "You're crazy, Jack!" he declared resentfully. "Am I?" inquired Stillman. "Oh, it's impossible!" exclaimed Janet. "Absolutely ridiculous!" affirmed the southpaw. "Very likely it seems so to you both," admitted the newspaper man, his calm and confident manner proclaiming his own settled conviction. "I listened to Lefty's story, and I know he's wise to only a small part of what's been going on." "But Parlmee--Oh, it's too preposterous! For once in your career, at least, you're way off your trolley, Jack." "Prove it to me." "Why, it isn't necessary. Franklin Parlmee is a white man, as square as there ever was, and as honest as the day is long." "There are short days in midwinter." "But his object--he couldn't have an object, even if he were scoundrel enough to contemplate such a thing." "Couldn't he?" asked Stillman, in that odd, enigmatical way of his. "Why not?" "Why, he's practically engaged to Virginia Collier." "But without the consent of her father." "Yes, but--" "Bailey Weegman is said to have a great liking for Miss Collier. It was your theory that part of his object in seeking to wreck the Blue Stockings was to get old man Collier in a tight place and force his hand. Why couldn't Parlmee make the same sort of a play?" The persistence of the reporter began to irritate Locke, who felt his blood growing hot. Was his life beginning to tell on Stillman? Was it possible the pace he had traveled had begun to weaken his naturally keen judgment? "Even if Parlmee had conceived such a foolish scheme, he was in no position to carry it out, Jack. On the other hand, Weegman was. Furthermore, it's perfectly impossible to imagine Weegman acting as the tool and assistant of his rival, whom he hates bitterly. Forget it!" Unmoved, Stillman shook his head. "Didn't I say that Weegman was an egotistical dub, and an easy mark? He is naturally a rascal, and he thinks himself very clever, and so is just the sort to fall for a still cleverer rascal." Janet's cheeks were hot and her eyes full of resentful anger. It was difficult for her to sit there and hear Parlmee maligned, and she was confident that that was what she was doing. She could not remain quiet. "I know Frank Parlmee, Mr. Stillman," she asserted, "and Lefty is right about him. There's not a squarer man living." "How is it possible for Parlmee to use Weegman as a tool?" asked Locke. "Through Garrity," answered the reporter without hesitation. "But I don't see--" Stillman leaned forward. "Listen: I am not at liberty to disclose the sources of my information, but it has come to me that this idea of wrecking the Blue Stockings originated in Parlmee's brain. He saw himself losing out in the fight for Virginia Collier, and he became desperate. Conditions were ripe. Collier had hit the toboggan, financially and otherwise. A man of considerable strength of will, he had begun to break down. Parlmee knew of his plan to go abroad for his health, and of the arrangement to leave Bailey Weegman in charge of affairs. Collier had a great deal of confidence in Weegman's ability, and this would now be put to the test. If Weegman should make a grand failure, as Parlmee intended he should, Collier would lose all faith in him; and probably, in his disappointment, he would hand him the g.b. That, above all things, was most to be desired by Parlmee, as it would get out of the way the rival who threatened to defeat him. How to put the thing across was the question. I am willing to give Parlmee the credit of a long-headed piece of work. He knew Weegman must be kept in the dark, must never be permitted to suspect that he was being used as a tool by his hated enemy." "It sounds altogether too impossible," said Locke. But, to his annoyance, in spite of his persistently expressed faith, a shadowy uncertainty, a tiny, nagging doubt, was creeping into his mind. Stillman seemed so absolutely confident of his ground. "Through his long association with Miss Collier," the reporter pursued calmly, "Parlmee had learned much about inside conditions in baseball. He had plenty of opportunities to get at things entirely hidden from, or merely suspected by, the general public. He knew Garrity was a grasping scoundrel, who had long regarded the Blue Stockings with a covetous eye, and that, being utterly unscrupulous, he would do anything, as long as he could keep in the background, to break Collier's grip and get his own soiled paws on the property. Therefore, Garrity was the man to deal with, and to Garrity Parlmee went. They met under cover in Chicago, and the deal was fixed up between them. Then Garrity got at Weegman, the real stool pigeon and the fall guy of the whole plot." Locke was listening without protest now. In spite of his desire not to believe, Stillman's theory seemed possible; he would not yet admit, even to himself, that it was probable. Janet, too, was silent. The color had left her face, and beneath the table her hands were tightly clenched. "Weegman was just ass enough to fall for it," continued Stillman contemptuously. "What Garrity promised him I can't say, but certainly it must have been a satisfactory percentage of the loot--maybe an interest in the team when Garrity got control; and Weegman would sell his soul for money. The moment Collier was out of the way he got to work. You know as well as I do what success he's had. In order to cover his tracks as far as possible, he has picked you for the goat, and he'll try to shunt all the blame on you." Lefty's face was grim. He was endeavoring to look at the matter fairly and without bias. To himself he was compelled to admit that his knowledge of Parlmee had been obtained through casual association with the man, not through business dealings, and in no small degree, he, as well as Janet, had doubtless been influenced by the sentiments of Virginia Collier. A girl in love may be easily deceived; many girls, blinded by their own infatuation, have made heroes of thoroughbred scoundrels. It was practically impossible, however, for Locke to picture Parlmee as a scoundrel. "You have made a statement, Jack," he said, "without offering a particle of corroborating proof. How do you know all this to be true?" "I have the word of a man I trust that Parlmee and Garrity had that secret meeting in Chicago, just as I have stated. A few days ago Parlmee made a flying trip to Indianapolis, and--" "I know that," interrupted Lefty. "I was in Indianapolis at the time. I met him there and had a brief talk with him." "On his way back," resumed Stillman, "he stopped off at Cleveland to see Garrity, who happened to be in that city." "How do you know that?" "My own business chanced to call me out to Cleveland at that time, and I saw Parlmee and Garrity together at the American House." Locke took a long breath, recalling the fact that Parlmee, although professing to be in great haste when in Indianapolis, had not returned to his New York office as soon as expected. "That may have been an accidental meeting," said the southpaw. "Your proof has holes in it." The reporter lighted a fresh cigarette. "How does it happen," he asked, "that Parlmee is buying up all the small blocks of the club stock that he can get hold of?" Lefty started as if pricked by the point of a knife. Parlmee, an automobile salesman, a man who had found it necessary to get out and show that he could make good in the business world, buying the stock of the club! "Is he?" asked the pitcher. "He is," asserted Stillman positively. "I know of three lots that he has purchased, and in each instance he has paid a little more than it was supposed to be worth." "He--he may have bought it as an investment," faltered Janet. The reporter smiled at her. "As far as I can learn, Franklin Parlmee is not situated, financially, to invest much money in stock of any kind. With his stock depreciating, and bound to go lower in value, he would be a chump to purchase it as an investment. The man who pays more than its market value in order to get hold of it knows something about the doings behind the scenes that is not known to the general public. Apparently that man is Parlmee. Who's furnishing him the money to buy the stock? My own guess is that it is the man who's looking to get control of the club, and that man is Garrity." Still Janet protested that it was impossible, but she looked questioningly at Lefty, the doubt that she was fighting against was now beginning to creep into her eyes. "Parlmee," said the southpaw, "has gone to Europe. I have a message from him stating that he would sail on the _Northumberland_. If he's behind the plot to wreck the Blue Stockings, why should he leave the field of action at this time?" "If I've got his number," returned Stillman, "he's a liar in various ways. Perhaps he has sailed for Europe; perhaps he hasn't. His message may be nothing more than a little dust for your eyes. But if he has sailed, there's only one answer to that." "Out with it!" urged Locke. "Of course, you think it another move in the rotten game?" "Sure as death and taxes. He believes the time is ripe to get at Collier. He's gone across to get at him and twist the control of the club out of his hands. Probably he'll appear before Collier in the guise of a friend anxious to save him from complete financial disaster. He's got just about enough time to make the trip comfortably, get that business through with, and return before the regular meeting of the league magnates here in New York. Then, at the meeting, Tom Garrity will bob up serenely as the real owner of the Blue Stockings." CHAPTER XXVI NOT MUCH SHOW Tired out, Janet went to bed shortly after Stillman left, but Locke, knowing he could not sleep, sat up to think the situation over. The difficulties and problems of his own position seemed greater than ever. If the plot was as deep and intricate as the reporter believed, and if the men behind it were moving with haste and certainty to the accomplishment of their designs, there seemed scarcely a ghost of a chance for him, practically alone and unaided, to block them. For Lefty now felt that, in a way, he was standing alone. Even Kennedy, having no power, could do little more than offer advice. And where was Kennedy? The southpaw had fancied that he would be given more time to muster his opposing forces for the battle. He had even imagined, at first, that the man he would need to contend against and defeat was Weegman. But now Weegman, the blind tool of craftier creatures, looked insignificant and weak. In order to defeat him it would be necessary to strike higher. How was he to strike? That was the question. Locke had suggested to Stillman complete exposure of the plot by newspaper publicity. And right there the reporter, who had seemed so confident of his ground, had betrayed that, after his usual method, he was working by intuition, and had no positive and unassailable verification of his conclusions. It would not do for his paper to charge criminal conspiracy without proper evidence to back up such an indictment. Recalling this, Lefty remembered that Stillman, having heard all the southpaw could tell, had ended by giving his own theory, and had offered proof to substantiate it. And then he had been compelled to acknowledge that the proof he had to offer was not sound enough to base exposure and open action upon. If Stillman were right, doubtless Parlmee had gone abroad with full knowledge of Charles Collier's whereabouts. That knowledge being denied Lefty, he could not warn Collier, and the plot would be carried through as arranged. Then, as the reporter had predicted, at the annual meeting of the magnates, shortly to be held, Garrity would appear as owner of the Blue Stockings. When that happened, the fight would be over, and the conspirators would be triumphant. With the door to Janet's chamber closed, Locke walked the floor, striving for a clear conception of what ought to be done. He felt like a man bound hand and foot. Of course, he could go on with his project to strengthen the team, but the harvest of his success would be reaped by the plotters, if they, too, were successful. There was little uncertainty about what would happen to him, for he knew that his conscience would not permit him to become an understrapper for Garrity. He had left Fernandon with courage and high hope to do battle; but now the helplessness of the situation threatened to appall him. If there were only some way to get into communication with Collier. Again he thought of his somewhat shaken conviction that Virginia was in New York. If that were true, some of her family or friends must know it, and, of course, Virginia would know how to communicate without delay with her father. With this thought came the conviction that in Virginia lay his only hope. If he had been mistaken, and she were not in the United States, his chance of doing anything to foil the conspirators was not one in a thousand. His work for the morrow was cut out for him; he must learn positively if Charles Collier's daughter was on American soil, and, if so, he must find her. The telephone rang, and when he answered it he was informed that Kennedy was calling. The faithful old veteran had come, after all! Lefty said that he was to be sent up at once. "Well, son," said old Jack, as he came in, "how are things moving?" "None too well," answered Lefty, shaking his hand. "So?" grunted Kennedy. "I wondered just what was up, and I came right along in answer to your call, but my train was delayed. What are the new developments?" "Sit down," said Locke, "and I'll tell you. Since I sent you that message I've heard something that's got me guessing--and worried." "The contracts?" questioned old Jack, sitting down. "The boys signed up, didn't they?" "Every one of them. That's not the trouble. I've had a talk with Jack Stillman." "The only reporter I know with a noodle screwed on right," said Kennedy. "His bean's packed with sound sense. When he gets an idea it's generally correct." "In that case, unless he's made a bobble this time, the situation's worse than we suspected, Jack." "Give me the dope," urged Kennedy. The old man listened to Locke without comment, and when Lefty had finished, he sat thoughtfully plucking at his under lip with his thumb and forefinger. "Well," he said, after a time, "Stillman usually puts them in the groove when he shoots." "Then you think he's hit it right in this case?" "I haven't said so. If anybody else had passed this one up, I'd have said it missed the plate by a rod. With Stillman doing the pitching, I'm not so ready to give a decision against him. But you say he finished a lot more confident than he began?" "Yes. Instead of seeking information, he finished up by giving it." "Just as though he had talked himself into a settled conviction as he went along?" "That's it." "Then we won't accept his statement as fact until he gets some kind of proof, son. You know more about Parlmee than I do, and you've always figured that gent on the level, haven't you?" "Yes; but I'm compelled to admit that I haven't had sufficient dealings with him to feel certain that my estimation of his character is correct. Furthermore, my first impression was unfavorable." "First impressions are sometimes the best." "But at that time, as you know, my judgment could hardly be unprejudiced. It was when Collier first took over the team and I had trouble with Carson, the manager he put in your place. Everything seemed going wrong then." A grin broke over Kennedy's face, and he chuckled softly, a reminiscent expression in his keen old eyes. "Those were some stirring times, boy," he said. "Collier fired me for Al Carson, and Carson made a mess of it. He's managing a dub league team now. He thought he could get along without you, just as Collier reckoned he could dispense with me; but at the finish it was you and me that came back and saved the day for the Stockings. You pitched the game of your life that last day of the season. Now it's up to you to come back again, and I've got a hunch that you will. You'll return, better than ever. You're going to make the wiseacres that think you're down and out look foolish." Locke shook his head. "Knowing what I do, do you suppose I could do that if Garrity got hold of the team? I wouldn't have the heart to work for that scoundrel. Back in the time we're speaking of, it was Stillman's cleverness that straightened things out. Not another newspaper man got wise to the real situation. With his usual uncanny intuition, he saw through it all, and, as usual, he made no mistake." "Right you are," admitted old Jack. "All the more reason to suppose he is right now. We can't dodge that fact. To-morrow I'm going to make every effort to find some method of getting into communication with Charles Collier. It's my only play in this game. If it fails--good night!" Again Lefty began pacing the floor; it seemed that he could not wait patiently for the coming day; he was burning with a desire to get to work at once. It had been his purpose to seek Kennedy's advice on other matters, but these now seemed secondary and unimportant for the time being. His talk with Stillman had led him to alter completely his plan of immediate action. To prevent the control of the team from falling into the clutches of the conspirators was now his sole purpose, as the problem of rebuilding it and restoring it to its former strength and prestige could be solved later. Kennedy sat thinking, plucking at his under lip, as was the old man's habit when perplexed. "Yes, son," he said, after a time, "that's what you're up against. Old P. T. Barnum had a show; but it doesn't look like you have." CHAPTER XXVII THE SUSPENDED AX All the next forenoon, Locke kept the wires hot. He 'phoned and telegraphed to every one he could think of who might be able to give him the information he desired so desperately. He met with one disappointment after another. In each instance the reply came back that both Charles Collier and his daughter were somewhere in Europe, but no one appeared to know just where. If his efforts established anything at all, it seemed to be the fact that Lefty had been mistaken in thinking he had seen Virginia in New York; for if she were there, surely some of these people would know of it. The feeling of helplessness, of fighting against greedy and remorseless forces too strong for him to checkmate, pressed upon him heavily. It was a little after noon when he called the office of the _Blade_. He wanted to talk to Stillman again. If anybody in New York could find a person wanted, the reporter was the man to do it, and Locke believed that for friendship's sake Stillman would attempt it. Near the telephone switchboard in the hotel were two long shelves, situated a little distance apart, at which patrons could consult the different directories. At one of these, several persons were looking up numbers, so Locke took his book to the other shelf and found the call for the editorial rooms of the _Blade_. A man at the next shelf turned, saw the pitcher, and listened when Lefty gave the number to the operator. Instead of giving his own number, which he had found, the man noted down the southpaw's call on a card. It was the fourth time during the day that this same man had made a record of a number asked for by Locke. Returning the card to his pocket, the man pretended to busy himself again over one of the directories, keeping his back partly turned toward the pitcher. Soon he heard the switchboard girl repeat Lefty's number, and direct him to booth No. 1. The man closed his book and turned round slowly. The southpaw was disappearing into a booth at the end of one of the rows, and, in closing the door behind him, he unintentionally left it slightly open. The watching man moved quietly forward until he was close to this booth, through the glass of which he could see that Lefty's back was partly turned toward him. There he paused, taking some letters and papers from his pocket and running them over as if searching for something. While appearing to be absorbed in his own affairs, he could hear every word that the pitcher spoke into the receiver. Getting the editorial rooms of the _Blade_, Locke asked for Stillman. After a slight delay, he was informed that the reporter was not there. No one could say just when he would be in. "This is important," stated Lefty; "a matter in which he is greatly interested. I must talk with him as soon as possible. Will you ask him, as soon as he comes in, to call Philip Hazelton at the Great Eastern? Yes, Hazelton; that's right. Why, yes, I'm Lefty Locke. All right; don't fail to tell him immediately he arrives." The man outside slipped the letters and papers into his pocket, and turned away after the manner of a person who has suddenly decided upon something. He had not walked ten steps, however, before he turned back. The southpaw was paying for the call. The man watched him now without further effort to avoid notice, and when the pitcher turned from the switchboard he stepped forward deliberately to meet him. "Hello!" said the man in a voice distinctly husky and unpleasant. "How are you, Locke?" Lefty stopped short and stared. It was Garrity, coarse, complacent, patronizing. The owner of the Rockets grinned, showing the numerous gold fillings in his teeth. His features were large, and his jaw was square and brutal. His clothes were those of a common race-track follower. "Quite well, thank you," answered Lefty coldly, thinking of the pleasure it would be to tell Garrity his private opinion of him. "Seems to me you look worried. I don't wonder, though, considering the job they've handed you. Some job piecing together the tattered remnants, hey? It's going to make you a busy little manager." "I'm busy now," said the southpaw, moving as if to pass on; but Garrity detained him. "You've got some positions to fill. The Feds got at you hard. Shame to see a team like the Stockings shot to pieces. You've got three or four bad holes, and I'd like to help you." "_You_ would?" "Sure. I've got the very lads you need, too--Mundy and Pendexter. Both fast men. They work together like two parts of a machine. Mundy covers the short field like Maranville, and Pendexter sure can play that keystone cushion. They're the boys for you." "How's it happen you are willing to let go of them?" asked Locke, feeling some curiosity to know what lay behind this particular proposition. "Well, this is between us, mind? I'd just about as soon give up an eye as part with either Mundy or Pendexter, but it's easier to lose them than dispense with Pressly, my third sacker. That's been the trouble with my team. Pressly loves Mundy and Pendexter as he loves aconite, and they reciprocate. You know what a feud like that means. It knocks the bottom out of any team. I can't fill Pressly's place, but I've got a couple of youngsters that I can work in at short and second. I'm not going through another season with those three scrapping. You need the very players I'm willing to part with, and there we are." Locke knew the man was not honest, and that he was holding something up his sleeve. In order to make him show his hand, the southpaw asked: "What do you want for Mundy and Pendexter?" Garrity considered for a minute. "Well," he answered slowly, "I'll trade them with you for Spider Grant--and cash." Lefty stared at him in amazement. Was it possible the man could think he was such a soft mark? He laughed loudly. "You don't want much, do you, Garrity? The 'and cash' was a capper! Man, I wouldn't trade you Spider Grant for your whole team--and cash!" The owner of the Rockets scowled, glaring at Locke, the corners of his thick-lipped mouth drooping. "Oh, you wouldn't, hey?" he growled huskily. "I suppose you think that's a joke?" "Not at all; it's serious. I couldn't use the players you offer, anyhow. Mundy does cover the short field like Rabbit Maranville--sometimes; but he's got a yellow streak, and he quits. Pendexter knows how to play second, and at the beginning of last season he hit like old Sockalexis when the Indian first broke into the league. But the pitchers all got wise to his weak spot, close and across the knees, and from a three-hundred-and-sixty batter he slumped into the two-hundred class. You were thinking of asking for waivers on him. Spider Grant--and cash--for that pair! I didn't imagine that even you could think me such a boob." As he listened, Garrity's face showed his anger; his breath came short and quick; his eyes were blazing with the fury of a wild animal. "Have you got that all out of your system?" he asked, when Lefty stopped. "You're a wise gazabo, ain't you? You know all about baseball and players and such things! You've got a head bigger than a balloon. But it'll shrink, give it time. It's plain you think you really know how to manage a team. By the middle of the season, and maybe considerable before that, your head will be about the size of a bird shot. And you'll know a lot more then than you do now, believe me!" The southpaw laughed in his face. "Don't lose your temper," he advised, "just because you couldn't put a raw one over on me. Go ahead and ask waivers on Pendexter. You'll get mine. I wouldn't carry him on my team if you agreed to pay his season's salary for me. My trade with Frazer gave you the notion that you could pick another good man off me, and weaken the Stockings still more. You fooled yourself that time, Garrity. Perhaps you'll find out before long that you are fooling yourself in other ways." "What do you mean by that?" "I'll let you guess. But just remember what Bobby Burns said about 'the best-laid plans o' mice and men.'" With this, Locke passed on, leaving the wrathy owner of the Rockets glaring after him. "You poor fool!" muttered Garrity. "I'll have you whimpering like a whipped dog before I'm done with you. Your head's liable to roll into the basket before the season opens. When the time comes, I'll lift my finger, and the ax'll fall." CHAPTER XXVIII THE GAGE OF WAR Janet had let some friends know that she was in the city, and had been invited out to a matinée performance at one of the theaters. Lefty urged her to go. "That's better than sitting around the rooms alone," he said, "and I'll be so busy that I can't be with you." So when, shortly after lunch, her friends appeared in a comfortable limousine, they had little trouble in persuading her to join them. Kennedy dropped in a little later, and Locke told him of Garrity's proposed trade. "He sure did pick you for a mark," said the ex-manager. "You handed it to him straight about Mundy and Pendexter. You're going to need a pair of fast boys to stop the holes, but there's better men in the minors than those two. You've got better ones on the reserve list. Besides that, I'm doin' a little free scouting on my own hook. I've got friends scattered all over the country. Whenever an old player, gone to the scraps, has touched me up for a five or a ten, I've stood for the touch, asking him to keep his eyes open for anything good he might run across in the sticks. That way I've got a good deal of inexpensive scouting done for me. Maybe it'll be worth something in this pinch. I'm going to interview an old friend over in Jersey this afternoon." "I'm not worrying over players just now," said Lefty. "I'm anxious to get hold of Stillman." "You'll hear from him in time--and Weegman, too. What Garrity knows Weegman knows, and so he's wise that you're right here. Be ready for him when he shows up." Kennedy had only just gone when Weegman appeared. He laughed when he saw Locke, but it was an ugly laugh. "What do you think you're trying to do?" he demanded. "Didn't you get my telegram ordering you to report at the office of the club?" "Yes." "Well, why didn't you obey? What did you mean by coming right through without even sending me word?" "I had immediate business here in New York." "Business! I had business for you to attend to. You've been doing a lot of things without consulting me. Why didn't you wait until I gave you the contracts for the old players?" "There had been too much waiting, and time was precious. Kennedy had plenty of blanks, so I got them from him, filled them out, and sent them to the boys without further delay. It was the proper thing to do." "Don't tell me what's proper to do! I'll tell you. That was the distinct understanding, and you know it. Sent out the contracts, did you? Well, some of them ought to be coming back by this time." "They've all come back." "What?" "Every one of them. The Federals'll get no more players off us this year." Weegman choked, and the sound that came from his lips was not a laugh. "I haven't seen anything of them. They didn't come to the office." "No, certainly not." "Certainly not! Then where--where are they?" "I have them in my pocket." Lefty said it quietly, not at all disturbed by the wrath of the outraged schemer. It gave him much satisfaction to see Bailey Weegman shake and squirm. "In your pocket!" spluttered the rascal. "You had them returned to a different address? Confound your crust! How'd you ever have the nerve to do a thing like that? Let's see them. Hand them over!" Locke made no move to obey. "I think I'll keep them a while," he answered coolly. "I'll deliver them personally to be locked in the club safe." For a moment it seemed that Weegman would lose all control of himself and attack the southpaw. "You fool!" he raged. "Do you think you're going to get by with this stuff?" "I've made a pretty fair start at it." "So you never meant to stand by the private agreement between us when you signed as manager? That's it, eh?" "There never was any private agreement between us. I signed to handle the team, but I did not agree to become your puppet." "You did. You said that--" "That I understood the conditions you had proposed, but I did not say that I consented to them. I had no intention of letting you dictate to me." "Fool! Fool!" snarled Weegman. "How long do you think you'll last? And you made that crazy trade with Frazer! Do you know what I've done? Well, I've notified Frazer that the deal was irregular, and won't be recognized by the club. Not a dollar of that five thousand will he ever get." "You know better than that. The trade was legitimate, and it will stand. Frazer can collect by law. Any other deal that I make will go through, too, whether you are aware of it at the time or not. Until Charles Collier himself takes away my authority, I'm manager of the team with the legal right to carry out my own plans, and I intend to do so. I shall ask no advice from you, and any suggestion you may make I shall look upon with distrust." They fought it out, eye to eye, and presently Weegman's gaze wavered before that of the unawed southpaw. The man he had sought to make his blind tool was defying him to his face. "I see your finish!" he declared. "And I see yours," countered Locke. "You think you're a clever crook. You're merely an instrument in the hands of a bigger and cleverer scoundrel who doesn't care a rap what happens to you if he can put his own miserable scheme over. Your partnership with him will be your ruin, anyhow. If you had half the sense you think you possess, you'd break with him without losing any time." "What are you talking about? I've only planned to do my best to save a team that has been raided by the Feds. You're killing the last chance for the Blue Stockings." "Tell it to Sweeny!" exclaimed Lefty. "You're trying to deliver the team into the hands of Tom Garrity. Deny it if you wish, but it isn't necessary to lie. You've played Judas with Collier." "Be careful! Better take that back!" Lefty laughed. "I'm ready to add more to it. I haven't told you half what I know. If I were to do so, you'd realize what a dumb fool you have made of yourself. You think you're wise to all that was planned, but you've been let in on only a very little of it. You'll tear your hair when you get a squint at the foundation stone of this neat little conspiracy." "I--I don't know what you mean." "That's right, you don't; but you will know in time. You'll be kept in the dark as long as it suits Tom Garrity." "What's Garrity got to do with it?" Locke smiled on him pityingly. "Don't be childish, Weegman. That sort of a bluff is too thin. I was wise when I signed to manage the team." In vain the man stormed, threatened, coaxed, cajoled; he could not bend Lefty in the least, and at last he realized that he had made a big blunder in estimating the character of the southpaw. "So it's war between us, is it?" he finally asked. "I have looked for nothing else," answered the pitcher. Weegman snapped his fingers in Locke's face. "All right!" he cried. "You would have it! Just you wait! You're going to regret it! We'll see how long you last!" And, turning round, he strode away, muttering to himself. CHAPTER XXIX THE JAWS OF THE TRAP Lefty had defied Weegman. Henceforth it was to be open war, and he was glad of it. What the rascal would attempt to do he did not know, and cared less. It did not seem likely that he could do much, if anything, that he had not already made preparations to do. Of course, he might call Collier into the affair, and that, should it bring the owner of the Blue Stockings back to his own country, was something earnestly to be desired. Could he but get Collier in private for twenty minutes, Locke felt sure he could make him realize that he was the victim of a conspiracy, and that his trusted private secretary had sought to sell him out into the hands of a rival owner. The telephone rang, and, thinking Stillman was calling at last, he hastened to answer. It was not the reporter's voice that he heard, but he was informed that some one was speaking from the office of the _Blade_, and that, after making a fruitless effort to get Locke on the wire, Stillman had found it necessary to hustle away to keep an important appointment. "But where can I find him?" asked the disappointed pitcher. "How can I get hold of him?" "He wants to talk to you as much as you do to him," was the answer. "Said it was absolutely necessary. That's why he had me call you. Says he has something to tell you, personally and privately. He'll try to be at Mike's saloon, Thompson Street, near Broome, at three o'clock. If you get there first, wait for him. And don't fail to come, for he'll have important information. Got that straight?" "Yes, but--" "All right. I've done my duty. Good-by." There was a click, and the wire was silent. Lefty looked at his watch as he left the phone. It was twenty-two minutes to three. "Just about time enough to make it comfortably," he decided. "Stillman must be on the track of something." The subway being convenient, he chose it instead of a taxi, getting off at Spring Street. Five minutes ahead of time, he found Mike's saloon, a somewhat disreputable-looking place when viewed from the exterior. The neighborhood, likewise, seemed sinister. However, a reporter's business, thought Locke, carried him into all sorts of places. Within the saloon a single patron, who looked like a vagrant, was picking at the crumbs of a sickly free lunch in a dark corner. A husky-looking, red-headed bartender was removing an emptied beer schooner and mopping up the counter. He surveyed the southpaw from head to foot with apparent interest. "I'm looking for a man named Stillman who made an appointment to meet me here at three," explained Lefty. "I was to wait for him if I got here first." "Jack's here," stated the man behind the bar, in a manner that bespoke considerable familiarity with the reporter. "Came in three or four minutes ago. Reckon you're Lefty Locke?" "That's right." "He told me you might come round. He's in the back room. Walk right in." The speaker jerked a heavy thumb toward a closed door at the far end of the bar. At the sound of Locke's name the vagrant, who had been picking at the free lunch, turned to look the famous pitcher over with apparent curiosity and interest. "Lefty Locke," he mumbled huskily. "Lemme shake han's. Ruther shake han's with Lefty Locke than any man livin'." Locke pushed past him and placed his hand on the knob of the door. The fellow followed, insisting upon shaking hands, and, as Lefty opened the door, the vagrant staggered, lurched against the pitcher, and thrust him forward, the door closing behind him with the snap of a spring lock. It is remarkable how seldom any one ever heeds premonitions. Even as he opened that door, Lefty was aware that ever since the telephone call had come to him some subtle intuition, thus far wholly disregarded, had been seeking to sound a warning. It had caused him to hesitate at last. Too late! The push delivered by the vagrant had pitched him forward into the snare, while the sound of the clicking spring lock notified him that his retreat was cut off. Through a dirty skylight above another door that probably opened upon a back alley some weak and sickly rays of daylight crept into the room. A single gas jet, suspended from the center of the cracked and smoky ceiling, gave a feeble, flickering light, filling the corners with fluttering shadows. The furniture in the room consisted of a table and a few chairs. At the table three men were sitting, drinking and smoking. Locke, recovering from the push he had received, stepped back against the closed door, and looked at them. "Hello!" said Mit Skullen. "Don't hurry away, Lefty. Folks that come in by that door sometimes go out by the other one." He was grinning viciously, triumphantly. The look upon his face was one of satisfaction and brutal anticipation, and amply proclaimed his purpose. Skullen's companions were tough characters, fit associates and abettors of such a man. That they were thugs of the lowest type, who would not hesitate at any act of violence, there could be no question. One looked like a prize fighter who had gone to the bad, his drink-inflamed face and bleary eyes advertising the cause of his downfall. The other had the appearance of a "coke" fiend, and the criminally bent habitual user of that drug has neither scruples nor fear of consequences. Locke regarded them in silence. His pulses were throbbing somewhat faster, yet he was cool and self-possessed, and his brain was keenly active. He knew precisely what he was up against. Slipping one hand behind him, he tried the knob of the door; but, as he had expected, the door held fast. Skullen continued to grin gloatingly, fancying that Locke's inactivity was evidence that he was practically paralyzed by amazement and fear. "Your friend Stillman was too busy to come," he said, "and so I kept the appointment for him. Maybe I'll do just as well. Anyhow, I'll do--for you!" He had risen to his feet, and the light of the flickering gas jet played over his evil face. Lefty flashed another look around, taking in the surroundings. To his ears came the distant, muffled sound of an elevated train rumbling along the trestle. Behind him, in the front of the saloon, all was still. Probably the door leading to the street was now also locked to prevent any one from entering and hearing any disturbance that might take place in the back room. The jaws of the trap held him fast. "Oh, it ain't any use to think about runnin' away, Lefty," croaked Mit. "Not a chance in the world. I fixed it so's we could have our little settlement without any one buttin' in to bother us. You remember I told you I had a score to settle with you?" As Locke spoke, his voice was calm and steady. "And you engaged a pair of worthy pals to assist you! You're a brave man, Skullen!" "Aw, these lads are only here to see fair play, that's all. They won't mix in. They won't have to. Last time we met you reckoned you put it all over me, didn't you? Maybe I ought to thank you for keepin' me from gettin' a rotter on me hands, for that's what you got in Dummy Jones. You're welcome to that piece of cheese." The southpaw made no retort. He was measuring his chances against all three of the ruffians, having no doubt that he must soon find himself pitted against such odds. "Some baseball manager, that's what you are!" scoffed Mit, taking keen delight in prolonging the suspense that he fancied must be getting the nerve of the intended victim. "You're rattlin' around like a buckshot inside a bass drum. A busy little person, you are, but you won't be so busy after I finish with you. You'll find it convenient to take a nice long rest in a hospital." "You fight a lot with your mouth, Mit," said Locke contemptuously. "Go ahead an' sail inter him, Skully," urged the ruffian who looked like a broken-down prize fighter. "You been itchin' fer him to show up so you could get inter action. Go to it!" "Plenty of time, Bill. I enjoy seein' him try to push that door down with his back. Wasn't he a mut to walk right into this? I'm goin' to change the look of his face so that his handsome wife won't know him when she sees him next." He began to remove his coat, and Lefty knew the time for action had come. For an instant his imagination had sought to unnerve him by presenting a vivid picture of himself as he would appear, battered, bleeding, beaten up, if the trio of thugs carried out their evil design; but he put the vision aside promptly. In cases where a smaller force is compelled to contend with a greater, the advantage is frequently obtained through swift and sudden assault. Knowing this, Locke did not wait to be attacked. He hurled himself forward with the spring of a panther and the force of a catapult. CHAPTER XXX ONE AGAINST THREE Skullen, in the act of removing his coat, was caught unprepared. Before he could fling the garment aside Locke was upon him, aiming a well-meant blow for the point of Mit's jaw. Skullen realized that it was no trifling thing to stop such a blow as that, and he jerked his head aside, as he dropped his coat. The blow caught him glancingly and sent him staggering, upsetting the chair from which he had recently risen. Locke grabbed the edge of the table and pitched it against the ruffian's two companions, who had hastily started to get up. They fell over, with the table on top of them. Lefty followed up his advantage, and kept right on after Skullen. Uttering a snarl of astonished rage, the latter sought to grapple, but the southpaw knew that he could not afford to waste time in that sort of a struggle. Whatever he did must be done swiftly, effectively, and thoroughly. Delay meant only disaster to him. Avoiding the clutching hands of his antagonist, he struck Mit on the neck, below the ear, staggering him again. Skullen had not looked for such a whirlwind assault. He had fancied the trapped man would wait until set upon, and he had believed he would have little trouble in beating Lefty to the full satisfaction of his revengeful heart. He was strong and ponderous, and he could still strike a terrible blow, but years had slowed him down, his lack of exercise had softened his muscles, his eye had lost its quickness, while indulgence in drink and dissipation had taken the snap and ginger out of him. He had not realized before how much he had deteriorated, but now, witnessing the lightning-like movements of Lefty Locke, he began to understand, and sudden apprehension overcame him. "Bill! Snuff!" he roared. "Get into it! Get at him, you snails! Soak him!" His appeal to his companions was an unintentional admission that he suddenly realized he was no match for the man he had attempted to beat. The flickering gaslight had given him a glimpse of a terrible blazing look in Locke's eyes. Once, in the ring, he had seen a look like that in the eyes of an opponent who had apparently gone crazy. And he had been knocked out by him! Scrambling up from beneath the capsized table, Bill and Snuff responded. Lefty knew that in a moment they would take a hand in the fight, and then the odds would be three against one, and none of the three would hesitate at any brutal methods to smash the one. Once he was beaten down, they would kick and stamp him into insensibility; and later, perhaps, he would be found outside somewhere in the back alley, with broken bones, possibly maimed and disfigured for life. The knowledge of what would happen to him, if defeated, made him doubly strong and fierce. He endeavored to dispose of Skullen first, believing that by doing so he would have half the battle won. Skullen's howls to his companions came to an abrupt termination. Like an irresistible engine of destruction, Locke had smashed through the defense of the ruffian, and, reaching him with a terrible blow, sent him spinning and crashing into a corner of the room. At the same instant, Bill, joining in, was met by a back kick in the pit of his stomach, and, with a grunt, he doubled up, clutching at his middle with both hands. This gave the southpaw a chance to turn on Snuff, who had not, so far, shown any great desire to help his pals. The creature had seemed physically insignificant, sitting at the table, but now, in action, he moved with the quickness of a wild cat, in great contrast to the ponderousness of Skullen. And he had a weapon in his hand--a blackjack! The southpaw realized that, of his three antagonists, the creature springing at him like a deadly tarantula was the most to be dreaded. Insanity blazed in the fellow's eyes. He struck with the blackjack, and Lefty barely avoided the blow. Locke snapped out his left foot, and caught the toe of the man plunging past him, sending him spinning to the floor. Snuff's body struck a leg of the overturned table and broke it off short, but the shock of the fall seemed to have absolutely no effect upon him; for he rebounded from the floor like a rubber ball, and was on his feet again in a flash, panting and snarling. "Get him, Snuff--get him!" urged Skullen, coming up out of the corner where he had been thrown. Bill, recovering his breath, was straightening up. All three of the thugs would be at the southpaw again in another jiffy. Lefty darted round the table, avoiding the blackjack, but realizing what a small chance he had with his bare hands. He could not keep up the dodging long. Then he saw the broken table leg, and snatched it up. With an upward swing, he landed a blow on Snuff's elbow, breaking his arm. The blackjack flew to the smoky ceiling, and then thudded back to the floor. Feeling sure he had checked his most dangerous antagonist, Lefty turned, swinging the table leg, and gave Skullen a crack on the shoulder that dropped him to his knees. He had aimed at Mit's head, but the fellow had partially succeeded in dodging the blow. Another blow, and the cry of alarm that rose to Bill's lips was broken short. Bill went down, knocked senseless. But Snuff, in spite of his broken arm, was charging again. He was seeking to get at the southpaw with his bare left hand! The pitcher, however, had no compunction, and he beat the madman down instantly. Groaning and clinging to his injured shoulder, Skullen retreated hastily to the wall, staring in amazement and incomprehension at the breathless but triumphant man he had lured into this trap. In all his experience he had never encountered such a fighter. There being no one to stop him now, Lefty walked to the door leading into the alley, found the key in the lock and turned it. One backward look he cast at the two figures on the floor and the man who leaned against the wall, clutching at his shoulder. Policemen seemed to be scarce in that neighborhood, and Locke found one with difficulty. The officer listened incredulously to Lefty's story. "Mike's is a quiet place," he said. "Didn't make a mistake about where this happened, did you? Well, come on; we'll go round there and see about it." The saloon was open when they reached it. The red-headed bartender was serving beer to an Italian and a Swede. The vagrant had vanished. The man behind the bar listened with a well-simulated air of growing indignation when the policeman questioned him. He glared at the pitcher. "What are you tryin' to put across, bo?" he demanded fiercely. "You never were in here before in your life. Tryin' to give my place a bad name? Nothin' like what you say ever happened around here. Nice little yarn about bein' decoyed here by some coves that tried to beat you up! Say, officer, is this a holdup?" "I've told you what he told me," said the policeman. "In my back room!" raged the barkeeper. "There ain't been nobody in there for the last two hours. Come here an' have a look." He walked to the door and flung it open. Skullen and his partners were gone. Even the broken table had been removed. There was nothing to indicate that a desperate encounter had taken place there a short time before. "You cleaned up in a hurry," said Lefty. At this the barkeeper became still more furious, and was restrained by the officer, who scowled at the pitcher even as he held the other back. "You don't look like you'd been hitting the pipe, young feller," growled the representative of the law; "but that yarn about being attacked by three men looks funny. Don't notice any marks of the scrap on you. They didn't do you much damage, did they? Say, you must have had a dream!" Locke saw the utter folly of any attempt to press the matter. "As long as you insist upon looking at it in that way, officer," he returned, with a touch of contempt that he could not repress, "we'll have to let it go at that. But I'll guarantee that there are three men somewhere in this neighborhood who'll have to have various portions of their anatomies patched up by a doctor as the aftermath of that dream." CHAPTER XXXI LIGHT ON A DARK SPOT Janet returned from the matinée in a state of great excitement. "She's here!" she cried, bursting in on Lefty. "You were right about it! I've seen her!" The southpaw gazed in surprise at the flushed face of his charming wife. "You mean--" "Virginia! I tell you I've seen her!" "When? Where?" "As we were leaving the theater. The lobby was crowded, and we were in the back of the jam. Suddenly I saw her over the heads of the people. She was just getting into an auto that was occupied by a handsome woman with snow-white hair. I wasn't mistaken; it was Virginia. I couldn't get to her. I tried to call to her, but she didn't hear me. I'll never say you were mistaken again, Lefty. Somehow you seem always to be right." Locke scarcely heard these final words. He was thinking rapidly. A sudden ray of hope had struck upon him. Confound it! Where was Stillman? He sprang to the telephone and called the _Blade_ office again. "Jack is the one best bet in this emergency," he said, as he waited for the connections to be made. He got the reporter on the wire, and Stillman stated that he had not been in the office ten minutes, and was about to call Lefty. Could he come up to the Great Eastern right away? Sure. The feeling of depression and helplessness that had threatened to crush Locke began to fall away. The door he had sought, the one door by which there seemed any chance of passing on to success, appeared to be almost within reach of his hand. In her excitement at the theater, Janet had not possessed the presence of mind to call the attention of her friends to the snowy-haired woman, but he knew that she could describe her with some minuteness. "Stillman knows everybody," Lefty said. "It may be clew enough for him." There was a rap on the door. A messenger boy appeared with a telegram. Locke ripped it open and read: Jones sick. Team busted. I'm busted. Signal of distress. How about that five hundred? I knead the dough. Don't shoot! Wire cash. WILEY. "Trouble in another quarter," muttered Lefty, handing the message over to Janet. "How am I going to send him that money? I can't force Weegman to do it. Wiley has a right to demand it. If I don't come across, he'll have a right to call the deal off." "But Jones is sick," said Janet. "Still it was a square bargain, and I mean to stand by it. Jones is sick. He was sick that day in Vienna; that was what ailed him. He showed flashes of form when he braced up, but he was too ill to brace up long. I've wondered what was the explanation, now I have it. Get him on his feet again, and he'll be all right. I've got to hold my grip on Jones somehow." Kennedy and Stillman appeared at the Great Eastern together. First, Lefty showed them the message from Cap'n Wiley. Over it the former manager screwed up his face, casting a sharp look at his successor. "If you can trust this Wiley," he said, "send him two hundred, and tell him to bring Jones north as soon as Jones can travel. Don't worry. Wiley's outfit didn't come under the national agreement, and Jones' name on a Stockings contract ties him up." "But without drawing money from the club I haven't the two hundred to spare now. I can't draw." "I'll fix that. I've got two hundred or more that you can borrow. After the training season opens, you'll pretty soon find out whether or not you've picked a dill pickle in your dummy pitcher." Janet told Stillman about seeing Virginia Collier, and gave him a fairly minute description of the woman Virginia was with. The reporter smoked a cigarette, and considered. "I think I can find that lady with the snow-white hair," he said, after a time. "Leave it to me. You'll hear from me just as soon as I have something to tell." With a promising air of confidence, he took his departure, leaving Kennedy and Locke to attend to the matter of Wiley and Mysterious Jones. Of course, the southpaw told the old manager all about Skullen's attempt at revenge, but he did not do so within the hearing of Janet, whom he did not care to alarm. The veteran chuckled over the result of the encounter in the back room of Mike's saloon. "Right from the first," he said, "you was picked for something soft and easy. I knew you was a fighter, son, but Weegman and his gang didn't know it. Mebbe they'll begin to guess the fact pretty soon." A few minutes after eight that evening, Stillman returned to the hotel and found Locke waiting with what patience he could command. The reporter wore a smile, but he declined to answer questions. "Mrs. James A. Vanderpool's private car is waiting for us at the door," he said. "Bring Mrs. Hazelton, Lefty. We're going to make a call." "Mrs. Vanderpool? The widow of the traction magnate? Why, what--" "Now don't waste time! Somebody else can gratify your curiosity a great deal better than I. In fact, I know so little about the facts at the bottom of this queer business that any explanations I'd make would be likely to ball things up." The magnificent residence of the late James Vanderpool was on upper Fifth Avenue. They were ushered into a splendid reception room. In a few minutes an aristocratic-looking woman with white hair entered, her appearance bringing an involuntary exclamation to Janet's lips. "It's the very one!" she breathed excitedly, her fingers gripping Lefty's arm. Stillman introduced them to Mrs. Vanderpool, who met them graciously. "Virginia will be down in a minute or two," said the lady. "For reasons, she has been staying with me since she returned from abroad. I'll let her tell you about it." She regarded Locke with frank interest, yet in a manner that was not at all embarrassing, for it plainly contained a great deal of friendliness. "Virginia has told me much about you," she stated. "It has never before been my good fortune to meet a professional baseball player. My niece is very fond of Mrs. Hazelton." "Your niece!" exclaimed Lefty. "Virginia is my niece, although I have scarcely seen her since she was a very small child. Here she is now." Virginia ran, laughing, to meet Janet. After the manner of girl friends, they hugged and kissed each other. "Really," said Virginia, "I should give you a good shaking for not answering all my letters!" "Your letters!" cried Janet. "I've received only two letters from you in goodness knows how long! I answered them; and wrote you a dozen to which I got not a word of reply." They gazed at each other in blank uncertainty for a minute or two, and every trace of laughter died from Miss Collier's face. Her blue eyes began to flash. "Then," she said, "our letters were intercepted. I can't remember whether I posted any of mine or not, but I was so worried over father that it is doubtful if I did. I let my maid attend to that. She nearly always brought the mail to me, too. When I obtained positive proof that she was dishonest, I discharged her. Even now it's hard to believe she was so treacherous." "But why should she intercept our letters? I don't understand, Virginia." "There has been a dreadful plot to ruin my father. You'll hardly believe it when I tell you. I find it difficult to believe, even now." She shivered, some of the color leaving her face. "It was necessary to cut us off from any true information of what was happening to his business interests. Letters from you might have given me an inkling, Janet, and so they were secured and destroyed before they ever reached my hands. Other letters met the same fate. Mr. Weegman declared he wrote several which I know my father never got." "Weegman!" exclaimed Locke incredulously. "Why, he--" "Doctor Dalmers warned Mr. Weegman that father must not be disturbed or excited in the least over business matters. He said such a thing might have a fatal effect on his heart. Still Weegman says he wrote guardedly several times, mildly hinting that things were not going right." "The liar!" whispered Lefty to himself. A bit in the background, Jack Stillman was listening with keen interest, thinking what a sensational special article the truth regarding this affair would make. "We were surrounded by wretches who had no compunction," declared Virginia Collier. "It was I who first suspected them. My father was too ill, and the doctor kept him under opiates almost all the time, so that his mind was dulled. After I discharged Annette I became suspicious of the nurse. I spoke to Doctor Dalmers about her, but he insisted that she was all right. He insisted too earnestly. I began to watch him without letting him realize I was doing so. Once or twice I found a chance to change father's medicine for harmless powders and clear water, and it seemed to me that he was better than when he took the medicine. He was very weak and ill, but his mind seemed clearer. I kept the medicine away from him for two days in succession, and got an opportunity to talk to him alone. I succeeded in convincing him that the change of climate, the baths, and the stuff the doctor had given him were doing him no good at all. In London there was a physician whom he knew and in whom he had confidence, Doctor Robert Fitzgerald. I urged him to go to Doctor Fitzgerald, but not to tell Doctor Dalmers of his intention, and I begged him to refuse to take any more of Doctor Dalmers' medicine. We were in Luchon, and all the way to London I had to watch like a hawk to keep that medicine from father, but I succeeded, although I became extremely unpopular with Doctor Dalmers. The minute we reached London, I went to Doctor Fitzgerald and told him all that I suspected. Although he could not believe such a thing possible, he accompanied me at once to our hotel. Doctor Dalmers was taken by surprise, for he had not anticipated this move. When I discharged both him and the nurse, he gave me a terrible look. Of course, I could not have carried this through, had not Doctor Fitzgerald been a close friend of my father. Dalmers called Fitzgerald's action unprofessional, and made threats, but we got rid of him." Despite the fact that she was such a mere slip of a girl, it was evident that she possessed brains and the courage and resourcefulness to use them. Mrs. Vanderpool seemed very proud of her. Lefty expressed his admiration. "I knew," Virginia continued, "that there must be something behind such a plot. I did not believe Dalmers had put it through merely to bleed my father while keeping him ill. I was worried over the fact that we knew so very little concerning how father's affairs were going over here. What information we could get by cable or otherwise might be unsatisfactory. So I determined to come home and investigate for myself. I got father's consent, and I left him in Doctor Fitzgerald's care. I intended to sail by the _Victoria_, but there was a misunderstanding about accommodations, and I was forced to take a later ship. I find father's affairs involved, and I've sent a statement of conditions as they appear to be. "Of course," she concluded, smiling a little, "I was greatly relieved to learn from Mr. Weegman that he felt sure he had blocked the contemptible efforts to smash the Blue Stockings. He felt highly elated over signing Lefty Locke as manager." "Miss Collier," said the pitcher, "did Weegman offer an explanation of the raid on the team? Did he say who was at the bottom of it?" Instantly a little cloud came to her face, and an expression of regret appeared in her eyes. "Yes," she answered. "He told me. At first I could not believe it." Stillman leaned forward, listening, his lips slightly parted. Locke turned toward him, but turned back quickly, with another question on his lips. Virginia was speaking again, however. "I can scarcely believe it now," she said sadly. "It seems too utterly impossible! I can't imagine any one being such a scoundrel--much less him! But Weegman has made sure; he has the proof. Of course, he has told you all about it, Lefty; it was necessary that you should know." Her manner had grown deeply dejected. "What did Weegman tell you?" asked the southpaw. "Who did he say was responsible for what had happened to the Blue Stockings?" With an effort the girl answered: "Franklin Parlmee!" CHAPTER XXXII ONE CHANCE It was like a staggering blow. While it confirmed Stillman's theory that Parlmee was the chief rascal of the conspiracy, it shattered the supposition that Weegman, a blind dupe, wholly unaware of the truth, was being cleverly manipulated as an unconscious tool. The foundation of that hypothesis melted away like sand before hydrolytic force. Locke turned again and looked at the reporter. The latter, standing like an image of stone, was staring questioningly and incredulously at Virginia Collier. He, too, realized that this confirmation of his belief had brought a portion of the postulation fluttering down like a house of cards, and he was seeking a mental readjustment. Janet, frozen with lips slightly parted and eyes wide, was aware of it also. She was about to speak impulsively when Lefty detected her and made a repressing gesture. Miss Collier felt that she knew the reason for the sudden silence that had fallen on every one, and a faint flush crept back into her cheeks. She appeared to be humiliated and ashamed, as well as sorrowful. "I understand," she said, in a low tone, "how it must seem to you to hear me say such a thing about Mr. Parlmee. I have trusted him. I believed in him, even when my father was losing faith and confidence. I clung to my own faith, and it hasn't been easy to abandon it, even in the face of proof. My conscience or something taunts me occasionally. I--I've cried over it, and I've fought against it. I haven't dared see him since my return--since I found out the truth--for I knew I should listen to him and believe in him in spite of everything. I wanted to face him and accuse him, but Weegman persuaded me to wait. He said it would merely hasten the crash if we let the scoundrels know they were suspected." "The scoundrels!" exclaimed Locke. "Then he told you that more than one was concerned?" "He claims that a man named Garrity is operating in conjunction with Franklin Parlmee." Another staggerer. To Virginia, Weegman had accused Garrity. Mutely the southpaw appealed to Stillman. The reporter's forehead was puckered in a puzzled manner; he caught Lefty's glance, and shook his head slowly. "When did he name Garrity, Miss Collier?" he asked. "When he called on me to-day--this afternoon," was the answer. "He has been at work trying to get at the truth." Locke improved the opportunity to whisper in Janet's ear: "Keep still! Don't say a word--now." Although she did not understand why he wished her to keep silent, she nodded. He had been right in other matters; it was best to let him have his way in this. "My niece has been very much upset," said Mrs. Vanderpool. "It has practically made her ill. She hasn't felt much like seeing people, and therefore Mr. Weegman's advice to keep quiet was easy to follow." Weegman had urged Virginia to remain in obscurity, not to let her friends know she was in New York; that was evident. He had convinced her that by doing so she could best assist him in his pretended task of trapping the conspirators. And while she kept quiet, those conspirators were hastening to carry through the work they had planned. "Miss Collier," said Lefty, "do you think it would be possible for your father to come home at once? Do you think he is strong enough to stand the voyage? If he can do so, he had better come. He should be here now." "I don't know," she replied. "Give me his address and let me communicate with him," Locke urged. "He should know something of the truth, at least." Virginia was persuaded, for Mrs. Vanderpool agreed that it was the best course to pursue. The southpaw was elated; he felt that at last he was getting a grip that would enable him to accomplish something. If he could baffle the rascals now, it would be a feat worth while. Mrs. Vanderpool was called away to the telephone. "Auntie has been very kind to me, in spite of her quarrel with father," said Virginia, when the lady had left the room. "They have not spoken to each other for years. It is so ridiculous, so childish, for a brother and sister who have been devoted! Both are stubborn. And yet Aunt Elizabeth is the kindest, gentlest woman in the world. She lost an only daughter, and she says I seem to fill the vacant place. She has made me feel very much at home." Then she began chatting with Janet about things of mutual interest. Locke joined Stillman, who had walked to the far end of the room. "This Weegman is either a fool or much cleverer than we thought him," said the reporter swiftly, in a low tone. "I don't believe he's a fool." "How have you figured it out?" Lefty questioned. "It was a mistake to think him not wise to Parlmee. And why, if he is hand in glove with Garrity, did he tell her that Garrity was concerned in the miserable business?" "He told her that to-day?" "Yes." "Why didn't he tell her before? Weegman is in town. Have you seen him?" The pitcher told of his meeting with both Weegman and Garrity, and how he had defied them. Stillman's face cleared a little. "Look here, Locke, that fellow Weegman will double cross any one. You put him next to the fact that you were wise to Garrity. The whole bunch must know that Collier has fired his crooked doctor. Of course, Dalmers notified them. After talking with you, Weegman began to realize that the whole plot might fall through. He lost no time in beginning to hedge his bets. He's trying to fix it so that he'll fall safe if the business blows up." "But why did he tell her of Parlmee? We thought he didn't know about that." "I'm not as sure about Parlmee as I was," admitted the reporter frankly. "Weegman has been trying to blacken him to her right along. I'll own up now that it was an anonymous communication that first put me on the track of Parlmee. There have been others of the same sort tending to incriminate him. I've wondered where they came from. Now I think I know. Weegman is the answer." "By Jove!" exclaimed Lefty. "You believe it was he who directed suspicion toward Parlmee in the first place?" "You've got me. That being the case, instead of being a dupe, this Weegman has put something over that we didn't suspect him of. He's after Collier's daughter, and it would help him if he could turn her against his rival." Locke's face cleared. His relief was evident. "This is all speculation," said the reporter hastily. "Don't be too quick to accept it as a settled fact. Parlmee's behavior has been suspicious enough to require some explaining from him. Perhaps he can clear it up. We know Weegman has tried to put the Blue Stockings on the blink, and we're dead certain he hasn't knowingly done so as the assistant of Parlmee. Now how do you figure on that?" "Parlmee's innocent, as I fancied. Weegman is the chief rascal." Stillman smiled. "In which case he's beginning to find himself caught in a quicksand, and he's trying to save himself by climbing out over his pal, Garrity. He'll swear he had no finger in it. Garrity won't dare accuse Weegman of being an accomplice, for by doing that he would acknowledge that there was a conspiracy. Weegman is in no danger in that direction of anything further than such private revenge as Garrity may seek to take." Lefty turned back and approached Virginia and Janet, addressing the former: "Miss Collier, I want you to promise me that, for the present, at least, you'll say nothing to Bailey Weegman about having seen and talked with me." The girl looked surprised. "I was just proposing that Janet should leave the hotel and stay here with me. I know my aunt will approve." "I approve anything you may wish, my dear," said Mrs. Vanderpool, reëntering the room. "It would give me great pleasure to have Mrs. Hazelton visit us and remain as long as possible." Locke looked doubtful, for should that arrangement be carried out Janet might easily be led into telling Virginia more than it seemed advisable for her to know at the present time. But Mrs. Vanderpool made her invitation most cordial, and Janet gave him a beseeching glance. He wavered. "Weegman calls here. If he should--" Janet's hand fell on his arm. "Trust me," she urged significantly. "You can't hope to keep him long in the dark. For the present, if he calls, I'll not be in evidence. You're so busy that I see very little of you during the day, anyway." So he was won over. Janet returned with him to the hotel to gather up the belongings she would need, and Stillman accompanied them. Lefty made his wife understand how desirous it was to keep Weegman blinded as long as possible, explaining that he feared Miss Collier's indignation would lead her into betraying everything should she learn the whole truth regarding the two-faced schemer. "If you can get Collier home quickly enough, Locke," said Stillman, "there's a chance that you may be able to spike the enemy's guns, even at this late hour." "I'm going to make a swift play for that chance," returned Lefty. CHAPTER XXXIII ONE IN A MILLION The clerk of the Great Eastern surveyed with interest the swarthy small man in the bright green suit and the plaid raglan overcoat, who leaned an elbow on the desk and jauntily twirled a light cane, puffing at an excellent Havana cigar. "Beyond a modicum of a doubt you have me, your excellency," said the stranger. "I'm the real thing, the only and original Cap'n Wiley. It is frequently embarrassing to be encumbered by fame, and my modesty often compels me to travel incog-nit-o; but just now, having a yearning desire to hobnob with my old college chump, Lefty Locke, I am blushingly compelled to reveal my identity. When Lefty learns that I am here he will fly like a bird to greet me. Notify one of yon brass-buttoned minions to inform him of my immediate proximity." "Mr. Locke is out at present," said the man behind the desk, winking slyly at a fellow clerk; "but if you will leave your card--" "If one isn't sufficient, I'll leave the whole pack of fifty-two. It is my habit to carry a deck with me for emergencies. Perchance, however, you can tell me when Lefty is liable to return." At that moment Locke, coming in, saw the sailor, and hurried forward. The Marine Marvel teetered to meet him, beaming broadly. They shook hands, and Locke drew the sailor toward two vacant chairs. "Jones?" questioned Lefty as they sat down. "Where is he? How is he?" "He's right here in this little old burg," was the answer. "Nothing short of his demise could have prevented me from keeping my agreement to deliver him to you. He is on the mend, and it is probable that he'll soon be as frisky and formidable as ever. But I have qualms. I fear greatly that something has happened to cause Jonesy to lose interest in baseball forever and for aye. Were I in his boots, I'd go on one long spree that would reach from here to Hongkong, and even farther. Hold your breath, Lefty, and hold it hard. Jones has come into a modest little fortune of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars or thereabouts." "Quite a joke!" said the pitcher. "I don't blame you for doubting me. In your place I'd have made a remark a shade more violent. But the seal of voracity is on my lips. I didn't know it when I saw you last, but at that time he had practically sold his interest in his Alaska possessions. I have stated the sum he received for his share in that pretty bit of property." "Enough to keep him in pin money for some time," replied Lefty, still skeptical. "If he could be induced to use it for his own wants he could dodge becoming a pauper for quite a while. But, Lefty, you can't guess what he's going to do with it. Excuse me while I sigh. I have argued and pleaded until my fingers became tongue-tied; but I've failed to move him from his fixed determination. He is going to give every dollar of that money away!" Of course, Locke thought that Wiley was drawing the long bow, as usual. "I hope he won't overlook his friends when he passes it around," he said, smiling. "His friends won't get a dollar!" declared Wiley. "He's going to give it to his enemies." This was too much for the southpaw. "Let's cut the comedy," he urged. The sailor gave him a chastening look. "It isn't comedy; it's tragedy, Lefty. He believes it his duty. He believes he is bound, as a man of honor, to do it. Listen and I will elucidate. Did you ever hear of the Central Yucatan Rubber Company?" "I don't think so." "Well, it was a fraudulent concern that flourished like a green bay tree some seven or eight years ago, and withered like a fragile plant when the government got after it for fraudulent use of the mails. Like many such grafting stock-selling companies, it had a dummy board of officers who appeared to be in control, while the real rogues who were harvesting the coin kept in the background. Jones was president of that company. He believed it to be on the level, and he had invested some of his own money--superficially all he had--in it. When the government got busy, Jones was indicted as the head of the concern. He was thought to be the originator of the scheme. The real crook had fixed it so that he seemed to be one of the innocent victims, and he helped swear Jones into prison. Jones got five years. He served his time." At last Locke was impressed. He had never seen Wiley so serious. For once, the flippant and superficial manner of the swarthy little man had been discarded; his flamboyant style of speech had been dropped. Ordinarily he gave one the impression that he was gleefully fabricating; now, of a sudden, the listener was convinced that he was hearing the naked truth. It explained the atmosphere of somber sadness, the appearance of brooding over a great injustice, which had infolded the mysterious dumb pitcher of the Wind Jammers. For Jones Lefty felt a throb of genuine sympathy. "With the unclothed eye I can perceive that you get me," the sailor continued. "You can imagine how you would feel if you had been sent to the jug for five years, as punishment for a crime perpetrated by somebody else. What if the one who concocted the scheme and benefited by it swore your liberty away and escaped scot-free himself?" "It was monstrous!" exclaimed the pitcher. "Precisely so. In prison Jones took a foolish oath. He registered a vow to pay back every dollar to those who had lost their good money in that fake rubber company. He didn't know how he was going to do it, but he was determined that he would. In a way, they were his enemies, for they had helped prosecute him; the courts had adjudged him guilty, and he felt that he could never hold up his head as an honest man until those who had been defrauded got the last cent of coin back. In some way he must acquire a huge amount of filthy lucre, and acquire it honestly. He dreamed of gold mines. When the prison spat him forth he made his way up into Alaska. There his dream came true, for, with his partners, he located and developed a great mine. They could have sold out a dozen times, but never for a sum that would permit Jones to accomplish his purpose with his share of the price. So he held on. And at last a syndicate made an offer that was sufficient. Jones was notified by his partners. He accepted. But not until the deal was put through and he had the certified check for his interest in his clutches did he breathe a word of it to any one. Then he told me. He was sick, but his success helped cure him. He was eager to hurry North and set into action the machinery for distributing that money to the rubber company's victims. At this very moment he is interviewing a reputable firm of lawyers and giving them instructions to proceed about the work. He can supply a full list of the persons defrauded. They'll get back what they lost, and Jones will find himself poor again--but satisfied." Lefty's eyes were shining. "In these days of the great American idea of grafting and fraud," he said, "a man with a conscience like Jones' is one in ten thousand." "Say, rather, one in a million, mate. I have reviled him extemporaneously. I have told him that he is a fool. I'm honest myself--when it's absolutely necessary. But to part with a scandalous sum like two hundred and fifty thousand without being positively compelled to do so--oh, pardon me while I sob!" "A man with such principles, and Jones' ability to pitch, will not come to grief. He has a job before him with the Blue Stockings." Wiley shook his head. "Apprehension percheth upon me, Lefty. Jones has accomplished the great purpose of his life. It was what fired him and spurred him on. I regret to elucidate that since that money came to him he has displayed no interest whatever in baseball. When I sought to make him talk about it he wouldn't even wigwag a finger on the subject. Something seems to tell me that he'll never again ascend the mound and shoot the horsehide over the pentagon." CHAPTER XXXIV WEEGMAN'S PROPOSAL For four days Weegman had not troubled Locke, four days during which Lefty sought in vain to get some word from Charles Collier. His cablegrams remained unanswered. At the time when he had felt the most sanguine he seemed to find himself blocked again. He did not seek to delude himself with the belief that silence on the part of the conspirators meant they were inactive. Doubtless they were at work harder than ever. What were they doing? He confessed that he would give a great deal to know. Then Weegman reappeared. His manner was ingratiating. His chuckle seemed intended to be genial and friendly. "A private room where we can talk without the slightest chance of being overheard, that's what we want," he said. "Your own room should be all right, as long as your wife is stopping with Miss Collier and her aunt." He knew about that. How long he had known was a question. Locke felt like turning the rascal down flatly. He was on the verge of doing so when something led him to decide differently. Perhaps a little patience and cleverness would enable him to get an inkling of what the enemy was doing. He took Weegman to his room, and shot the door bolt behind them when they had entered. "That's right," said Collier's private secretary. "We don't want to be interrupted by anybody. I took a great deal of pains that no one who knew me should see me come here. Garrity mustn't get wise. He ordered me to keep away from you." Laughing, he flung himself down on a chair. "Garrity!" cried Lefty, astonished at the confession. "Then you admit that you are taking your orders from him?" "He thinks I am," was the grinning answer. "Perhaps he'll find himself fooled. If you and I can get together, I'm sure he will." Locke stifled a sense of repulsion. The man was more detestable than ever. It did not appear possible, and yet he still seemed to think that Locke would accept a proposal from him. "How do you mean?" asked the pitcher, with masterly self-control. "Get together how?" "I hope you realize you can't do anything alone. The combination against you is too strong, and too much had been done before you began to get wise to the situation. Let me tell you now that I didn't expect this affair would go as far as it has when I entered into it." The creature was shamelessly acknowledging his participation in the plot, chuckling as he did so. Lefty waited. "Of course," pursued Weegman, "you've been aware for some time of my unbounded admiration and regard for Miss Collier. The old man favored me, but I couldn't bring her round. To do so, I decided, it would be necessary for me to accomplish a coup. If I could apparently save her father from ruin she might alter her views. Out of gratitude she might marry me. I'm a man who gets what he wants, by hook or crook. Garrity approached me with a scheme. I listened to it. I believed I saw a way to turn that scheme to my own advantage with Virginia. But I'll tell you now that it never was my intention to put Charles Collier wholly on the blink. At that time even I didn't know how badly involved he was." Even while he told the truth in a way, Weegman was lying in the effort to palliate his act to some degree. His conscience was warped to such an extent that he seemed to believe there could be an excuse for the milder forms of conspiracy and crime. In a bungling way he was actually making a bid for Locke's sympathy. "You must have known of the dastardly arrangement with a crooked doctor to keep Mr. Collier drugged into apparent illness and detain him in Europe beyond reach of the friends who might tell him, Weegman. Who got to that doctor and bought him up?" "Not I," was the denial. "I didn't have the money." "Was it Garrity?" "Of course. Garrity had something on Dalmers, who was concerned in some mighty shady practices at one time. But he told me that Dalmers was simply going to keep watch of the old man. I didn't know anything about the drugging business. When I found that out I was mad as blazes." The southpaw fought to prevent his lips from curling with scorn, and to suppress a look of triumph in his eyes. "What's your proposition to me, Weegman?" The self-acknowledged rascal seemed to hesitate. "You're sure no one can hear us?" he asked, his eyes roving around the room. "You can see that we're quite alone." Weegman drummed nervously on the arm of his chair. "I'm sorry this thing has gone so far," he protested. "I didn't look for it to, at first. I got involved and couldn't back out. In fact, Garrity threatened me when I showed signs of holding back. That," he declared, with an attempt at indignant resentment, "made me sore. Without my help in the beginning he never could have done a thing. Now he thinks he's got me foul, he's going to gobble everything. We'll see about that! Perhaps it isn't too late to stop him. Maybe we can do it, you and I. I'd like to show him." So the rascals had quarreled over the division of the spoils, as rascals so often do. And now one of them was ready to betray the other, if he could do so without disaster to himself. At the same time, he hoped to make an alliance with Lefty by which he might reap some actual benefit from his underhanded work. Suddenly Locke thought of another man who had been suspected of complicity. "How about Parlmee?" he asked. "Where does he fit in? Did Garrity send him over the pond to wrench the control of the Blue Stockings from Collier?" "I don't know what Garrity has been doing with Parlmee," Weegman confessed. "It was natural that I should want to turn Virginia against Parlmee, but I swear I didn't know he was in this thing when I got the idea of making her believe he was. That was an inspiration that came to me all of a sudden. I had to keep her away from him. I faked up some evidence. She refused to believe at first. Then, by Jove, I found out that Garrity and Parlmee were really up to something. They've had dealings." Lefty's heart, which had bounded high for a moment, sank heavily. After all, could it be true that two cleverer scoundrels had combined to work Weegman as a dupe? Had the confirmation of this fact helped Weegman to make up his mind to go back on Garrity? Was it not possible that this was the real cause of the quarrel between the worthy pair? The southpaw continued to lead the other on. "What is Garrity's scheme? What has he told you that he proposed to do?" "Unless Collier receives outside assistance, Garrity's got him cornered. Collier has met reverses generally. Garrity has got hold of a certain amount of Blue Stocking stock. Collier still holds enough to keep the balance of power, but he won't hold it long. If he tries to his interest in the Northern Can Company will go to glory. Garrity has placed himself in a position to shake the old man out of that concern. If Collier loses that, he's broke--a pauper. He can't hang on, because he hasn't the ready resources. He'll have to sell his Blue Stockings stock to save Northern Can. If he had a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in ready cash he could pull through. It'll take half of that to oust Garrity from Northern Can, and the other half is needed for the team. Garrity will put it up to him to-morrow. In the meantime, can you and I raise one hundred and fifty thousand?" "You and I!" cried Lefty. "Not a dollar! Not a cent! How will Garrity put it up to Collier to-morrow? Collier is in--" "Philadelphia!" cut in Weegman sharply. The southpaw stared, thunderstruck. "Philadelphia! You mean that he's in this country?" "He arrived to-day, and took a train at once for Philadelphia. I cabled him to come, and to keep his coming secret. Those were Garrity's orders." Locke sat down heavily, still staring at Weegman. CHAPTER XXXV THE SHATTERING STROKE That explained it. Now Lefty knew why he had received no answer to his cablegrams. Before the first was sent, Charles Collier was on the high seas, bound for America. He was home, and Garrity held him in the hollow of his hand. On the morrow the owner of the Blue Stockings was to feel the crushing grip of the triumphant schemer. Weegman watched the southpaw's face, noting the look of consternation upon it. Suddenly snapping his fingers, he began speaking again: "That's why I came to you, Locke. What's done must be done quickly. After eleven o'clock to-morrow it will be too late. You know what that means for you. Garrity hates you like poison, and you won't last any time after he gets control. You can raise that money." "A hundred and fifty thousand dollars! You're crazy!" "You can do it, and save yourself. If you'll do the right thing by me, I'll tell you how to raise the needful. Together we'll hand Garrity his bumps. What do you say? Is it a go?" He sprang up and approached, his hand extended. Locke rose and faced him. The scorn and contempt upon his face would have withered a man less calloused. Weegman recoiled a little, and his hand dropped to his side. "Weegman," Lefty said, "you're the most treacherous scoundrel I ever had the bad fortune to meet. You're just about as trustworthy as a rattlesnake. Heaven knows I need money, and I certainly want to hold my job, but not even to save my own father and mother from being turned out of the home that has sheltered them so long would I enter into any sort of partnership with you." A look of astonished wrath contorted Weegman's features, and a snarling laugh broke from his lips. "You poor fool!" he cried. "You've thrown away your last chance! I did think you would know enough to save yourself, but I see you haven't an atom of sense in your head." There was something almost pitying in the smile Lefty gave him. Something, also, that caused the man a sudden throb of apprehension. "You're the fool, Weegman," returned the southpaw. "You have confessed the whole rotten scheme. You have betrayed yourself and your fellow conspirator, Garrity." "Bah!" the rascal flung back, snapping his fingers again. "What good will it do you? I'll deny everything. You can't prove a thing. I was careful that there should be no witnesses, no one to hear a word that passed between us." Locke grabbed him by the wrist, and snapped him round with a jerk, facing one wall of the room. "And I," he cried, "took care that every word we uttered should be heard by two reliable persons. I set the trap for Garrity, but I have been unable to decoy him into it. You walked into it unbidden. Look!" With two strides he reached a dresser that stood against the wall. He seized it and moved it aside. With one finger he pointed to a small, square, black object that clung to the wall two feet from the floor. "Look!" he commanded again. Weegman stared uncomprehendingly, yet with the perspiration of dread beginning to bead his forehead. "What is it?" he asked huskily. "A dictograph!" answered Lefty. "I had it put in two days ago. When you met me a short time ago and asked for a private interview I started to turn you down. Then I saw old Jack Kennedy and Stillman, the reporter, in the background. They gave me a signal. Thirty seconds after we entered this room they were in the room adjoining, listening by means of that dictograph to every word that passed between us. We've got you, Weegman, and we've got Garrity, too. Criminal conspiracy is a rather serious matter." All the defiance had faded from Bailey Weegman's eyes. He trembled; he could not command even a ghost of a laugh. He started violently, and gasped, as there came a sharp rap on the door. "They want to take another good look at you to clinch matters so that they can make oath to your identity," said Locke, swiftly crossing and flinging the door open. "Come in, gentlemen!" Kennedy and Stillman entered. Weegman cowered before them. They regarded him disdainfully. "You beaned him all right, Lefty," said the ex-manager. "He wasn't looking for the curve you put over that time." The reporter paused to light a cigarette. "After your arrest, Weegman," he said, "I advise you to make haste to turn State's evidence. It's your only chance to escape doing a nice long bit in the stone jug." He turned, closed the door behind him, and shot the bolt again. "In the meantime," he added, "I think we can persuade you to refrain from warning Garrity regarding what is coming to him shortly after eleven o'clock to-morrow." Looking feeble and broken, Charles Collier sat at his desk in the office of the Blue Stockings Baseball Club. On the desk before him lay the books of the club and a mass of letters and documents. At one end of the desk sat Tom Garrity, smoking a big cigar and looking like a Napoleon who dreamed of no impending Waterloo. He was speaking. His words and manner were those of a conqueror. "You can see how the land lies, Collier. You should have sold out your interest in the team before going abroad. Weegman made a mess of it. To-day you can't realize fifty cents on the dollar. I've offered you my Northern Can stock for your holdings. That's the best way out for you now. If you refuse you'll lose Northern Can and the team, both. Better save one by sacrificing the other." Collier wearily lifted a protesting hand. "You don't have to repeat it, Garrity; I know you've got me cornered. I'm merely waiting for Weegman. He promised to be here at eleven. It's past that hour." Without asking permission, Garrity reached for the desk phone. "I'll call in my lawyers," he said. "They'll be here in a few minutes." Before he could lift the receiver from the hook the door swung open, and Weegman came in, pale and shrinking. At his heels followed Locke, Kennedy, and Stillman. With an astonished exclamation, Garrity put the instrument down. "I hope we don't intrude," said Lefty, smiling on the startled owner of the Rockets. "Having learned from Weegman of this little business meeting, we decided to drop in. I'm very glad to see that you have arrived home in time, Mr. Collier." "Too late!" sighed the hopeless man at the desk. "Too late! You're just in time to witness the transference of the Blue Stockings to Garrity." "On the contrary," returned the southpaw easily, "we have come to purchase Mr. Garrity's Blue Stockings stock at the prevailing price. Likewise his interest in Northern Can." Garrity rose, his face purple with wrath. A tremendously explosive ejaculation burst from his lips. "What in blazes do you mean?" he roared. "Just what I have said," Locke answered calmly. "Since arriving in town I have made arrangements for this little business matter. I have opened an account with the New Market National by depositing a certified check for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which is more than enough to make the purchases mentioned. Mr. Collier's attorney will arrive in ten minutes or so to see that everything is done in a legal manner." "But you can't buy a dollar's worth of my holdings in either concern." "You may think so now. I'm sure you'll change your mind in a few moments. It is also reported that, for the good of the game, you'll get out of organized baseball. Have you brought a copy of the second edition of the _Morning Blade_ with you, Stillman? Show it to Mr. Garrity, please." The reporter drew a newspaper from his pocket, opened it, passed it to Garrity. One finger indicated a half-column article, with headlines. GARRITY TO GET OUT. WILL DISPOSE OF HIS INTERESTS IN THE ROCKETS AND ABANDON BASEBALL. HINTS OF A CONSPIRACY TO WRECK THE BLUE STOCKINGS. Garrity's eyes glared. His breath whistled through his nostrils. His wrath was volcanic. "Somebody'll pay for that!" he shouted, swinging his ponderous fist above his head like a sledge hammer. "What's it mean?" "It means," answered Stillman, "that more will follow, giving complete details of the conspiracy--unless you decide to quit baseball for the good of the game." "I'll institute a suit for libel!" "No, you won't. You won't dare. We've got the goods on you. Let me tell you how it happened." He did so with unrepressed satisfaction, and the man's air of bluster gradually evaporated as he listened. But he gave Weegman a murderous look. The door swung open again, and a sharp-faced little man entered briskly. "Here's Mr. Collier's attorney," said Lefty. "Now we can get down to real business." CHAPTER XXXVI THE TEST OF MYSTERIOUS JONES The unscrupulous Garrity had long been a menace to organized baseball, but such efforts as had been made to jar him loose from it had failed. At last, however, like a remorseless hunter, he was caught in a trap of his own setting. Twist and squirm as he might, the jaws of that trap held him fast. Even when the representatives of a syndicate met him by agreement to take the team over at a liberal price, he showed a disposition to balk. Stillman was there. He handed Garrity a carbon copy of a special article giving a complete and accurate statement of the conspiracy. "If you own the Rockets to-morrow morning," said the reporter, "that will appear, word for word, in the _Blade_. Criminal action against you will be begun at the same time." Upon the following day Garrity was no longer interested in the Rockets. The _Blade_ had put over a scoop by being the first paper to announce that Garrity would retire. It could have created a tremendous sensation by publishing the inside facts relative to the method by which he had been forced out. But organized baseball was under fire, and already the suspicious public was beginning to regard it askance. The menacing Federals were making no end of trouble. The cry of "rottenness" was in the air. Through the publication of the story thousands of hasty, unthinking patrons could be led to believe that, square and honest though it seemed to be on the field, the game was really rotten at the core. Stillman knew how that would hurt, and he loved the game. He was tempted to the limit, but he resisted. Not even his editor ever found out just how much he knew and suppressed. On the usual date the Blue Stockings went South for spring training. Old Jack Kennedy was among the very first to arrive at the camp. He had been engaged as coach and trainer. The newspapers had a great deal to say about how the Federals had taken the heart out of the once great machine Collier controlled. Few of them seemed to think that Locke, the new manager, could repair the damages in less than a year or two. He would do well, they declared, if he could keep the club well up in the second division. For it was said that Lefty himself would pitch no more, and the rest of his staff, filled out with new men and youngsters, must necessarily be weak and wabbly. Occasionally a new deaf-mute pitcher, Jones, was mentioned as showing great speed, but who had ever heard of Jones? Of course he would lack the experience and steadiness a pitcher must possess to make good in fast company. Behind the bat the Stockings seemed all right, for Brick King would be there. Still, it was strange that Frazer had let King go. Old Ben was wise as the serpent, and he certainly had his reasons. The Stockings were trying out a young fellow named Sheridan in center field, but surely Herman Brock was worth a dozen ordinary youngsters. Some of the papers had a habit of speaking of all youngsters as "ordinary." Jack Keeper, who seemed slated to hold down the far cushion for the Stockings, was also a youngster Frazer had not seen fit to retain. In the few games he had played with the Wolves Keeper had made a good showing, but the general impression was that the manager had not considered him quite up to Big League caliber. Various other youngsters who had been farmed out to the minors were being used at second and short, and two of them, Blount and Armstrong, from the Cotton States League, seemed to be the most promising. But what an infield it would be, with three-fourths of the players "unripened"! The interest of the fans who read this sort of "dope" turned to the Wolves, who were almost universally picked as probable pennant winners. All this was natural enough. The Wolves had held together before the Federal raids better than any team in the league. Certainly no one who knew much about baseball would have chosen the Blue Stockings in advance for a come-back. But in baseball, and nearly everything else, there is no fixed rule of reckoning that can't be smashed. Plenty of old-timers will say this is not so, just as men assert that there is nothing like luck in the game. The Stockings continued to attract little attention during their tour North, although they won exhibition games regularly and with ease. Jones pitched in some of these games. Locke did not. All the same, no day passed that Lefty failed to get out and warm up with his pitchers. Dillon, Reilley, Lumley, and Savage were the old flingers left with the staff. The "Glass Arm Brigade," it was called. Savage was regarded as the only one of the quartet who possessed the stamina to work through nine hard innings. Counting him out, the team would have to depend on young twirlers. Of course, Locke warmed up merely from habit and as an example for the others. Otherwise he would try to pitch sometimes in a game. The season opened with the Blue Stockings playing against the Dodgers, away from home. Mysterious Jones pitched and shut the Dodgers out, his team making five runs behind him. Even that created no more than a slight flurry, for the Dodgers were chronic subcellar champions. Jones had speed, and it had dazzled them. But wait until he went up against real batters! Reilley and Lumley, taking turns on the mound, succeeded in handing the Dodgers the second game by a one-sided score. Savage went in and captured the third contest, but Pink Dillon dropped the fourth after making a fight for it up to the eighth inning. If that was the best the Blue Stockings could get, an even break, when facing the habitual tailenders, what would happen to them when they tackled the Wolves in the series to follow? The crowd turned out loyally to witness the opening game on the home grounds, but even the most hopeful among the fans permitted their courage to be tinged with pessimism. They were in that state of mind that would lead their sympathies easily to turn to the opposition. True, they hailed Lefty cheerfully and encouragingly from the stands and bleachers, but they could not have the faith in him as a manager that they had had as a pitcher. They were stirred, however, by the sight of old Jack Kennedy, and they gave him a rousing cheer. It warmed the cockles of the veteran's heart. He doffed his cap to them. Frazer came over from the visitors' bench and shook hands with Locke and Kennedy. "I hope," said Ben, "that you're going to give us a crack at that dummy speed merchant to-day, Lefty. We want to see if he is a real pitcher." Coming forth from the home team's dugout, a swarthy small man, who wore knickerbockers and a wrist watch, overheard these words. "Bo-lieve me, Frazy," said Cap'n Wiley, "you'll never ask for him again with any great avidity after you face him once. I hope you'll excuse me for butting in and making that statement without the polite formality of an introduction to you, but I am so impetuous! I'm the proud party who sold Jonesy to Lefty. Shortly after that little transaction I was unnecessarily worried lest he should decide to abandon baseball, but he has just informed me that, having succeeded in giving away the last of an infinitesimal fortune of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, he is now excruciatingly happy and ready to follow pitching as a profession." Frazer looked the odd character over tolerantly. "So you're the party who bunkoed Lefty, are you?" He laughed. "You're very much in evidence before the game begins, but I fancy it'll be difficult to find you with a microscope when it's finished--if Locke has the nerve to pitch your dummy wonder." "I think I'll start him on the hill, at any rate," said the manager of the Blue Stockings. Apparently Wiley started to cheer, but checked himself abruptly. "I'll conserve my vocal cords," he tittered. "I doubt not that my voice will be frazzled to a husky whisper before the contest terminates. Take a tip from me, Mr. Frazer, and send your premier twirler on to the firing line. Smoke Jordan's the only pitcher you have who can make the game interesting with Jones pastiming for the Stockings." "Jordan has asked to pitch," returned Ben, "but I have half a dozen others who would do just as well." Locke was passing in front of the section occupied by the newspaper men when Stillman called to him. "I don't see your wife here, nor Miss Collier," said the reporter. "I looked for both to be on hand for the opening game on the home grounds." "Unfortunately neither was able to get here, although they planned to do so," explained Lefty. "You know they have been spending the past eight weeks in Southern California with Virginia's aunt, who invited them to accompany her and would not take no for an answer. They'll be on hand to-morrow, however." Stillman leaned toward the wire netting and lowered his voice. "Has Collier ever caught on to the fact that the sister with whom he had quarreled furnished the capital to save him from going to smash?" he questioned. "Not yet. It's still a mystery to him how I was able to come forward at the psychological moment with that loan." The newspaper man laughed softly. "He came near passing away from heart failure that day. He was shocked almost as much as Garrity, but in a different way." His manner changed to one of concern. "You're going to use Jones to-day, aren't you? Think you have any chance to win?" "Unless I've made a mistake in estimating that man," replied Locke, "it won't be his fault if we lose. But it'll be a test for the whole team as well as Jones." It was truly a test. A pitcher who was merely a "speed merchant" could not have lasted three innings against the Wolves, who "ate speed." It was not long, however, before the anxious crowd, and the visiting team as well, began to realize that the mute twirler had something more than speed. Now and then he mixed in a sharp-breaking curve, and his hopper was something to wonder at, something that made the batters mutter and growl as they slashed at it fruitlessly. But, best of all, besides coolness and judgment, he had that prime essential of all pitchers, control. With never-failing and almost monotonous regularity, he seemed to put the sphere precisely where he tried to put it. In Brick King, Jones had a valuable aid. King knew his old associates; if any one of them had a batting weakness, he was aware of it. And not once during the game did Jones question a signal given him by King. What Brick called for he pitched, and put it just where it should be put. With such rifle accuracy, the work of the man behind the bat seemed easy, save for the fact that occasionally Jones' smokers appeared almost to lift the backstop off his feet. But King held them as if his big mitt had been smeared with paste. Smoke Jordan was also in fine fettle. It was a pitcher's battle, with the crowd watching and gasping and waiting for "the break." It must not be imagined that the Wolves did not hit the ball at all, but for a long time they could not seem to hit it safely, and for four innings they could not get a runner on. In the first of the fifth, however, a cracking single and two errors permitted them to score an unearned run. "If I know what I'm talking about," said Ben Frazer, "we had no license to get that tally. Now, Smoke, you've got to hold 'em. If that dummy don't crack, I'll acknowledge that he's a real pitcher." "I'll hold 'em," promised Jordan. But he couldn't keep his promise. In the sixth, with one down, King beat out an infield hit, reaching the initial sack safely by an eyelash. He stole second on the catcher for whom he had been discarded, to the disgust of Frazer. The crowd seemed to forget that Jones was deaf and dumb, for it entreated him to smash one out, and Cap'n Wiley, from his place in a box, howled louder than any ten others combined. Jones drove a long fly into left, but the fielder was there, and King was held at second. Hyland followed. Jordan, a bit unsteady, bored him in the ribs. Then Keeper, another Wolf discard, came up and singled to right field. Covering ground like a hundred yards' sprinter, King registered from second on that hit, tying the score up. The crowd went wild. The Blue Stockings and Mysterious Jones had the fans with them after that. Constantly that great gathering rooted for another run--just one more. Hyland perished on third when Spider Grant popped weakly. If possible, the Wolves were fiercer than ever. In the first of the eighth they got Jones into a hole again through another hit and errors which peopled the corners, with not a man down. Then Jones won a roaring ovation from the standing multitude by striking out three men in succession. The game was settled in the last of the ninth, and again Jack Keeper figured in the play. He had reached second, with one out, when Grant hit into the diamond. The ball took an amazingly high bound. The shortstop went for it, at the same time seeing Keeper scudding for third, and realizing that it would be impossible to get him at that sack. The moment he got the ball, the shortstop whipped it to first, catching Grant by a foot. There was a shout of warning. Keeper had not stopped at third. Over the sack at full speed he had flashed, and on toward home. The first baseman lined the sphere to the catcher, who had leaped into position. Keeper hit the dirt, twisting his body away from the catcher, who got the ball and jabbed at him--a fraction of a second too late. Keeper had accomplished a feat that is the desire of every base runner's heart. He had scored from second on an infield out. And that performance gave the Blue Stockings the game. While the crowd was still shouting its rejoicing, Cap'n Wiley found Frazer shaking hands with Lefty. "I demand an apology!" croaked Wiley, barely able to speak. "I apologize," said Frazer. "Your dummy _can_ pitch! But a team with one real pitcher is scarcely equipped to cut much figure in the race. Who'll you use to-morrow, Locke?" "I am thinking of trying out another one of our uncertainties," answered the southpaw, with an enigmatical smile. CHAPTER XXXVII THE RETURN OF LEFTY The work of patching up his team and whipping it into shape had kept Lefty Locke busy pretty nearly every minute of his time while awake, since the beginning of the training season. With that task before him, and knowing how little attention he could spare for Janet, he had raised no objections when she had asked to accompany Mrs. Vanderpool and Virginia on the California trip. While he was not foolish enough to believe that the reconstructed team could become a pennant contender that season, he did have hopes of finishing in the first division, which, under the circumstances, would be a triumph indeed. He had found Janet's letters interesting enough, but his concentration on other matters had prevented him from giving them much thought once they were read through. She had told him of the rumor that Bailey Weegman, having been lucky in escaping prosecution for his part in the conspiracy, had started some sort of mail-order business and was said to be taking in money "hand over fist." Far more interesting, however, although almost as quickly forgotten, was the gossip about Virginia and Franklin Parlmee. Having returned from his hasty and fruitless voyage across the pond, Parlmee had felt not only injured but outraged by the treatment he had received. It was impossible for Virginia honestly to deny that she had been led to distrust him--and by Weegman! That cut the deepest. She had kept him ignorant of the fact that she had returned home, thus allowing him to go rushing off to Europe in an attempt to find her. That had been his sole purpose; he had been in no way concerned with Garrity in a scheme to wrest the control of the Blue Stockings from Collier. It was true that, having come into a limited inheritance, he had purchased two or three small lots of the club's stock. His judgment had told him that the price to which it had dropped made it a good investment. Garrity had been anxious to get hold of that stock. He had pursued Parlmee and endeavored to buy the certificates at a price that would have permitted the holder of them to realize a good profit. But what Garrity had wanted so badly Parlmee had considered still more valuable, and he had refused to part with a single share. A sense of injury on one side and shame and false pride on the other had prevented complete reconciliation between Parlmee and Virginia. But Janet wrote that Miss Collier was not happy, although she made a brave pretense of being so. Once or twice Janet had detected her alone, crying. Lefty had practically forgotten about these things until, on that second day of battle with the Wolves, only a few minutes before the game was to begin, he looked toward the club owner's box, occupied as he knew by Virginia and Janet, and made the discovery that Franklin Parlmee was likewise there. The southpaw stood still in his tracks, and stared, smiling; for he saw that Parlmee and Virginia were chatting and laughing, while Janet watched them with an expression of complete satisfaction and pleasure. "Patched it up at last, thank goodness!" muttered Locke. "I think I'll keep away until after this game is over. Plenty of time to congratulate them then." He had been warming up, as usual, but to-day it was observed that he did so alone with Brick King. Many of those who took note of this were led to speculate. Jack Stillman saw it, and smiled wisely to himself. A crowd, bigger than that of the previous day, had turned out. The Blue Stockings' unexpected opening victory over the Wolves was the cause. Perhaps that had been no more than a flash in the pan, but the fans wanted to see for themselves. Deep down in the hearts of most of them was a sprouting hope that it presaged something more. Practice was over. The home team was spreading out on the field and making ready. Scrappy Betts, first man up for the visitors, was swinging two bats, prepared to drop one of them and advance to the plate. The announcer lifted his megaphone, and, sitting forward on the edges of their seats, the crowd strained their ears to catch the names of the battery men. "Who's going to pitch for US?" was the question they had been asking. Through the megaphone came the usual hoarse bellow. For an instant it seemed to strike the great gathering dumb. Then a wild yell of astonishment and delight went up. Everywhere in the stands and on the bleachers fans turned to their neighbors and shouted: "Locke! It's Lefty! Good old Lefty! Yow! Ye-ee!" They rose as one person and roared at him in a mighty chorus when he walked out to the mound. If he believed in himself, if he had the courage to go in there against Frazer's hungry Wolves, they believed in him. The umpire adjusted his wind pad. Betts dropped one bat and came forward, pausing a moment a few feet from the plate while Locke sent two or three across to get the range. That good left arm swung free and unrestrained, without a single sign to indicate that there had ever been anything the matter with it. Smiling, the southpaw nodded to Betts as King pulled on the wire cage. "You can patch up crockery, Lefty, old man," said Scrappy as he stepped into the box, "but you never can make it as good as new." Then, having tried to work the portsider to the limit, he finally whaled out a safety. "I knew it!" he cried from first. "Bluff won't mend a busted wing, old boy!" Whether or not Locke was nervous, he passed the next man. The cheering of the crowd died away. Disappointment and apprehension brought silence, save for the confident chattering of the Wolf coachers and the attempted encouragement of the players behind the southpaw. Hope began to sicken and wilt. Cool and unruffled, Brick King smiled. "An accidental hit and a pass won't count in the result to-day," he said. "Show Kipper the ball in your hand. He won't see it again." Kipper whiffed three times without making as much as a foul tip. The crowd began to wake up again. Herman Brock sauntered out. Frazer had given him Bob Courtney's position in the batting order, the "clean-up" place. No man knew Herman better than Lefty, and the efforts of the German were quite as futile as those of Kipper. The crowd was cheering again as Brock retired disgustedly. Confidence had been restored suddenly. "Oh, you Lefty!" was the cry. "You're there!" Locke easily forced the following batter to pop to the infield. He had settled into his stride. If he could keep it up, the shouting throng knew he had indeed "come back" as strong as ever. Already they were telling one another what that meant. With three first-string pitchers like Lefty and Jones and Savage, the team would have a fighting chance. The principal question was whether the southpaw could "go the distance." Not only did Lefty make it, but as the game progressed he seemed to take it more and more easily. The desperate Wolves could not get at him effectively. He certainly had everything he had ever possessed; some claimed that he had more. His arm showed no sign of weakening. But he used his head quite as much as his arm. With the support of a catcher who also had brains, and who worked with him perfectly, he made the snarling, snapping Wolves appear about as dangerous as tame rabbits. Before the ninth inning was reached he knew that in Brick King he had found the one catcher with whom he could do the best work of his career. The Blue Stockings won by a score of two to nothing. What fortune the season brought them in their fight for the pennant is told in the following volume of the Big League Series, which is entitled, "Guarding the Keystone Sack." The moment it was over Locke made a dash for the clubhouse, getting away from the furiously rejoicing fans who came pouring down upon the field. Jones was there ahead of him. As he panted in, Lefty saw the man of mystery standing in a peculiar attitude not far from the closed door of Charles Collier's office. He seemed to be _listening_. Involuntarily the southpaw paused and listened himself. From beyond the door came the sound of voices. He heard a man speaking, and then, suddenly, another man who appeared to be both excited and distressed. Then he saw Jones spring like a panther toward that door and hurl it open. Astonished, Lefty quickly followed Jones into the office. They burst in upon four persons. Two of them, who looked like plain-clothes officers, seemed to have a third in charge. This man was desperately and wildly appealing to Charles Collier. It was Bailey Weegman. "It's an outrage, I tell you!" Weegman was crying. "It's a lie! I haven't used the mails to defraud. I learned an hour ago that officers were after me on that charge, and I hurried to you, Mr. Collier. They followed me here. You must help me! I served you--" "You served me a crooked turn," interrupted Collier coldly. "You have your nerve to come to me!" Locke's eyes were on Jones. The man's face was aflame with triumph and joy and fathomless satisfaction. He flung out his hand, his finger pointing like a pistol at Weegman. "Hanson Gilmore!" he cried in a terrible voice. The mute had spoken! Frozen with amazement, Lefty saw Weegman twist round, saw a light of terror come into his eyes, saw him cower and cringe, pale as death and shaking like an aspen. "You swore away my liberty, you dog!" the voice of Jones rang through the room. "You were the scoundrel who conceived the Central Yucatan Rubber Company, and profited by it! When the prison doors closed upon me I swore I'd never speak again until every dollar you had taken from the victims of that concern was paid back--until you were brought to book for your crime. I've kept that vow. I've searched for you, determined to bring you to justice somehow. Now you have brought justice upon yourself." Crouching like a creature stung by the pitiless lashing of a whip, the accused wretch appealed chokingly to the officers who had arrested him: "Don't let him touch me! Look at his eyes! He's mad! Keep him off! Take me away!" "Yes, take him away," said Jones. "And if he doesn't get a prison sentence for this last piece of work, I'll keep after him until he's punished for his other crimes." "Take him away!" said Charles Collier, with a wave of his hand. Tottering weakly, the rascal who had met retribution at last was led out. The rejoicing players were stripping for their showers. Locke and Jones appeared among them. "Boys," said Lefty, "let me introduce Martin Bowman, whom you have hitherto known as Jones. For reasons of his own, he made a vow never to speak until a certain thing should happen. Happily, events now make it possible for him to talk." "For which I am very thankful," said Martin Bowman quietly. They stared at him in limitless astonishment. At last Spider Grant said: "Well, this game to-day was enough to make a deaf-and-dumb man talk!" Eph, the colored rubber, touched Locke on the arm. "Yo' wife and a pahty o' frien's am outside, sah," he said. "Dey said as how dey'd wait fo' you." "Tell them I'll join them as soon as possible," directed Lefty. THE END The next title in this series is "Guarding the Keystone Sack." SEE REVERSE SIDE OF COLORED JACKET FOR LIST OF TITLES IN THIS SERIES AND MANY OTHER SERIES FOR BOYS AND GIRLS OF ALL AGES. THE BIG LEAGUE SERIES (Trade Mark Registered) By BURT L. STANDISH Endorsed by such stars as Christy Mathewson, Ty Cobb and Walter Johnson. An American boy with plenty of grit--baseball at its finest--and the girl in the case--these are the elements which compose the most successful of juvenile fiction. You don't have to be a "fan" to enjoy these books; all you need to be is really human and alive with plenty of red blood in your veins. The author managed a "Bush League" team a number of years ago and is thoroughly familiar with the actions of baseball players on and off the field. Every American, young or old, who has enjoyed the thrills and excitement of our national game, is sure to read with delight these splendid stories of baseball and romance. Cloth--Large 12 mo. Illustrated 1. LEFTY O' THE BUSH. 2. LEFTY O' THE BIG LEAGUE. 3. LEFTY O' THE BLUE STOCKINGS. 4. LEFTY O' THE TRAINING CAMP. 5. BRICK KING, BACKSTOP. 6. THE MAKING OF A BIG LEAGUER. 7. COURTNEY OF THE CENTER GARDEN. 8. COVERING THE LOOK-IN CORNER. 9. LEFTY LOCKE, PITCHER-MANAGER. 10. GUARDING THE KEYSTONE SACK. 11. THE MAN ON FIRST. 12. LEGO LAMP, SOUTHPAW. 13. THE GRIP OF THE GAME. 14. LEFTY LOCKE, OWNER. 15. LEFTY LOCKE WINS OUT. 16. CROSSED SIGNALS. Publishers BARSE & CO. New York, N. Y.--Newark, N. J. 
37056	----	[Illustration: JOE WAS DOING GOOD WORK.] Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars OR _The_ Rivals _of_ Riverside _By_ LESTER CHADWICK AUTHOR OF "THE RIVAL PITCHERS," "A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK," "BATTING TO WIN," ETC. [Illustration] NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS Copyright, 1912, by Cupples & Leon Company CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I A Hot Game 1 II Tieing the Score 11 III Mrs. Matson is Worried 23 IV A Row with Sam 31 V Joe Helps the Manager 41 VI Joe Has Hopes 50 VII Laughed at 58 VIII A Mean Protest 66 IX Joe in the Game 73 X A Tight Contest 80 XI Joe's Run 89 XII Discontent 96 XIII Scientific Practice 103 XIV A Kettle of Apple Sauce 110 XV Joe Overhears Something 119 XVI Mr. Matson is Alarmed 129 XVII A Throwing Contest 136 XVIII Another Defeat 143 XIX Joe is Watched 151 XX "Would You Like to Pitch?" 161 XXI To the Rescue 167 XXII A Delayed Pitcher 174 XXIII Joe in the Box 185 XXIV Sam Arrives 191 XXV Joe Foils the Plotters 197 XXVI Sam Resigns 208 XXVII Bad News 215 XXVIII The Fight 221 XXIX The Challenge 228 XXX The Winning Throw--Conclusion 233 BASEBALL JOE CHAPTER I A HOT GAME "Come on, Sam, get a move on. I thought you'd be out on the diamond long ago. What's the matter?" "Oh, I had to help dad put in some fence posts. I'm through now, Darrell, and I'll be right with you." "Setting fence posts; eh?" and Darrell Blackney, the young manager of the Silver Star baseball nine of Riverside looked critically at Sam Morton, the team's pitcher. "Well, Sam, I hope it didn't make you stiff so that you can't put some good balls over the plate. It's going to be a hot game all right." "Oh, forget it!" cried Sam, as he finished buttoning his jacket while he joined his chum. "We'll beat 'em to a frazzle all right. I'm going to pitch my head off to-day." "You may--if you don't go to pieces the way you once did." "Say, what you talking about?" demanded Sam, with some warmth. "I can pitch all right, and don't you forget it." He seemed unnecessarily aroused. "Oh, I know you can pitch," spoke Darrell easily, "only I don't want you to be too sure about it. You know the Resolutes of Rocky Ford have a strong team this season, and their pitcher is----" "Oh, I know what Hen Littell is as well as you," broke in Sam. "He thinks he's a whole lot, but you wait. I've got a new drop ball, and----" "Well, then, you'd ought to have been out on the diamond this morning, practicing with Bart Ferguson. He's got a new catching glove, and if you and he can connect on the curves we may do some good work. But I wish you'd had some practice this morning." "So do I, but dad made me help him, and I couldn't very well get off. I tried to sneak away, but he got on to my game and put a stop to it." "Oh, well, of course if you had to help your father that's different," spoke Darrell, who was a manly young chap, somewhat in contrast to Sam, who was not as upright as he might have been. Sam had a boastful and confident air that caused many to dislike him, but as he was the best pitcher the Silver Stars had had in some seasons his short-comings were overlooked. And certainly Sam had been pitching pretty good ball thus far. True, at times, he "went up in the air," but all pitchers are likely to do this on occasions. Sam had great belief in his own ability. There was considerable baseball feeling in the little town of Riverside, located on the Appelby River, in one of our New England States. Though the nine was an amateur one, and composed of lads ranging from fourteen to nineteen years of age, yet many fast games had been seen on the village diamond, which was kept in good shape by volunteers. A small admission sum was charged to view the contests and from this the boys were able to buy their uniforms, balls, bats, and other things. With some of the money the grounds were renovated from time to time, and the fences, bleachers and grandstand kept in order. There was a sort of informal county league existing among several nines in the towns surrounding Riverside, and perhaps the bitterest rivals of the Silver Stars were the Resolutes of Rocky Ford, a place about five miles farther up the stream than Riverside. To-day one of the games in the series was to take place, and the occasion, being Saturday, was a gala one in the home town of the Silver Stars, on whose grounds the contest was to take place. "Well, you'll have a little time for practice before the game begins," remarked Darrell as he and Sam walked toward the diamond. "We've got about an hour yet." "Are the Resolutes here?" "They hadn't come when I passed the grounds a little while ago on my way to see you. I couldn't imagine what kept you." "Well, it was all dad's fault. Hang it all----" "Never mind," broke in Darrell quickly. "Dads are all right as a rule." He had lost his own father not long since, and his heart was still sore. He could not bear to have any one speak disrespectfully of parents. "I guess we'll make out all right," he added. "Oh, sure we will!" exclaimed Sam, full of confidence. "They won't have a look in." "Well, hurry up and get in some practice with Bart," advised the manager. "Who's going to cover first to-day?" inquired Sam, as they hurried along the streets, which were already beginning to fill with the crowds making their way to the game. "I think I am for most of the time," answered Darrell. "George Rankin and I talked it over and decided that would be a good way to lead off. Later, if I find I'm needed on the coaching line, I'll let Tom Davis take my place." "Tom isn't much good." "Oh, I think he is." "Didn't he miss two hot throws to first base in the game last Saturday?" "That was because you put them over his head. You want to be careful, Sam, when there are two on the bags, how you throw to first. Lots of times I have to jump for your throws, and if I wasn't pretty quick at it they'd get by me." "Oh, well, you won't have any complaint to-day. I'll get 'em there all right. But you'd better stay in the whole game yourself." "I'll see. Hark, what's that?" The inspiring notes of a coaching horn echoed down the village street. "Sounds like a tally-ho," remarked Sam. Just then there swung into view a large stage, drawn by four horses, the vehicle filled with a cheering, shouting and laughing crowd of boys. "That's the Resolute team," said Darrell. "They're coming in style all right." Again there came the thrilling notes of the bugle, blown by some one in the stage. Then followed another large vehicle, filled with a throng of cheering lads. "They've brought a crowd along," commented Sam. "Yes, maybe they're depending on rooters to help them win the game." "Well, our fellows can root some too," spoke the pitcher. "I'm glad there's going to be a big crowd. I can pitch better then." "Well, do your best," urged the manager. "There's Percy Parnell and Fred Newton over there. I thought they were out on the field long ago." "Maybe they had to set fence posts too." "Maybe," assented Darrell with a laugh. "And here comes Tom Davis. Who's that with him?" and the pitcher and manager glanced at a tall, well-formed lad who was walking beside the substitute first baseman. "Evidently a stranger in town," went on Darrell. "Yes, I've seen him before," remarked Sam. "He lives down on our street. The family just moved in. His name is Batson, or Hatson, or something like that. His father works in the harvester factory." "Hum," mused Darrell. "He looks like a decent sort of chap," and he gazed critically at the stranger. "Maybe he'd like to join our club," for the ball team was a sort of adjunct to a boys' athletic organization. "Oh, we've got enough fellows in now," said Sam quickly. "Always room for one more," commented the manager, who was ever on the lookout for good material for the nine. Perhaps Sam suspected something like this, for he glanced quickly at his companion. "Say, if you think I'm not good enough----" began the pitcher, who was noted for his quick temper. "Now, now, drop that kind of talk," said Darrell soothingly. "You know we're all satisfied with your pitching. Don't get on your ear." "Well, I won't then," and Sam smiled frankly. By this time Percy Parnell, the second baseman, and Fred Newton, the plucky little shortstop, had joined the pitcher and the manager, and greetings were exchanged. "Are we going to wallop 'em?" asked Fred. "Sure thing," assented Sam. "It's going to be a hot game all right," was Percy's opinion. "All the better," commented Darrell. "Say the people are turning out in great shape, though. I'm glad to see it. We need a little money in our treasury." They turned in at the players' gate. The Resolute team had preceded them, and already several of the members of that nine were in their uniforms and out on the diamond. They were lads of the same age as their rivals, and had about the same sort of an organization--strictly amateur, but with desires to do as nearly as possible as the college and professional teams did. But there was a great difference, of course, and mainly in the rather free-and-easy manner in which the rules were interpreted. While it is true that in the fundamentals they played baseball according to the general regulations, there were many points on which they were at variance, and a professional probably would have found much at which to laugh and be in despair. But what did it matter as long as the boys, and those who watched them, enjoyed it? Not a bit, in my opinion. As the Silver Star lads proceeded to the improvised dressing rooms under the grandstand, several more of the Resolute players hurried out, buttoning jackets as they ran. "Oh, we'll get you fellows to-day all right!" shouted Henry (otherwise known as Hen) Littell, pitcher and captain of the Resolutes. "All right, the game's yours--if you can take it," called back Darrell, with a laugh. The diamond soon presented an animated scene, with many players and a few substitutes pitching, catching or batting balls about. The crowds were beginning to arrive and occupy seats in the small grandstand or on the bleachers. Many preferred to stand along the first and third base lines, or seat themselves on the grass. Approaching the grounds about this time were the two lads of whom Sam and Darrell had spoken briefly. One was Tom Davis, the substitute first baseman and the other boy whom Sam had referred to as "Batson" or "Hatson." Sam had it nearly right. The lad was Joe Matson, and as he is to figure largely in this story I will take just a moment to introduce him to you. Joe was the son of Mr. and Mrs. John Matson, and had lately moved to Riverside with his parents and his sister Clara, who was a year his junior. The family had come from the town of Bentville, about a hundred miles away. Mr. Matson had been employed in a machine works there, and had invented several useful appliances. Located in Riverside was the Royal Harvester Works, a large concern. In some manner Mr. Isaac Benjamin, the manager, had heard of the appliances Mr. Matson had perfected, and, being in need of a capable machinist, he had made Mr. Matson an offer to come to Riverside. It had been accepted, and the family had moved in shortly before this story opens. Joe was a tall, well-built lad, with dark hair and brown eyes, and a way of walking and swinging his arms that showed he had some athletic training. He had made the acquaintance of Tom Davis, who lived in the house back of him, and Tom had asked Joe to go to the game that day. "For it's going to be a good one," said Tom proudly, since he was a member of the nine, even though only a substitute. "Who's going to win?" asked Joe, as they approached the grounds. "We will, if----" and then Tom stopped suddenly, for there was a yell from inside the fence and a moment later a ball came sailing over it, straight toward the two lads. "Look out!" yelled Tom. "That's a hot one! Duck, Joe, duck!" But Joe did not dodge. Instead, he spread his legs well apart and stood ready to catch the swiftly-moving horsehide in his bare hands. CHAPTER II TIEING THE SCORE Ping! The ball came in between Joe's palms with a vicious thud, but there it stuck, and a moment later the newcomer had tossed it back over the fence with certain and strong aim. "I guess some one will pick it up," he said. "Sure," assented Tom. "Say, that was a good stop all right. Have you played ball before?" "Oh, just a little," was the modest and rather quiet answer. In fact Joe Matson was rather a quiet youth, too quiet, his mother sometimes said, but his father used to smile and remark: "Oh, let Joe alone. He'll make out all right, and some of these days he may surprise us." "Well, that was a pippy stop all right," was Tom's admiring, if slangy, compliment. "Let's go in, I may get a chance to play." Joe turned toward the main entrance gate, and thrust one hand into his pocket. "Where you going?" demanded Tom. "Into the grounds of course. I want to get a ticket." "Not much!" exclaimed his companion. "You don't have to pay. Come with me. I invited you to this game, and I'm a member of the team, though I don't often get a chance to play. Members are allowed to bring in one guest free. I'll take you in. We'll use the players' gate." "Thanks," said Joe briefly, as he followed his new friend. "Here's a good place to see it from--almost as good as the grandstand," said Tom, as they moved to a spot along the first base line. "Though you can go up and sit down if you like. I'm going to put on my things. I may get a chance at first." "No, I'll stay here," said Joe. "Then I can see you make some good stops." "I can if Sam doesn't put 'em away over my head," was the reply. "Oh, yes, that's so. You started to say that you thought our side--you see I'm already a Silver Star rooter--that our side would win, if something didn't happen." "Oh, yes, and then that ball came over the fence. Well, we'll win, I think, if Sam doesn't go to pieces." "Who's Sam?" "Sam Morton, our pitcher. He's pretty good too, when he doesn't get rattled." "Then we'll hope that he doesn't to-day," said Joe with a smile. "But go ahead and dress." "All right," assented Tom, and he started off on a run to the dressing rooms. It was only just in time, too, for at that moment Darrell came hastening up to him. "Why haven't you got your suit on?" the manager asked. "You'll probably play some innings anyhow, and I don't want any delay." "All right--right away," Tom assured him. "I'm on the job." "Who do you think will win?" asked a youth sitting next to Joe on the grass. "Oh, I don't know," began Joe slowly. "I haven't seen either team play." "Oh, then you're a stranger here?" "Yes, just moved in." "I saw you with Tom Davis. You must be that Matson lad he told me lived back of him." "I am, and I hope Tom's side wins." "That's the stuff! So do I. But those Resolutes have a good nine." "Aw, go on!" broke in a lad back of Joe. "They haven't any good batters at all." "What's the matter with Hank Armstrong?" demanded some one. "Well, he's pretty good, but Ford Lantry or Seth Potter on our team can bat all around him." "How about their pitcher?" asked Joe. "Well, he's pretty good," admitted the lad who had first addressed Joe. "But he can't come up to Sam Morton when Sam is at his best," said some one else, joining in the conversation. "Yes--_when_ he's at his best," repeated another lad. "Those Resolutes have it in for us, but we're going to wipe up the ground with them to-day all right." "Like fun!" exploded a Resolute sympathizer. "I'll bet you----" "Play ball!" broke in the voice of the umpire, and the clanging of the gong warned the players and others to clear the field. "We're last at the bat," said Tom, "and that means a whole lot." "Yes," assented Joe, and then the Silver Star pitcher took his place in the box and exchanged a few preliminary balls with the catcher, Bart Ferguson. "Play ball!" yelled the young umpire again, selecting some pebbles with which to keep score. Hank Armstrong, the sturdy left fielder of the Resolutes, was the first at the bat for his side, and with a vicious swing he hit the first ball which Sam pitched to him. Squarely on the bat he caught it with a resounding ping! Away it sailed straight over Sam's head and over the head of the second baseman. Farther and farther it went, until the centre fielder began running back to get it. "Oh, wow! Pretty one! Pretty one!" "Go on! Go on!" "Make a three bagger of it!" "Run, you beggar!" These and many other cries speeded Armstrong on. He was running fast and reached second well in advance of the ball. But he dared not go on to third. "Hum, if they hit Sam like that too often he won't last very long," commented Tom. "Oh, that was a fluke," declared Rodney Burke, who sat behind Joe. There was a surprised and disconcerted look on Sam's face as he gazed at the next batter. No sooner had the ball left Sam's hand, that Armstrong was away for third like a shot, for he was a notorious base stealer. Bart threw to third, but the ball went too high and the baseman jumped for it in vain. Armstrong came in with the first run. "Begins to look bad!" yelled Tom in Joe's ear, for the cheers and exultant yells of the Resolute crowd made ordinary talking impossible. But that was all the visiting team got that inning, for Sam struck out two men, and the third fouled to Bart. "Now we'll see what our fellows can do," commented Tom. Seth Potter, the left fielder, was first up, and he had two strikes and three balls called on him in short order. Then he got under a pretty one and made first. "Watch out now, and run down when he throws!" cried Darrell, who was coaching. Seth did run, but was caught at second. Jed McGraw, the centre fielder, was next up and knocked a safety, getting to first. Then came Ford Lantry, who played right field, and he knocked a pretty three-bagger which brought in McGraw and the run. At that the Silver Star crowd went wild with joy, but it was all they had to crow over as the next two men struck out and Lantry died on third. The next two innings were marked by goose eggs for both sides, and in the fourth inning the Silver Stars brought in two runs, while their opponents could not seem to connect with the ball. "Old Sam is doing fine!" cried Tom. "Yes, he seems to have good control," commented Joe. "But he lacks speed," said Rodney Burke. "Oh, cheese it! Do you want to give all our secrets away to these fellows?" asked Tom in a low voice, indicating the many Resolute sympathizers who were all about. "Well, it's true," murmured Rodney, and Joe felt a sudden wild hope come into his heart. The game went on enthusiastically, if not correctly from a professional or college baseball standpoint. Many errors were made and several rules were unconsciously violated. The young umpire's decisions might have been questioned several times, and on numerous occasions the game was stopped while the respective captains, and some of the players, argued among themselves, or with the umpire. But the disputes were finally settled, though there was a growing spirit of dissatisfaction on both sides. "Play ball!" yelled the umpire, at the conclusion of an argument in the fifth inning. It was then that the Resolutes did some heavy stick work, and tallied three runs to the enthusiastic delight of the team and its supporters. "We've got to do better than this," murmured Darrell to Captain Rankin and Sam when they took the field at the end of that inning, and a big circle stared at them from the score board as the result of their efforts. "I'm doing all I can!" snapped Sam. "I'm not getting decent support." "Aw, cut it out! Of course you are!" asserted Rankin. A single tally by each side in the sixth, and two for the Silver Stars and one for the Resolutes in the seventh, brought the game to that usual breathing spot. The score was now a tie, and the excitement was growing. "For cats' sake beat 'em out, fellows!" pleaded Darrell. "Use your bats. They're to hit the ball with, not to fan the air!" Perhaps his frantic appeal had some effect, for in the next inning the Resolutes only got one run, while, when the Silver Stars came to bat to close the inning, they hammered out three, putting them well ahead. But there was trouble brewing. Sam's arm was giving out. He realized it himself but he dared not speak of it. Grimly he fought against it, but he saw that the other side was aware of it. "Come on now, we'll get his goat!" yelled the captain of the Resolutes. Then began what may be regarded as the cruel practice of yelling discouraging remarks at the man in the box. Sam was plainly told that he was "rotten" while other and less mild epithets were hurled at him. These had their effect. He gave two men their base on balls, and he made a number of wild throws to first where Tom Davis had replaced Darrell Blackney. However, by a strong brace Sam managed to hold his opponents runless, though in this saving work he was nobly assisted by his fellows, and by the quickness of Tom in not letting the wild balls get by him. Tom was a magnificent high jumper, which served him in good stead. The ending of the eighth saw the score nine to seven in favor of the Silver Stars, they having brought in three runs. It began to look, in spite of Sam's trouble, as if the home team would win. There was a riot of cheers when the Resolutes went to bat in the ninth inning, and despite the fact that they were two runs behind, their supporters did not fail them. "Win! Win! Win!" they yelled. "Oh, we'll win all right," said Captain Littell grimly. And he and his men gave good evidence of doing so a few minutes later. Sam literally "went to pieces." He lost all control of the ball, and was fairly "knocked out of the box." There was a look of despair on the faces of his mates. "What's the matter with him?" demanded Joe, who was surprised at the sudden slump. "Oh, that's what he does every once in a while," said a disgusted Silver Star supporter. "You can't depend on him. Wow, that's rotten!" for Sam had delivered a ball that was batted over the right-field fence. Instantly there was a wild scene. Two men were on second and third base respectively when this "homer" was knocked and they came racing in. The home-run batter followed. "Ring around the rosey!" yelled the Resolute captain. "If we had more on base they'd all come in. Hit at anything, fellows! Hit everything." It looked as if they were doing it, for they made six runs that inning, which brought the score to thirteen to nine in favor of the visitors. "Five runs to win, and four to tie," murmured Darrell as his men came in from the field for their inning. "Can we do it?" How it was done even he scarcely knew, for so fierce was the rivalry between the teams, and so high the excitement, that several times open clashes were narrowly averted. But the four runs were secured, and though the Silver Stars played their best they could not get another one. But even to tie the score after Sam's slump was something worth while. "Ten innings! It gives us another chance for our white alley," murmured Tom to Joe, as the first baseman made ready to go on the sack again. "If we can get one run, and hold them down to a goose egg it will do." But the Resolutes seemed to have struck a winning streak. Sam could not pull himself together, and got worse. Darrell was in despair, and there was gloom in the hearts of the Riverside residents. "Haven't they another pitcher they can put in?" asked Joe of one of his neighbors. "No, and if they had Sam would raise such a row that it might bust up the team. He'll play it out." In the tenth inning the Resolutes pounded out three more runs, batting Sam all over the field, and when the Silver Stars came up the score was sixteen to thirteen against them. "Oh, for a bunch of runs!" pleaded Darrell, as his men went to bat. But they couldn't get them. The Resolute pitcher with a grin on his freckled face sent in curve after curve and struck out two men in short order. Then Tom Davis knocked a little pop fly which was easily caught, and the game ended in a riot of yells, as a goose egg went up in the tenth frame for the Silver Stars. They had lost by a score of sixteen to thirteen, and there were bitter feelings in their hearts against their rivals. "Why don't you get a pitcher who can pitch?" demanded one of the Resolutes. "Don't you insult me!" cried Sam striding forward. "I can pitch as good as your man." "Aw, listen to him! He's dreaming!" some one yelled, laughingly. "I am; eh? Well, I'll show you!" cried Sam angrily, and the next instant, in spite of the effort of Darrell to hold him back, he had leaped for the lad who had mocked him, and had struck him a heavy blow. CHAPTER III MRS. MATSON IS WORRIED "What do you mean by that?" demanded the lad whom Sam had struck. "That's what I mean by it. I mean you can't insult me!" "I can't, eh? Well, I can whip you all right," and with those words Sam was nearly knocked off his feet by a return blow. "Here, cut that out!" yelled Darrell. "Aw, what's eating you?" demanded another of the Resolute crowd. "If you fellows are looking for a fight you can have it; eh boys?" "Sure thing!" came in a chorus, as the players crowded up, with bats in their hands. "This may be serious," murmured Darrell to Tom. "See if you can't stop Sam from fighting." But it was too late, as Sam and his opponent were at each other hammer and tongs. "Do you want to fight?" sneered the lad who had accosted the manager. "No, I don't." "Afraid?" "No, of course not." "Then come on," and the lad, half in fun perhaps, gave Darrell a shove. Now Darrell, though disliking fistic encounters, was no coward and he promptly retaliated with a blow that knocked his enemy down. "Wow! It's a fight all right!" yelled another lad, and then Darrell and his antagonist were at it. The crowd from the stands and bleachers now began thronging about the enraged players. There had always been more or less bad blood between the two rival nines and now, when the Resolutes had taken a game that was almost won away from the Silver Stars, the feeling broke out anew. On all sides there were impromptu battles going on. Some of the lads were good-natured about it, and only indulged in wrestling contests, but others were striking viciously at each other and soon there were some bloody noses and blackened eyes in evidence. "I'll show you whether I can pitch or not!" yelled Sam, as he aimed a hard blow at the lad with whom he had first had an encounter. He missed his aim, and went whirling to one side, to be met by a blow as he turned about, and almost sent down. "Do you want anything?" suddenly demanded a lad stopping in front of Joe, who was standing near Tom. Joe recognized his questioner as the Resolute shortstop. "No, he's a stranger here--he isn't on the nine," said Tom quickly. "Well, can't he fight?" was the sneering demand. "Yes, if I want to, but I don't want to," and Joe answered for himself. "I'll make you want to," was the retort, and Joe was struck in the chest. He was not a lad to stand for that and he retaliated with such good effect that his opponent went down in a heap on the grass, and did not arise for some seconds. When he did stagger up, and saw Joe calmly waiting for him, the lad moved off. "You can fight all right," he mumbled. "I've had enough." Meanwhile Darrell had disposed of his lad, and Tom, who was engaged with a small lad who made a sneering remark, grabbed hold of the chap and shook him until the lad begged for mercy. Sam and his opponent were still at it hot and heavy when there arose a cry: "Cheese it--here come the cops!" Riverside boasted of a small police force, and while it was not very formidable, most of the lads came from homes where a report of their arrest for fighting would meet with severe punishment. Their ardor suddenly cooled and, almost as soon as it had started, the impromptu battle was over. The victorious nine gathered up their belongings and moved off the diamond, jeering at their defeated rivals. "It was their fault--they started the fights," declared Tom Davis. "Yes, I guess it was," admitted Darrell. "Well come on, fellows. They beat us, and though I think it wasn't exactly square on some of the decisions, we can take our medicine. We'll do better next time." "Do you mean me?" demanded Sam half fiercely. "I mean--all of us," spoke Darrell slowly, "including myself." "Some excitement; eh?" asked Tom, as he linked his arm in that of Joe Matson and walked along with him. "Yes, but it was a good game just the same." "You play, don't you?" "I used to, at Bentville, where we moved from," answered Joe. "Have a good team?" "Pretty good." "Where'd you play?" "Well, mostly at pitching. I like that better than anything else." "Hum!" mused Tom. "It takes a pretty good one to pitch these days. It isn't like it used to be. Pitching is a gift, like poetry I guess. You can't go in and pitch right off the reel." "I know it," answered Joe quietly. "But it's my one ambition. I want to go to a good boarding school and get on the team as pitcher." "Well, I hope you do," and Tom laughed frankly. "I wouldn't mind that myself, though I don't know as I care so much for pitching." "It's the best part of the game!" cried Joe, and his eyes shone and he seemed to lose some of his usual quiet manner. "I'd like it above everything else!" "Got any curves?" asked the practical Tom. "Well, I don't know as I have--yet. I'm practicing though." "Got any speed?" "They used to say I had, back there in Bentville." "Hum! Well, I don't believe there's much chance for you here. Sam has the Silver Stars cinched. But he was rotten the last half of to-day's game. That's what made us lose it. Yes, it takes some pumpkins to pitch now-a-days." The boys walked on down the street after Tom had discarded his suit. Before them and behind them were other players and spectators, talking of nothing but the game and the fight that had followed. The Resolutes, cheering and singing triumphantly, had departed in their big stages, and in the hearts of the Silver Stars was gloom and despair. "Well, come over and see me sometime," invited Tom, as he parted from Joe. "I will. You come over and see me." The boys went their respective ways--Joe walking rather slowly and thinking of what had just taken place. "How I would like to pitch--and go to boarding school!" he mused as he walked toward his house. As he entered the side door he saw his mother sitting at the dining room table. Something about her attracted his attention--aroused his fears. The cloth had been spread, and though it was supper time, for the game had lasted until late, there were no dishes on the table. "Why mother!" exclaimed Joe, struck by a queer look on her face. "What is the matter? Has anything happened?" "Oh Joe!" she exclaimed starting up, as though she had not heard him come in. "Oh, no, nothing is the matter," she went on, and she tried to smile, but it was only an attempt. "I forgot it was so late. Your father was home, but he went out again." "Where?" "I don't know. He said he had some business to attend to. But I must hurry with the supper. Where were you?" "At the ball game. There was a fight. Our side lost. Oh, how I wish I had been pitching! If ever I go to that boarding school I'm going to try for the nine, first thing!" "Oh yes, you're always talking about a boarding school, Joe. Well, I--I hope you can go." "Mother, I'm sure something has happened!" exclaimed Joe, putting his arms around her and patting her on the shoulder, for she was a little woman. "No, really," she assured him. "I'm just a little worried, that's all. Now you can help me set the table if you will. Clara has gone to take her music lesson and isn't back yet." "Of course I will!" exclaimed Joe. "But what are you worried about, mother? I wish you'd tell me." "I can't now, Joe. Perhaps I will some time. It isn't anything serious--yet," and with that Mrs. Matson hurried out of the room. She smiled as she left her son, but when she reached the kitchen the same serious look came over her face again. "I hope what he fears doesn't come to pass," she remarked to herself. "Poor Joe! it would be too bad if he couldn't go to a boarding school when his heart is so set on it. And to become a pitcher! I wish he had some higher ambition in life, though I suppose all boys are alike at his age," and she sighed. "Hum," mused Joe as he went about setting the table, for the Matsons kept no girl and Joe and his sister often helped their mother with the housework when their school duties permitted. "Something is worrying mother," the lad went on. "I hope it isn't anything about father's business in the harvester works. He took a risk when he gave up his position in Bentville and took a new one here. But that was an exciting game all right," and Joe smiled at the recollection as he went on putting the plates around at their places. CHAPTER IV A ROW WITH SAM "What are you thinking about, Joe?" It was his sister Clara who asked the question, and she had noticed that her brother was rather dreaming over his books than studying. It was the Monday night after the Saturday when the memorable game with the Resolutes had taken place. "Oh, nothing much," and Joe roused himself from a reverie and began to pour over his books. "Well, for 'nothing much' I should say that it was a pretty deep subject," went on Clara with a laugh, as she finished doing her examples. "It isn't one of the girls here, is it Joe? There are a lot of pretty ones in our class." "Oh--bother!" exclaimed Joe. "Let a fellow alone, can't you, when he's studying? We have some pretty stiff work I tell you!" and he ruffled up his hair, as if that would make his lessons come easier. "It's a heap worse than it was back in Bentville." "I think so too, but I like it, Joe. We have a real nice teacher, and I've met a lot of pleasant girls. Do you know any of the boys?" "Hu! I guess you want me to give you an introduction to them!" exclaimed Joe. "No more than you do to the girls I know," retorted his sister, "so there!" "Now, now," gently remonstrated Mrs. Matson, looking up from her sewing, "you young folks keep on with your lessons. Your father can't go on reading his paper if you dispute so." Involuntarily Joe and his sister glanced to where Mr. Matson sat in his easy chair. But he did not seem to be reading, though he held the paper up in front of him. Joe fancied he saw a look of worriment on his father's face, and he wondered if he was vexed over some problem in inventive work, or whether he was troubled over business matters concerning his new position. Then there came to the lad's mind a memory of his mother's anxiety the night he had come in from the game, and he wondered if the two had any connection. But he knew it would not do to ask, for his father seldom talked over business matters at home. Finally, seeming to feel Joe's look, Mr. Matson, after a quick glance at his son, began to scan the paper. "Go on with your studying, Joe and Clara," commanded Mrs. Matson with a smile. "Don't dispute any more." "I was only asking Joe if he knew any nice boys," spoke Clara in vindication. "I know how fond he was of playing baseball back in Bentville, and I was wondering if he was going to play here." "Guess I haven't much chance," murmured Joe half gloomily, as he drew idle circles on the back blank leaf of his book. "Why not?" asked Clara quickly. "The girls say the boys have a good nine here, even if they were beaten last Saturday. There's going to be another game this Saturday, and Helen Rutherford is going to take me." "Oh, yes, there's a good enough team here," admitted Joe. "In fact the Silver Stars are all right, but every position is filled. I _would_ like to play--I'd like to pitch. I want to get all the practice I can on these small teams, so when I go to boarding school I'll have something to talk about." "And you're still set on going to boarding school?" asked Mrs. Matson, sighing gently as she looked at her son. "I certainly am--if it can be managed," replied Joe quickly. Mr. Matson started so suddenly that the paper rattled loudly, and his wife asked: "What's the matter, John, did something in the news startle you?" "Oh--no," he said slowly. "I--I guess I'm a bit nervous. I've been working rather hard lately on an improvement in a corn reaper and binder. It doesn't seem to come just right. I believe I'll go to bed. I'm tired," and with "good-nights" that were not as cheerful as usual he left the room. Mrs. Matson sighed but said nothing, and Joe wondered more than ever if any trouble was brewing. He hoped not. As for Clara she was again bent over her lessons. The Silver Star nine was variously made up. A number of lads worked in different town industries, one even being employed in the harvester works where Mr. Matson was employed. Others attended school. Joe Matson had attended the academy in the town of Bentville whence they moved to Riverside, and on arriving in the latter place had at once sought admission to the high school. He was given a brief examination, and placed in the junior class, though in some of the studies the pupils there were a little ahead of him, consequently he had to do some hard studying. The ambition to attend a boarding school had been in Joe's mind for a long while, and as his father was in moderate circumstances, and soon hoped to make considerable from his patents, Joe reasoned that his parents could then afford to send him. Among others on the nine who attended the high school were Darrell Blackney and Sam Morton, who were in the senior class, and Tom Davis, whose acquaintance Joe had made soon after coming to Riverside. There was a school nine, but it was made up of the smaller boys and Joe had no desire to join this. In fact none of the lads who were on the Silver Stars belonged to the school team. "Well, I'm through, thank goodness!" finally exclaimed Clara, as she closed her books. "And I am too," added Joe, a moment later. "Hope I don't flunk to-morrow." "Are you going to the game Saturday?" asked Clara. "Oh, I guess so. Wish I was going _in_ it, but that's too much to hope for." "Don't you know any one on the nine?" "Yes, Tom Davis." "He's the boy back of us, isn't he? His sister Mabel is in my class." "Yes," assented Joe, "but Tom is only a substitute." "Maybe you could be that at first, and then get a regular place," suggested Clara. "Um!" murmured Joe. He didn't have a very high opinion of girls' knowledge of baseball, even his sister's. When Joe reached home from school the following afternoon he saw his mother standing on the front steps with a letter in her hand. "Oh, Joe!" she exclaimed, "I was just waiting for you. Your father----" "Is there anything the matter with father?" the lad gasped, his thoughts going with a rush to one or two little scenes that had alarmed him lately. "No, nothing at all," answered his mother with a smile. "But he just hurried home from the factory with this note and he wanted you, as soon as you came home, to take it to Moorville. It's for a Mr. Rufus Holdney there. The address is on it, and I guess you can find him all right. You're to wait for an answer. Go on your wheel. It's only a few miles to Moorville, and a straight road, so your father says." "I know where it is," answered Joe. "Tom Davis has relatives there. He pointed out the road to me one day. I'll go right away. Here, catch hold of my books, mother, and I'll get my wheel out of the barn," for a barn went with the house Mr. Matson had rented. A little later the lad was speeding down the country road that pleasant spring afternoon. Joe was a good rider and was using considerable strength on the pedals when suddenly, as he turned a sharp curve, he saw coming toward him another cyclist. He had barely time to note that it was Sam Morton, the pitcher of the Silver Stars, and to utter a warning shout when he crashed full into the other lad. In a moment there was a mix-up of wheels, legs and arms, while a cloud of dust momentarily hid everything from sight. At first Joe did not know whether or not he was hurt, or whether Sam was injured. Fortunately Joe had instinctively put on the brake with all his strength, and he supposed the other lad had done likewise. Then, as the dust cleared away, and Joe began to pull his arms and legs out of the tangle, and arise, he saw that Sam was doing the same thing. "Hope you're not hurt much!" was Joe's first greeting. "Humph! It isn't your fault if I'm not," was the ungracious answer, as Sam felt of his pitching arm. "What do you mean by crashing into a fellow that way for, anyhow?" "I didn't mean to. I didn't know that curve was so sharp. I'd never ridden on this road before." "Well, why didn't you blow your horn or ring your bell or--or something?" "Why didn't you?" demanded Joe with equal right. "Never mind. Don't give me any of your talk. You're one of the fresh juniors at school, aren't you?" "I don't know that I'm 'fresh,'" replied Joe quietly, "but I am a junior. I'm sorry if I hurt you, but I couldn't help it." "Yes you could, if you knew anything about riding a wheel." "I tell you I couldn't," and Joe spoke a bit sharply. "I was into you before I knew it. And besides, you ran into me as much as I did into you." "I did not. If you don't know enough to ride a wheel, keep off the roads!" snarled the pitcher. "If I'm stiff for Saturday's game it will be your fault." "I hope you won't be stiff," spoke Joe, and he said it sincerely. "And if my wheel is broken you'll have to pay for it," went on Sam. "I don't think that's right," said Joe firmly. "It was as much your fault as mine, and my wheel may be broken too. I'm going to look," he added as he lifted his bicycle from where it was entangled with Sam's. A bent pedal, which would not interfere with its use, was all the damage Joe's wheel had sustained and beyond a few bent spokes and a punctured tire Sam's seemed to have suffered no great harm. "I'll help you straighten those spokes," said Joe cheerfully. "It won't take but a minute. I can have my father straighten my pedal at the factory. And I'll help you mend and pump up your tire. I'm sorry----" "Look here!" burst out Sam in a rage, "I don't want any of your help. You're too fresh. You come banging into a fellow, knocking him all over and then you think you can square things by offering to help him. I don't want any of your help!" "Oh, very well," replied Joe quietly. "Then I'll be going on. I've got an errand to do. But I'd like to help you." "Mind your own business!" snapped Sam, still rubbing his pitching arm. He made no motion to pick up his wheel. Joe was half minded to make an angry retort but he thought better of it. He wheeled his bicycle to the hard side-path of the road, and, ascertaining that his letter was safe, prepared to mount and ride away. "And mind you, if my arm is stiff, and I can't pitch Saturday it will be your fault, and I'll tell the fellows so," called Sam as he leaned over to pick up his wheel. "All right, only you know it isn't so," replied Joe quietly. As he pedaled on he looked back and saw Sam straightening some of the bent spokes. The pitcher scowled at him. "Hum," mused Joe as he speeded up. "Not a very good beginning for getting on the nine--a run-in with the pitcher. Well, I guess I wouldn't be in it anyhow. I guess they think I'm not in their class. But I will be--some day!" and with a grim tightening of his lips Joe Matson rode on. CHAPTER V JOE HELPS THE MANAGER "Well now, I'm real sorry," said Mrs. Holdney when, a little later, Joe dismounted at her door, and held out the letter for her husband. "Rufus isn't home. You can leave the letter for him, though." "No, I have to have an answer," replied Joe. "I think perhaps I'd better wait." "Well, maybe you had, though I don't know when Rufus will be back. Is it anything of importance?" "I guess it must be," spoke the lad, for, though he did not know the contents of his father's letter, he reasoned that it would be on no unimportant errand that he would be sent to Moorville. "Hum," mused Mrs. Holdney. "Well, if you want to wait all right, though as I said I don't know when my husband will be back." "Do you know where he's gone? Could I go after him?" asked Joe eagerly. He was anxious to deliver the letter, get an answer, and return home before dark. "Well, now, I never thought of that!" exclaimed Mrs. Holdney. "Of course you might do that. Rufus has gone down town, and most likely you'll find him in the hardware store of Mr. Jackson. He said he had some business to transact with him, and he'll likely be there for some time." "Then I'll ride down there on my wheel. I guess I can find the place. Is it on the main street?" "Yes, turn off this road when you get to the big granite horse-drinking trough and swing in to your right. Then turn to your left when you get to the post-office and that's Main Street. Mr. Jackson's store is about a block in." The lad repeated the woman's directions over in his mind as he rode along, and he had no difficulty in picking out the hardware store. He was wondering how he would know Mr. Holdney, but concluded that one of the clerks could point him out. "Yes, Mr. Holdney is here," said a man behind the counter to whom Joe applied. "He's in the office with Mr. Jackson." "I wonder if I could send a letter in to him," ventured the lad, for he did not want to wait any longer than he had to. "I'm afraid not," answered the clerk. "Mr. Jackson is very strict about being disturbed when he's talking business." "Then I guess I'll have to wait," said Joe with a sigh. "I wonder if he'll be in there long?" "I wouldn't want to say for sure," spoke the clerk, leaning over the counter in a confidential manner and speaking in a whisper. "I wouldn't even dare to guess," he went on with a look toward the private office whence came the murmur of voices, "but I'll venture to state that it will be some time. Mr. Jackson never does anything in a hurry." "Does Mr. Holdney?" "Yes, he's just the opposite. He's as quick as a steel trap. Too quick, that's the trouble. He and Mr. Jackson are good friends, but when Mr. Holdney springs something sudden on my boss, why Mr. Jackson is slower than ever, thinking it over. I guess you'll have to wait some time. Is there anything you'd like to buy?" "No, I think not," said Joe with a smile, and then he sat down on one of the stools near the counter while the clerk went off to wait on a customer. The lad was getting impatient after nearly an hour had passed and there was no sign of Mr. Holdney coming out. The murmur of voices continued to come from the private office--one voice quick and snappy, and the other slow and drawling--an indication of the character of the two men. "I wish they'd hurry!" thought Joe. He began to pace back and forth the length of the store, and he was just thinking he would have to ride home in the darkness, and was wondering whether there was oil in his bicycle lamp, when the door of the private office opened and two men came out. "Thank goodness!" exclaimed Joe to himself. The men were still talking, but Joe concluded that their business was about over so he chanced going up to them. "Excuse me," he said, "but I have a letter for Mr. Holdney. It's from my father, Mr. Matson." "Eh, what's--that--son?" asked the older of the two men, in drawling tones. "It's for me. I'm Mr. Holdney!" exclaimed the other quickly. "From Mr. Matson, eh? Well tell him I can't help him any more. I haven't any spare--but wait a minute, I'll write my answer." "Hadn't--you--better--read--the--letter--first," mildly and slowly suggested Mr. Jackson. "Humph! I know what it is all right!" exclaimed the other quickly. "But I'll read it. Let's have it!" He almost snapped it from the lad's hand and Joe wondered what could be the business relations between his father and this man. With a flourish and a quick motion Mr. Holdney tore open the envelope and read the letter almost at a glance. "Hum!" he exclaimed. "Just as I expected. No, I'm done with that business. I can't do any more. You may tell your father--hold on, though, I'll write it," and, whipping out a lead pencil Mr. Holdney scribbled something on the back of Mr. Matson's note. "So you're John Matson's son; eh?" he asked of Joe. "Yes, sir." "Hum! Go to school?" "Yes, the Riverside High." "Hum! Ever invent anything?" "No, not yet," answered Joe with a smile. "That's right--never do it. It's a poor business. Play ball?" "I did in Bentville where we lived, but I haven't had a chance here yet." "Hum! Yes, Bentville. That's where I met your father. Here's the answer. There you are. Now don't lose it," and quickly handing the communication to Joe, Mr. Holdney turned and resumed his talk with the hardware merchant. Joe was a little dazed by the quickness of it all, and there were many questions running through his mind. Somehow the manner of Mr. Holdney--the message he had started to ask Joe to deliver by word of mouth, his apparent refusal of something Mr. Matson had evidently asked him to do--all made Joe vaguely uneasy. He connected it with his father's nervousness the night before and with his mother's anxiety. "But there's no use worrying until I have to," concluded Joe with a boy's philosophy as he left the hardware store, and truth to tell, he was thinking more of his chances of going to boarding school in the fall perhaps, and whether or not he would get an opportunity to play ball, than he was of any possible trouble. On leaving the hardware store Joe was surprised to find it growing dusk. Gathering clouds added to the gloom and he made up his mind that the last part of his homeward journey would be made in darkness. "Guess I'll see if I have any oil in the lamp," he remarked as he was about to mount his wheel. "If I haven't I can get some here." But he found, on shaking the lantern, that it was filled enough to carry him to Riverside, and he was soon pedaling along that country road. The clouds continued to gather, and as the journey back was partly up hill, and as the bent pedal did not permit of fast riding, Joe soon found it necessary to alight and set the lamp aglow. He was riding on, looking carefully ahead of him, to avoid stones and ruts that the gleam of light revealed, when, as he came to rather a lonely spot on the road, he heard, just ahead of him, a commotion. There was a sound of carriage wheels scraping on the iron body guards, the tramping of a horse's feet, and then a voice called out: "Whoa now! Stand still, can't you, until I see what's the matter? Whoa! Something's broken, that's evident, worse luck! And I'm two miles from nowhere. Whoa, now!" "Where have I heard that voice before?" mused Joe as he rode more slowly so as not to have another collision in the darkness. He could hear some one jump to the ground and then the restless horse quieted down under the soothing words of the driver. "Yes, it's broken all right," the voice went on. "And how in the mischief am I going to mend it? Whoa, now!" Then Joe rode up, and in the glow of his light he saw Darrell Blackney, the manager of the Silver Stars, who was standing beside a carriage one side of the shafts of which hung down from the axle. The bolt had evidently broken. "What's the matter?" asked Joe, dismounting. "Who's that?" quickly asked Darrell. "I'm Joe Matson," was the answer. "I know you. I'm in the junior high class." "Oh, yes. Matson, I think I heard Tom Davis speak of you. Well, I've had an accident. I was out driving when all at once one side of the shafts fell down. It's a bad break I'm afraid; bolt sheared off." "It's a wonder your horse didn't run away." "Oh, Prince is pretty steady; aren't you Prince old fellow?" and Darrell patted the animal's nose. "But what the mischief am I to do? It's too far to go to the next town and leave Prince here, and I can't ride him, for he isn't used to it and might throw me off." "Can I help you?" asked Joe. "I might ride to the nearest place and get a bolt, if you told me what kind." "All the places would be closed by this time I guess," was the rueful answer. "Much obliged to you just the same. I certainly am in a pickle! Next time I go out driving I'll bring part of a hardware store along." "What sort of a bolt is it?" asked Joe. "Oh, just an ordinary carriage one, flat headed. Bring your light here, if you don't mind, and I'll take a look at it. I could only tell it was broken by feeling in the dark." In the glow of the bicycle lamp it could be seen that the bolt had broken squarely in two in the middle, and could not be used again. But at the sight of it, as Darrell held the two parts in his hand, Joe uttered an exclamation. "What's the matter?" asked the manager of the Silver Stars. "I think I have the very thing!" said Joe quickly. "I've got some spare bolts in my tool bag. They may not be the same size, but they'll hold the shaft in until you get home I think. I'll take a look." "Good for you!" cried Darrell. "Most anything will do in a pinch. Even a piece of wire, but I can't find any along the road in the dark. I hope you have something," and while Joe opened his tool bag Darrell patted the somewhat restive horse. CHAPTER VI JOE HAS HOPES "Yes, here's the very thing, I guess!" said Joe, after rummaging about in his leather tool case. He produced a short but heavy bolt with a nut. "It isn't exactly the same thing," remarked Darrell, after looking at it carefully, "but it will do, if it's long enough. Would you mind holding Prince's head while I try it? He might start up, just as I got the shaft in place, and hurt my fingers, if he didn't make me drop the bolt. Then we'd have a sweet time hunting for it in the dark." Joe went to the animal's head and patted the cold, velvety nose while the other lad lifted up the dropped shaft and fitted it in place. He was fumbling about in the flickering light of the bicycle lantern which he had temporarily fastened to the dashboard. "Will it do?" asked Joe. "Yes, it's just the cheese. Lucky I met you, or, rather that you met me, or I don't know what I would have done. The bolt is just long enough. Now if I can get the nut on----" "There's a wrench in my tool bag," interrupted Joe. "Shall I get it for you?" "No, thanks, you stay by Prince. I can find it. You haven't been in town long, have you?" asked Darrell, as he was working away over the nut, which was a little tight. "No, about a week. I was at the Resolute ball game though." "You were? It was a shame it broke up the way it did, but I don't think it was our fault, though Sam Morton is pretty quick tempered." Joe had good reason to know that. "No," he answered from the darkness near the horse's head, "it was the fault of the Resolutes all right. They ought to have been satisfied after pulling the game out of the fire the way they did." "I should say so! They never ought to have won it, and they wouldn't have, only Sam sort of--well they got his 'goat' I guess." "Yes," assented Joe, while Darrell went on fumbling with the wrench and nut. "Do you play at all?" came the manager's voice from the vicinity of the flickering light. "Oh, yes," and Joe's tone was eager while his heart was strangely beating. It was a chance he had never dared hope for, to have the manager of the Silver Stars ask him that. "Where?" came the next inquiry. "In Bentville, where I used to live." "Oh. Have a good team?" "Pretty fair." "Where'd you play?" "I used to pitch." There was a pause and then, emboldened by what had happened, Joe went on. "I don't suppose there's a vacancy in your nine, is there?" and he laughed half whimsically. "No, hardly, that is, not in the box," said Darrell slowly. "Sam has his faults, but he's the best pitcher we've had in a long time and I guess we'll keep him. There, that's fixed," he went on, tapping the bolt to see that it was firmly in place. "Now I can go on, I guess. I'm a thousand times obliged to you. I don't know what I'd have done only for you. After this I'm going to carry a light, and some spare bolts." He handed Joe back the wrench and took the lamp off the dashboard. "I'll give you a bolt in place of this the next time I see you," the manager went on, as he held the lamp out to our hero. "Oh, it isn't necessary. I don't need it for my wheel. It was just one of some odds and ends that I carry with me." Darrell stood looking at Joe, whose face was illuminated brightly by the full focus of the lamp. The manager seemed struck by something. "I say!" he exclaimed, "you look as if you were built to play ball. Were you at it long?" "Oh, a couple of years." "Pitch all that time?" "Oh, no, only just the last few months of the season. Our regular pitcher left and I filled in." "I see. Hum, well, as I said we haven't any vacancy in the box, but by Jove! come to think of it I might give you a chance!" Joe's heart leaped wildly and he could hardly answer. "Can you, really?" he asked. "Yes, but not as a regular, of course--at least that is not right off the bat. But if you'd like to try for place at centre field I believe I can manage it." Joe's heart was a little despondent. Centre field was not a very brilliant place in which to shine with the Stars, but it was a start and he realized that. "I'd be glad of the chance," he managed to say. "All right, I'll keep you in mind. You see our regular centre fielder, Jed McGraw, is going to leave. His folks are moving out west and we'll have to have some one in his place. I don't know when he's going, but it's this week or next. I'd like to do something for you, to sort of pay you for what you did for me to-night, and----" "Oh, I don't want anything for this!" exclaimed Joe. "I know you don't, but it just happened so. I might not have known you except for this accident, and as I said we will need some one to fill in at centre field. Len Oswald is the regular substitute, but he doesn't practice much, and he's got a job over at Fordham so he can't always be sure of getting off Saturday afternoons, which is when we mostly play. So I'll put you down as sub now and perhaps as regular--it depends on Len." "Thanks!" Joe managed to say and he found himself hoping that Len would have to work every Saturday during the season. "We need some one with experience," went on Darrell, "and I'm glad I could give you the chance. Tom Davis was saying you got mixed up in the row the other day." "Yes. I seem to be getting the habit," replied Joe with a laugh. "I had one with Sam Morton on this road a little while ago." "You don't say so! How did it happen?" Joe gave all the details. "Hum! Well, Sam sure has a quick temper," went on the young manager. "But he's all right soon after it," he added in extenuation. "He'll be friendly with you in a few days and forget all about it. I wouldn't hold a grudge against him, if I were you." "Oh, I shan't. It was both our faults." "Well, I'll be getting on," remarked Darrell, after a pause. "Come and see me sometime. I'll see you at school to-morrow, and if there's anything doing I'll let you know." The two boys' hands met in a friendly clasp and then the manager, getting into his carriage, drove off. A little later, his heart filled with hope, Joe, having put back his lantern and tool bag pedaled toward home. "This was a lucky day for me, even if it did look bad after that crash with Sam Morton," he said to himself. "I'm going to play ball, after all!" There was rather a grave look on Mr. Matson's face when Joe handed him the reply from Mr. Holdney, and told of his interview. "So he can't help me--Oh, well, never mind," and Mr. Matson turned aside and went into the room where he kept a desk. Mrs. Matson followed, closing the door after her, and for some time the voices of the two could be heard in low but earnest conversation. "What's the matter; nothing wrong I hope?" asked Clara. "Oh, I guess not," answered Joe, though he was vaguely uneasy himself. Then came the thought of his talk with the baseball manager and his heart was light again. Supper was rather a quiet affair that night, and Mr. Matson spoke but little, quite in contrast to his usual cheerful flow of conversation. Mrs. Matson, too, seemed preoccupied. "I think I'm going to get on the Stars!" exclaimed Joe, when he got a chance to tell of his experiences that day. "That's good," said Mr. Matson heartily. "There's no game like baseball." "But it doesn't fit a boy for anything," complained Mrs. Matson. "It doesn't help in any of the professions." "It's a profession in itself!" declared Joe stoutly. "I hope you don't intend to adopt it," spoke his sister. "Oh, I don't know. I might do worse. Look at some of those big New York players getting thousands of dollars a year." "But look how long it takes them to get to that place," objected Clara, who liked to argue. "Oh, well, I'm young yet," laughed Joe. In his room that night, while preparing for bed Joe got to thinking of the possibility mentioned by Darrell Blackney. "I'm going to play my head off in centre field," said Joe, "and I'm going to practice batting, too. Stick work counts. I'm going to practice pitching, also. Who knows, maybe I'll get a chance in the box if Sam ever slumps. "Wow! If I ever do!" and standing before an imaginary batter Joe flung out his arm as if delivering a swift curve. With a crash his fist hit a picture on the wall and brought it clattering down to the floor. "What's that?" called Clara sharply from the next room. "Oh, I was just practicing pitching," answered Joe sheepishly, as he picked up the picture, the glass of which had fortunately not broken. "Well, you'd better practice going to sleep," responded his sister with a laugh. Joe smiled. He had great hopes for the future. CHAPTER VII LAUGHED AT "What's that in your pocket, Joe?" "Which pocket?" "Your coat. I declare, you've got something in both pockets," and Clara approached her brother as if with the intention of making a personal inspection of two big bulges on either side of his coat. "What are they?" she persisted, as Joe backed away. Brother and sister had just gotten up from the breakfast table, and were about to start to school. "Oh, never mind!" exclaimed Joe hastily, as he looked for his cap. "Got your lessons, Clara?" "Of course I have. But I'm curious to know what makes your pockets bulge out so. Don't you know it will spoil your coat?" "I don't care," and Joe made another hasty move to get out of reach of Clara's outstretched hand. But he was not successful, and, with a laugh, his sister caught hold of the bulging pocket on his left side. "A ball!" she declared. "A baseball upon my word! Two of them! Oh, Joe, are you really going to play on the nine Saturday?" "I don't know. Maybe I'll get a chance if Jed McGraw leaves in time. But I'm taking a couple of old balls to practice throwing this afternoon when I come from school." "You're starting in early," commented Clara. "I hope you don't sleep with a baseball under your pillow the way we girls do with pieces of wedding cake," and she laughed merrily. "I'd be willing to sleep with a ball and a bat under my pillow if I thought I'd get in the game by it," admitted Joe frankly. "But I'm not hoping too much. Well, I'm going. Good-bye momsey," and he stopped to kiss his mother before he hastened away to school. He looked at her closely to discover whether there was any trace of worry, but she smiled at him. "I may not be home early," he told her. "I'm going down to the fairgrounds." "What for?" she asked quickly. "There isn't a show there, is there?" "No, but I want to do a little baseball practicing, and that place is well out of the way." "Baseball practice on the fairgrounds. How----" But she did not wait to finish her question for she exclaimed: "My cake is burning in the oven. Good-bye, Joe!" and she ran to the kitchen. "I wonder what Sam Morton will say?" Joe reflected as he walked along. "I certainly hope his arm isn't lame, even if it was as much his fault as mine. I don't want him to tell the fellows I'm to blame for him losing a game--if he should." Fearing that the same thing might happen to him as when Clara laughed at him for having the two baseballs in his pockets, Joe slipped to his desk as soon as he reached the school, and hid the balls away back among his books. The balls were two old ones he had used when on the Bentville nine, and they were still in fair condition. "I'm not going to let the fellows get on to the fact that I'm practicing, until there's more of a chance for me than there is now," thought our hero, as he went out on the school grounds to watch the lads at play. An impromptu game was going on, but Joe did not join. Darrell Blackney passed him, and in answer to Joe's nod of greeting asked: "Did you get home all right?" "Oh, yes. How about you?" "Fine. The bolt was all right. I haven't forgotten. I'll see McGraw to-day and find out when he's going to leave. Then if Oswald can't say for sure whether he'll be with us, you'll go in at centre field." "Good!" exclaimed Joe, his eyes bright with anticipation. As Darrell passed on, Joe saw Sam Morton approaching. At first he had a notion of turning away and avoiding what he felt would be an unpleasant scene. But Joe was nothing of a coward and he realized that, sooner or later, he would have to meet the pitcher with whom he had had the collision. So he stood his ground. "How's your arm?" he asked pleasantly, as Sam approached. "Hu! None the better for what you did to it." "What _I_ did?" and Joe's voice took on a surprised tone. "Do you still insist it was my fault?" "Pretty near," went on Sam, but Joe noticed that he was not quite so vindictive as before. "It isn't as stiff as I thought it would be, though." "I hope you can pitch all right Saturday," went on Joe. He wanted very much to hint at the fact that he, too, might be in the game, but Sam was not a lad to invite confidences, especially after what had taken place. Joe liked comradeship. He liked the company of boys of his own age and he was just "hungry" to talk baseball. But, aside from Tom Davis, as yet he had no chums with whom he could gossip about the great pastime. In Bentville he was looked up to as one of the nine, and, though the team was not as good a one as was the Silver Stars, still it was a team, and Joe was one of the principal players. Coming to a strange town, and being distinctly out of the game, made him feel like a "cat in a strange garret," as he said afterward. But with a grim tightening of his lips he made up his mind not to give way to gloomy thoughts, and he determined that he would be on the town team and one of the best players. As the warning bell rang, Tom Davis came hurrying across the school campus. "I called for you!" he shouted to Joe who, with a crowd of other lads, was going in the building, "but you'd gone." "Thanks," replied Joe, grateful for the friendly spirit shown. "I'll wait next time." He liked Tom, and was glad to have him for a chum. Joe thought lessons would never be finished that day, but the classes were finally dismissed and then, without waiting for Tom, though he thought this might be construed as rather unfriendly, our hero hastened off in the direction of the fairgrounds. There was a high wooden fence around this plot, and it gave Joe just the chance he wanted, for he was going to practice pitching, and he didn't want any witnesses. "I wish I had half a dozen balls," he murmured as he went in through one of the gates which was unlocked. "I wouldn't have to chase back and forth so often. But two will do for a while." He laid his books down on the grass, took out the horsehide spheres and, measuring a distance from the fence about equal to the space from the pitcher's box to home plate, he began to pitch the balls. With dull thuds the balls struck the fence, one after the other, and fell to the ground. Joe picked them up, took his place again in the imaginary box, and repeated the performance. His arm, that was a bit stiff at first, from lack of practice since coming to Riverside, gradually became limber. He knew that his speed, too, was increasing. He could not judge of his curves, and, truth to tell he did not have very good ones as yet, for he had only recently learned the knack. But he had the right ideas and a veteran professional pitcher, who was a friend of one of the Bentville nine's members, had showed Joe the proper manner to hold and deliver the ball. "I wish I had some one back there to give me a line on myself," thought Joe, as he pitched away, a solitary figure on the grounds. "I don't know whether I'm getting them over the plate, or a mile beyond," for he had laid down a flat stone to serve as "home." "Anyhow this will improve my speed," he reasoned, "and speed is needed now-a-days as much as curves." Time and again he pitched his two horsehides, ran to pick them up as they dropped at the foot of the fence, and then he raced back to his "box" to repeat the performance. He was rather tiring of it, and his arm was beginning to feel numb in spite of his enthusiasm, when he heard some one laughing. The sound came from behind him, and, turning quickly, Joe saw Sam Morton standing leaning up against his wheel, and contemplating him with mirth showing on his face. "Well, well!" exclaimed Sam. "This is pretty good. What are you trying to do, Matson, knock the fence down? If you are, why don't you take a hammer or some stones instead of baseballs? This is rich! Ha! Ha!" For a moment Joe was tempted to make an angry answer, for the hot blood of shame mounted to his cheeks. Then he said quietly, and with as much good-nature as he could summon on the spur of the moment: "I'm practicing, that's all. I came here as I didn't want to lose the balls, and the fence makes a good backstop." "Practicing, eh? What for?" and once more Sam laughed in an insulting manner. "To improve my pitching. There may be a chance to get on the team, I understand." "What team; the Silver Stars?" Sam's voice had a harsh note in it. "Yes." And Joe nodded. "So you're practicing pitching, eh? And you hope to get on our nine. Well let me tell you one thing, Matson; you won't pitch on the Silver Stars as long as I'm on deck, and I intend to remain for quite a while yet. Pitching practice, eh? Ho! That's pretty good! What you'd better practice is running bases. We may let you run for some of the fellows, if you're real good. Or how would you like to carry the bats or be the water boy? I understand there's a vacancy there. Pitcher! Ha! Ha!" and Sam doubled up in mirth. Joe's face flushed, but he said nothing. CHAPTER VIII A MEAN PROTEST Finally Sam ceased his laughter, straightened up and prepared to ride out of the fairgrounds on his wheel. "I was just going past," he said, in needless explanation, "when I heard something banging against the fence. First I thought it might be one of the cattle left over from the last show, but when I saw it was you, Matson--Oh, my! It's too rich! I'll have to tell the boys." "Look here!" exclaimed Joe, who disliked as much as any one being laughed at, "what have you got against me, anyhow? Are you afraid I'll displace you as pitcher?" "What's that? Not much. You couldn't do that you know," and Sam laughed again. "Then what do you want to be so mean for?" asked Joe. "None of your business, if you want to know," snapped Sam. "But if you think you're going to get on our team you've got another think coming. Look out, now, don't break the fence with those balls, or the fair committee might make you pay for it," and with this parting insult Sam rode out of the grounds. Joe's heart was beating fast, and he clenched his hands. He would liked to have gone after Sam and given him a well deserved thrashing, but he knew that would never do. "I've just got to grin and bear it!" murmured Joe through his clenched teeth. "If the fellows laugh at me I'll have to let 'em laugh. After all I can stand it, and I _do_ want to get on the team. "Queer why Sam Morton should be so down on me. I don't see his reason unless it's jealousy, or because he's mad at me for running into him. Maybe it's both. "Well, there's no use practicing any longer. My arm is tired, and besides he might be hiding behind the fence to laugh some more. I'll have to find a different place if I want to practice getting up my speed and curves." Picking up the balls and his books Joe slowly made his way out of the grounds. Sam Morton was nowhere in sight, for which the young ball player was glad. "Maybe this will end it," thought Joe. "He just wanted to amuse himself at my expense." But our hero was soon to find that the vindictive spirit of the pitcher was not quelled. "Coming out to see us practice this afternoon?" asked Tom Davis of Joe several days later. "We're getting ready to play the Red Stockings of Rutherford, Saturday." "Sure I'll come," answered Joe. "Will it be a good game?" "It ought to. The Red Stockings used to have a good nine but they struck a slump and lately we've been beating them. But I hear they have a new pitcher and they may make it hard for us. Say, what's this yarn Sam is telling about you practicing down on the fairgrounds." "Oh, it's true enough," answered Joe with a flush. "I thought I'd get up some speed. I've got a chance to get on the nine." "Is that so; I hadn't heard it. Gee! I hope you do. How you going to manage it?" "Well, I don't know as Darrell wants it known," was the answer, "but I'll tell you," and Joe proceeded to relate his talk with the manager, about the prospective leaving of McGraw. "That's so, Jed is going away," admitted Tom. "I had forgotten about that. Say, I hope he leaves before Saturday and then you can get a chance to play." "What about Len Oswald, the substitute centre fielder?" "Oh, Len is practically out of it. He can't get off Saturday afternoons any more. Too much business in that Fordham grocery where he works. That's a good thing for you. I'm real glad of it, Joe. But say, if you want to practice pitching, why didn't you ask me to catch for you?" "I didn't want to bother you?" "Aw, get out. I'd be glad to do it. Next time you want to try it tip me off and we'll go some place where Sam can't bother us. He's a mean chap sometimes. I don't like him, but some of the fellows think he's all there. He sure can pitch, and I guess that's why we keep him. But come on, let's go to practice. There may be a scrub game and you can get in on it." Joe and Tom found quite a crowd assembled on the Riverside diamond when they arrived. The nine and the substitutes were in uniforms, and Darrell Blackney and George Rankin were talking to the team, giving them some points about the coming game with the Red Stockings. "I guess we've got enough for a scrub game," announced the captain, as Joe and Tom strolled up. "Tom, you play first on the scrub. And let's see--what's your name?" and he turned to Joe, who introduced himself. "He's a friend of mine," added Tom, "so treat him right." "Good!" exclaimed the captain. "Well, he can play on the scrub if he wants to. Out in the field," he added. "Oh, yes, that's Matson, whom I was telling you about," put in the manager, and then he added something in a low voice which Joe could not catch. "Play ball!" called the umpire, and the impromptu contest was underway. Joe narrowly watched Sam's pitching and even though he regarded the lad as unfriendly to him, our hero could not but admit that his rival in the box was doing good work. "But I think I can equal him if I have a chance," thought Joe, and he was not given to idle boasting, either. "Oh, if I only get the chance!" he exclaimed in a whisper. Then a high fly came his way and he had to get down to business and stop his day-dreaming. He ran back to get under the ball, and made a pretty one-handed catch. There was some applause from the little group of spectators. "Good eye!" yelled Tom Davis. "That's the stuff!" cried some one else, and Joe felt a warm thrill of pleasure as he threw the ball in. Of course the first team won, for the scrub was composed of odds and ends, with some substitutes from the Silver Stars, but Joe had done his best to hold down the score. "Good work, Matson," complimented Darrell, when the contest was over. "By the way, I've about decided in your case. You can get ready to play centre field Saturday. McGraw can't be with us, and we can't count on Oswald. Have you a uniform?" "Yes," said Joe eagerly. "A uniform; what for?" asked Sam Morton quickly. He had come up behind Joe and Darrell, and had heard the last part of the conversation. "Oh, I forgot to tell you fellows that Matson is our new member of the team," went on the manager. "Shake hands with him, boys. I've been watching him play to-day and I think with a little practice he'll make good." "Where's he going to play?" demanded Sam roughly, while the lads crowded around Joe, congratulating him, asking him questions as to where he had played ball before, and shaking hands with him. "Where's he going to play?" and Sam pointed what seemed like an accusing finger at Joe. "Centre field--McGraw's place," answered the manager briefly. "Regular or substitute?" demanded Sam. "Practically a regular," replied Darrell. "We can't count on Oswald any more, now that his busy season has begun." Every member of the Silver Stars save Sam had shaken hands with Joe. The pitcher now stood facing our hero. "I want to protest!" suddenly exclaimed Sam, looking Joe full in the face. "Why?" asked Darrell. "What business is it of yours, anyhow, Sam?" asked the captain. "Darrell and I have settled this. Matson plays." "Then I want my protest noted!" went on Sam angrily. "We're supposed to be a local team--every one on it belongs in town." "So does Joe Matson!" broke in Tom Davis. "Well, he's only just moved in, and how do we know but what he'll move out again?" demanded Sam. "I protest against him being a regular, or even a substitute, member of the Silver Stars!" CHAPTER IX JOE IN THE GAME There was a period of silence following Sam's unfair protest. Then could be heard a low murmur from some of his mates. "Oh, what's eating him, anyhow?" "What's he got against Matson?" "Something has Sam by the ear all right." "Yes, guess he didn't like the way the scrub batted him around." These were some of the comments made, not loud enough for Sam to hear, for he was a power in the nine, and none of the lads wanted to get on bad terms with him. For a moment all eyes were turned on Sam and then toward Joe who, it can easily be imagined, was much embarrassed. "I don't think your protest is a fair one," said Darrell at length. "I don't think so either," added Captain George Rankin. "Just because Matson is a newcomer in town is no reason why he can't play with us." "Sure, that's right!" put in Seth Potter. "You weren't born here yourself, Sam, and neither were lots of us. We moved here." "I've lived in Riverside nearly all my life," snapped the pitcher, "and I like to see a representative team. If we need a new member why not pick one who has been living here longer than a couple of weeks?" "Look here!" exclaimed Darrell. "I don't think this is fair to me." "How do you mean?" asked Sam, for the manager had spoken with some warmth. "Just this much. You elected me manager and the captain and I were to select the players. Now, when we make our choice, there comes a kick. It isn't right. Rankin and I decided to give Matson a chance, and he gets it. That goes, too!" and the manager looked straight at Sam. "Oh, well, if you put it that way I suppose I might as well keep still about it," and Sam, shrugging his shoulders, turned away. He had not yet shaken hands with Joe. "As for there being other players just as good and who have lived here longer, that may be true," went on Darrell. "I'm not saying Matson is the only fellow I could pick for centre field, and I'm not saying anything against any of the fellows on the scrub when I don't take them. We want the best team we can get to represent the Silver Stars and Matson is my choice for the place. If you want to go over my head----" "No! No!" came a chorus of objections. "It's all right!" "Then Matson plays Saturday," concluded the manager. "All of you be out for practice to-morrow afternoon again. Matson, report in uniform." "All right," and Joe's heart was fairly thumping under his coat. The chance he had longed for had come at last. As Sam was walking away Joe resolved on a bold stroke, rather a grandstand play as he confessed to himself afterward, but he could not forego it. Striding up to the disgruntled pitcher Joe held out his hand and asked: "Won't you shake?" Sam turned and faced him. For several seconds he stood staring Joe straight in the eyes while the crowd of boys looked on. Then with a sneer, and ignoring the proffered hand, Sam said: "I prefer to pick my own friends. I don't want them made for me." He turned on his heel and walked off. There was another period of silence like that following his protest. Then some one said: "Well, I'm glad I haven't got _his_ disposition." "What's that?" cried Sam angrily, and turning back he seemed about to rush at the throng he faced. "There now, that'll do!" exclaimed Darrell, who was anxious to avoid a scene. "Forget it, fellows. Sam, you get your arm good and limber for Saturday. We want to beat the Red Stockings by a big score to make up for what the Resolutes did to us last Saturday. I'm going to arrange for another game with them soon, and maybe we can turn the tables." "Sure we can!" cried several. "So limber up, Sam," the manager went on, "and have your arm in good shape." "It will be in bad shape if I get run down by any more amateur cyclists," sneered Sam as he looked meaningly at Joe, but no one made any further reference to the recent collision. At practice the next day Joe took his place with the regular Silver Star team, and he showed up well in the impromptu contest against the scrubs. He made several good catches, and though his stick work might have been improved, still it was pretty good, for the scrub pitcher was not to be despised. "I guess you'll do," complimented Darrell, at the close of the contest. "Keep it up, don't get rattled, and you'll be all right. I can see you've played before." "I guess I've got lots to learn yet," admitted Joe cheerfully. "Oh, we all have," assented the manager with a laugh. On the Saturday of the game with the Red Stockings, Joe was up early. He had overhauled his old uniform and gotten Clara to put a few needed stitches in it. He had it out on the clothes line in the back yard, beating some of the dust and dirt from it to freshen it up, when Tom hailed him from over the fence. "I say, Joe, what sort of a shirt have you got?" "Same one I used on the Bentville Boosters; that was the name of our nine." "I see. A good name all right, but it will look funny to see that in among the uniforms of the Silver Stars. Your stockings and pants will do, but the shirt----" and Tom paused suggestively. "That's so," admitted Joe. "I didn't think about that. It's a different color from yours, and I haven't time to get another." "Never mind!" called Tom. "I tell you what you can do. Use my shirt. It's the regular Star one, with the name on." "Won't you want it?" "No, I don't think I'm going to get a chance to play. Darrell will probably hold down first all through the game. If I have to go in I can borrow some other fellow's. But I want you to look right from the start." "Thanks," called Joe as Tom disappeared in the house to get his shirt. It fitted Joe well, and he arranged to get his own in time for the next game. "Say, there's a big crowd here all right!" exclaimed Joe, as he and Tom neared the enclosed diamond that afternoon, and saw the stands well filled. "Yes, so much the better. The Red Stockings always draw well. I hope we beat. Do your prettiest." "Sure I will. There's Sam warming up." "Yes, I hope he doesn't go up in the air. Better hurry up and get in practice." Joe ran out on the diamond, which was thronged with the home team and visiting players. Balls were being caught and batted about, and the new player was soon doing his share. "Now keep cool," Darrell advised him, "and above all don't have a row with Sam. I can't understand why he has such a grudge against you, but he has and there's no use letting it be known any more than it is." "I won't do or say anything if he doesn't," promised Joe. "But I'm not going to let him knock me down and then wipe his feet on me." "Of course not. I'll see that he's decent, anyhow. Well, I guess it's time we started. I see they have some new players. Maybe we won't beat them as easily as I hoped." The practice balls were called in, players were selecting their sticks, the batting order had been decided on, and the final arrangements made. "Play ball!" called the umpire, and the Silver Stars took the field. Joe walked out to centre. His heart was beating high. It was his first chance to show what he could do in a match game with his new team and he wanted to make good. But oh! how he longed to be in the pitching box occupied by Sam Morton! "Play ball!" called the umpire again, and Sam, "winding up," let fly a swift white ball toward the expectant batter. CHAPTER X A TIGHT CONTEST "Strike one!" yelled the young umpire, as the ball landed with a resounding thud in Bart Ferguson's big mitt. "That's the stuff!" called several in the crowd. "Send back the Reds with a whitewash brush," added another enthusiast. "I guess Sam's in form to-day," remarked Tom Davis to Rodney Burke near whom he sat. Tom was not playing, for Darrell was holding down the initial bag. "Wait a bit and see what happens along about the seventh inning," said Rodney. "Sam generally falls down then if he's going to." "Well, I hope he doesn't, that's all," said Tom, and then he gave all his attention to watching the game. "Ball one," was the next decision of the umpire. "Aw what's the matter with you?" cried Sam, starting toward home where Bart stood holding the ball. "That clipped the plate as good as any one would want. You'd better get a pair of glasses, Kern. You can't see straight." "I can see as well as you!" retorted Frank Kern, the umpire. "It wasn't anywhere near over the plate," retorted Jack King, the batter. "Aw, you don't know a good ball when you get one," snapped Sam. "I guess----" "That'll do now!" called Darrell sharply from first. "This isn't a kid game. Play ball. Don't be always kicking, Sam." "Who is always kicking?" demanded the pitcher, and it was evident to all that he was in unusually bad temper. "I hope it isn't on my account," thought Joe who, from his position in deep centre, was waiting for anything that might come his way. He had been told to play far out, for King was known as a heavy hitter. Sam received the ball from Bart with a scowl and wound up for the next delivery. Sam was a natural pitcher. That is, he had good control, as a rule, and he made his shoulder and back do most of the work of the pitching arm, as all professionals do. Still his unpleasant temper often made his efforts go to waste. "Strike two!" called the umpire this time, and there was no doubt about it for King had swung viciously at the ball. But Sam had sent in a puzzling little drop, and the knowledge that he had fooled a good batter brought a smile to his otherwise scowling face. "Here's where I get you!" he predicted. But alas for his hopes! The bat met the ball squarely and Sam had made the mistake of sending a fast ball to a heavy hitter enabling King to knock out a pretty three bagger. Far back as Joe had stationed himself he was not far enough and he had to turn and run after the horsehide. And how he did run! He was thinking desperately what would happen if he missed it! He made up his mind that he would not, yet it was not within the power of any one to get to the spot before the ball fell. Joe felt it graze the tips of his fingers as it rushed downward but that was all. He heard himself groan involuntarily in anguish as the ball hit the ground with a thud. He lost no time in idle regrets however, but picked it up and made a throw to third in time to hold King there, for the doughty player had a notion of continuing on home. "Good try old man!" yelled some spectators on the benches nearest Joe. He felt that his effort was somewhat appreciated but he wondered what Darrell would think of it. Sam was scowling again, whether at Joe's perfectly natural miss, or the fact that he was hit for three bases was impossible to guess. "Try for the next one," called Darrell cheerfully, and Sam did with such success that Bigney, who was second up for the Red Stockings, only pounded out a little drizzler that Sam quickly gathered in and threw to first. King was still held on third. Smart fanned out, and then came Steel, who, after knocking a couple of fouls, was fooled on a little in-shoot which made three out, King dying on third and the side being retired with no runs. "Oh, not so bad," said Sam as he walked in to the bench. "I guess we've got their number all right," assented Darrell. He saw Joe coming in from centre and the manager stopped to speak to him. "Nobody could have gotten that ball," he said, for he realized that the new player might blame himself unjustly. "I didn't think King had it in him, or I'd have told you to play out to the limit. He won't get you that way again." "I guess not!" exclaimed Joe heartily. The make up and batting order of the Silver Stars was the same as in the game with the Resolutes save that Joe was in Jed McGraw's place, and this brought him second to the bat. Potter was up first and managed to get a single. "Now, bring him in," commanded Darrell with a smile at Joe, as the latter picked out a bat. He was very nervous, as any lad would have been, playing his first game with a new team. He did want to make good! "I'll try," he said simply. Painter, the Red Stocking pitcher, had no phenomenal speed and his curves could not be depended on to break at the right places. Still he was a good "bluffer" and he made many a batter think that he was getting a very swift ball. Often it would look as though it was going to hit the man at the plate and he would instinctively step back, disconcerting his own aim. Joe let the first ball pass, and was somewhat surprised to have a strike called on him. But he did not kick, for, as a matter of fact, the horsehide had clipped the plate. "I'll get the next one," thought Joe grimly. Then Painter worked his usual trick, of throwing a ball close in, and Joe bent his body like a bow. "Strike two!" yelled the umpire and Joe felt a flash of anger. But he said nothing, and when the next ball came he swung viciously at it. He heard the heart-stirring ping! and, dropping his bat, he legged it for first as Potter darted to second. But Joe had not hit the ball nearly as hard as he thought he had, and the result was that the shortstop gathered it in, and, by a quick throw to first, caught our hero there. "Quick, to second!" yelled the coacher, but Potter dropped and slid, being counted safe. "One down, only two more!" yelled Murphy, captain and catcher of the "Reds," as they were called for short. Joe felt his face burning with shame as he walked back to the bench. "Humph! I thought we were going to see some wonders!" murmured Sam Morton sarcastically. "It's all right, Matson--it was an even chance, and you found the ball," said Darrell quickly. He knew the danger of a new player becoming discouraged. "Thanks," said Joe quietly. Lantry got a single which sent Potter to third, but the next two men struck out and with two men left on bases the Silver Stars had to take the field again with only a goose egg to their credit. The game ran along to the ending of the third inning with neither side getting a run. Each team made some scattering hits but the fielding was evenly good, and no one crossed the home plate. Joe made one fine catch in the beginning of the third and received a round of applause that did his heart good. Sam was pitching pretty good ball, occasionally being found for a two bagger, but any short-comings in this line were more than made up in the support he received from his mates. "It's going to be a tighter game than I thought it was," murmured Darrell, at the close of the fourth inning, when his side had managed to get in one run to tie the tally which the Reds had secured. "They've got a better team than I gave them credit for." "You don't think they're going to beat us, do you?" asked Sam anxiously. "I--well--I hope not," was the hesitating answer. "Does that mean you don't think I'm doing all I ought to?" demanded the pitcher defiantly. "Of course not. I know you wouldn't throw the game. Only I wish we could strike more of them out," and the manager looked anxiously over the field as his players were stationing themselves. "Wait and see what I do this inning," invited Sam. "Perhaps you want that new fellow to go in the box in my place." His voice was sneering now. "Who, Joe Matson?" asked Darrell quickly. "That's who I mean," replied Sam surlily. "Don't be foolish," was the manager's quiet answer. "You know he hasn't had any experience in the box--or at least enough to play on our team, though I think he'll make a good fielder. Now do your prettiest Sam. You can, you know." "All right," assented the pitcher, and once more the game was underway. The fifth inning was productive of one run for the Silver Stars and this after they had retired their rivals hitless, for Sam did some excellent pitching. There was a howl of delight as the first tally came in, making the score two to one in favor of our friends. And there was none out. "Now we ought to walk away from them," called Darrell to his players. Joe came up to bat and to his delight he got a single. He was advanced to second when the next player connected with the ball, and then followed some see-sawing on the part of the pitcher and the second baseman, in an endeavor to catch Joe napping. Once our hero thought he saw a good chance to steal third and he was about to take it when something warned him to come back. He did, and only just in time, for the pitcher threw to second. It was a close shave. Joe slid head foremost and as his fingers touched the bag the second baseman leaped up in the air to catch the ball which the pitcher had wildly thrown high. When the baseman came down, making a wild effort to touch Joe, the iron cleat of one shoe caught the little finger of Joe's left hand and cut it cruelly. The plucky centre fielder tried to stifle the groan of anguish that rose to his lips, but it was impossible. The baseman was aware of the accident. Dropping the ball he knelt over Joe. "I'm mighty sorry, old man!" he exclaimed. "Are you hurt much?" "No--no. I--I guess not," murmured Joe, and then all got black before his eyes, and there was a curious roaring in his ears. CHAPTER XI JOE'S RUN "Water here! Bring some water!" yelled Smart, who was holding down second base for the Reds. "He's fainted I guess." There was a rush of players toward Joe, and Darrell was the first to reach him. "What's the matter, old man?" he asked sympathetically. "I'm afraid I spiked him," answered Smart, ruefully. "I jumped for the ball, and came down on his hand I guess." "Too bad," murmured Darrell. They turned Joe over, for he was lying on his face, and saw his left hand covered with blood. "Where's that first-aid kit?" called Tom Davis, who had rushed on the field on seeing his friend hurt. "Here it is," answered Rodney Burke, who acted as the amateur surgeon on the few times his services had been required. "I'll bandage it up. Had we better get a doctor?" Meanwhile some water had been sprinkled in Joe's face and some forced between his lips. He opened his eyes as the others were washing the blood from his hand. "I--I'm all right," he murmured, as he strove to rise. "Now that's all right--you just lie still," commanded Darrell. "Look at it Rod, and see how bad it is." Fortunately the wound was not as serious as had at first seemed and when cleansed of dirt and blood it was seen to be a long cut, lengthwise of the finger. "I'll have that done up in a jiffy," remarked Rodney, who was not a little proud of his skill. His father was a physician, and had shown the son how to make simple bandages. The wound was cleansed with an antiseptic solution and wrapped in the long narrow strips of bandage cloth. Joe got to his feet while this was being done, and, after a little water containing aromatic spirits of ammonia had been given to him, he declared that he was all right. "Are you sure?" asked Darrell anxiously. "Sure, I'll bring in a run yet if some one knocks the ball far enough," said Joe with a smile, though it was rather a feeble one. "Nonsense, you can't run after that," exclaimed Murphy, the Red captain. "Give him a man," he added generously to his rival. "We don't care." "I think I had better send Newton down to run for you," said Captain Rankin. "But I'm going to play," insisted Joe. "Yes, next inning," he was assured, and the game went on. However, even the substitution of a runner in Joe's place availed nothing, as the side was soon afterward retired with the men expiring on bases, and the one run was all the Silver Stars could gather in. Still that made the score two to one in their favor. There was a big surprise in the next inning. The Reds came to bat full of confidence, and the first man up rapped out as pretty a three bagger as had been pulled off that day. It went to deep right field, for which Joe was thankful, as even with his finger protected by a bandage and a heavy glove on his hand, he felt that he would wince at catching a swift ball, and might possibly muff it. That was what the right fielder did, though he managed to pick it up quickly enough to prevent the player from going on in to home. Whether the fact of being hit for a long poke made Sam lose his temper, or the knowledge that part of his support consisted of a wounded player made him nervous, was not manifest, but the fact remains that the pitcher "went up in the air" after that. He gave one man his base on balls, and when the next player came up, and rapped out a two bagger the man at third went on in, and there was a man holding down third while one on second nearly made the bases full. "Easy now," cautioned Darrell to Sam. "Hold 'em down." "Um!" grunted Sam, and what he meant by it might be imagined, but he _did_ strike out the next two men. Then came a single which resulted in a tally being made, being the second run of the inning. Sam shut his teeth grimly. There were now two out and two men on bases and Sam felt his nerve leaving him. But by a strong effort he braced himself, and did the trick to the next man, stopping the winning streak of the Reds just in time. "Three to two against us," murmured Darrell as he looked at the score board when he and his mates came in for their turn at the bat. "That isn't going as I'd like to see it. Say, fellows, we've got to knuckle down if we want to pull this game out of the fire." "That's what," murmured George Rankin, and, perhaps involuntarily, he glanced at Sam. "Oh, I know what you fellows mean without you saying so!" snapped the pitcher. "I wish you'd keep your remarks to yourselves. I can pitch all right." "No one said you couldn't," declared Darrell gently. But it was very little that the Silver Stars could accomplish. Two men went down to inglorious defeat. The third knocked a nice single but died on first when the Red pitcher with seeming ease struck out the fourth batter. And it was not due so much that the visiting boxman had speed or curves, as to the fact that he could fool the batters with easy balls. "We seem to have struck a hoodoo," said Darrell in despairing tones as they took the field again. "Sam, our only hope is in you. Not a run for us this inning and they got two." "They won't get any more!" declared Sam savagely. He made good his boast, for not a man got beyond second, and of those who performed this feat there was but one. A big circle went up in the Red's frame for the ending of the first half of the seventh inning. But the Silver Stars fared no better, and for the next inning the result was the same, neither side being able to score. The tally was three runs to two in favor of the visitors when the ninth inning opened. The Silver Stars didn't like to think of that inning afterward. There were numerous errors, wild throws and muffs. Joe let a ball slip through his fingers when by holding it he might have prevented a run, but it happened to hit on the cut place, and the agony was such that he let out an exclamation of pain. But he was not the only one who sinned. Sam was "rotten," to quote Tom Davis, and "issued a number of passes." One man got to first by virtue of being hit and when the inning was over there were three runs in the Red's box. "Six to two against us," murmured Darrell. "It looks bad, fellows--it looks bad." Joe was first up to the bat. "Do you think you can hit?" asked the captain anxiously. "Oh, yes. I can hold my little finger away from the bat and I'll be all right." "Then hit for all you're worth," begged Darrell. "We need all we can get." Joe clenched his teeth grimly and made up his mind he would not be fooled as he had been several times before. The Red pitcher was smiling in a tantalizing way and Joe felt himself almost hating him for it. "I'm going to hit you! I'm going to hit you!" he found himself murmuring over and over again in his mind. And hit Joe did. The first delivery was a ball, but the second Joe knew was just where he wanted it. With all his force he swung at it and as he sped away toward first, with all the power of his legs he saw the horsehide sailing on a clean hit in a long, low drive over the centre fielder's head. Joe heard the ball strike the farther fence and a wild hope came into his heart that he might make a home run. "I'm going to do it! I'm going to do!" he whispered to himself as he turned first and sped like the wind for second base. Could he beat the ball in? That was what he was asking himself. That was what hundreds of frantic fans were asking themselves. CHAPTER XII DISCONTENT "Leg it, Joe! Leg it!" "Keep on! Keep on!" "He can't get you in time!" "A home run! A homer, old man!" "Keep a-going! Keep a-going!" These and other frantic appeals and bits of advice were hurled at Joe as he dashed madly on. He had a glimpse of the centre fielder racing madly after the ball, and then he felt for the first time that he really had a chance to make a home run. Still he knew that the ball travels fast when once thrown, and it might be relayed in, for he saw the second baseman running back to assist the centre fielder. "But I'm going to beat it!" panted Joe to himself. The grandstand and bleachers were now a mass of yelling excited spectators. There was a good attendance at the game, many women and girls being present, and Joe could hear their shrill voices mingling with the hoarser shouts of the men and boys. "Keep on! Keep on!" he heard yelled encouragingly at him. "That's the stuff, old man!" shouted Darrell, who was coaching at the third base line. "Shall I go in?" cried Joe as he turned the last bag. Darrell took a swift glance toward the field. He saw what Joe could not. The centre fielder instead of relaying in the ball by the second baseman (for the throw was too far for him), had attempted to get it to third alone. Darrell knew it would fall short. "Yes! Yes!" he howled. "Go on in, Joe! Go on in!" And Joe went. Just as the manager had anticipated, the ball fell short, and the pitcher who had run down to cover second had to run out of the diamond to get it. It was an error in judgment, and helped Joe to make his sensational run. He was well on his way home now, but the pitcher had the ball and was throwing it to the catcher. "Slide, Joe! Slide!" yelled Darrell above the wild tumult of the other players and the spectators. Joe kept on until he knew a slide would be effective and then, dropping like a shot, he fairly tore through the dust, feet first, toward home plate. His shoes covered it as the ball came with a thud into the outstretched hands of the catcher. "Safe!" yelled the umpire, and there was no questioning his decision. "Good play!" yelled the crowd. "That's the stuff, old man!" exclaimed Darrell, rushing up and clapping Joe on the back. "A few more like that and the game will either go ten innings or we'll have it in the ice-box for ourselves," commented Captain Rankin gleefully. But the hopes of the Silver Stars were doomed to disappointment. Try as the succeeding men did to connect with the ball, the best that could be knocked out was a single, and that was not effective, for the man who did it was caught attempting to steal second and two others were struck out. That ended the game, Joe's solitary run being the only one tallied up, and the final score was three to six in favor of the Red Stockings. "Three cheers for the Silver Stars!" called the captain of the successful nine and they were given with right good feeling. "Three cheers for the Red Stockings," responded Darrell. "They were too much for us," and the cheers of the losers were none less hearty than those of their rivals. "And three cheers for the fellow who made the home run!" added a Red Stocking player, and our hero could not help blushing as he was thus honored. "It was all to the pepper-castor, old man," complimented Darrell. "We didn't put up a very good game, but you sort of stand out among the other Stars." "And I suppose the rest of us did rotten!" snarled Sam Morton as he walked past. "Well, to be frank, I think we _all_ did," spoke Darrell. "I'm not saying that Joe didn't make any errors, for he did. But he made the only home run of the game, and that's a lot." "Oh, yes, I suppose so," sneered the disgruntled pitcher. "You'll be blaming me next for the loss of the game." "Nothing of the sort!" exclaimed Darrell quickly. "I think we've all got to bear our share of the defeat. We ought to have played better, and we've got to, if we don't want to be at the tail end of the county league." "And that means that I've got to do better pitching, I suppose?" sneered Sam. "It means we've _all_ got to do better work," put in Captain Rankin. "You along with the rest of us, Sam. You know you were pretty well batted to-day." "Any fellow is likely to be swatted once in a while. Look at some of the professionals." "I'm not saying they're not," admitted the captain. "What I do say is that we've all got to perk up. We've got to take a brace, and I'm not sparing myself. We're not doing well." "No, that's right," admitted several other players. In fact there was a general feeling of discontent manifested, and it was very noticeable. Darrell Blackney was aware of it, and he hoped it would not spread, for nothing is so sure to make a team slump as discontent or dissatisfaction. "Oh, Joe!" exclaimed a girl's voice, and he turned to see his sister walking toward him over the field. "That was a fine run you made." She had two other girls with her and Joe, who was a bit bashful, turned to execute a retreat. "I believe you never met my brother," went on Clara, and there was a trace of pride in her tone. "Miss Mabel Davis," said Clara, presenting her to Joe, "and Miss Helen Rutherford." "I've heard my sister speak of you," murmured the young centre fielder. "And I've heard my brother speak of _you_," said Mabel, and Joe was conscious that he was blushing. "I've got to wash up now," he said, not knowing what to talk about when two pretty girls, to say nothing of his own sister, were staring at him. "Does your hand hurt you much?" asked Mabel. "No--it's only a scratch," said Joe, not with a strict regard for the truth. "Oh, I thought I'd faint when I saw you lying there so still," spoke Clara with a little shudder. "So did I," added Helen, and then Joe made his escape before they could "fuss" over him any more. There was considerable talk going on in the dressing room when Joe entered. He could hear the voice of Sam Morton raised in high and seemingly angry tones. "Well, I'm not going to stand for it!" the pitcher said. "Stand for what?" asked Darrell in surprise. "Being accused of the cause for the loss of this game!" "No one accuses you," put in the captain. "You might as well say it as look it," retorted Sam. "I tell you I won't stand for it. Just because that new fellow made a home run you're all up in the air about him, and for all the hard work I do, what do I get for it? Eh? Nothing, that's what!" "Now, look here," said Darrell soothingly, "you know you're talking foolishly, Sam." "I am not!" cried the pitcher petulantly. "Either Joe Matson leaves the team or I do, and you can have my resignation any time you want it!" CHAPTER XIII SCIENTIFIC PRACTICE There was a period of silence following Sam's offer of his resignation, and no one seemed to know just what to say. Several of the lads glanced at Joe, as if expecting him to say something in his own defense. In fact the young centre fielder was about to speak but he did not get the chance, for Sam exclaimed again: "Well, do you want my resignation, Darrell?" "You know I don't!" declared the manager. "Then things have got to be changed!" "Look here!" burst out Darrell. "I've stood about all I'm going to from you, Sam Morton. There has got to be a change in this team." "That's just what I'm giving you a chance to make," the pitcher fairly sneered. "You can fill my place any time you like." "But I'm not going to," and though Darrell spoke pleasantly there was a sternness in his words. "Fellows, it's like this," he went on. "The Silver Stars are a good team and you know it. So does every one in this town, but the last two games we've played in hard luck, and----" "Do you mean to say it was my pitching?" demanded Sam. "No more than it was the way we all played. As I said, we've got to take a brace. I don't know what's gotten into you, Sam, to say you'll resign if Joe Matson plays. What have you against him?" "Well, I hate to see a newcomer made so much of. Here we fellows have worked hard all season, and----" "And you're going to work hard the _rest_ of the season!" exclaimed Darrell. "Let me tell you that! I'm not going to hear any more talk of resignations, and this bickering has got to stop. Otherwise we'll be the laughing stock of the county. You all played pretty well to-day, but you all need to do better." "All but Matson; I suppose he's the star," sneered Sam. "Look here," burst out Joe, unable to stand the taunts of the pitcher any longer, "if you think----" "Now, go easy," advised Darrell with a smile. "I'm giving this little lecture. I give Matson due credit for one of the three runs we got," he went on, "but that's not saying that he didn't make errors. We all did. "Oh, fellows!" he pleaded and they could see that he was very much in earnest, "let's get together and wallop every nine we play against from now on! Take a brace. Forget all this feeling and get together. Matson and Morton, I want you to shake hands, will you?" "I'm willing," assented Joe eagerly, advancing toward Sam. The latter hesitated a moment and then, feeling the eyes of all in the dressing room on him, he mumbled: "Well, as long as you don't think he's the star of the Stars, I'll shake. Maybe I was a bit hasty," he went on, and this was a great deal for Sam Morton to admit. He and Joe shook hands, though it cannot be said that there was any warmth on the part of the pitcher. Still it was better than open enmity, though Joe wondered if Sam would be really friendly. "That's better," commented the manager with something like a sigh of relief. "And don't let this go any further," suggested the captain. "We don't want it known that there came near being a break in the Stars. Now get together, fellows. Show up at practice strong next time, and we'll win our next game!" "That's the way to talk!" cried Tom Davis, and the crisis was passed--for a time. And, to the delight of Joe, he found that he had made many new friends, chiefly because of his sensational run. The members of the team, of course, crowded around him congratulating him, and asking him how he did it. But, in addition, there now flocked into the dressing room a crowd of lads who had witnessed the game. Some of them were high school pupils who knew Joe, at least by sight, but they now came up and spoke to him. Other town lads did the same thing. "Gee! It's great to be popular!" exclaimed Tom, with a mock sigh. "Why wasn't I born a home-run hitter instead of good looking, I wonder?" "Get out!" laughed Joe. "Don't make me get a swelled head." "No danger, I guess," retorted Tom. Darrell and the captain strolled up to Joe, who had finished dressing. "Well, that's over, for a while," said Darrell in a low voice, evidently referring to the unpleasant little incident. "I want to ask you to do some practicing, Matson. You need to try throwing a bit, for it's a long heave in from centre field and, to be frank, you aren't any too good at it." "I'll practice every day," exclaimed our hero eagerly. "And I'll coach him," added Tom. "Get out, you lobster, you need coaching yourself," said the captain with a laugh. "You'll get rusty if Darrell doesn't get off first and give you a chance." "I'll do it more often now," said the manager. "I want to be more on the coaching line. Two wallops in two weeks is more than the Stars can stand." "Who do we play next week?" asked Tom. "The Denville Whizzers, but I don't imagine we'll have much trouble with them," said the manager. "However, it won't do to take any chances. Practice hard, fellows," and with that he left the dressing room. Sam Morton had gone out some time before and Joe and Tom soon followed. As they strolled down the street toward their homes Tom said: "Say Joe, I was in earnest in saying I'd coach you. I believe you do need practice in throwing, and if you haven't given up the idea of pitching some day----" "I'll never give up the idea until I'm knocked out of the box," declared Joe. "Good! Then I'll help coach you. I was going to say it wasn't much fun practicing alone, and as a matter of fact it doesn't do much good." "What do you mean?" "Well, I've been reading up about baseball lately. I got a book on pitching, and----" "Say, will you lend it to me?" asked Joe eagerly. "Or tell me where I can buy one?" "Sure I will. I was going to say that it has articles in it by star professional pitchers and a lot of them agree that it isn't much use just to go out and throw a ball at a spot on the backstop or the fence." "What's the best way then?" asked Joe, who had supposed from his limited knowledge that to practice at hitting a certain spot with the ball was about the best he could do. "Why, they say the best is to get something like a home plate--a flat stone say--and pitch over it with some one to catch for you." "I suppose that would be a good way," began Joe doubtfully, "but who's going to catch for me?" "I am!" exclaimed Tom quickly. "I said just now that I'd coach you. I'll do more than that, I'll catch for you. And the book I spoke of has other tricks of practice, so a fellow can get good control of a ball. That's the thing pitchers need it says--control. Say, we'll have some fun, you and I, down in a vacant lot practicing. When can you come?" "How about Monday afternoon?" "Suits me first rate." "All right, we'll make it then, and we'll get in some scientific practice for you. Maybe after all, you'll pitch in Sam's place before the season is over." "I wouldn't want to do it, if it's going to make a row in the team." "Oh, don't let that worry you. Lots of the fellows don't like Sam any too well. They'd as soon have some one else in the box if he could deliver the goods. Well, so long; see you Monday, if not before." "I guess I'm glad dad moved to Riverside after all," mused Joe as he walked toward home. "I was afraid I wouldn't like it at first, but now I'm on the team it's all right. I hope dad doesn't have any business troubles though. I wonder what is wrong for I'm sure something is. I hope it doesn't prevent me from going to boarding school next year," and with this reflection Joe went in the house. CHAPTER XIV A KETTLE OF APPLE SAUCE "Well, Joe, are you all ready?" It was Tom Davis, and he had called at Joe's house on his way from school, as Tom had to remain in physics class to finish an experiment, and Joe had gone on ahead. "I sure am, Tom. Where are we going to practice? Over on the fairgrounds?" "No, that's too far. We'll go down in the vacant lots back of Mrs. Peterkin's house. There's a high fence back of her house and that will be a good backstop, in case I can't hold your hot ones." "Oh, I guess you can all right," replied Joe with a laugh, "though I wish I did have lots of speed." "Say now, don't make that mistake," said Tom earnestly, as Joe came out to join him, having picked up some old balls and a pitcher's glove. "What mistake?" "Trying for speed before you have control. I saw an article about that in the pitching book last night. I brought it along. Here it is," and both boys looked eagerly over the book as they walked along. As Tom had said, some of the best authorities on pitching did advocate the trying for control before a prospective boxman endeavored to get either speed or curves. "The thing seems to be," remarked Joe, "to get a ball just where you want it, ten times out of ten if you can, and then when you can do that, try for the in and out shoots and the drop." "That's it," agreed Tom. "Are you any good at throwing stones?" "I don't know. Why?" "Well, one fellow says that the lad who can throw a stone straight can generally throw a ball straight. We'll have a contest when we get down to the lots. Nobody will see us there." "I hope not," remarked Joe. "I don't want to be laughed at the way I was when Sam caught me down at the fairgrounds. I guess he thought I was trying for his place then, and that's what made him mad." The two friends were soon down behind the high board fence that marked the boundaries of the Peterkin property. It was rather a large place--the Peterkin one--and was occupied by an aged couple. Mrs. Alvirah Peterkin was quite a housewife, always engaged in some kitchen or other household duties, while Ebenezer, her husband "puttered" around the garden, as the folks of Riverside expressed it. "Well, I guess we're all ready," remarked Tom, when he had picked out a large flat stone to represent home plate. He took his position behind it, with his back to the fence, so that if any balls got by him they would hit the barrier and bound back. Joe began to pitch, endeavoring to bear in mind what the book had said about getting the balls where he wanted them. "That was pretty far out from the plate," called Tom dubiously, after one effort on the part of his chum. "I know it was. Here's a better one." "Good! That's the stuff. It was a strike all right--right over the middle. Keep it up." For a time Joe kept this up, pitching at moderate speed, and then the temptation to "cut loose" could not be resisted. He "wound up" as he had seen professional pitchers do and let the ball go. With considerable force it went right through Tom's hands and crashed up against the fence with a resounding bang. It was the first ball Tom had let get past him. "That was a hot one all right!" the catcher called, "but it was away out." "All right, I'll slow down again," said Joe. He was a little disappointed that he could not combine speed and accuracy. The boys were about to resume their practice when a face, fringed with a shock of white hair on top, and a little ring of whiskers encircling it below, was raised over the edge of the fence, and a mild voice demanded: "What you boys up to now--tryin' to knock down my fence?" "Oh, hello, Mr. Peterkin," called Tom. "We're just playing baseball--that's all." "Where's the rest of ye?" the old man wanted to know. "This is all there are of us," replied Tom, waving his hand toward Joe. "Humph! Fust time I ever heard of two boys playin' a ball game all by themselves," commented the aged man with a chuckle. "But I s'pose it's one of them new-fangled kind. Land sakes, what th' world a-comin' t' anyhow, I'd like t' know? Wa'al, keep on, only don't knock any boards offen my fence," he stipulated as he resumed the making of his garden. The boys laughingly promised and resumed their practice. Tom was a good catcher and he had an accurate eye. He did not hesitate to tell Joe when the balls were bad and he was a severe critic, for he had taken an honest liking to the newcomer, and wanted to see him succeed. "Just try for control," was the gist of his advice. "The rest if it will take care of itself." "Don't you want to pitch and let me catch for you?" asked Joe after a bit, fearing that he was somewhat selfish. "No, I don't specially need any practice at throwing," said Tom. "First is my position. I like it better than any other, and catching is the best practice I can have for that. Keep it up." So Joe kept on, using moderate speed after the warning of Mr. Peterkin, so that no more balls struck the fence. But then again came the almost irresistible desire to put on "steam," and indulging in this Joe sent in another "hot one." Almost the instant it left his hand Joe realized that he had lost control of the ball and that it was going wild. He instinctively reached out to pull it back, but it was too late. "Grab it!" he yelled to Tom. The plucky little first baseman made a magnificent jump up in the air, but the ball merely grazed the tip of his up-stretched glove. Then it went on over the fence at undiminished speed. An instant later there was the cry of alarm. "Who did that?" demanded the voice--a voice full of anger. "Who threw that ball? Oh! Oh! Of all things! I demand to know who did it?" Joe and Tom were silent--looking blankly one at the other. Up over the fence rose the mild and bewhiskered face of Mr. Peterkin. "Boys," asked the aged man gently. "Did anything happen? It sounds like it to me." "I--I threw the ball over the fence," admitted Joe. "Hum! Then I'm afraid something _did_ happen," went on Mr. Peterkin still more gently. "Yes, I'm _sure_ of it," he added as the sound of some one coming down the garden path could be heard. "Here comes Alvirah. Something has happened. Do--do you want to run?" he asked, for rumor had it that Mrs. Peterkin was possessed of no gentle temper and Mr. Peterkin--well, he was a very mild-mannered man, every one knew that. "Do you want to run?" he asked again. "No," said Tom. "Of course not," added Joe. "If we broke a window we'll pay for it--I'll pay for it," he corrected himself, for he had thrown the ball. Mrs. Peterkin advanced to where her husband was working in the garden. The boys could not see the lady but they could hear her. "You didn't throw that ball, did you, Ebenezer?" she asked. "If you did--at your age--cutting up such foolish tricks as playing baseball--I--I'll----" "No, Alvirah, I didn't do it, of course not," Mr. Peterkin hastened to say. "It was a couple of boys. Tom Davis and a friend of his. They were playing ball back of the fence and----" "And they've run off now, I'll venture!" exclaimed the rasping voice of Mrs. Peterkin. "No--no, I don't think so, Alvirah," said Mr. Peterkin mildly. "I--I rather think they're there yet. I asked 'em if they didn't want to run and----" "You--asked them--if--they--didn't--want--to--run?" gasped Mrs. Peterkin, as if unable to believe his words. "Why, the very--idea!" "Oh, I knew they'd pay for any damage they did," said her husband quickly, "and I--er--I sort of thought--well, anyhow they're over there," and he pointed to the fence. "Let me see them! Let me talk to them!" demanded Mrs. Peterkin. "Stand on that soap box an' ye kin see over the fence," said Mr. Peterkin. "But look out. The bottom is sort of soft an' ye may----" He did not finish his sentence. The very accident he feared had happened. Mrs. Peterkin, being a large and heavy woman, had stepped in the middle of the box. The bottom boards, being old, had given way and there she was--stuck with both feet in the soap box. "Ebenezer!" she cried. "Help me! Don't you know any better than to stand there staring at me? Haven't you got any senses?" "Of course I'll help you, Alvirah," he said. "I rather thought you'd go through that box." "Then you'd no business to let me use it!" she snapped. "It allers held _me_ up when I wanted to look over the fence," he said mildly. "But then of course I never stepped in the middle of it," he added as he helped his wife pull aside the broken boards so she could step out. "I kept on the edges." "Have those boys gone?" she demanded when free. "I don't think so. I'll look," he volunteered as he turned the soap box up on edge and peered over the fence. "No, they're here yet," he answered as he saw Joe and Tom standing there, trying their best not to laugh. "Was you wantin' to speak with 'em, Alvirah?" "Speak with them! Of course I do!" she cried. "Tell them to come around to the side gate. I'll _speak_ to them," and she drew herself up like an angry hen. "Did--did they smash a window?" asked Mr. Peterkin. "Smash a window? I only wish it was no worse than that!" cried his wife. "They threw their nasty baseball into a kettle of apple sauce that was stewing on the stove, and the sauce splashed all over my clean kitchen. Tell them to come around. I'll _speak_ to them!" "I--I guess you'd better come in, boys," said Mr. Peterkin softly, as he delivered the message over the fence. Then he added--but to himself--"Maybe you might better have run while you had the chance." "We're in for it I guess," murmured Tom, as he and Joe went around to the side gate. CHAPTER XV JOE OVERHEARS SOMETHING "Are you the boys who threw the baseball through my kitchen window into my kettle of apple sauce?" demanded Mrs. Peterkin, as she confronted the two culprits. "I threw it," admitted Joe. "But we didn't know it went into the apple sauce," added Tom. "Nor through the window," spoke Joe for want of something better to say. "It was a wild throw." "Humph!" exclaimed the irate lady. "I don't know what kind of a throw it was but I know _I_ was wild when I saw my kitchen. I never saw such a sight in all my born days--never! You come and look at it." "If--if you please I'd rather not," said Joe quickly. "I'll pay you whatever damages you say, but I--I----" "I just want you to see that kitchen!" insisted Mrs. Peterkin. "It's surprising how mischievous boys can be when they try." "But we didn't try," put in Tom. "This was an accident." "Come and see my kitchen!" repeated Mrs. Peterkin firmly and she seemed capable of taking them each by an ear and leading them in. "You--you'd better go," advised Mr. Peterkin gently. So they went, and truly the sight that met their eyes showed them that Mrs. Peterkin had some excuse for being angry. On the stove there had been cooking a large kettle of sauce made from early apples. The window near the stove had been left open and through the casement the ball, thrown with all Joe's strength, had flown, landing fairly into the middle of the soft sauce. The result may easily be imagined. It splattered all over the floor, half way up on the side walls, and there were even spots of the sauce on the ceiling. The top of the stove was covered with it, and as the lids were hot they had burned the sugar to charcoal, while the kitchen was filled with smoke and fumes. "There!" cried Mrs. Peterkin, as she waved her hand at the scene of ruin. "Did you ever see such a kitchen as that? And it was clean scrubbed only this morning! Did you ever see anything like that? Tell me!" Joe and Tom were both forced to murmur that they had never beheld such a sight before. And they added with equal but unexpressed truth that they hoped they never would again. "I'm willing to pay for the damage," said Joe once more, and his hand went toward his pocket. "It was an accident." "Maybe it was," sniffed Mrs. Peterkin. "I won't say that it wasn't, but that won't clean my kitchen." Joe caught at these words. "I'm willing to help you clean up!" he exclaimed eagerly. "I often help at home when my mother is sick. Let me do it, and I'll pay for the apple sauce I spoiled." "I'll help," put in Tom eagerly. "Who is your mother?" asked Mrs. Peterkin, looking at Joe. "Mrs. Matson," he replied. "Oh, you're the new family that moved into town?" and there was something of a change in the irate lady's manner. "Yes, we live in the big yellow house near----" "It's right back of our place, Mrs. Peterkin," put in Tom eagerly. "Hum! I've been intending to call on your mother," went on Mrs. Peterkin, ignoring Tom. "I always call on all the new arrivals in town, but I've been so busy with my housework and Spring cleaning----" She paused and gazed about the kitchen. _That_, at least, would need cleaning over again. "Yes," she resumed, "I always call and invite them to join our Sewing and Dorcas Societies." "My mother belonged to both!" exclaimed Joe eagerly. "That is in Bentville where we lived. I heard her saying she wondered if there was a society here." "There is," answered Mrs. Peterkin majestically, "and I think I shall call soon, and ask her to join. You may tell her I said so," she added as if it was a great honor. "I will," answered Joe. "And now if you'll tell me where I can get some old cloths I'll help clean up this muss." "Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Peterkin slowly. Clearly her manner had undergone a great change. "I suppose boys must have their fun," she said with something like a sigh. "I know you didn't mean to do it, but my apple sauce is spoiled." "I'll pay for it," offered Joe eagerly. He was beginning to see a rift in the trouble clouds. "No," said Mrs. Peterkin, "it's all right. I have plenty more apples." "Then let us help clean the place?" asked Tom. "No, indeed!" she exclaimed, with as near a laugh as she ever indulged. "I don't want any men folks traipsing around my kitchen. I'll clean it myself." "Well, let us black the stove for you," offered Tom. "That's it, Alvirah," put in Mr. Peterkin quickly. He rather sided with the boys, and he was glad that the mention of Joe's mother, and the possibility of Mrs. Peterkin getting a new member for the societies, of both of which she was president, had taken her mind off her desire for revenge. "Let the boys black the stove. You know you always hate that work." "Well, I suppose they could do _that_," she admitted somewhat reluctantly. "But don't splatter it all over, though the land knows this kitchen can't be worse." Behold then, a little later, two of the members of the Silver Star nine industriously cleaning hardened apple sauce off the Peterkin kitchen stove, and blackening it until it shone brightly. "I'm glad Sam Morton can't see us," spoke Tom in a whisper. "Yes; we'd never hear the last of it," agreed Joe. They finished the work and even Mrs. Peterkin, careful housekeeper that she was, admitted that the stove "looked fairly good." "And be sure and tell your mother that I'm coming to call on her," she added, as Joe and Tom were about to leave. "Yes, ma'am," answered the centre fielder, and then he paused on the threshold of the kitchen. "Have you forgotten something?" asked Mrs. Peterkin, who was preparing to give the place a thorough scrubbing. "We--er--that is----" stammered Joe. "It's their baseball, I guess," put in Mr. Peterkin. "It is in the kettle of apple sass, Alvirah." "Oh, yes; so it is," she agreed, and this time she really laughed. "Well, you may have it," she added. "I don't want it." With a dipper she fished it up from the bottom of the kettle, put it under the water faucet to clean it, and held it out to Joe. "Thanks," he said as he took it and hurried off with Tom, before anything more could be said. "Whew!" exclaimed Tom, when they were out in the lots again. "That was a hot time while it lasted. And we got out of it mighty lucky, thanks to your mother. Mrs. Peterkin is great on the society business, and I guess she thought if she gave it to us too hot your mother wouldn't call on her. Yes, we were lucky all right. Want to practice some more?" "Not to-day," replied Joe with a smile. "I've had enough. Besides, this ball is all wet and slippery. Anyhow there's lots more time, and I guess the next day we do it we'll go down to the fairgrounds." "Yes, there's more room there, and no kettles of apple sauce," agreed Tom, with a laugh. As Tom had an errand to do down town for his father he did not accompany Joe back to their respective homes. "I'll see you to-night," he called to his chum, as they parted, "and we'll arrange for some more practice. I think it's doing you good." "I know my arm is a bit sore," complained Joe. "Then you want to take good care of it," said Tom quickly. "All the authorities in the book say that a pitching arm is too valuable to let anything get the matter with it. Bathe it with witch hazel to-night." "I will. So long." As Joe had not many lessons to prepare that night, and as it was still rather early and he did not want to go home, he decided to take a little walk out in the country for a short distance. As he trudged along he was thinking of many things, but chief of all was his chances for becoming at least a substitute pitcher on the Silver Stars. "If I could get in the box, and was sure of going to boarding school, I wouldn't ask anything else in this world," said Joe to himself. Like all boys he had his ambitions, and he little realized how such ambitions would change as he became older. But they were sufficient for him now. Before he knew it he had covered several miles, for the day was a fine Spring one, just right for walking, and his thoughts, being subject to quick changes, his feet kept pace with them. As he made a turn in the road he saw, just ahead of him, an old building that had once, so some of the boys had told him, been used as a spring-house for cooling the butter and milk of the farm to which it belonged. But it had now fallen into disuse, though the spring was there yet. The main part of it was covered by the shed, but the water ran out into a hollowed-out tree trunk where a cocoanut shell hung as a dipper. "Guess I'll have a drink," mused Joe. "I'm as dry as a fish and that's fine water." He had once taken some when he and Tom Davis took a country stroll. As he was sipping the cool beverage he heard inside the old shed the murmur of voices. "Hum! Tramps I guess," reasoned Joe to himself. But a moment later he knew it could not be tramps for the words he heard were these: "And do you think you can get control of the patents?" "I'm sure of it," was the answer. "He doesn't know about the reverting clause in his contract, and he's working on a big improvement in a corn----" Then the voice died away, though Joe strained his ears in vain to catch the other words. Somehow he felt vaguely uneasy. "Where have I heard that first voice before?" he murmured, racking his brains. Then like a flash it came to him. The quick, incisive tones were those of Mr. Rufus Holdney, of Moorville, to whom he had once gone with a letter from Mr. Matson. "And if you can get the patents," went on Mr. Holdney, "then it means a large sum of money." "For both of us," came the eager answer, and Joe wondered whom the other man could be. "You are sure there won't be any slip-up?" asked Mr. Holdney. "Positively. But come on. We've been here long enough and people might talk if they saw us here together. Yet I wanted to have a talk with you in a quiet place, and this was the best one I could think of. I own this old farm." "Very well, then I'll be getting back to Moorville. Be sure to keep me informed how the thing goes." "I will." There was a movement inside the shed as if the men were coming out. "I'd better make myself scarce," thought Joe. He had just time to drop down behind a screen of bushes when the two men did emerge. Joe had no need to look to tell who one was, but he was curious in regard to the other. Cautiously he peered up, and his heart almost stopped beating as he recognized Mr. Isaac Benjamin, the manager of the Royal Harvester Works where the boy's father was employed. "There's some crooked work on hand, I'll bet a cookie!" murmured Joe, as he crouched down again while the two men walked off up the country road. CHAPTER XVI MR. MATSON IS ALARMED Joe Matson did not know what to do. He wanted to rush away from where he was concealed, get home as quickly as possible, and tell his father what he had overheard. While Mr. Matson's name had not been mentioned, knowing, as Joe did, that his parent was engaged on some patents, seeing Mr. Benjamin, manager of the Harvester works, and having heard the conversation between him and Mr. Holdney, the lad was almost certain that some danger threatened his father. "And yet I can't get away from here until they're well out of sight," reasoned Joe. "If I go now they'll see or hear me, and they'll be bound to suspect something. Yet I'd like to warn dad as soon as I can. There's no telling when they may put up some job against him." But Joe could only crouch down there and wait. At length he could stand it no longer. He reasoned that the men must be far enough away by this time to make it safe for him to emerge. "They're on the road to Riverside," thought Joe, "and I may run into them, but if I see them I can slip into the fields and go around. Mr. Benjamin doesn't know me, for he's hardly ever noticed me when I've been to the Harvester works to see dad. But Mr. Holdney might remember me. I can't take any chances." Cautiously he emerged from the bushes, and looked as far down the road as he could. There was no one in sight, and he started off. A little distance farther on, the road made a sharp turn and, just at the angle stood an old barn which hid the rest of the highway from sight until one was right at the turn. It was a dangerous place for vehicles, but the owner of the barn had refused to set it back. No sooner had Joe turned this corner than he came full upon Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Holdney standing just around the barn, apparently in deep conversation. At the sight of Joe they looked up quickly, and Mr. Benjamin exclaimed: "Ha! Perhaps this lad can tell us. We want to hire a carriage. Do you know any one around here who would let us take one for a short time?" Joe, who had started back at the unexpected sight of the two men, took courage on hearing this, and realizing that he had not yet been recognized. "I don't know any one around here," he said. "I'm pretty much of a stranger myself, but have you tried at this farmhouse?" and he pointed toward the one where the owner of the barn lived. "Oh, we don't want a farm horse!" exclaimed Mr. Holdney. "We want something that has some speed." Then, as he looked more fully at Joe he exclaimed: "Haven't I seen you somewhere before, my lad? I'm sure I have!" He took a step toward our hero, and Joe's heart gave a flutter. He was almost certain that Mr. Holdney would recognize him and then the next step would be to ask where he had been. The men might at once suspect that he had at least come past the place where they had been talking in secret, and they might even suspect that he had listened to them. Joe was in a predicament. "I'm sure I've met you somewhere before," went on Mr. Holdney, in his quick, nervous tones. "Do you live around here?" "Yes," answered Joe vaguely. "But I don't know where you could get a fast horse unless it's in town--in Riverside." He was about to pass on, hoping the men would not further bother him, when Mr. Holdney, coming a step nearer, said with great firmness: "I'm sure I've seen you before. What's your name?" Like a flash a way out of it came to Joe, and that without telling an untruth. "I play on the Silver Stars," he said quickly. "You may have seen me at some of the games," which was perfectly possible. "That's it!" exclaimed Mr. Holdney. "I knew it was somewhere. Now----" "I'm going into Riverside," went on Joe quickly. "If you like I'll stop at the livery stable and tell them to send out a rig for you if you want to wait here for it." "The very thing!" exclaimed Mr. Benjamin. "Let him do that, Rufus. Here's a quarter to pay for your trouble, my lad." "No, thank you!" exclaimed Joe with a laugh. "I'm glad to do you a favor." "All right," assented Mr. Benjamin. "If you'll send out a two-seated carriage and a man to drive it we'll be obliged to you. Then we can drive over and see Duncan," he added to Mr. Holdney. "We'll fix this thing all up now." "Yes, and if it's my father you're trying to 'fix,'" mused Joe, "I'll do my best to put a stop to it. Now, it's up to me to hurry home," and telling the men that he would do the errand for them, the lad hastened off down the road, leaving the two conspirators in earnest conversation. The livery stable keeper readily agreed to send out the carriage, and then Joe lost no time in hurrying to his house. "Has father come home yet?" he asked of his mother, for sometimes Mr. Matson came from the harvester works earlier than the regular stopping time. "No," answered Mrs. Matson, "why, what is the matter, Joe? Has anything happened?" for she noticed by his face that something out of the usual had occurred. "Oh, I don't know," he answered slowly. He was revolving in his mind whether or not he ought to tell his mother. Then, as he recollected that his father always consulted her on business matters, he decided that he would relate his experience. "Mother," he said, "isn't father interested in some sort of a patent about corn?" "About corn? Oh, I know what you mean. Yes, he is working on an improvement to a corn reaper and binder. It is a machine partly owned by the harvester people, but he expects to make considerable money by perfecting the machine. It is very crude now, and doesn't do good work." "And if he does perfect it, and some one gets the patents away from him, he _won't_ make the money!" exclaimed Joe. "Joe, what do you mean?" cried his mother in alarm. "I am sure something has happened. What is it?" "It hasn't happened yet, but it may any time," answered the lad, and then he told of what he had overheard, and his ideas of what was pending. "That's why I wanted to see father in a hurry, to warn him," he concluded. "Joe, I believe you're right!" exclaimed Mrs. Matson. "Your father ought to be told at once. I don't know what he can do--if anything--to prevent these men getting ahead of him. Oh, it's too bad! I know he always suspected Mr. Benjamin of not being strictly honest, but Mr. Holdney used to be his friend and on several occasions has loaned your father money. Oh, this is too bad, but perhaps it isn't too late. If I were you I'd go down toward the harvester works and you may meet father coming home. Then you can tell him all about it, and he may want to go back and get some of his papers, or parts of the machine, from his office so those men can't take them." "That's the very thing, mother!" cried Joe. "You ought to have been a man--or a boy and a baseball player! You can think so quickly. That reminds me; I had quite an experience to-day. Just say 'apple sauce' to me when I get back, and I'll tell you all about it." "It can't be possible!" exclaimed Mr. Matson, when Joe, having met him just outside the harvester works, told him of what he had heard. "It hardly seems possible that they would do such a thing. But I'm glad you told me, Joe." "Do you think they meant you, dad? I didn't hear them mention your name." "Of course they meant me!" declared Mr. Matson. "The warning came just in time, too, for only to-day I finished an important part of the machinery and the pattern of it is in my office now. I must go back and get it. Wait here for me." As Joe stood at the outer gate of the big harvester plant he heard the sound of a carriage approaching, and turning around he saw Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Holdney coming along in the rig Joe had had sent out to them only a little while before. "I thought better to drive back here first, and go see Duncan later," Mr. Benjamin was saying, and then both men caught sight of our hero. CHAPTER XVII A THROWING CONTEST "Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Benjamin. "There's that same lad again!" "What lad?" quickly demanded Mr. Holdney. "Oh, the one who sent us out this rig. I wonder----" "Did you want to see any one around the works?" interrupted Mr. Benjamin. "I don't want to seem impolite, after the service you rendered, but we don't allow loiterers here." A number of thoughts passed rapidly through Joe's mind. He realized that his father might come out at any moment and be seen by the manager carrying off the valuable patterns. Mr. Matson ought to be warned, for Joe realized that if they were to frustrate the conspiracy it would be best that the men did not know that they were on the verge of discovery. "I want to take a message to Mr. Matson," said Joe boldly, for this was the truth. He had quickly formed a plan in his mind, and he hoped that it would not be discovered that he was Mr. Matson's son. It was this very trick of quick thinking that afterward became of so much service to Joe in his notable career on the diamond. "Oh, then it's all right," said Mr. Benjamin. "You may go in. You'll find Mr. Matson in his office, I dare say." He smiled at Joe in what he doubtless meant to be a friendly fashion, but the young baseball player could not help but see the hypocrisy in it. Not pausing to exchange any other talk, Joe slipped in through the big iron gate and made his way to his father's office. He had been there before. Just as he reached it the heavy whistle blew, announcing closing time, and hundreds of hands began pouring from the various machine and casting shops. "Hello, Joe!" called Seth Potter, who played left field for the Silver Stars. "What you doing here, looking for a job?" Seth was employed in one of the offices, and was considered a valuable young man. "Yes, I want to learn how to make a machine so I don't miss any flies that come my way," laughed Joe. "That's right! Going to play with us Saturday?" "I hope so," and then, with a few other pleasant words, Seth hurried on, and Joe sought his father. He found Mr. Matson wrapping up some models. "Quick dad!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Holdney are out at the gate. They just drove up. I slipped in to warn you!" "Good, Joe! I'm glad you did. I wouldn't want them to see me taking these things away, for it would tell them that their game was discovered, and I want to find out more of what their plans are before they are aware of it." "But how you going to get out?" asked his son. "They're there yet," he added, for he could look from a window and see the carriage still at the gate. "Oh, you and I can slip out the back way. It's lucky you told me. There, I'm ready," and having locked his desk, Mr. Matson took his package and with Joe went out of a rear exit, going home by a roundabout way so that the conspirators did not see them. "My! I wish this thing hadn't happened, or that it was postponed for a while," said Mr. Matson thoughtfully as he walked along. "Why, is it likely to be serious, dad?" "I'm afraid so. You see I have a peculiar arrangement with the harvester concern in regard to things that I might invent. It is too complicated to go into all the details, but I have to trust to their honor to give me my rights in certain matters. If they wanted to they could deprive me of the benefits of my patents and the law could not help me. So I have to be very careful. Up to now I have trusted Mr. Benjamin implicitly, but now--now I will be on my guard. It is a lucky thing you overheard that talk." There was an earnest consultation between Mr. and Mrs. Matson that night, to which Joe and his sister were not admitted, for it was business they would not have understood. But at the close they were told to say nothing of what had happened that day. "I will keep right on at the harvester works as if nothing had occurred," said Mr. Matson, "and then they will not get suspicious. But I will do the most important and secret work on my invention here at home." "Now that it is all settled," said Clara, "I'm going to say 'apple sauce' to you, Joe. What does it mean?" "Oh, yes," and the young baseball player laughed. "Well I guess you've got to join the Dorcas and Sewing societies, mother, to keep me out of a scrape," and with many funny touches Joe told about his wild throw that day, making an amusing story of it. "Oh, I would have given anything if some of the girls and I could have been there when you and Tom were blacking the stove!" exclaimed Clara with a laugh. "I'm glad you weren't," declared Joe, "though it's lucky we didn't have to mop up the floor. After this I'm going to go a mile away from her house when I want to practice throwing." "I should think you would," agreed Mr. Matson. "But you'll join those societies; won't you mother?" asked Joe. "Oh, I suppose I'll have to, in order to keep you out of prison," she agreed with a laugh. "But please don't make any more engagements for me, as my time is pretty well occupied." It was two days after this when Tom Davis, coming out of school, caught up with Joe who was a little in advance of him. "Got anything special to do?" asked the substitute first baseman. "No, why?" "I thought maybe you'd like to go out in the lot again, and have some more practice." "Back of Mrs. Peterkin's house?" asked Joe with a smile. "I should say not! But I've got a new scheme. I read about it in that baseball book. We'll have a contest for long distance throwing and accuracy." "How do you mean?" "Why you and I'll go down in the same lots but we'll throw in the other direction. Then we can't hit anything. We'll see who can throw the farthest. You'll need to practice that if you are to play centre field." "What's the other contest?" "For straight aim. I'll get an old basket, and we'll see who can land the most balls in it. Want to try?" "Sure. Anything to improve myself," said Joe earnestly. A little later he and his chum were on their way to the vacant lots. As they walked along they met several other lads, some of whom played on the regular team, a few from the High School nine, and some from the Silver Star scrub. "What's doing?" demanded Rodney Burke. "We're going to see who is the best thrower," answered Tom. "Give us a show at it?" requested Ford Wilson. "Sure," assented Joe. "The more, the merrier." Soon a jolly crowd of youngsters were taking turns at the long distance throwing. After several tries the record lay between Joe and Rodney Burke, and they played off a tie, Joe winning by about seven feet. "That's a good throw all right," complimented the loser. "A fellow who's playing centre field needs to have a pretty good heave," said Joe. "Especially if he's up against a heavy-hitting team." "And that's been our luck for some time past," spoke Tom. "Well, now for the basket test." This was more difficult than straight throwing for distance and several of the lads dropped out, being disqualified by failures. But Tom, Joe and Rodney remained in, and for a time it was pretty even between them. Finally it narrowed down to Tom and Joe, and they were just ready to throw the deciding round when a new voice called out: "Any objections to me joining?" Joe and the others turned, to see the half-mocking face of Sam Morton. CHAPTER XVIII ANOTHER DEFEAT For a moment there was some embarrassment, as Sam was not in the habit of mingling with this crowd of boys. He had his own friends, not very many, to tell the truth, but he was usually with them. The lads did not know exactly how to take his request, but Joe came to the rescue. "Sure you can come in," he said heartily. "We're just seeing who can put the most balls in the basket." "What good do you think that does?" asked Sam. "Well, doesn't it help a fellow to get a straight aim?" asked Tom, half defiantly. "Oh, I don't know," was the rather sneering answer. "It might, if you kept at it long enough." "Let's see you try it," suggested Rodney Burke, who did not hold Sam in much awe. Carelessly the Silver Star pitcher accepted a ball that Joe obligingly held out. He threw quickly and the ball landed squarely in the basket. Then he did the trick again, and there was a little murmur of applause, for only a few of the boys had "two straight" to their credit. "Joe did three straight a while ago," said Tom proudly. "He and I are playing off a tie." Sam did not answer but threw again, and the ball went wide of the basket by two feet at least. Rodney laughed. "You're not such a much, even if you are the pitcher," he declared. "Who asked you anything about it?" demanded Sam savagely. He darted a look of anger at the lad, but as Rodney was well built and had a reputation for "scrappiness" Sam concluded not to tackle him just then. "I'll show you how to throw!" he exclaimed the next moment, and two balls went squarely in the basket. "Now, let's see you and Matson play it off," commanded Sam to Tom as though he was in the habit of having his wishes complied with. Whether it was nervousness or not, or whether he wanted to see his chum do well when Sam was present, was not made manifest, but Tom did not come up to his previous record, and Joe easily won. In fact Joe made a much better score than Sam, and there were several curious glances directed at the pitcher. "Don't you want to try it some more?" asked Rodney Burke, and there was mockery in his voice. "No!" half-growled Sam. "I've got to save my arm for the next game. We're going to win that sure. So long," and with that he turned and strode away. "As cheerful as a bear with a sore nose," remarked Rodney. Ordinarily but little importance would have been attached to the coming game with the Denville Whizzers, but on account of two previous defeats, Darrell Blackney and George Rankin had several conferences concerning it. The captain and manager were plainly worried. "Do you wish you had some one else to put in the box?" asked Rankin. "Well, not exactly," was the answer. "I haven't lost faith in Sam, but I do wish we could depend more on him. He'll pitch fine for several innings and then go to pieces. He tries to use too much speed and too many varieties of curves, I think." "By the way, what do you think of young Matson?" asked the captain. "I think a good deal of him. He doesn't amount to much as yet, but he's in earnest and he's got grit. In time I think he'll make a player." "He wants to pitch." "I know he does, but it's out of the question yet. Have you any line on him?" "Not yet," answered Rankin, "but I'll keep my eyes open. He's a good fielder all right, now that he isn't so nervous. He wants to play his head off. But Sam--well, we can't do any better right away, and--well, I guess we'll win this game." "We've got to!" insisted the manager earnestly, "if we want the people of Riverside to support us. They won't come to see a losing home team all the while." The game with the Whizzers was to take place on their grounds, and early on that morning the Silver Stars, some substitutes, and a crowd of "rooters" got ready for the trip. Denville was about seven miles from Riverside, back from the stream, and could be reached by trolley. A special car had been engaged for the team. The game started off well, and the Silver Stars got three runs in their half of the first inning. The home team was blanked and for a time it looked as if there would be an easy victory for the visitors. Sam was pitching in good form, and had struck several men out. For three innings the home team did not get a run, and there was only one to their credit in the fourth. There was gloom and despair among their supporters while the "rooters" of the visiting team were happy singing songs and yelling. Joe played well and had two outs to his credit on long flies, with no errors to mar his record. But he noticed that as the home team came to the bat in their half of the fifth, in which the Silver Stars had made two runs, that Darrell and the captain were in earnest consultation with Sam. They seemed to be remonstrating with him, and Joe heard the manager say: "Take it easy now; we have the game on ice." "Oh, I know how to play ball," retorted the pitcher. Then began a series of happenings. With a lead of four runs when the last half of the fifth started it would have seemed that the Stars might have won out. But Sam fell a prey to the applause of the crowd and began to do "grandstand" work. He contorted his body unnecessarily in winding up for a delivery. He hopped about before pitching the ball and he failed to study the batters, though he had had plenty of chance to do so. The result was that he went to pieces through sheer weariness and began giving balls. Then the home team, realizing what was happening, began to pound him, and to steal bases. In their half of the fifth the home team made six runs, putting them two ahead. "We've got to stop that!" said Darrell, with a shake of his head. "We sure have," agreed the captain. There was somewhat of a brace on the part of the Stars and they made one run in their part of the sixth. But the Whizzers kept pace with them. The seventh inning resulted in one run for the visitors and none for the home team and that made only a lead of one for the home nine. Joe brought in a run in the eighth, but as if it had been prearranged the home team duplicated so the score at the beginning of the ninth stood eight to nine in favor of the home team. "We need two runs to win, if we can serve them goose eggs for lunch," said the Silver Star captain grimly. "Go to it, boys; beat 'em out." "Sure we will," said Sam airily, and he brought in one of the needed two runs. Darrell contributed the other, and when the visiting team took the field they were one ahead. "Don't let a man get to first!" cried Captain Rankin. But it was not to be. Sam gave the first man his base on balls and there was a groan of anguish from his fellows and the Riverside crowd. Then the second man whacked out what appeared to be a pretty three bagger, scoring the runner from first. The batter slipped on his way from second to third, however, and was put out when Joe made a magnificent throw in from deep centre. With one out Sam gathered himself together and struck out the next man. Then came to the bat the mightiest walloper of the rival team. "Wait for a good one. Make him give you what you want," advised the coacher to the batter. And the latter did wait, for when he got what he wanted he "slammed it" away out in centre field. "A home run! A home run!" yelled the frantic crowd. "And win the game!" shouted a score of the players' friends. "Come on, baby-mine!" Joe was madly racing after the ball, which had gone away beyond him. He got it and hurled it to second for a relay home, as a quick glance had shown him the man rounding third. Straight and true the ball went and the baseman had it. Then he sent it to Catcher Ferguson as the runner was racing in. Sam had run from his box and stood watching and expectant near home plate. The runner dropped and slid and Bart Ferguson, as the ball landed in his mitt, reached over to touch him. "Safe!" howled the umpire, and it meant the defeat of the Silver Stars. For a moment there was silence and then Sam, stepping up to the umpire, a lad smaller than himself, said: "Safe, eh? Not in a thousand years! You don't know how to umpire a game. Safe! I guess not!" and drawing back his fist Sam sent it crashing into the face of the other lad. CHAPTER XIX JOE IS WATCHED There was an uproar in an instant. Players started for Sam and the unoffending lad whom he had struck. There were savage yells, calling for vengeance. Even Sam's mates, used as they were to his fits of temper, were not prepared for this. The Whizzer players were wild to get at him, but, instinctively Darrell, Joe, Rankin, and some of the others of the Silver Stars formed a protecting cordon about their pitcher. "Are you crazy, Sam? What in the world did you do that for?" demanded the manager. "He made a rank decision, an unfair one!" cried Sam, "and when I called him down he was going to hit me. I got in ahead of him--that's all." "That's not so!" cried the Whizzer captain. "I saw it all." "That's right!" chimed in some of his mates. "Farson never raised his hand to him!" declared another lad, who had been standing near the umpire. "You're a big coward to hit a chap smaller than you are!" he called tauntingly to Sam. "Well, I'm not afraid to hit you!" cried the pitcher, who seemed to have lost control of himself. "And if you want anything you know how to get it." "Yes, and I'm willing to take it right now," yelled the other, stepping up to Sam. There might have been another fight then and there, for both lads were unreasonable with anger, but Darrell quickly stepped in between them. "Look here!" burst out the Stars' manager, in what he tried to make a good-natured and reasoning voice, "this has got to stop. We didn't come here to fight, we came to play baseball and you trimmed us properly." "Then why don't you fellows take your medicine?" demanded the home captain. "What right has he got to tackle our umpire?" "No right at all," admitted Darrell. "Sam was in the wrong and he'll apologize. He probably thought the man was out." "And he _was_ out!" exploded the unreasonable pitcher. "I'll not apologize, either." "Wipe up the field with 'em!" came in murmurs from the home players. Several of the lads had grasped their bats. It was a critical moment and Darrell felt it. He pulled Sam to one side and whispered rapidly and tensely in his ear: "Sam, you've got to apologize, and you've got to admit that the runner was safe. There's no other way out of it." "Suppose I won't?" There was defiance in Sam's air. Darrell took a quick decision. "Then I'll put you out of the team!" was his instant rejoinder, and it came so promptly that Sam winced. Now it is one thing to resign, but quite another to be read out of an organization, whether it be a baseball team or a political society. Sam realized this. He might have, in his anger, refused to belong to the Silver Stars and, later on he could boast of having gotten out of his own accord. But to be "fired" carried no glory with it, and Sam was ever on the lookout for glory. "Do you mean that?" he asked of Darrell. "Won't you fellows stick up for me?" He looked a vain appeal to his mates. "I mean every word of it," replied the manager firmly. "We fellows would stick up for you if you were in the right, but you're dead wrong this time. It's apologize or get out of the team!" Once more Sam paused. He could hear the angry murmurs of the home players as they watched him, waiting for his decision. Even some of his own mates were regarding him with unfriendly eyes. He must make a virtue of necessity. "All right--I--I apologize," said Sam in a low voice. "The runner was safe I guess." "You'd better be sure about it," said the captain of the Whizzers, in a peculiar tone as he looked at Sam. "Oh, I'm sure all right." "And you're sorry you hit our umpire?" persisted the captain, for Sam's apology had not been very satisfactory. "Yes. You needn't rub it in," growled the pitcher. "Then why don't you shake hands with him, and tell him so like a man?" went on the home captain. "I won't shake hands with him!" exclaimed the small umpire. "I don't shake hands with cowards!" There was another murmur, and the trouble that had been so nearly adjusted threatened to break out again. But Darrell was wise in his day. "That's all right!" he called, more cheerily than he felt. "You fellows beat us fairly and on the level. We haven't a kick coming, but we may treat you to a dose of the same medicine when we have a return game; eh, old man?" and he made his way to the opposing captain and the manager and cordially shook hands with them. There was a half cheer from the Whizzers. They liked a good loser. "Yes, maybe you can turn the tables on us," admitted the other manager, "but I hope when we do come to Riverside you'll have a different pitcher," and he glanced significantly at Sam. "No telling," replied Darrell with a laugh. "Come on, fellows. We'll give three cheers for the team that beat us and then we'll beat it for home." It was rather a silent crowd of the Silver Stars that rode in the special trolley. Following them was another car containing some of the "rooters." They made up in liveliness what the team members lacked in spirits, for there were a number of girls with the lads, Joe's sister and Tom's being among them, and they started some school songs. And the gloom that seemed to hang over the Stars was not altogether because of their defeat. It was the remembrance of Sam's unsportsmanlike act, and it rankled deep. On his part it is doubtful if Sam felt any remorse. He was a hot-tempered lad, used to having his own way, and probably he thought he had done just right in chastising the umpire for what he regarded as a rank decision. Darrell, Rankin and some of the others tried to be jolly and start a line of talk that would make the lads forget the unpleasant incident, but it is doubtful if they succeeded to any great extent. The manager was seriously considering the future of the team. Was it wise to go on with such a pitcher as Sam who, though talented, could not be relied upon and who was likely to make "breaks" at unexpected times? "Yet what can we do?" asked Darrell of the captain. "Is there another man we could put in or get from some other team?" "I don't believe any other team would part with a good pitcher at this time of the season," replied Rankin. "Surely not if he was a real good one, and we want one that _is_ good. As for using some of the other fellows in Sam's place, I don't know of any one that's anywhere near as good as he is." "How about Percy Parnell? He's pitched some, hasn't he?" "Yes, but you know what happened. He was knocked out of the box and we were whitewashed that game." "Say!" exclaimed Darrell. "I just happened to think of it. That new fellow--Joe Matson. He told me he used to pitch in his home town--Bentville I think it was. I wonder if he'd be any good?" "Hard telling," replied the captain, somewhat indifferently. "We ought to do something, anyhow." "I tell you what I'm going to do," went on Darrell. "I'm going to write to some one in Bentville. I think I know an old baseball friend there, and I'll ask him what Matson's record was. If he made good at all we might give him a tryout." "And have Sam get on his ear?" "I don't care whether he does or not. Things can't be much worse; can they?" "No, I guess not. Go ahead. I'm with you in anything you do. Three straight wallops in three weeks have taken the heart out of me." "Same here. Well, we'll see what we can do." Joe reached home that night rather tired and discouraged. He felt the defeat of his team keenly, and the more so as the nine he had played with in Bentville had had a much better record than that of the Silver Stars--at least so far, though the Silver Stars were an older and stronger team. "I wonder if I'm the hoodoo?" mused Joe. "They lost the first game I saw them play, and the next one I played in they lost, and here's this one. I hope I'm not a jinx." Then he reviewed his own playing in the two games where he had had a chance to show what he could do, and he had no fault to find with his efforts. True, he had made errors; but who had not? "I'm going to keep on practicing," mused Joe. "If I can work up in speed and accuracy, and keep what curving power I have already, I may get a chance to pitch. Things are coming to a head with Sam, and, though I don't wish him any bad luck, if he _does_ get out I hope I get a chance to go in." Following this plan, Joe went off by himself one afternoon several days later to practice throwing in the empty lot. He used a basket to hold the balls he pitched and he was glad to find that he had not gone back any from the time when he and Tom, with the other lads, had had their contest. "If I can only keep this up," mused the lad, "I'll get there some day. Jove! If ever I should become one of the big league players! Think of taking part in the World's series! Cracky! I'd rather be in the box, facing the champions, than to be almost anything else I can think of. Forty thousand people watching you as you wind up and send in a swift one like this!" And with that Joe let fly a ball with all his speed toward the basket. He was not so much intent on accuracy then as he was in letting off some surplus "steam," and he was not a little surprised when the ball not only went _into_ the basket but _through_ it, ripping out the bottom. "Wow!" exclaimed Joe. "I'm throwing faster than I thought I was. That basket is on the fritz. But if I'd been sending a ball over the plate it would have had some speed back of it, and it would have gone to the right spot." As Joe went to pick up the ball and examine the broken basket more closely a figure peered out from a little clump of trees on the edge of the field where the lad was practicing. The figure watched the would-be pitcher closely and then murmured: "He certainly has _speed_ all right. I'd like to be back of the plate and watch him throw them in. I wonder if he has anything in him after all? It's worth taking a chance on. I'll wait a bit longer." The figure dodged behind the trees again as Joe once more took his position. He had stuffed some grass in the hole in the peach basket he was using, and again he threw in it. He was just as accurate as before, and, now and then, when he cut loose, he sent the ball with unerring aim and with great force into the receptacle, several times knocking it down off the stake on which it was fastened. "I don't know as there's much use in writing to Bentville to find out about him," mused the figure hidden by the trees. "If he's got that speed, and continues to show the control he has to-day, even without any curves he'd be a help to us. I'm going to speak to Rankin about it," and with that the figure turned away. Had Joe looked he would have seen Darrell Blackney, manager of the Silver Stars, who had been playing the innocent spy on him. CHAPTER XX "WOULD YOU LIKE TO PITCH?" "Come now, fellows, let's get into practice. Are all the scrub here?" Darrell Blackney looked around over the diamond, where about twenty lads were assembled one fine afternoon. "I don't know about the scrub, but all our fellows are on hand," replied Rankin. "Is it all arranged about the game Saturday?" "Yes, we're to play the Fayetteville Academy lads on their grounds." "A trip out of town, eh? That's two in two weeks." "Well it gives our fellows experience in playing on some other diamond than their own." "Oh, it doesn't much matter. The Fayettevilles will be easy fruit for us." "Don't be too sure. They're a younger team, that's true, and they haven't been doing well this season, but neither have we of late." "Oh, we'll beat 'em," declared the captain confidently. "I think so myself, but I don't want you to take too many chances. Here comes Sam. You and he get in for some warm-up work, Bart, and I'll get the scrub together." Darrell went about the diamond, calling to the various members of the "scrub," or second team. "We haven't any pitcher," remarked Blake Carrington, who acted as captain of the scrub organization. "What's the matter with Slater?" "He hasn't showed up, and none of the other fellows feel like getting in the box against you boys. You'll have to find us a pitcher before we can play." A sudden idea came to Darrell. "All right," he answered. "I guess I can. Wait a minute." He ran over to where Rankin was talking to some of his players. "Can you play Tom Davis in centre field for to-day?" asked the manager. "Yes, I guess so. Why?" "I'm going to have Joe Matson pitch on the scrub. It will be a good time to get a line on him, and I'll see if he shapes up as well as the day he did when I watched him practice." "All right; maybe it will be a good idea." Joe hardly knew what to say when Darrell, as calmly as if he had done it several times before, asked him to go in the box for the scrub and pitch against the Silver Stars. "And do your best," added Darrell. "I don't care how many of our fellows you strike out. Every one, if you can." Joe's heart gave a bound of delight. It might be the beginning of the very chance he had been waiting for so long. He calmed himself with an effort for he did not want to get "rattled." "All right," he answered as though he had been used to such sudden emergency calls all season. "I'll see what I can do. I'd like a chance to warm up, though." "Sure. You and Jake Bender go over there and practice for five minutes. Then we'll play a five-inning game." The Stars were to bat first, and there was a mocking smile on the face of Sam Morton as he watched his rival go to the box. "Don't strike us all out," called Sam. "We've had hard luck enough lately." The game began, and it was for "blood" from the very start. Joe was a trifle nervous, especially when he had two balls called on his first two efforts. Then he braced himself, and, not trying for speed, sent in a slow, easy ball that completely fooled the batter, who eventually struck out. "Pretty good for a starter," complimented Darrell. Sam Morton scowled. The next batter hit an easy fly which was so promptly gathered in by the shortstop that there was little use in the player starting for first. Then Joe struck out the next lad after he had hit a couple of fouls. "That's the stuff!" cried Tom Davis, as he patted his chum on the back. "You'll be in the box for the Stars yet." "Don't get me all excited," begged Joe with a smile. Yet he could not help feeling elated. There was a viciousness in the pitching of Sam when he toed the plate that showed how his feelings had been stirred. He was evidently going to show how much superior he was. He did strike out two men, and then came Joe's turn at the bat. Our hero thought he detected a gleam of anger in Sam's eyes. "He'd just as soon hit me with a ball as not," thought Joe, "and if he does it will hurt some. And he may be trying to bluff me so that I won't stand up to the plate. I'll see what I can do to him." Consequently, instead of waiting for the ball to get to him Joe stepped up and out to meet it before the curve "broke." He "walked right into it," as the baseball term has it, and the result was that he whacked out a pretty two-bagger that brought his mates to their feet with yells. Sam bit his lips in anger, but he kept his temper by an effort and struck out the next man so that Joe's effort resulted in nothing. The game went on, and when Sam at bat faced Joe, our hero could not help feeling a trifle nervous. He had sized up Sam's style of batting, however, and was prepared. "I'm going to give him a slow ball with an in-shoot to it," decided Joe. "He keeps back from the plate and this will make him get still farther back. I'm going to strike him out." And strike him out Joe did, though not until after Sam had hit one foul that was within a shade of being fair. But when on his next two strikes he fanned the wind, there was a look of wonder and gratification on the face of Darrell. "I believe Joe is going to make good," he said to Rankin. "It sure looks so. What about it?" "You'll see in a minute. I'm going to give him a chance to pitch part of the game against the Fayetteville Academy nine--that is if you agree to it." "Sure, go as far as you like." At the close of the game, which was won by the Stars, though by a small margin, Darrell approached Joe. "Well?" asked the new pitcher diffidently. "You did first rate. How would you like to pitch part of the game Saturday?" "Do you mean it?" was the eager question. "Certainly. I'll put you in for a few innings toward the end, after we've cinched it, for I think it will be easy for us." It was not the highest honor that could have come to Joe, but he realized what it meant. "I'd like it immensely," he said, "but won't Sam--what about him?" "I don't care anything about him," said Darrell quickly. "I'm running this team. Will you pitch?" "I sure will!" and Joe's heart beat high with hope. CHAPTER XXI TO THE RESCUE Joe Matson felt as though he was walking in the air when he went home that afternoon following the scrub game. That his ambition was about to be realized, and so soon after joining the team, was almost unbelievable. "Why, what's the matter, Joe?" asked Clara, as her brother fairly pranced into the house, caught her around the waist and swung her in the start of a waltz. "Matter? Plenty's the matter! I'm going to pitch on the Stars Saturday. Hurray!" "My! Any one would think you were going to pitch up _to_ the stars the way you're going on. Let go of me; you'll have my hair all mussed up!" "That's easily fixed. Yes, I'm going to pitch." "Against whom?" "The Fayetteville Academy, on their grounds. It won't be much of a game, and I'm not to go in until it's in the ice box----" "In the ice box?" "Yes, the refrigerator you know--safe. Then I'm to try my hand at putting 'em over. Of course I'd like to go the whole nine innings but I can't have everything at the start. It's mighty decent of Darrell to give me this chance. Aren't you glad, sis?" "Yes, of course I am. I'd like to see the game, but I've used up all of my allowance for this week, and----" "Here!" and Joe held out a dollar. "Blow yourself, sis." "Oh, what horrid slang!" "I mean go to the game on me. I'll stand treat. Take a girl if you want to and see yours truly do himself proud." Joe hunted up his mother to tell her the good news. He found her in the room which his father had fitted up as a workshop since the suspicious actions of Mr. Benjamin at the harvester factory. Mrs. Matson was looking over some papers, and there was on her face the same worried look Joe had seen there before. "Has anything happened, mother?" he asked quickly, his own good news fading away as he thought of the trouble that might menace his father. "No, only the same trouble about the patent," she said. "There is nothing new, but your father thinks from the recent actions of Mr. Benjamin that the manager suspects something. Your father is getting some papers ready to go to Washington, and I was looking them over for him. I used to work in a lawyer's office when I was a girl," she went on with a smile, "and I know a little about the patent business so I thought I would help your father if I could." "Then there's nothing wrong?" "Not exactly, and if all goes right he will soon have his patent granted, and then those men can not harm him. But you look as though you had good news." "I have," and the lad fairly bubbled over in telling his mother of the chance that had so unexpectedly come to him. Mr. Matson was quite enthusiastic about Joe's chance when he came home from work, and together they talked about it after supper. "I wish I could go see the game," said Mr. Matson, "but I am too busy." "How is the patent coming on?" asked Joe. "Oh, pretty good. Thanks to you I was warned in time. If I had left my drawings, patterns and other things in the shop I'm afraid it wouldn't be going so well. Mr. Benjamin evidently suspects something. Only to-day he asked me how I was coming on with it, and he wanted to know why I wasn't working on it any more. I had to put him off with some excuse and he acted very queer. Right after that I heard him calling up Mr. Holdney on the telephone." "But your worry will be over when your application is allowed," suggested Mrs. Matson. Joe went to his baseball practice with a vim in the days that intervened before the game that was to be so important to him. Tom Davis helped him, and several times cautioned his chum about overdoing himself. "If your arm gets stiff--it's good-night for you," he declared, in his usual blunt way. "You've got to take care of yourself, Joe." "I know it, but I want to get up more speed." "That's all right. Speed isn't everything. Practice for control, and that won't be so hard on you." And, as the days went on, Joe realized that he was perfecting himself, though he still had much to learn about the great game. It was the day before the contest when our hero was to occupy the box for the first time for the Stars. He and Tom had practiced hard and Joe knew that he was "fit." Joe wondered how Sam Morton had taken the news of his rival's advance, but if Sam knew he said nothing about it, and in the practice with the scrub he was unusually friendly to Joe. For Darrell decided not to have the new pitcher go into the box for the Stars until the last moment. He did not want word of it to get out, and Joe and the catcher did some practice in private with signals. The last practice had been held on the afternoon prior to the game, and arrangements completed for the team going to Fayetteville. Joe was on his way home on a car with Tom Davis, for Riverside boasted of a trolley system. "How do you feel?" asked Tom of his chum. "Fine as a fiddle." "Your arm isn't lame or sore?" "Not a bit, I can----" Joe was interrupted by a cry from two ladies who sat in front of them, the only other occupants of the vehicle save themselves. The car was going down hill and had acquired considerable speed--dangerous speed Joe thought--and the motorman did not seem to have it well under control. But what had caused the cry of alarm was this. Driving along the street, parallel with the tracks, and about three hundred feet ahead of the car, was a boy in an open delivery wagon. He was going in the same direction as was the electric vehicle. Suddenly his horse stumbled and fell almost on the tracks, the wagon sliding half over the animal while the boy on the seat was hemmed in and pinned down by a number of boxes and baskets that slid forward from the rear of the wagon. "Put on your brakes! Put on your brakes!" yelled the conductor to the motorman. "You'll run him down!" The motorman ground at the handle, and the brake shoes whined as they gripped the wheels, but the car came nearer and nearer the wagon. The conductor on the rear platform was also putting on the brakes there. Suddenly the horse kicked himself around so that he was free of the tracks, lying alongside them, and far enough to one side so that the car would safely pass him. There was a sigh of relief from the two women passengers, but a moment later it changed to a cry of alarm, for the boy on the seat suddenly fell to one side, and hung there with his head so far over that the car would hit him as it rushed past. The lad was evidently pinned down by the boxes and baskets on his legs. "Stop! Stop the car!" begged one of the ladies. The other had covered her eyes with her hands. "I--I can't!" cried the motorman. "It's got too much speed! I can't stop it." Joe sprang to his feet and made his way along the seat past Tom, to the running board of the car, for the vehicle was an open one. "Where are you going?" cried Tom. "To save that lad! He'll be killed if the car strikes him!" "Let the motorman do it!" "He can't! He's grinding on the brakes as hard as he can and so is the conductor. I've got to save him--these ladies can't! I can lean over and pull him aboard the car." "But your arm! You'll strain your arm and you can't pitch to-morrow." For an instant Joe hesitated, but only for an instant. He realized that what Tom said was true. He saw a vision of himself sitting idly on the bench, unable to twirl the ball because of a sprained arm. Then Joe made up his mind. "I'm going to save him!" he cried as he hurried to the front end of the running board. Then, clinging to the upright of the car with his left arm, he stretched out his other to save the lad from almost certain death, the conductor and motorman unable to lend aid and the women incapable. There was not room on the running board for Tom to help Joe. CHAPTER XXII A DELAYED PITCHER The motorman was grinding away at the brakes but the heavy car continued to slide on, for the hill was steep. The horse lay quiet now, for a man had managed to get to him and sit on his head, so the animal could not kick and thresh about with the consequent danger of getting his legs under the trolley. The car would pass the horse and the wagon by a good margin, but the boy, leaning far over, was sure to be hit unless Joe saved him, and no one in the street seemed to think of the boy's danger. He said later that he did not realize it himself. The lad was struggling to free himself but could not, and he did not seem to be able to raise himself to an upright position on the seat, in which case he would have been safe. "Steady now!" called Joe, and he braced himself for the shock he knew would come. The next instant, as the car kept on, Joe found himself opposite the lad and reaching forward his right hand he grasped him by the collar, shoving him away so the car would not strike him. Then, holding on in grim despair Joe pulled the youth toward him, aided by the momentum of the vehicle. His idea was to get him aboard the car to prevent his being struck by it, and in this he succeeded. There was a ripping sound, for some part of the lad's clothing was caught on the seat and tore loose. A shower of boxes and baskets followed the body as it slid forward, and a moment later Joe had the lad on the foot board beside him, safe and sound, but very much astonished by his sudden descent from the wagon seat. Joe felt an excruciating pain shoot through his arm--his pitching arm. It was numb from the shock but even yet he did not dare let go, for the lad was on uncertain footing. The pain increased. It was like being kicked by the back-fire of an auto or motor boat. For a moment there was a dull sensation and then the outraged nerves and muscles seemed to cry out in agony. "There--there!" murmured Joe between his clenched teeth to the lad he had saved. "You're all right I guess. Will--will somebody----" He did not finish, but turned to the conductor, who had rushed toward him on the running board, ready to relieve him of the lad's weight. But the boy was able to look after himself now, for the vehicle was almost at a standstill, and the motorman had it under control. "Much--much obliged to you," the boy stammered his thanks to Joe who was slowly making his way back to where Tom awaited him. Joe did not know whether he could get there or not, passing himself along by clinging with his left hand to the successive car uprights. "He saved your life all right," said the conductor, who had hold of the delivery wagon lad. "That's what!" chimed in several other men from the street, as they crowded up around the car. By this time the motorman had succeeded in bringing the vehicle to a full stop and Joe, fearing he might fall, for the pain was very severe, got off. Tom hurried up to him. "Did it strain you much?" he asked eagerly. "A little--yes; considerable I guess," admitted Joe, making a wry face. "But it will be all right--I guess." His right arm--the arm he hoped to use in the game on the morrow--the first game with him in the box--hung limp at his side. Tom Davis saw and knew at once that something serious was the matter. He realized what it meant to Joe, and he lost no time in useless talk. "You come with me!" he commanded, taking hold of Joe's left arm. "Where are you going?" demanded our hero. "To our old family doctor. That arm of yours will need attention if you're going to pitch to-morrow." "I don't know that I can pitch, Tom." "Yes you can--you've _got_ to. Dr. Pickett will give you something to fix it up. You can't let this chance slip. I was afraid this would happen when I saw what you were going to do." "Yes," said Joe simply, "but I couldn't let him be hit by the car." "No, I suppose not, and yet--well, we'll see what Dr. Pickett says. Come on," and Tom quickly improvised a sling from his own and Joe's handkerchiefs, and was about to lead his chum away. "Oh, are you hurt? I'm sorry!" exclaimed the lad whom Joe had saved. "It's only a strain," said the pitcher, but he did not add what it might mean to him. The lad thanked Joe again, earnestly, for his brave act and then hastened to look after his horse, that had been gotten to its feet. The motorman, too, thanked Joe for, though had an accident resulted it would not have been his fault, yet he was grateful. "Oh, come on!" exclaimed Tom impatiently as several others crowded up around Joe. "Every minute's delay makes it worse. Let's get a move on," and he almost dragged his chum to the doctor's office. Dr. Pickett looked grave when told of the cause of the injury. "Well, let's have a look at the arm," he suggested, and when he saw a slight swelling he shook his head. "I'm afraid you can't pitch to-morrow," he said. "I've _got_ to," replied Joe simply. "Can't you give him some liniment to rub on to take the stiffness out, doctor?" asked Joe. "Hum! Nature is something that doesn't like to be hurried, young man," responded the physician. "However, it might be worse, and perhaps if that arm is massaged half the night and up to the time of the game to-morrow, he might pitch a few innings." "That's good!" exclaimed Joe. "And it's me for the massage!" cried Tom. "Now give us some stuff to rub on, doctor." Dr. Pickett showed Tom how to rub the arm, and how to knead the muscles to take out the soreness, and gave the boys a prescription to get filled at the drug store. "Come on!" cried Tom again. He seemed to have taken charge of Joe as a trainer might have done. "I must get you home and begin work on you." And Tom did. He installed himself as rubber-in-chief in Joe's room, and for several hours thereafter there was the smell of arnica and pungent liniment throughout the house. Tom was a faithful massage artist, and soon some of the soreness began to get out of the wrenched arm. "Let me try to throw a ball across the room," the pitcher begged of Tom about nine o'clock. "I want to see if I can move it." "Not a move!" sternly forbade the nurse. "You just keep quiet. If you can pitch in the morning you'll be lucky." At intervals until nearly midnight Tom rubbed the arm and then, knowing that Joe must have rest, he installed himself on a couch in his chum's room, and let Joe go to sleep, with his arm wrapped in hot towels saturated with witch hazel, a warm flat iron keeping the heat up. "Well, how goes it?" Joe heard some one say, as he opened his eyes to find the sun streaming in his room. The young pitcher tried to raise his arm but could not. It seemed as heavy as lead and a look of alarm came over his face. "That's all right," explained Tom. "Wait until I get off some of the towels. It looks like an Egyptian mummy now." Tom loosed the wrappings and then, to Joe's delight, he found that he could move his arm with only a little pain resulting. He was about to swing it, as he did when pitching, but Tom called out: "Hold on now! Wait until I rub it a bit and get up the circulation." The rubbing did good, and Joe found that he had nearly full control of the hand and arm. They were a bit stiff to be sure, but much better. "Now for a good breakfast, some more rubbing, then some more, and a little light practice," decided Tom, and Joe smiled, but he gave in and ate a hearty meal. Once more faithful Tom massaged the arm, and rubbed in a salve designed to make the sore muscles and tendons limber. Not until then would he allow Joe to go down in the yard and throw a few balls. The delivery of the first one brought a look of agony on the pitcher's face, but he kept at it until he was nearly himself again. Then came more rubbing and another application of salve and liniment, until Joe declared that there wouldn't be any skin left on his arm, and that he'd smell like a walking drug store for a week. "Don't you care, as long as you can pitch," said Clara. "I'm going to the game and I'm going to take Mabel Davis and Helen Rutherford. They both want to see you pitch, Joe." "That's good," said her brother with a smile. "Now we'll take another trip to the doctor's and see what he says," was Tom's next order. The physician looked gratified when he saw the arm. "Either it wasn't as badly strained as I thought it," he said, "or that medicine worked wonders." "It was my rubbing," explained Tom, puffing out his chest in pretended pride. "Well, that certainly completed the cure," admitted the physician. "And I can pitch?" asked Joe anxiously. "Yes, a few innings. Have your arm rubbed at intervals in the game, and wear a wrist strap. Good luck and I hope you'll win," and with a smile he dismissed them. Wearing a wrist strap helped greatly, and when it was nearly time to leave for Fayetteville Joe found that his arm was much better. "I don't know how long I can last," he said to Darrell, "and maybe I'll be batted out of the box." "It's too bad, of course," replied the manager, when the accident had been explained to him, "but we won't work you very hard. I want you to get your chance, though." And Joe felt his heart beat faster as he thought how nearly he had lost his chance. Yet he could not have done otherwise, he reflected. "I don't see what's keeping Sam Morton," mused Captain Rankin, as the team prepared to take the special trolley car. "He met me a little while ago and said he'd be on hand." "It's early yet," commented the manager. "I guess he'll be on hand. I told him Joe was going to pitch a few innings." "What did he say?" "Well, he didn't cut up nearly as much as I thought he would. He said it was only fair to give him a show, but I know Sam is jealous and he won't take any chances on not being there." All of the players, save the regular pitcher, were on hand now and they were anxiously waiting for Sam. One of the inspectors of the trolley line came up to where the boys stood about the special car that was on a siding. "Say," began the inspector, "I'll have to send you boys on your way now." "But our special isn't due to leave for half an hour," complained Darrell. "We're waiting for Sam Morton." "Can't help that. I've got to start you off sooner than I expected. There's been a change in the schedule that I didn't expect, and if I don't get you off now I can't for another hour, as the line to Fayetteville will be blocked." "That means we'll be half an hour later than we expected," said Darrell. "Well, I suppose we'd better go on. Sam can come by the regular trolley, I guess." "Sure, he'll be in Fayetteville in plenty of time," suggested the inspector. "I'll be here and tell him about it." There was no other way out of it, and soon the team and the substitutes, with the exception of Sam, were on their way. There was quite a crowd already gathered on the Academy grounds when they arrived and they were noisily greeted by their opponents as well as by some of their own "rooters." The Academy lads were at practice. "They're a snappy lot of youngsters," commented Darrell, as he watched them. "Yes, we won't have any walk-over," said the captain. The Silver Star lads lost no time in getting into their uniforms. Tom gave Joe's arm a good rubbing and then he caught for him for a while until Joe announced that, aside from a little soreness, he was all right. "Try it with Ferguson now," ordered Darrell, motioning to the regular catcher, and Joe did so, receiving compliments from the backstop for his accuracy. "A little more speed and you'll have 'em guessing," said the catcher genially. "But don't strain yourself." The minutes ticked on. Several of the regular cars had come in from Riverside but there was no sign of Sam Morton. Darrell and Captain Rankin held an earnest conversation. "What do you suppose is keeping him?" asked the manager. "I can't imagine. Unless he is deliberately staying away to throw the game." "Oh, Sam wouldn't do that. He's too anxious to pitch. We'll wait a few more cars." "And if he doesn't come?" Darrell shrugged his shoulders and looked over to where Joe was practicing with Bart Ferguson. CHAPTER XXIII JOE IN THE BOX "Well, when are you fellows going to start?" asked Tony Johnson, captain of the Academy nine, as he ceased his catching practice with Ed. Wilson, the pitcher. "The game ought to have been called ten minutes ago." "Our pitcher isn't here," said Darrell anxiously. "We're expecting him every minute. If you could wait a little longer----" "Haven't you any one else you can put in?" asked Ferd Backus, the manager. "I saw some one practicing a while ago." "He isn't our regular pitcher," said George Rankin, "but if Sam doesn't come we'll have to lead off with him." Joe had been aware that Sam was not on hand. He looked up as car after car passed the grounds, thinking to see Sam enter, for the electric vehicles from Riverside ran close to the Academy diamond. "I suppose they'll put Parnell in at the start," Joe mused, naming the second baseman who sometimes acted as pitcher for the Stars. Joe did not dare hope that he himself would be chosen. "Well, how much longer?" demanded Johnson, when two more cars had passed and Sam was on neither of them. "We want to finish this game before dark." "All right," assented Darrell briskly. "Get your men ready, Rankin." "But who will pitch?" "Joe Matson, of course. It's the only thing we can do. Take the field, fellows. Joe, take your place in the box!" "Who--me?" gasped our hero, unable to believe the words. "Yes, you," and Darrell smiled. "Do your prettiest now. You're going in at the beginning instead of at the end. It's different from what I planned, but I guess I can depend on you. Hold 'em down!" "I will!" cried Joe fiercely and he forgot his injured arm. "Play ball!" ordered the umpire and Joe took his place as pitcher for the Silver Stars for the first time. No wonder his heart beat faster than usual. The Stars were to bat last, Rankin having won the toss. It must be remembered that these boys were amateur players and did not always follow league rules of having the home team up last. The usual number of practice balls were allowed between Joe and the catcher at the plate and Bart noted with satisfaction that Joe was cool and steady and that he did not try for speed. Then the first man for the Academy--their best hitter--faced our hero. Bart gave the signal for a slow straight ball over the plate at an angle. It was the beginning of a cross-fire which he and Joe had quickly agreed upon, and, as is well known, the ability of a pitcher to deliver a good cross-fire wins many games. Cross-firing is merely sending the ball first over one side of the plate then the other and then right over centre. Joe had done it in practice. Could he do it in the game? "Strike one!" called the umpire, when the first ball found lodgment in Bart's big glove. There was a little gasp of protest from the Academy crowd, but they said nothing. Their man had not struck at the ball, but it had been in the right place and Joe knew he had a fair umpire with whom to deal. His next delivery was a ball, but the third was a strike though the man had not moved his bat. "Hit it--hit it!" pleaded his friends. The batter swung fiercely at the next ball and knocked a little pop fly which Bart gathered in and one man was down. "Do it again!" called Darrell to his pitcher, and Joe smiled. His arm pained him a little, but he gritted his teeth and delivered the next man a strike, for the batter missed it cleanly. He was not so lucky in his following trial, for the batter got to first mainly because of an error in the play of Fred Newton, at short, who fumbled the pick-up and delayed in getting the ball to Darrell. Joe succeeded in striking out the third man up, though the one who had gone to first managed to steal second. There were now two out and a man on the middle bag when Joe faced his fourth opponent. He tried for a slow out but something went wrong and the man hit for two sacks, bringing in the run. But that was all, for the next batter fell for some slow, easy balls and fanned the air. The Academys had one run and it looked a trifle disheartening to the Silver Stars until they came up and found that the pitcher opposed to them was very weak. They hammered him pretty badly in the last half of the first, and three runs were credited to them ere they had to take the field again. "Not so bad; eh?" asked Rankin of Darrell. "Fine, if Joe can only keep it up. How's your arm?" he asked him. "Fine!" exclaimed our hero, but in truth it pained him considerably in spite of the treatment Tom Davis gave it. The Academy team didn't get a run in the second inning though Joe was found for some short, scattering hits. A man got to second and one to third, mainly through errors in the outfield force, one bad one being furnished by Tom, who was at centre in Joe's place. "But we'll forgive you for getting Joe's arm in shape," said the manager with a smile. In their half of the second the Stars got two runs, and succeeded in forcing another goose egg on their opponents in the home team's half of the third. Joe did not do so well this time, for he was beginning to tire and only a brace on the part of his supporting players saved him from having a number of runs come in on his errors. One run for the Stars marked their efforts in the third and when the fourth inning began it looked as if it was a foregone conclusion that the visiting team would go home with the scalp of their enemy. But Joe could not keep up the pace he had set for himself. No young and inexperienced pitcher could, much less one with a sore arm. The muscles ached very much in spite of all Tom could do with rubbing in the liniment, but Joe gritted his teeth and keep his place in the pitcher's box. He knew he dared not give in. Only two runs were earned, however, though he was pretty badly pounded, and this only made the score three to six in favor of the Stars, when their half of the fourth came. But they were unable to better it for the Academy lads took a brace after an earnest appeal by their captain and manager. "Make 'em take a goose egg!" yelled the student lads to their friends, and the Stars were forced to be content with this. In the fifth inning neither side scored, Joe holding his own well, and only allowing one hit, which amounted to nothing. And in the sixth when, with only three scattered hits, not a run was chalked up for the home team, Darrell ran over to Joe and cried: "Fine, old man! Can you keep it up?" "I--I'm going to!" burst out Joe, though he had to grit his teeth to keep back an expression of pain when he moved his pitching arm. CHAPTER XXIV SAM ARRIVES Whether the Stars were determined to show their opponents what they could do when they tried or whether it was because they wanted to show their confidence in Joe, or even whether it was due to a slump in the playing of the Academy team, was not made manifest, but at any rate in their half of the sixth inning our friends gathered in four runs, making the score ten to three in their favor. "Oh, it's a walk-over," boasted Tom Davis as he did an impromptu war dance. "Yes, we've got 'em beat a mile," added Seth Potter. "Don't be too sure," commented the Academy captain. "No game is won until it's over and we've got three more innings yet. The seventh is always our lucky number." "You're welcome to all you can get," rejoined Captain Rankin with a laugh. "Seven is where we always eat pie, too." The Stars were about to take the field for the beginning of the seventh when there was a commotion over at one entrance gate. A lad came running through the crowd. "Hold on!" he cried. "Wait! I'm going to play. Let me pitch!" "Sam Morton!" burst out Tom Davis. "Why couldn't he stay away until we had the game won? I'll bet we slump as soon as he goes in the box." Sam came on running. He was panting and out of breath. "What's the matter? Where were you?" demanded Darrell. "I got on--the wrong car. I thought it--came here. They--took me off--in the woods--somewhere. I've had an awful time--getting here. Is the game--over?" "No, we're just starting the seventh." "Can't I pitch?" Darrell hesitated. It was a perfectly natural request for Sam and yet Joe had been doing so well that both the manager and the captain disliked to take him off the mound. "Can't I pitch?" again demanded Sam. "You don't mean to tell me that Joe Matson has----" "Joe hasn't done anything but what we wanted him to," put in Rankin quickly, "and he's made a good record." "Oh, I suppose so," sneered Sam. "Well, if you don't want me to----" "Of course you can pitch," said Darrell quietly. It was unquestioningly Sam's right and though he was in rather an exhausted condition still the manager and captain knew that he was at his best early in his game. "What are you going to do; change pitchers?" demanded the manager of the Academy team, striding up to Darrell and Captain Rankin. "Yes." "You can't do it now." "Why not?" "It's against the rules. You've got to have some one bat for him first. You can't change until next inning." There was quite a mix-up, and rules were quoted and mis-quoted back and forth, for, as I have said, the lads were far from being professional or even college players. The upshot of it was that Sam was allowed to go in, whether or not in accordance with the rules the boys did not decide, and the little feeling that had been raised soon subsided, for they were all true sportsmen. As for Joe, at first he felt humiliated that he was displaced but he realized that he had had more honor that he had at first expected, and his arm was beginning to pain him very much. So, on the whole, he was glad Sam had arrived when he did. Not so the captain, manager and other Star players, however, for Sam allowed two runs while he occupied the box, and the Academy team and their friends were jubilant. The Stars managed to get two runs in their half of the seventh. Joe did not play, his place at centre field continuing to be filled by Tom. Joe was glad of the rest and he watched the efforts of his rival closely. In the eighth Sam did not seem able to pull himself together and three runs were due to his poor pitching. "Say, if we play innings enough we'll beat 'em even with their new pitcher!" called some one in the crowd, anxious to get Sam's "goat," or nerve. And this seemed likely. In their half of the eighth the Stars only got one run, and when the ninth inning opened there were some anxious hearts among the members of the visiting team. And then came a terrible slump. Sam grew wild, allowed bases on balls, struck one man and muffed an easy fly. When the route and riot were over there were five runs to the credit of the schoolboy players and they had tied the score, pulling up from a long way in the rear. The crowd went wild for them. "Fellows, we've got to make our half of this inning count," said Darrell earnestly. "They're making fools of us and they're not in our class at all. We've got to beat them! Sam, wake up!" he said sharply. "I'm not asleep!" retorted the pitcher. "If you think I am why don't you send that Matson in again?" "Easy now, easy," spoke Rankin. "You can pitch if you pull yourself together, and if we can't make a run this inning and it goes to the tenth you'll have to unwind some curves." "I will, but it won't go to the tenth." It didn't, for the Stars took a brace and pulled off one run, winning the game by a score of fourteen to thirteen. But it had been a close call. "Well, you beat us," acknowledged the Academy manager as the winning run came in. "But it took two pitchers to do it, and you'd have done better if you'd stuck to the first one." "Perhaps," admitted Darrell. "You played better than I gave you credit for." "Why don't you use that first pitcher regularly?" the home captain wanted to know. "Oh, maybe----" began Darrell, and then he saw Sam standing close beside him, and he did not finish. "What were you going to say?" demanded Sam roughly. "Nothing," answered the manager in some confusion. He was saved a further reply by the approach of a boy who held a note in his hand. "Is Joe Matson here?" the lad asked. "Right over there," said Darrell, pointing to where the young pitcher was talking to Tom Davis. "I've got a letter for him," the messenger went on. Joe rapidly tore open the envelope and read the few words the note contained. "I've got to leave here," he said to Tom. "Why? What's the matter? Nothing wrong I hope." "I don't know," answered Joe. "The note says I'm to come home at once. They've sent a carriage for me. I hope nothing has happened to--to anybody," and gulping down a suspicious lump in his throat Joe followed the lad off the diamond. CHAPTER XXV JOE FOILS THE PLOTTERS There was a carriage waiting just outside the ball grounds, a carriage drawn by one horse. A man whom Joe had never seen before, so far as he knew, held the reins. "There's the man who wants you," explained the lad who had acted as messenger. "Who is he?" asked the young pitcher quickly. "I don't know him. Where did he come from? Where did you meet him?" "I guess he'll tell you all you want to know," said the lad. "All I know is that I was standing outside the ball grounds after the game, and he give me that note to bring in to you. I didn't come with him." "Oh, I see," replied Joe, but he was wondering who the man was, and how the fellow came to know that he was in Fayetteville. "Hope I didn't take you away from the game," began the man with what he evidently meant for a pleasant smile. Yet, somehow Joe did not like that smile. The man seemed to have a shifty glance and Joe mistrusted him. "Oh, the game is over," answered the young pitcher. "I didn't play in the last part. But what is the matter? Is my mother or father ill?" "It's nothing serious," spoke the man. "No one is ill. I came to get you about your father's patents." "Oh!" exclaimed Joe. He felt a sensation of relief until he realized the danger that threatened his father's inventions. Then he asked: "What's wrong? Is Mr.----" Then he stopped for he did not know whether or not to mention names to this stranger. "I can't give you any particulars," said the man with another smile. "All I can say is that they engaged me to come and get you to save time." "Who engaged you?" asked Joe. "Your father," replied the man. "He sent me off in a hurry and said I'd find you at this game. I sent you in the note by the lad. Your father had no time to write one, but you are to go to him at once. He wants you to help him about the patent models I think. We'd better hurry." Joe's suspicions vanished at once. He knew his father was preparing to send on some models to Washington and now probably some need of haste had arisen necessitating his aid. He climbed up into the carriage, and though he noted at the time that the rig did not seem to be from the local livery stable, which had only a few, he thought nothing of it then. The man flicked the horse with the whip and the animal started off on the jump. Just outside the ball grounds there was a private road leading into the main one. On reaching the chief thoroughfare the man turned north whereas, to reach Riverside, he should have gone south. "Hold on!" cried Joe, "you're going the wrong way." "Be easy. It's all right," answered the man with a smile. "Your father has taken all his things to a little shop in Denville. He had to have some changes made in the models I believe, and he wanted to be in a machine shop where he could work quietly. He told me to bring you there." Joe remembered that on one or two occasions Mr. Matson had had some work done in Denville, and once more the suspicions that had arisen were lulled. Joe sank back on the cushions and began thinking of the game just played. His arm was getting quite stiff. "I'll have to attend to it as soon as I get home," he mused. "It won't do to have it go back on me just when things are in such good shape. If they keep on I may become the regular pitcher. Sam certainly did poorly in his part of the game, and I'm not getting a swelled head, either, when I say that." Joe knew he had done good work, considering his sore arm, and he made up his mind to do still better. The man drove along rapidly, and in about an hour had reached the outskirts of Denville. He turned down a road that was evidently little used, to judge by the grass growing in it, and halted the horse in front of a small building. It did not look like a place where inventors' models would be made. In fact the shack had a forlorn and forsaken air about it, and Joe looked curiously at it. His suspicions were coming back. "Where is my father?" he demanded. "I don't see him." "It's all right now--it's all right," said the man quickly. "Hello in there!" he called. The next instant Joe saw a face at the window. Then it disappeared, but that momentary glance had showed him it was the face of Mr. Isaac Benjamin. In a second it was all clear to him. He had been trapped. He attempted to spring from the carriage seat. "I'm on to your game!" he exclaimed to the man. "Oh, are you? Well, you're not going to get away!" and with that the man grabbed Joe around the waist, pinning his arms to his sides. Then from the little building came running Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Holdney. "Did you get him all right?" asked the manager of the harvester works eagerly. "I certainly did," panted the other man, for Joe was struggling to get loose. "Didn't give me any trouble either, until just now." "Well, I'll make lots of trouble for you, if you don't let me go!" cried Joe. "Now, young man, take it easy," advised Mr. Benjamin. "We don't intend to do you a bit of harm, and we only brought you to this place to have a quiet talk with you. It's in your father's interest and I hope you'll overlook the unconventional way we took to get you here. Bring him in," he added to the man in the carriage and, despite Joe's struggles he was lifted out and carried into the little building. The door was shut and locked, and he was alone with his three captors. "What do you want of me?" hotly demanded the lad. "Now don't get excited and we'll tell you," said Mr. Benjamin. "It's about your father's patents." "Yes," broke in Mr. Holdney, "we want to know where they are. He had no right to take the papers and models away from the harvester works. Those inventions are the property of the company and aren't your father's at all. We want----" "Better let me talk to him," advised Mr. Benjamin. "Now Joe, you can't understand all the ins and outs of this business, for it's very complicated. You know that your father is working on certain patents about a corn reaper and binder; don't you?" "Yes," admitted Joe cautiously, "but I'm not going to tell you anything about it." "Perhaps you will after you hear all I have to say," went on Mr. Benjamin. "Now, it's like this: Your father is unduly alarmed about the safety of his rights in the patents, and I will admit that he has some rights. For some reason he saw fit to take his models and papers away from the shop at the harvester works where he was engaged on them." Joe smiled--well he knew why his father had removed the valuable models and papers. "What we want," said Mr. Benjamin, "is to get access to those models. We want to see them for a short time, and also look over the papers. Now you can fix that for us if you will." "Why don't _you_ ask my father?" inquired Joe. "We have, but----" began Mr. Holdney. "He won't listen to reason," put in Mr. Benjamin. "He thinks we would deprive him of his rights." Joe thought so too, but he said nothing. "Now if you can quietly get those models and papers and let us have a look at them they will be returned to you without fail," said the manager. "Your father's rights will be fully protected. It may seem strange to you for us to make this proposition in this way, and bring you here as we have done, but it was necessary." "Suppose I refuse?" asked Joe. "Then we'll----" began Mr. Holdney, in blustering tones. "Now, now, easy," cautioned Mr. Benjamin. "The consequences may be disastrous for your father," he said quietly. "I am doing this for his own good. He will not hear of showing the models, but if you can get them for us it will save much trouble and annoyance for--well, for all of us. If you don't, your father may lose all he possesses and be without a position. I know what inventors are. They can only see one thing at a time. It is a simple thing that we ask of you. Will you do it? Now, you needn't answer at once. Take a little time to think it over. Go in that room there and wait. We'll give you half an hour. If by that time you don't decide to help us we'll----" "We'll _make_ you!" exclaimed Mr. Holdney. "I've got too much money tied up in this to see it lost by the obstinacy of a boy." "Well, if you refuse, we will have to take other measures," said Mr. Benjamin, with a shrug of his shoulders. Joe's heart was beating fast. He did not know what to do. Being practically kidnapped after he had worked so hard in the game, his fears for his father aroused, it is no wonder that he could not think clearly. He welcomed the chance to go off quietly by himself, but never for a moment did he think of betraying his father. Only for an instant did he place any confidence in what the wily manager had said. Then he knew there must be a trick in it all. "But if I let them trap me it's my own fault," thought Joe. "I've got to think up some way of escape." "Well?" asked the manager as Joe hesitated. "I--I'll think it over," answered the young pitcher. "All right. You can go in that room," and Mr. Benjamin opened the door of an apartment leading out of the main one. Joe cast a quick glance about it as the door closed behind him. He noted that it was not locked, but that with three men in the outer room the boy knew he could not escape that way. "And I'm going to escape if I can," he told himself. "I don't need any more time to think over what I'm going to do. They shan't have a glance at dad's models and papers." A rapid survey of the room showed him that it had but one window and that was heavily barred. He raised the sash softly and tried the bars. They were rusty but held firmly in the wood. "No use trying that way," murmured Joe. He heard the hum of voices in the outer room and listened at the keyhole. "Don't you think he can get away?" he heard the man who had brought him to the place ask the others. "I don't believe he'll try," was the answer from Mr. Benjamin. "After all, we couldn't hope to keep him a prisoner long. There would be too much hue and cry over it. All I expect is that he'll be so worried and frightened that he'll tell us what we want to know." "Oh, you've got another think coming," whispered Joe. He walked back to the window once more and, as he crossed the room he saw what looked like a trap door in the floor. Kneeling down he applied his nose to the crack. There came up the damp, musty smell of a cellar. "That's it!" cried Joe. "If I can get that door up I can drop into the cellar even if there aren't any stairs, and I guess I can get out of the cellar. But can I get that door up?" There was no ring to lift it by, and no handle, but Joe was a resourceful lad and in an instant his knife was out. With the big blade inserted in the crack he managed to raised the door a trifle. He endeavored to hold the advantage he had gained until he could take out the knife blade and insert it again farther down, but the door slipped through his fingers. "I've got to get some way of holding it up after each time I pry," he thought. A hurried search through his pockets brought to light part of a broken toe plate. He had had a new one put on for the Academy game, and had thrust the broken piece in the pocket of his trousers. "This ought to do it," he reasoned, and it did, for with the aid of that Joe was able to hold up and raise the trap door. The damp, musty smell was stronger now, and Joe was glad to see, in the dim darkness of the cellar, a flight of steps. "They're pretty rotten, but I guess they'll hold me," he murmured. The next instant he was going down them, and he let the trap door fall softly into place over his head. It was so dark in the cellar now that he could see nothing, but when his eyes became accustomed to the blackness he saw the dim light of an outer window. It was the work of but a moment to scramble through it, and a few seconds later Joe was running away from the place of his brief captivity. "I guess I won't give you an answer to-day," he murmured as he looked back. He heard a shout and saw Mr. Benjamin rush out. Then our hero caught sight of the horse and carriage and like a flash he made for it. Jumping in he called to the animal and was soon galloping down the road while the shouts behind him became fainter and fainter. "This is the time I fooled you!" cried Joe exultantly, as he urged on the horse. CHAPTER XXVI SAM RESIGNS "Those desperate men! You must have them arrested at once!" exclaimed Mrs. Matson when Joe, a little later, had reached home, having left the horse and carriage at the local livery stable to be claimed. "You ought to go to the police at once, John! Why think of what might have happened to Joe," for the boy had told the whole story. "Oh, it wasn't so bad," said Joe who, now that the excitement was over, and he had so completely turned the tables on the plotters, was rather inclined to laugh at the experience. "There are worse things than that done to get possession of valuable patents," said Mr. Matson. "Those men are evidently desperate, though why Mr. Holdney should turn against me I cannot understand. But I would rather wait, and take no action right away. My work is almost finished and if all goes well I shall soon be independent of the harvester people. If, however, there is a slip-up I will be dependent on my position for a living. I think I will wait and see what develops." But in the morning there was a new turn to affairs. It was announced at the harvester factory that Mr. Benjamin had gone away for an indefinite stay, and a new manager had his place. This made it unnecessary for Mr. Matson to say anything. He wrote a strong letter of protest to Mr. Holdney, and then worked harder than ever to get his patents in shape so he would be fully protected in them. As for Joe he said nothing to any of his chums about his experience. The rig was claimed later by a man who would not give his name, and who drove off hurriedly, as if he feared arrest. "And now I'm going to get back to baseball," announced the young pitcher. His arm got better rapidly after the Academy game, and he was soon pitching in practice with his former vim and vigor. He was now regarded as the regular substitute twirler for the Silver Stars. Sam Morton, too, was regular in his practice, and there seemed to be something different about him. He was more careful in his conduct, and not as surly as he had been. He accepted criticism in a better spirit, and in one game against the scrub he did such unusually excellent work that the manager complimented him. "Just keep that up on Saturday," said Darrell, "and we won't let the Fairdale Blues have a run." "Oh, I'll be there with the goods all right," boasted Sam. He glanced at Joe as he said this as much as to intimate that his rival would not get a chance in the box. The Fairdale Blues were a strong team, and, as they had beaten the Stars several times, and had also won from the Resolutes, who were considered the strongest team in the county, more than the usual interest attached to the coming contest. It was to be played on the Stars' grounds, and early on the day of the game the grandstand and bleachers began to fill. The Blues arrived in several big carryalls with a noisy crowd of "rooters" carrying horns, bells and clappers--anything with which to make a racket. "They'll get Sam's goat if he isn't careful," observed Rodney Burke, when the Stars went out to practice. "Don't you fool yourself," retorted Sam. "I'm going to pitch a no-hit no-run game to-day." "That's like Sam--boasting as usual," commented Rodney. "Well, I think he'll make good," said an admirer of the pitcher. "Wait until you see what kind of hitters the Blues have," cautioned Rodney. "They may knock Sam out of the box. Then if Joe goes in----" "Aw, Joe won't get a chance to-day," was the retort. "He hasn't had enough practice." "Look what he did to the Academy team," reminded Rodney. And then further talk was stopped, for the gong rang to clear the diamond. The game was about to begin. The Stars took the field, for they were to bat last, and Sam faced his first opponent with a smile of confidence on his face. It faded away a moment later, however, as the lad knocked as pretty a three bagger as had been seen on the grounds in many a day. "That's the stuff!" "Line 'em out!" "Oh, we're on to his curves all right!" yelled the crowd. Joe, who was on the bench as a reserve pitcher, jumped to his feet and watched the ball roll past Tom who was playing centre. It looked almost as if the batter would come on home, but he held third and the fears of the Stars subsided. "Fool him now, Sam," called Darrell to the pitcher. "Make him give you a nice one," was the advice the next batter got from his friends. And he did, though it was only good for one bag. However, the run came in, and there were gloomy hearts in the camp of the Silver Stars. Sam managed to strike out the next man, and his confidence came back. But it was only for a short time. The crowd of Blue "rooters" was making a terrific racket and this may have gotten on Sam's nerves, at any rate he gave the next man his base on balls and was later hit for two two baggers. "Oh, we've got his goat! We've got 'em going! Everybody take a run!" yelled the visiting captain, jumping up and down at the third base coaching line. Darrell ran over to Sam. "You've got to pull yourself together," he said quickly. "We can't afford to lose this game." "I'm doing the best I can," retorted Sam. "The ball slips." "Don't let it slip--slips are dangerous," said the manager sharply. "You've got to do better or----" "Play ball!" yelled the umpire and Darrell ran back to his place at first base. Sam scowled at him, and then wound up for his next delivery. Somehow they managed to get three out, but there were five runs in the Blue frame when that inning ended, and only two for the Stars. "We can't stand this," said Rankin to the manager. "No, if Sam doesn't improve this inning I'm going to put in Joe." "Sam will raise a row." "I don't care if he does. Why doesn't he pitch decent ball if he wants to hold his place? They're laughing at the Stars now, and they didn't used to." "I know it. Well, maybe he'll improve." But Sam didn't. He could not seem to control the ball, his curves broke just about where the batters wanted them and they knocked out three runs that inning. "Matson bats for Morton!" announced the umpire when it came the turn of the Stars and the change had been mentioned to the score keepers by Darrell. "What does that mean?" cried Sam, striding to where the captain and manager sat. "It means that Joe is going to pitch the rest of this game," was the quiet answer. "He is?" Sam's voice rose high in anger. "He certainly is. You can't seem to do it, Sam. I'm sorry, but we can't afford to lose. We're near the tail end of the league now." Sam shot a look at the captain. Rankin nodded his head to confirm what the manager had said. Then the deposed pitcher strode over to where the score keepers sat. Taking up a piece of paper and a pencil he rapidly wrote something and handed it to Darrell. "What's this?" asked the manager. "My resignation from the Silver Star Baseball Club," snapped Sam. "I'm done pitching for you. It was all a put-up job to get me out, and that Matson lad in. I'm through," and he turned aside. "Very well," assented Darrell quietly. "If you feel that way about it perhaps it is better that you quit. But I'm sorry." "Play ball!" yelled the umpire. "Joe, bat for Sam and then take the box," said the manager, and there was a little subdued applause from the other Star players on the bench. It was their way of congratulating Joe. CHAPTER XXVII BAD NEWS Joe was plainly nervous. Being called on so suddenly had its effect as did the unexpected action of Sam in resigning because Joe had supplanted him. But the young pitcher knew that he must pull himself together. The game was slipping away from the Stars and the crowd of shouters that accompanied the Blues would redouble their efforts to get Joe's "goat" as soon as he got in the box. He had a foretaste of what they would do when he got up to bat in Sam's place and struck out. It was no discredit to Joe, for the Blues had a fine pitcher, still it added to his nervousness. "If that's a sample of what your new pitcher can do we'll take a few more runs!" yelled a Blue sympathizer. "Oh, he only did that for fun!" yelled Rodney. "Yes," added Tom Davis. "He's saving his arm to strike you fellows out. Go to it, Joe! Don't let 'em rattle you." The Stars took a brace, whether it was the knowledge that Joe was to pitch or not, but they certainly braced, and in that inning got enough runs to make the score six to eight in favor of the visiting team. "Now, Joe, hold 'em down!" pleaded Darrell, "and we can do the rest, I think." "I'll try," answered our hero. It would be too much to expect Joe to do wonders, but he did very well. He only allowed two hits in the inning when he first pitched and only one run came in, chiefly through an error on the part of the third baseman. "I guess we've got their number now," exulted Darrell, when it came the turn of the Stars to bat. "Keep up the good work, boys. We've got 'em going." The Stars managed to knock out two runs in their half of the third inning and that made the score eight to nine--one extra tally only against them. And then began what was really a remarkable game for one played between amateur nines. For the next four innings neither side got a run. Talk of a "pitchers' battle" began to be whispered, and for the credit of the visitors be it said that they no longer tried to get Joe's "goat." Both pitchers were on their mettle. Of course they were not perfect and probably some deliveries that the umpire called strikes were balls, just as some that he designated as balls were good strikes. But it was all in the game. Joe was doing good work. There were only a few scattered hits off him and these were easily taken care of by the in or out fielders. In this the Blues rather excelled, however, there being more errors charged up against the home team than to them. But the Stars had this in their favor; that, while there were a number of good stick men among the visitors, they were not speedy base-runners and thus a number of men were nabbed on the sacks, through playing off too far, or not connecting in time, who otherwise might have brought in runs. "Oh, fellows, we've got to do something!" cried the captain at the close of the usual lucky seventh, when no runs had been registered for either side. "Can't some of you pull off a run?" But it was the Blue team who scored first, getting one run on a ball hit by the first man up. It was manifestly a foul, but the umpire called it fair and the man held his base. Then Joe's arm gave him a twinge and he was hit for a three bagger by the next man up, scoring the player preceding him. But that was all. With grimly tightened lips Joe faced his next opponent and after that not a man got to first, and the player on third dared not steal home, so keenly was he watched. With the score eight to ten against them the Stars came in more confidently than might have been expected. And when they had hammered out two runs, tieing the score, there was wild enthusiasm. "Here's where we walk away from them!" yelled Rodney, as the second run came in, and with only one man out. But there came a slump and the opposing pitcher braced up, striking out two men in succession. The ninth inning saw a single run tallied up for the visitors, and in this connection Joe did some great work, pulling down a fly that was well over his head and receiving a round of applause for his pluck, for it was a "hot" one. The unexpected happened in the ending of the ninth, when the visitors were one ahead. Seth Potter, never reckoned as a heavy hitter brought in a home run, and the score was once more a tie for no one else crossed home plate. "Ten innings!" was the cry and the spectators began "sitting up and taking notice" as Rodney Burke said. "Now, Joe, it's up to you to shut them out," advised the captain. The young pitcher nodded and then he cut loose. His arm was paining him very much for by a sudden twist he had wrenched the muscles injured in saving the lad from the trolley car. But Joe would not give up, and he struck out three men neatly, only one, the second up, getting any kind of a hit, and that only good for the initial bag. "A goose egg!" yelled Rodney Burke. "Now one run will do the trick!" "Snow 'em under!" cried Darrell. And the Stars did, for they rapped out the necessary run amid a jubilant riot of cheers, making the final score twelve to eleven. "Oh, I knew you could do it! I knew you could!" cried the captain, trying to embrace all his lads at once. They had won handily though at one time it looked like defeat. "Good work, Joe," complimented Darrell. "You're the regular pitcher from now on." "But if Sam reconsiders his resignation?" "He can't," rejoined the manager. "He's out for good." Joe could hardly wait to get home and tell the good news. He fairly raced into the house, but he stopped short at the sight of his father and mother in the dining room. They were seated at the table and a look of anxiety was on their faces. "What's the matter?" gasped Joe, all his joy in the victory and his new position leaving him as he looked at his parents. On the table between them lay a number of papers. "I've been served with a summons from the court," said Mr. Matson slowly. "It's a move on the part of Benjamin and Holdney. The court has taken my patent models and documents away from me, and I may lose everything. It's hard, just as I was about to succeed--very hard." "And you may lose everything, dad?" asked Joe huskily. "Yes--everything son--I may have to start all over again. I'm out of the harvester works now." For a moment one disappointing thought came to Joe. He would not be able to go to a boarding school as he had hoped. Then the look of trouble on his father's face drove all other thoughts from his mind. "Don't you care, dad!" he exclaimed stepping close to him. "You can beat those fellows yet. We whipped the Blues to-day, and I'm the regular pitcher for the Stars!" CHAPTER XXVIII THE FIGHT There was a moment of silence following Joe's remark about being made regular pitcher. Then Clara laughed and it was almost a laugh of relief, for she had been under quite a strain since she came in and heard the bad news. "Oh, you silly boy!" cried Clara. "Just as if your being made pitcher was going to help. I suppose you'll turn all your salary in to help out now; won't you?" but there was no sting intended in her words and, fearing there might have been just the touch of it, she crossed the room and tried to slip her arm up around Joe's neck. "No, you don't!" he cried as gaily as possible under the circumstances, "fen on kissing. But say, dad, is it as bad as all that? Have Benjamin and his crowd beaten you?" "I'm afraid so, son. At least they've won the first skirmish in the battle. Now it's up to the courts, and it may take a year or more to settle the question of whether or not I have any rights in the inventions I originated. But don't let that worry you," he went on more cheerfully. "We'll make out somehow. I'm glad you got the place you wanted. How was the game?" "Pretty good. It was so tight we had to play ten innings. But can't I do something to help you, dad?" "We can't do anything right away," rejoined Mr. Matson. "We can only wait. I shall have to see a lawyer, and have him look after my interests. I never thought that Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Holdney would treat me this way. "But don't worry. Perhaps we shall come out all right, and in the end this may be a good thing. It will teach me a lesson never again to trust any one where patents are concerned. I should have had a written contract and not taken their mere word that they would treat me right." "And you are out of the harvester works?" asked Joe. "Out completely," and Mr. Matson smiled. "I have a holiday, Joe, and I'm coming to see you pitch some day." "But--but," ventured Clara, "if you haven't any work, dad, you won't get any money and----" "Oh, so that's what is worrying you!" cried her father with a laugh as he placed his arm around her. "Well, have no fears. There are still a few shots in the locker, and we're not going to the poorhouse right away. Now, Joe, tell us all about the ball game." Which the young pitcher did with great enthusiasm. "But won't this Sam Morton be angry with you?" asked Mrs. Matson, who was a gentle woman, always in fear of violence. "Oh, I don't suppose he'll be very _friendly_ toward me," replied Joe. "Then he may do you some injury." "Well, I guess I can take care of myself. I'm not afraid of him, mother, and if it comes to a fight----" "Oh, you horrid boys--always thinking about fighting!" interrupted Clara. "Don't you fight, Joe!" "I won't if I can help it, sis." Next morning, Joe was in two states of mind. He was delighted at being the regular pitcher for the Stars, but he was downcast when he thought that to go to the boarding school was now out of the question. And that it would be impossible for him to think of it under the present financial state of the family was made plain to him when he spoke of the matter to his mother. "I'm sorry, Joe," she said, "but you'll have to give up the idea." "All right," he answered, as cheerfully as he could, but he went out of the house quickly for there was a suspicious moisture in his eyes, and a lump in his throat that would not seem to go down, no matter how hard he swallowed. "Oh, I'm a chump!" he finally exclaimed. "I shouldn't want to go to an expensive boarding school when dad is in such trouble. And yet--and yet--Oh! I _do_ want to get on a big team and pitch!" In the days that followed Joe saw little of his father, for Mr. Matson was out of town trying to get matters in shape for the court proceedings. But Joe was kept busy at practice with the Stars, and in playing games. The season was in full swing and the Silver Stars seemed to have struck a streak of winning luck. Some said it was Joe's pitching, for really he was doing very well. Others laid it just to luck and talked darkly of a "slump." "There won't be any slump if you fellows keep your eyes open, and hit and run," said the manager. The county league season was drawing to a close, and as it stood now the championship practically lay between the Stars and their old enemies the Resolutes. There was some talk of playing off a tie, if it should come to that, but when Darrell mentioned this to the Resolute manager he was told that the latter team had all dates filled to the end of the season. "We can't give you a game," he announced. "It's too bad," said Darrell, "for we ought to decide which is the best team." "Oh, ours is, of course. Didn't we wallop you once?" "Well, you can't do it again," was the quick retort. It was several days after this when Joe was coming home from afternoon practice in preparation for a game Saturday with the Red Stockings. As he took a short cut over the fields to get home more quickly, he was aware of a figure coming toward him. When too late to turn back he saw it was Sam Morton. Sam saw Joe and came to a halt. "Well," asked Sam with a sneer, "how is the high-and-mighty pitcher? I suppose you've been doing nothing else but handing out no-hit and no-run games?" "Not quite as good as that," admitted Joe with what he meant for a friendly smile. "Who you laughing at?" demanded Sam fiercely. "I wasn't laughing," replied Joe. "Yes, you were! You were laughing at me and I won't stand it. You worked and schemed to get me out of the nine so you could go in, and now you're making fun of me, I won't stand it, I tell you. You think you're a pitcher! Well you're not, and you'll never be. I won't be made fun of!" All the pent-up anger--unreasoning as it was,--all the hate that had been accumulating for weeks in Sam, burst out at once. He made a spring for Joe, but the pitcher stepped back. Not in time, however, for he received a blow on the chest. Now I am not defending Joe for what he did. I am only telling of what happened. Joe was a manly lad yet he had all the instincts and passions that normal lads have. When he was hit his first instinct was to hit back, and he did it in this case. His left fist shot forward and clipped Sam on the chin. The blow was a staggering one and for a moment the former pitcher reeled. Then with a roar of rage he came back at Joe, and the pair were at it hammer and tongs. "I'll show you that you can't come sneaking around here and steal my place!" blubbered Sam, as he aimed a blow at Joe's face. "I didn't sneak!" retorted Joe, as he dodged the blow and got a right-hander near Sam's solar plexus. Both lads were evenly matched and the fight might have gone on for some time but for Sam's rage which made him reckless. He left unguarded openings of which Joe took quick advantage, and finally, with a straight left, he sent Sam to the grass. "I--I'll fix you for that!" yelled the former pitcher as he rushed at Joe. It was easy to step aside and avoid the clumsy blow, and once more Sam went down. This time he did not get up so quickly, and there was a dazed look on his face. "See here!" cried Joe, stepping over to him. "This has gone far enough. I didn't want to fight, but you made me. I can beat you and you know it. If you don't stop now I'll knock you down every time you get up until you've had enough." It was brutal talk, perhaps, but it was well meant. For a moment Sam looked up at his antagonist. Then he murmured: "I've had enough--for the present." CHAPTER XXIX THE CHALLENGE The fight was over. Sam arose and started away. Joe called after him: "Won't you shake hands? I'm sorry this happened, but can't we be friends after this?" "No!" snarled Sam. "I don't want anything to do with you." There was nothing more to be said, and Joe walked away. He was somewhat stiff and sore, for a number of Sam's blows had landed with telling effect. One in particular, on the muscles of his right forearm, made that member a bit stiff and numb. "I've got to take care of that," thought Joe, "or I can't pitch Saturday." He had only a few marks of the fight on his face and he was glad of it, for he did not want his mother or sister to know. Joe's mother did not ask embarrassing questions. In fact she was thinking of other things, for she had received a letter from her husband that day, sent from a distant city. Matters it appeared were not going as well as they might, but Mr. Matson had hopes that all would come out right in the end. Joe rubbed his sore arm well that night, and when Saturday came he pitched a great game against the Red Stockings, allowing only a few scattered hits. The Stars took the contest by a big margin. "Now, if we could wind up with a game against the Resolutes and wallop them we'd finish out the season in great shape," commented Captain Rankin, as he followed his lads off the diamond. "I'm going to make another try to get them to play us," said Darrell. "I'm going to send a challenge, and intimate that they're afraid to tackle us since we've got our new pitcher." It was several days later when the nine was at practice and Darrell had not come out. Tom Davis was in his place at first and Rodney Burke was in centre field. "I wonder what's keeping Darrell?" said the captain. "He hardly ever misses practice." "Here he comes now," announced Joe, "and he's got a letter," for Darrell was waving a paper as he ran across the field. "Good news, boys!" he cried. "The Resolutes will play us. I just got word in a special delivery letter. That's what kept me. Hurray! Now we'll show 'em what's what. It will be a grand wind-up for the season and will practically decide the county championship." "That's the stuff!" cried the lads. "When do we play?" asked Joe. "This coming Saturday." "I thought they said all their dates were filled," commented Tom Davis. "They were, but some team they counted on busted up and that left an opening. Then, too, I fancy that little dig I gave them about being afraid had its effect. Joe, it's up to you now." "All right!" and our hero accepted the responsibility with a smile. There was considerable excitement among the Silver Stars over the prospective game. They were almost too excited to keep on with the practice against the scrub, but Darrell talked like a "Dutch uncle" to them, to quote Rodney Burke, and they went at their work with renewed vigor. When Joe got home that evening after some hard practice there was another letter from his father. It was brief, merely saying: "In a few days I will know all. My next will contain good news--or bad." "Oh, this suspense is terrible," complained Mrs. Matson. The day of the game between the Silver Stars and their old enemies drew nearer. Joe had practiced hard and he knew he was in good shape to pitch. In fact the Stars were much improved by their season's work, and they were as good an amateur nine in their class as could be found in the country. Word came to them, however, that the Resolutes were trained to the minute, and were going to put up a stiff fight for the county championship. "Let 'em," said Darrell briefly. "We don't want a walk-over." "Well," remarked Clara to her brother, on the Saturday of the game, "isn't it almost time for you to start if you're going to Rocky Ford?" "Yes, I guess I had better be going," answered Joe. "I want to put a few stitches in my glove. It's ripped." "I'll do it," offered Clara and she had just finished when the door bell rang. "I'll go," volunteered Joe, and when he saw a messenger boy standing there, with a yellow envelope in his hands somehow the heart of the young pitcher sank. Quickly he took the telegram to his mother, to whom it was addressed. "You open it, Joe," she said. "I can't. I'm afraid it's bad news. My hand trembles so." Joe tore open the telegram. It was from his father. "I'm afraid it's all up," the message read. "I have practically lost my case, and it looks as if I'd have to start all over again. But don't worry. I'm coming home." A silence followed Joe's reading of the few words aloud. Then indeed it was all over. He could not go to boarding school after all. He looked at his mother. There were tears in her eyes but she bore the shock bravely. Clara was very pale. "Well, it might be worse!" said Joe philosophically. "There is just a bare chance--but it's mighty slim." And then from outside came the hail of Tom Davis: "Come on, Joe! Come on! It's time you started for Rocky Ford. We're going to wallop the Resolutes!" and with the freedom of an old friend, Joe's chum burst into the room. CHAPTER XXX THE WINNING THROW--CONCLUSION For a moment Tom stood there a bit embarrassed, for he saw that something unusual had happened. "I--I hope I'm not intruding," he stammered. "I didn't think--I came right in as I always do. Has anything----" "It's all right!" exclaimed Joe quickly. "We just got word that dad has lost his patent case." "Gee! That's too bad!" exclaimed Tom, who knew something of the affair. "What are you going to do?" "I'm going to pitch against the Resolutes, the first thing I do!" cried Joe. "After that I'll decide what's next. But is my glove mended, Clara? Come on, Tom, we mustn't be late. We're going to wallop them--just as you said." "I hope you do!" burst out Clara. "Play a good game and--and--don't worry," whispered Mrs. Matson to her son as he kissed her good-bye. The team and substitutes were to go to Rocky Ford in two big stages, in time to get in some practice on the grounds that were none too familiar to them. A crowd of Silver Star "rooters" were to follow on the trolley. The captain and managers of the rival teams watched their opponents practice with sharp eyes. "They're snappier than when they beat us before," was Darrell's conclusion. "They've got a heap sight better pitcher in Joe than Sam Morton ever was," concluded Captain Hen Littell of the Resolutes, who twirled for his team. "I shouldn't wonder but what we'd have a mighty close game." The last practice was over. The scattered balls had been collected, the batting list made out and final details arranged. Once more came the thrilling cry of the umpire: "Play ball!" The Resolutes were to bat last, and Seth Potter went up to bat first for the Stars. "Swat it," pleaded the crowd, and Seth smiled. But he fanned the air successively as well as successfully and soon went back to the bench. Then came Fred Newton's turn and he knocked a little pop fly that was easily caught before he reached first. Captain Rankin himself was up next and managed to get to first on a swift grounder that got past the shortstop. But he died on second, for the next man up fanned. No runs for the Stars. The Resolutes were jubilant, thinking this augured well for them, but they looked a little blank when Joe retired their first two men hitless. For Joe had started off in good form. With the first ball he delivered he knew that he was master of the horsehide--at least for a time. "But oh! I hope I don't slump!" and he almost found himself praying that such a thing would not happen. He was in an agony of fear when he heard the crack of the bat on the ball when the third man came up. The spheroid went shooting off in centre field, but by a magnificent stop Percy Parnell gathered it in and the side was retired runless. Things were not so bad for the Stars. For the next two innings neither side got a run, though there were some scattered hits. Again was there talk of a pitchers' battle, though in the strict sense of the word this was not so, as both Joe and Hen Littell were hit occasionally, and for what would have been runs only for the efficient fielding on both sides. "See if we can't do something this inning!" pleaded Rankin when his side came up in their half of the fourth. The lads all tried hard and Joe knocked a pretty one that was muffed by the second baseman. However, he quickly picked it up and hurled it to first. Joe got there about the same time as the ball did, and to many he seemed safe, but he was called out. "Aw, that's rotten!" cried Tom Davis. "Let it go!" said Darrell sharply, and Tom subsided. The Stars got another goose egg--four straight--and in their half of the fourth the Resolutes got their first run. The crowd went wild and Joe found himself clenching his hands, for the run came in because he had given a man his base on balls. The runner had successively stolen second and third, and went home on a nice fly. "I hope I'm not going to slump!" thought Joe and there was a lump in his throat. For an instant he found himself thinking of his father's troubles, and then he firmly dismissed them from his mind. "I've got to pitch!" he told himself fiercely. "We've got him going!" chanted the Resolute "rooters." Joe shut his teeth grimly and struck out the next man. Then he nipped the runner stealing second and threw him out with lightning speed. That somewhat silenced the jubilant cries and when Joe managed to retire one of the Resolute's heaviest hitters without even a bunt a big crowd rose up and cheered him. "They're only one ahead," said Rankin as his lads came in to bat. "Let's double it now." And double it they did, the Star boys playing like mad and getting enough hits off Littell to make two runs. "That's the way to wallop 'em!" sang some one in the visiting crowd and the song composed for the occasion was rendered with vim. Desperately as the Resolutes tried in their half of the fifth to catch up to their rivals, they could not do it. Joe was at his best and in that half inning did not allow a hit. He had almost perfect control, and his speed was good. Only once or twice did he pitch at all wild and then it did no harm as there was no one on base. The sixth inning saw a run chalked up for each team, making the score three to two in favor of the Stars. "Oh, if we can only keep this up!" exclaimed Darrell, "we'll have them. Can you do it, Joe?" "I guess so--yes, I can!" he said with conviction. Then came the lucky seventh, in which the Stars pounded out three runs, setting the big crowd wild with joy, and casting corresponding gloom over the cohorts of the Resolutes. The Stars now had six runs and their rivals were desperate. They even adopted unfair tactics, and several decisions of the umpire were manifestly in their favor. The crowd hooted and yelled, but the young fellow who was calling strikes and balls held to his opinion, and the Resolutes closed their half of the seventh with two runs. "Six to four in our favor," murmured the Stars' manager. "If we can only keep this lead the game is ours." "That word 'if' is a big one for only two letters," spoke Captain Rankin grimly. "But maybe we can." Neither side scored in the eighth and then came the final trial of the Stars unless there should be a tie, which would necessitate ten innings. Joe was to the bat in this inning, and oh! how hard he tried for a run! He knocked a two bagger and stole third. There was one out when Bart Ferguson came up, and Bart was a heavy hitter. But somehow he did not make good this time. He managed to connect with the ball, however, and as soon as Joe heard the crack he started for home. But there was brilliant playing on the part of the Resolutes. With a quick throw to home the shortstop nipped Joe at the plate, and then the catcher, hurling the ball to first, got the horsehide into the baseman's hands before Bart arrived. It was a pretty double play and retired the Stars with a goose egg. Still they had a lead of two runs and they might be able to hold their rivals down. It was a critical point in the game. As Joe took his place and faced the batter he felt his heart wildly throbbing. He knew he must hold himself well in hand or he would go to pieces. The crowd of Resolute sympathizers was hooting and yelling at him. Darrell saw how things might go and ran out to the pitcher. "Hold hard!" he whispered. "Just take it easy. Pitch a few balls to Bart and your nerve will come back. We've _got_ to win." "And we will!" exclaimed Joe. The delivery of a few balls, while the batter stepped away from the plate, showed Joe that he still had his speed and control. He was going to be wary what kind of curves he delivered. He struck out the first man up with an ease that at first caused him wild elation, and then he calmed himself. "There are two more," he reasoned. "I've got to get two more--two more." He was almost in despair when he was hit for a two bagger by the next player, and he was in a nervous perspiration about the man stealing to third. Then Darrell signalled him to play for the batter, and Joe did, getting him out with an easy fly. Then there was a mix-up when the next man hit, and by an error of the left fielder the man on second, who had stolen to third, went home with a run, while the man who had brought him in got to the last bag. "That's the stuff!" yelled the crowd. "Now one more to make it a tie and another to win!" "Steady, boys! Steady!" called Darrell, as he saw his team on the verge of a breakdown. "We can beat 'em!" There were now two out, one run was in, a man was on third and a heavy batter was up--one of the best of the Resolutes. "Swat it, Armstrong! Swat it!" cried the crowd, and the big left fielder smiled confidently. "Ball one!" cried the umpire, after Joe's first delivery. There was a gasp of protest from Bart behind the plate, for the sphere had come over cleanly. Darrell signalled to the catcher to make no protest. Joe felt a wave of anger, but he endeavored to keep cool. But when the second ball was called on him he wanted to run up and thrash the umpire. The latter was grinning derisively. "Here's a strike!" cried Joe, in desperation and he was gratified when Armstrong struck at it and missed. "Why didn't you call that a ball?" asked Bart of the umpire. The latter did not answer. Another ball was called and then a strike. Now came the supreme moment. Two men out, a man on third waiting to rush in with the tieing run, a heavy hitter at bat and three balls and two strikes called on him. No wonder Joe's hand trembled a little. "Easy, old man!" called Darrell to him. "You can make him fan." Joe thought rapidly. He had studied the batter and he thought that by delivering a swift in-shoot he could fool Armstrong. It was his last chance, for another ball meant that the batter would walk, and there was even a better stick-man to follow. Joe wound up, and sent in a swift one. His heart was fluttering, he could hardly see, there was a roaring in his ears. And then he dimly saw Armstrong strike at the ball desperately. Almost at the same moment Joe knew he would miss it. The ball landed in the centre of Bart's big glove with a resounding whack. He held it exactly where he had caught it. Joe had delivered the winning throw. "Strike three--batter's out!" howled the umpire, and then his voice was drowned in a yell of joy from the sympathizers of the Stars. For their team had won! The Resolutes were retired with but one run in the ninth and the final score was five to six in favor of our friends. They had beaten their old rivals on their own grounds and they had won the county championship! "Great work, old man! Great!" yelled Darrell in Joe's ear. "You saved the day for us." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Joe modestly. "Three cheers for Baseball Joe!" yelled Tom Davis, and how those cheers did ring out. "Three cheers for the Stars--they beat us fair and square!" called Captain Littell, and this was quite a different ending than that which had marked the previous game. Some wanted to carry Joe around on their shoulders but he slipped away, and got off his uniform. Soon the team was on its way back to Riverside. "You ought to be in a bigger team," Darrell told Joe. "You've got the making of a great pitcher in you." "Well, I guess I'll have to stick around here for a while yet," replied our hero, as he thought of the fallen finances of his father. Never in all his life had he so longed for the chance to go to boarding school, and thence to college. But he knew it could not be, chiefly through the treachery of Benjamin and Holdney. Joe felt a wave of resentment against them sweep over him, and his thoughts were black and bitter. Tom walked as far as Joe's street with him. He had a silent sympathy that spoke more than mere words could have done. "So long," he said softly as they parted. "It was a great game, Joe, and I'm almost glad you've got to stay with the Stars." "Well, did you win?" asked his mother, as Joe entered the house--entered it more listlessly than winning a big game would seem to warrant. "Did you beat the Resolutes, Joe?" "Yes, we did--why, mother, what's the matter?" cried the young pitcher, for there was a look of joy and happiness on her face, a look entirely different than when he had left her after the bad news. "Has anything--anything good happened?" he asked. "Yes!" she exclaimed, "there has. I just had another telegram from your father. Everything is all right. He gets back his patents." "No!" cried Joe, as if unable to believe the news. "But I tell you yes!" repeated Mrs. Matson, and there was joy in her voice. "At first your father believed that all was lost, just as he wired us. Then, most unexpectedly he tells me, they were able to obtain some evidence from outside parties which they had long tried for in vain. "It seems that a witness for Mr. Benjamin and his side, on whom they very much depended, deserted them, and went over to your father and his lawyer, and----" "Hurray for that witness, whoever he was!" cried Joe. "Be quiet," begged Clara, "and let mother tell." "There isn't much to tell," went on Mrs. Matson. "With the unexpected evidence of this witness your father's lawyer won the case, almost at the last moment. In fact your father had given up, and was about ready to leave the court when the man sent in word that he would testify for them. That was after your father sent the telegram that came just before you went off to the game, Joe." "Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Clara. "Now it's your turn to be quiet and listen," admonished Joe, with a smile at his sister. "I have about finished," went on their mother. "The judge decided in your father's favor, and he doesn't even have to share the profits of the invention with the harvester company or with Mr. Rufus Holdney, as he at one time thought he would, for they have violated their contract. So we won't be poor, after all, children. Aren't you glad?" "You bet!" exploded Joe, throwing his arms around his mother's neck. "And we won't have to leave this nice house," added Clara, looking around the comfortable abode. "Then I can go to boarding school--and pitch on the school nine; can't I mother?" cried Joe, throwing his arms around her. "Oh, yes; I suppose so," she answered, with half a sigh. "But I do wish you'd do something else besides play baseball." "Something else besides baseball, mother! Why, there's nothing to be compared to it. Hurray! I'm going to boarding school! I'm going to boarding school!" and Joe, catching Clara around the waist, waltzed her around the room. Then he caught his mother on his other arm--the arm that won the victory for the Stars that day--and her, too, he whirled about until she cried for mercy. "Oh, but this is great!" Joe cried when he stopped for breath. "Simply great! I must go and tell Tom. Maybe he can go to boarding school with me." And whether Tom did or not, and what were our hero's further fortunes on the diamond, will be related in the next volume, to be called: "Baseball Joe on the School Nine; or, Pitching for the Blue Banner." There was an impromptu feast that night for the victorious Silver Stars and Joe was the hero of the occasion. He was toasted again and again, and called upon to make some remarks, which he did in great confusion. But his chums thought it the best speech they had ever heard. "Three cheers for Baseball Joe!" called Tom Davis, and the room rang with them, while Joe tried to hide his blushes by drinking glass after glass of lemonade. And now, for a time, we will take leave of him, crying as his chums did after the great victory on the diamond: "Hurrah for Baseball Joe!" THE END _Dear Reader_: If you enjoyed Baseball Joe and wish to follow his further adventures see the books listed on the following page. THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES By LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Illustrated. Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] 1. BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS _or The Rivals of Riverside_ 2. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE _or Pitching for the Blue Banner_ 3. BASEBALL JOE AT YALE _or Pitching for the College Championship_ 4. BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE _or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_ 5. BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE _or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles_ 6. BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS _or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_ 7. BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES _or Pitching for the Championship_ 8. BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD _or Pitching on a Grand Tour_ 9. BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING _or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record_ 10. BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE _or Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy_ 11. BASEBALL JOE CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM _or Bitter Struggles on the Diamond_ 12. BASEBALL JOE CHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE _or The Record that was Worth While_ 13. BASEBALL JOE CLUB OWNER _or Putting the Home Town on the Map_ 14. BASEBALL JOE PITCHING WIZARD _or Triumphs Off and On the Diamond_ _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BOMBA BOOKS By ROY ROCKWOOD _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. With Colored jacket._ _Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] _Bomba lived far back in the jungles of the Amazon with a half-demented naturalist who told the lad nothing of his past. The jungle boy was a lover of birds, and hunted animals with a bow and arrow and his trusty machete. He had only a primitive education, and his daring adventures will be followed with breathless interest by thousands._ 1. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY 2. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE MOVING MOUNTAIN 3. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE GIANT CATARACT 4. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON JAGUAR ISLAND 5. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE ABANDONED CITY 6. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON TERROR TRAIL 7. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE SWAMP OF DEATH 8. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AMONG THE SLAVES 9. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON THE UNDERGROUND RIVER 10. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AND THE LOST EXPLORERS 11. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN A STRANGE LAND 12. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AMONG THE PYGMIES 13. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AND THE CANNIBALS 14. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AND THE PAINTED HUNTERS 15. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AND THE RIVER DEMONS 16. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AND THE HOSTILE CHIEFTAIN These books may be purchased wherever books are sold _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York CHAMPION SPORTS STORIES By NOEL SAINSBURY, JR. [Illustration] _Every boy enjoys sport stories. Here we present three crackerjack stories of baseball, football, and basketball, written in the vernacular of the boy of to-day, full of action, suspense and thrills, in language every boy will understand, and which we know will be enthusiastically endorsed by all boys._ _Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in color. Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ 1. CRACKER STANTON _Or The Making of a Batsman_ Ralph Stanton, big, rawboned and serious, is a product of the backwoods and a crack rifle shot. Quick thinking and pluck bring him a scholarship to Clarkville School where he is branded "grind" and "dub" by classmates. How his batting brings them first place in the League and how he secures his appointment to West Point make CRACKER STANTON an up-to-the-minute baseball story no lover of the game will want to put down until the last word is read. 2. GRIDIRON GRIT _Or The Making of a Fullback_ A corking story of football packed full of exciting action and good, clean competitive rivalry. Shorty Fiske is six-foot-four and the product of too much money and indulgence at home. How Clarkville School and football develop Shorty's real character and how he eventually stars on the gridiron brings this thrilling tale of school life and football to a grandstand finish. 3. THE FIGHTING FIVE _Or the Kidnapping of Clarkville's Basketball Team_ Clarkville School's basketball team is kidnapped during the game for the State Scholastic Championship. The team's subsequent adventures under the leadership of Captain Charlie Minor as he brings them back to the State College Gymnasium where the two last quarters of the Championship game are played next evening, climaxes twenty-four pulsating hours of adventure and basketball in the FIGHTING FIVE.... CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York SORAK JUNGLE SERIES By HARVEY D. RICHARDS _The name Sorak means War Cry in the Malay country. He grows up among the most primitive of the Malay aborigines, and learns to combat all the terrors of the jungle with safety. The constant battle with nature's forces develop Sorak's abilities to such an extent that he is acknowledged the chief warrior in all his section of the jungle._ _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in color. Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] 1. SORAK OF THE MALAY JUNGLE _or How Two Young Americans Face Death and Win a Friend_ Two boys, Dick and Jack Preston are shipwrecked off the Malay Peninsula and are rescued by Sorak. Their adventures in trying to get back to civilization make an absorbing story. 2. SORAK AND THE CLOUDED TIGER _or How the Terrible Ruler of the North Is Hunted and Destroyed_ A huge clouded tiger, almost human, leads a pack of red dholes into Sorak's country, and it takes all of Sorak's ingenuity, and the aid of his friends to exterminate the pack. 3. SORAK AND THE SULTAN'S ANKUS _or How a Perilous Journey Leads to a Kingdom of Giants_ Sorak and his friends are trapped by a herd of elephants, and finally run away with by the leader to an unknown valley where a remnant of Cro-Magnon race still exists. Their exciting adventures will hold the reader enthralled until the last word. 4. SORAK AND THE TREE-MEN _or the Rescue of the Prisoner Queen_ Captured by a band of Malay slavers, Sorak and his friends are wrecked on an island off the coast of Burma in the Mergui Archipelago. Their escape from the island with the Prisoner Queen after a successful revolution brings the fourth book of this series to an exciting and unusual conclusion. CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York TOP NOTCH DETECTIVE STORIES By WILLIAM HALL [Illustration] _Each story complete in itself_ _A new group of detective stories carefully written, with corking plots; modern, exciting, full of adventure, good police and detective work._ _Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in color. Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ 1. SLOW VENGEANCE _or the Mystery of Pete Shine_ A young newspaper man, whose brother is on the police force, becomes strangely involved in the mysterious killing of an Italian bootblack. Suspicion points to a well-known politician but he proves that it was impossible for him to have done the deed. Then the reporter, who for a time turns detective, gets a clue revolving about a startling, ancient method of combat. He follows this up, watches a masked duelist and, with the help of a girl, catches the murderer who justifies his deed on the plea of Slow Vengeance. You will be interested in reading how the reporter got out of a tight corner. 2. GREEN FIRE _or Mystery of the Indian Diamond_ A golf caddy who has a leaning toward amateur detective work, together with his younger cousin, are accidentally mixed up in the strange loss, or theft, of a valuable diamond, known as Green Fire. It was once the eye of an East Indian idol. To clear his young cousin of suspicion, the older boy undertakes to solve the mystery which deepens when one man disappears and another is found murdered on the golf course. But, by a series of clever moves on the part of the young sleuth, the crime is solved and the diamond found in a most unusual hiding place. A rapidly moving, exciting tale. You will like it. 3. HIDDEN DANGER _or The Secret of the Bank Vault_ A young detective, who, in his private capacity, has solved several mysteries, decides to open an office in another city. He meets a young bank clerk and they become partners just when the clerk's bank is mysteriously bombed and the cashier is reported missing. It is not until next day that it is discovered that the bank vault has been entered in some secret manner and a large sum stolen. The regular detectives declared "spirits" must have robbed the bank but the two young detectives prove that a clever gang did it and also kidnapped the aged cashier. Not a dull page from first to last. A clever story. CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York NORTHWEST STORIES By LeROY W. SNELL [Illustration] _A new group of stories laid in the Canadian Northwest by Mr. Snell, a master writer of the glories and the thrilling adventures of the Canadian Northwest Mounted Police. Each book is an individual story, well written, beautifully bound, and contains a story that all boys will enjoy._ _Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in color. Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ 1. THE LEAD DISK Tom Baley, leaving college goes north into Canada, hoping to join the Northwest Mounted Police. His application is turned down by his own uncle, an officer on the force, but after many thrilling adventures and encounters with the Disk Gang he is able to win the coveted uniform. 2. SHADOW PATROL Luke Myers is sent into the Caribou Mountains to solve the mystery of The Shadow, about whom many conflicting stories are told. There are struggles with the outlaws, and finally a great running battle down the fog-obscured mountain trails ... at the end of which the outlaws are captured and the mystery of The Shadow is solved. 3. THE WOLF CRY Donald Pierce is sent to solve the mystery of his father's disappearance, into the unmapped barrens where King Stively weaves his web of wickedness, and rules a territory the size of a small empire with a ruthlessness and cunning that baffles the best of the Mounted Police. Behind all is the dread Wolf Cry which causes brave men to shudder.... 4. THE SPELL OF THE NORTH Sergeant David Stanlaw, stationed at Spirit River, is puzzled by a local killing, the disappearance of the body, the finding of a code message, and by the mystery of the "Listening Forest," which casts a shadow of dread over the little town of Wiggin's Creek. With the help of Jerry Bartlett they capture the leaders of the gang and solve the mystery of the "Listening Forest." 5. THE CHALLENGE OF THE YUKON Robert Wade whose patrol runs from Skagway on Chattam Strait north into the Yukon country follows in the wake of a stampede to a new gold strike. With the aid of his friend, Jim MacPhail, Wade frustrates the outlaws, who try to trap the whole town behind the "Pass of the Closing Door," and then races them to and across the breaking ice floes of the Yukon. A strong adventure story all boys will enjoy. CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York Transcriber's Notes: --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. 
45990	----	[Illustration: They slowly and sullenly handed over the contents of their pockets.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BOBBY BLAKE ON THE SCHOOL NINE OR THE CHAMPIONS OF THE MONATOOK LAKE LEAGUE BY FRANK A. WARNER AUTHOR OF "BOBBY BLAKE AT ROCKLEDGE SCHOOL," "BOBBY BLAKE ON A CRUISE," "BOBBY BLAKE AND HIS SCHOOL CHUMS," ETC. ILLUSTRATED BY R. EMMETT OWEN PUBLISHERS BARSE & CO. NEW YORK, N. Y. NEWARK, N. J. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright 1917 by BARSE & CO. Bobby Blake on the School Nine Printed in the United States of America ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS I FLYING SNOWBALLS II A FRIEND INTERFERES III THE COMING STORM IV HELD UP V THE TRAMPS' RETREAT VI HEAVY ODDS VII PAYING AN OLD DEBT VIII THE CLOUD BREAKS AWAY IX A COWARDLY TRICK X ROCKLEDGE SCHOOL XI TOM HICKSLEY REAPPEARS XII A NEW ENEMY XIII THE MONATOOK LAKE LEAGUE XIV GLOWING HOPES XV SPOILING THE FUN XVI WHO WAS GUILTY? XVII ON THE TRAIL XVIII A HARD HIT XIX SPRING PRACTICE XX THE SUGAR CAMP XXI THE FIRST GAME XXII TO THE RESCUE XXIII THE EGG AND THE FAN XXIV AN UNDESERVED PUNISHMENT XXV OFF FOR A SWIM XXVI THE SCAR AND THE LIMP XXVII A GLEAM OF LIGHT XXVIII TOM HICKSLEY GETS A THRASHING XXIX A WILD CHASE XXX WINNING THE PENNANT--CONCLUSION ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BOBBY BLAKE ON THE SCHOOL NINE CHAPTER I FLYING SNOWBALLS "Ouch!" "That was a dandy!" "How's that for a straight shot?" "Thought you could dodge it, did you?" "Have a heart, fellows! I've got a ton of snow down my back already." A tumult of shouts and laughter rose into the frosty air from a group of boys, ranging in age from ten to twelve years, who were throwing and dodging snowballs near the railroad station in the little town of Clinton. Even the fact that four of the group were on their way back to school after the Christmas holidays was not sufficient to dampen their youthful spirits, and the piles of snow heaped up back of the platform had been too tempting to resist. As though moved by a single spring they had dropped the bags they were carrying, and the next instant the air was full of flying snowballs. Most of them found their mark, though a few in the excitement of the fray passed dangerously near the station windows. Flushed and eager, the panting warriors advanced or retreated, until a stray missile just grazed the ear of the baggage man, who was wheeling a load of trunks along the platform. He gave a roar of protest, and the boys thought it was time to stop. But they did it reluctantly. "Too bad to stop right in the middle of the fun," said Bobby Blake, a bright wholesome boy of about eleven years, with a frank face and merry brown eyes. "Bailey's got a grouch on this morning," remarked Fred Martin, better known among the boys as "Ginger," because of his red hair and equally fiery temper. "I never saw him any other way," put in "Scat" Monroe, one of the village boys, who had come down to the station to bid his friends good-bye. "I don't believe Bailey ever was a boy." "Oh, I guess he was--once," said Bobby, with the air of one making a generous concession, "but it was so long ago that he's forgotten all about it." "Perhaps you'd be grouchy too if you came near being hit," ventured Betty Martin, Fred's sister, "especially if you weren't getting any fun out of it." Betty formed one of a party of girls who bad accompanied the boys to the station to see them off. With flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, these girls had stood huddled together like a flock of snowbirds, watching the friendly scuffle and giving a little squeal occasionally when a snowball came too close to them. Fred looked at his sister coldly. He was very fond of Betty, but as the only boy in a large family of girls, he felt it was incumbent on him to maintain the dignity of the male sex. He had pronounced ideas on the necessity of keeping girls in their place, and Betty was something of a trial to him because she refused to be squelched. "Of course, girls feel that way," he said loftily. "They're afraid of the least little thing. But men aren't such scare-cats." "Men!" sniffed Betty scornfully. "You don't call yourself a man, do you?" "Well, I'm going to be some day," her brother retorted, "and that's more than you can say." This was undeniable, and Fred felt that he had scored a point. Betty was reduced to the defensive. "I wouldn't want to be," she rejoined rather feebly. Fred cast a proud look around. "Sour grapes!" he ejaculated. Then, elated by his success, he sought rather imprudently to follow it up. "As for me," he declared, "I wouldn't care how hard I was hit. I'd only laugh." Betty saw an opening. "You wouldn't dare let me throw one at you," she challenged, her eyes dancing. Fred went into pretended convulsions. "You throw!" he jeered. "A girl throw! Why! you couldn't hit the--the side of a house," he ended lamely, his invention failing. "I couldn't, eh?" cried Betty, a little nettled. "Well, you just stand up against that post and see if I can't." Fred was somewhat startled by her prompt answer to his taunt, but it would never do to show the white feather. "All right," he responded, and took up his position, while Betty stood some twenty feet away. The laughing group of boys and girls gathered around her, and Bobby and Scat began to make snowballs for Betty. "No, you don't!" cried Fred. "I know you fellows. You'll make soakers. Let Betty make her own snowballs." "What do you care, if you're so sure she can't hit you?" said Bobby slyly. "Never you mind," replied Fred, ignoring the thrust. "You leave all that to Betty." The boys desisted and Betty made her own missiles. "How many chances do I have?" she asked. "Will you give me three shots?" "Three hundred if you like," replied her brother grandly. "It's all the same to me." He stiffened up sternly against the post. Somewhere he had seen a picture of Ajax defying the lightning, and he hoped that he looked like that. Betty poised herself to throw, but at the last moment her tender heart misgave her. "I--I'm afraid I'll hurt you," she faltered. "Aw, go ahead," urged "Mouser" Pryde, one of the four lads who were leaving for school. "Aim right at his head," added "Pee Wee" Wise, another schoolmate who was to accompany Bobby and Fred to Rockledge. "You can't miss that red mop of his," put in Scat heartlessly. "N-no," said Betty, dropping her hand to her side. "I guess I don't want to." Fred scented an easy victory, but made a mistake by not being satisfied to let well enough alone. "She knows she can't hit me and she's afraid to try," he gibed. The light of battle began to glow in Betty's eyes, but still she stood irresolute. "I'll give you a cent if you hit me," pursued Fred. "My! isn't he reckless with his money?" mocked Pee Wee. "He talks like a millionaire," added Mouser. "A whole cent," mused Bobby. Fred flushed. "Make it a nickel, then," he said. "And if that isn't enough, I'll give you a dime," he added, in a final burst of generosity. "Have you got it?" Betty asked suspiciously. She knew that Fred was usually in a state of bankruptcy. "I've got it all right," retorted her brother, "and what's more I'm going to keep it, because you couldn't hit anything in a thousand years." Whether it was the taunt or the dime or both, Betty was spurred to action. She hesitated no longer, but picked up a snowball and threw it at the fair mark that Fred presented. It went wide and Fred laughed gleefully. "Guess that dime stays right in my pocket," he chuckled. "Never mind, Betty," encouraged Bobby. "You were just getting the range then. Better luck next time." But the next shot also failed, and Fred's mirth became uproarious. "I might just as well have made it a dollar," he mocked. But his smile suddenly faded when Betty's third throw caught him right on the point of the nose. Fortunately the ball was not very hard. It spread all over his face, getting into his eyes and filling his mouth, and leaving him for the moment blinded and sputtering. The girls gave little shrieks and the boys doubled up with laughter, which increased as the victim brushed away the snow and they caught sight of his startled and sheepish face. Betty, in swift penitence, flew to his side. "Oh, Fred!" she wailed, "I hope I didn't hurt you!" To do Fred justice, he was game, and after the first moment of discomfiture he tried to smile, though the attempt was not much of a success. "That's all right, Betty," he said. "You're a better shot than I thought you were. Here's your dime," he added, taking the coin from his pocket. "I don't want it," replied Betty. "I'm sorry I won it." But Fred insisted and she took it, although reluctantly. "Too bad you didn't make it a dollar, Fred," joked Pee Wee. "Couldn't hit you in a thousand years, eh?" chuckled Scat. "Oh, cut it out, you fellows," protested Fred. "I didn't dodge anyway, did I? You've got to give me credit for that." "That was pretty good work for short distance shooting," remarked Bobby Blake, molding a snowball. "But now watch me hit that rock on the other side of the road." "Look out that you don't hit that horse," cautioned Betty. But the snowball had already left Bobby's hand. He had thought that it would easily clear the scraggy old horse that was jogging along drawing a sleigh. But the aim was too low, and the snowball hit the horse plump in the neck. The startled brute reared and plunged, and the driver, a big hulky boy with pale eyes and a pasty complexion, had all he could do to quiet him. He succeeded at last, and then, grasping his whip, jumped over the side of the sleigh and came running up to the boys, his face convulsed with rage. CHAPTER II A FRIEND INTERFERES "Oh," gasped Betty, "it's Ap Plunkit!" "Yes," added Fred, "and he's as mad as a hornet." Applethwaite Plunkit was the son of a farmer who lived a short distance out of town. He was older and larger than the rest of the boys gathered on the station platform, and they all disliked him thoroughly because of his mean and ugly disposition. Bobby and Fred had had several squabbles with him when he had attempted to bully them, but their quarrels had never yet got to the point of an actual fight. But just now, as he strode up to them, it looked as though a fight were coming. Bobby was a plucky boy, and though he never went around looking for trouble, he was always willing and able to take his own part when it became necessary. But Ap was a great deal bigger and heavier than he, and just now had the advantage of the whip. So that Bobby's breath came a little faster as Ap came nearer. But he never thought of retreating, and faced the bully with an outward calm that he was very far from feeling. "Which one of you fellows hit my horse?" demanded Ap, in a voice that trembled with rage. "I did," replied Bobby, stepping forward a little in advance of the group. "What did you do it for?" cried Ap, at the same time raising his whip. "I didn't aim at the horse," replied Bobby. "I was trying to hit a rock on the other side of the road." "I don't believe it," snarled the bully. "I can't help whether you believe it or not," answered Bobby. "It's the truth." "You needn't think you're going to crawl out of it that way," Ap snapped back. "You hit my horse on purpose and now I'm going to hit you." He lifted his whip higher to make good his threat. Bobby's fists clenched and his eyes glowed. "Don't you touch me with that whip, Ap Plunkit," he warned, "or it will be the worse for you." "You bet it will!" cried Fred, rushing forward. "You touch Bobby and we'll all pitch into you." "That's what!" ejaculated Mouser. "Sure thing," added Pee Wee, who, though lazy and hard to rouse, was always loyal to his friends. For a moment it seemed as though a general scrimmage could not be avoided, and the girls gave little frightened shrieks. Ap hesitated. "Four against one," he muttered sarcastically. "You're a plucky lot, you are." "Throw down that whip and any one of us will tackle you," cried Fred hotly, his fiery temper getting the better of him. But just then a diversion came from a new quarter. A boy who was just about equal to Ap in age and weight, who had a lot of freckles, a snub nose, a jolly Irish face and a crop of red hair that rivaled Fred's own, pushed his way through the crowd that had gathered. "It's Pat Moriarty," cried Betty in relief. "Hello, Bobby! Hello, Fred!" called out the newcomer cheerily. "What's the rumpus here?" "It's this Ap Plunkit," explained Bobby. "I hit his horse with a snowball by accident." "And the big coward's brought his whip over to get even," volunteered Fred. "To git even is it," said Pat, as his eyes fell on the bully, who was beginning to move backward. "Well, I'll give him the chanst." He went over rapidly to Ap. "Why don't you tackle a feller of your size?" he asked scornfully. "Like me, fur instance?" "You keep out of this," muttered Ap uneasily. "Keep out of it!" jeered Pat pugnaciously. "A Moriarty never keeps out of a scrap when he sees a big feller pickin' on a little one." With a sudden movement he snatched Ap's whip and threw it on the ground. Resentment flared up in Ap's eyes. While the two antagonists stand glaring at each other, it may be well, for the benefit of those who have not followed the fortunes and adventures of Bobby Blake from the beginning, to give a brief outline of the preceding volumes in this series. Bobby was the only child of his parents, who resided in the little inland town of Clinton. Although their hearts were bound up in their son, they had been sensible enough not to spoil him, and he had grown into a bright, manly boy, full of fun and frolic, and a general favorite among the boys of the town. Fred Martin, whose family lived only a few doors away from the Blakes, was Bobby's closest friend and companion. The boys were very different in temperament, and it was this very unlikeness, perhaps, which had made them chums. Fred had a hot temper which was constantly getting him into scrapes, and Bobby, who was much cooler and more self-controlled, was kept busy a good deal of the time in getting his friend out of trouble. They seldom had any differences between themselves and were almost constantly together. Mr. Blake was once suddenly called to South America on business, and it was arranged that Mrs. Blake should go with him. What to do with Bobby during their absence gave them a good many anxious moments. They finally decided to send him to Rockledge School, of which they had heard excellent reports, and to Bobby's great delight, Mr. Martin consented to let Fred go with him. The school opened a new world for the boys. They had to study hard, but a lot of fun was mixed in with the work and they had many exciting adventures. They formed warm friendships, but there were two or three bullies in the school who tried to make their lives burdensome. How they finally defeated these petty tyrants and came out on top is told in the first volume of the series, entitled: "Bobby Blake at Rockledge School; or, Winning the Medal of Honor." The steamer on which Mr. Blake and his wife had sailed was lost at sea, and for a time it was feared that all on board had gone down with her. Bobby was heart-broken; so when news came later that his parents had been rescued his joy can be imagined. The end of the spring term was near, and Bobby and Fred accepted the invitation of one of their schoolmates, Perry (nicknamed "Pee Wee") Wise, to spend part of the summer vacation on the coast, where Perry's father had a summer home. There they had a splendid time. Their most stirring adventure involved the search for a missing boat. This is described in the second volume of the series, entitled: "Bobby Blake at Bass Cove; or, The Hunt for the Motor Boat _Gem_." They would have stayed longer at this delightful place, had it not been for a message brought to Bobby by an old sea captain who was a friend of Mr. Blake. He told Bobby that his parents were on their way home but would stop for a while at Porto Rico, where they wanted Bobby to join them. Bobby was wild to see his parents again, and his joy was increased when Mr. Martin said that he would go too and take Fred along. They expected adventure, but got more than they bargained for, and the story of how they were cast away and finally picked up by the very ship on which Bobby's father and mother were sailing is told in the third volume of the series, entitled: "Bobby Blake on a Cruise; or, The Castaways of Volcano Island." Once more at home, the two boys were preparing to go back to Rockledge for the fall term, when they suddenly came into possession of a pocketbook containing a large sum of money. A strange series of happenings led them at last to the owner. In the meantime, their school life was full of action, culminating in a lively football game where Bobby and Fred helped to defeat Belden School, their chief rival. How well they played their part is shown in the fourth volume of the series, entitled: "Bobby Blake and His School Chums; or, The Rivals of Rockledge." The uncle of "Mouser" Pryde, one of Bobby's particular friends at school, owned a shooting lodge up in the Big Woods, and he invited Mouser to ask some of his friends up there to spend part of the Christmas holidays. Bobby and Fred were members of the party, and they had a glorious time, skating, snowshoeing, fishing through the ice and hunting. In turn, they were themselves hunted by a big bear and had a narrow escape. Incidentally they were fortunate enough to rescue and bring back to his right mind a demented hunter who proved to be Pat Moriarty's father. How they did this and won the everlasting gratitude of the red-headed Irish boy is described in the fifth volume of the series, entitled: "Bobby Blake at Snowtop Camp; or, Winter Holidays in the Big Woods." Pat and Ap seemed to be trying to outstare each other, and the rest waited in breathless silence during this silent duel of eyes. But Ap's eyes were the first to fall before the blaze in Pat's. "I'll get even with that Bobby Blake yet," he mumbled, stooping to pick up his whip. "Well, the next time don't bring along your whip to help you out," replied Bobby. "An' when you feel like lookin' for trouble, I can find it for you," added Pat. "You'll be rememberin', Ap Plunkit, that I licked you once when you gave a hot penny to a monkey, an' I can do it again." It was evident that Ap did remember perfectly well the fact which Pat referred to, for he did not seem to want to stay any longer in the Irish lad's vicinity. He picked up his whip, went over to the wagon and climbed in. Then he took out his spite by giving his nag a vicious slash and drove away. But first he doubled up his fist and shook it at the boys, a gesture which they answered with a derisive shout of laughter. "I think that Ap Plunkit is just horrid," declared Betty, with a stamp of her little foot. "I don't blame him for feeling a little sore," said Bobby, "especially before he knew I didn't do it on purpose. But I guess he has a grudge against me anyway." "He was just looking for an excuse to make trouble," put in Fred, "and it was just like him to bring his whip along. He never has played fair yet." "He's got a yaller streak in him, I'm thinkin'," chuckled Pat, a broad smile covering his jolly face. "I just couldn't help buttin' in when I seen him a swingin' of that whip." "You always stand up for your friends, don't you, Pat?" said Mouser admiringly. "Sure thing," grinned Pat. "Especially when they're the best friends a feller ever had. I'll never forget what Bobby and Fred have done for me an' my folks." "Oh, that was nothing," put in Bobby hastily. "Nothin'!" exclaimed Pat. "It was just everything, an' there isn't a day goes by in our house but what we're talkin' about it." "How did you happen to be Johnny-on-the-spot this morning?" asked Bobby, anxious to change the conversation. "I just was doin' an errand at the grocery store when I heard some one say that you boys were goin' off to school this mornin'," answered Pat, "an' I dropped everything an' came down here on a dead run to say good-bye and wish you slathers of luck. I guess me mother will be after wonderin' what's keepin' me, an' she a waitin' fur the butter an' sugar," he added, with a grin, "but she won't care when I tell her what the reason was." "I wish you were going along with us, Pat," said Bobby, who was genuinely fond of the good-hearted Irish boy. "Yes," drawled Pee Wee. "We've got a couple of fellows up at Rockledge that I'd like to see you handle just as you faced down Ap this morning." "If there's any kind of a shindig, I'd sure like to be in the thick of it," laughed Pat. "But I'll trust you boys not to let them fellers do any crowin' over you." "Right you are," put in Mouser. "There aren't any of 'em that can make Bobby and Fred lie down when they get their dander up." "Oh, dear," sighed Betty, as the toot of the train's whistle was heard up the track. "Here it comes. I just hate to have to say good-bye to you boys." "Never mind, Betty," cried Bobby cheerily. "It won't be so very long and you'll hear from us every once in a while. And maybe we'll be able to come home for a few days at Easter." There was a scurrying about as the boys got their hand-baggage together and brushed the snow from their clothes. The train had now come in sight, and a minute later with a great rattle and clamor and hissing of steam it drew up to the platform. "All aboard!" shouted Mouser, and the four boys scrambled up the steps, Pee Wee as usual bringing up the rear. They rushed up the aisle and were lucky enough to find two vacant seats next to each other. They turned over the back of one of them, so that two of them could sit facing the others, and tucked away their belongings in the racks and under the seats. Then they threw up the windows so as to have a last word with those they were leaving behind. The girls had their handkerchiefs out ready to wave a good-bye, and Betty was applying hers furtively to one of her eyes. "I hope your nose isn't hurting you, Fred," she questioned, the mischief glinting out in spite of the tears. "Not a bit of it," answered Fred hastily, as though the subject was not to his liking. "And you're sure you don't need the ten cents?" "Need nothing," declared Fred, with the magnificent gesture of one to whom money was a trifle. "I've got plenty with me." Betty drew back a little, and Scat and Pat came along and grasped the four hands that were thrust out to meet theirs. "Good luck, fellows," said Scat. "I hope you'll get on the baseball nine this spring and lay it all over the teams you play against." "We're going to do our best," Bobby replied. "Good-bye, boys!" called out Pat. "I sure am sorry to have you goin'. It won't seem like the same old place when you ain't here no more." "Good-bye, Pat!" the four shouted in chorus. "If you have any mix-up with Ap while we're gone, be sure to let us know," laughed Bobby. "There won't be any mix-up," put in Fred. "Not if Ap sees Pat first, there won't." "Ap will crawfish all right," confirmed Mouser. "He's a wonder at backing out," added Pee Wee. The bell of the engine began to clang and the train started slowly out of the station. The little party left behind ran alongside until they reached the end of the platform, shouting and waving. The travelers, with their heads far out of the windows, waved and called in return until they were out of sight and hearing. "Betty's a bully girl, isn't she, Fred?" remarked Bobby, as they settled back in their seats. "You're a lucky fellow. I wish I had a sister like her." "Ye-e-s," assented Fred, rather hesitatingly. "Betty's a brick. That is," he added hastily, "as far as any girl can be. But don't be wishing too hard for sisters, Bobby," he went on darkly. "Girls aren't all they're cracked up to be." "Especially when they know how to throw," put in Bobby, with a roguish glint in his eyes. Fred pretended to think this remark unworthy of an answer, but he rubbed his nose reflectively. CHAPTER III THE COMING STORM For several minutes the boys were the least bit quiet and subdued. There is always something sobering in going away from home and leaving relatives and friends behind, especially when the parting is going to last for many months, and the warm-hearted farewells of the group at the station were still ringing in the boy's ears. But it is not in boy nature to remain quiet long, and their irrepressible spirits soon asserted themselves and caused the young travelers to bubble over with fun and merriment. Besides, Pee Wee and Mouser had said good-bye to their parents the day before in their own homes, and had been stopping over night with their school chums in Clinton. Their depression was but for the moment and was over the thought of leaving behind so much fun and good will as they had found at their chums' home town, and they helped Bobby and Fred to forget their feeling of homesickness. There were not many other passengers on the train that morning, so that the boys had plenty of room and could give vent to their feelings without causing annoyance to others. They snatched each other's caps and threw them in the aisles or under the seats, indulged in good-natured scuffling, sang bits of the Rockledge songs and cut up "high jinks" generally. Fred and Mouser were seized by a longing for a drink of water at the same moment, and they had a race to see who would get to the cooler first. Fred won and got first drink while Mouser waited for his turn. But Mouser got even by knocking Fred's elbow so that half the water was spilled over the front of his coat. "Quit, I tell you, Mouser," remonstrated Fred, half choking from the effort to drink and talk at the same time. But Mouser kept on, until suddenly Fred saw a chance to get back at him. "What does it say there?" he asked, pointing to some words engraved on the lower part of the cooler. "I can't quite make the letters out from here." Mouser innocently bent over, and Fred, taking advantage of his stooping position, tipped his glass and sent a stream of water down his victim's neck. There was a startled howl from Mouser as the cold water trickled down his spine. He straightened up with a jerk and chased Fred down the aisle, while Bobby and Pee Wee went into whoops of laughter at his discomfiture. "That's no way to drink water, Mouser," chaffed Bobby as soon as he could speak. "You want to use your mouth instead of taking in through the pores." "Oh, dry up," ejaculated Mouser, making frantic efforts to stuff his handkerchief down his back. "We're dry enough already," chuckled Pee Wee. "Seems to me it's you that needs drying up." "You will jog my elbow, eh?" jeered Fred, who was delighted at the success of his stratagem. "My turn will come," grunted Mouser. "It's a long worm that has no turning," he added, getting mixed up in his proverbs. Again the boys shouted and Mouser himself, although he tried to keep up his dignity, ended by joining in the merriment. In the scramble for seats when they had first boarded the train, Bobby and Fred had had the luck to get the seat that faced forward. Mouser and Pee Wee had to ride backward and naturally after a while they objected. "You fellows have all the best of it," grumbled Pee Wee. "That's all right," retorted Fred. "That's as it should be. Nothing's too good for Bobby and me. The best people ought to have the best of everything." "Sure thing," Bobby backed him up. "The common people ought to be satisfied with what they can get. You fellows ought to be glad that we let you travel with us at all." "Those fellows just hate themselves, don't they?" Mouser appealed to his seat mate. "Aren't they the modest little flowers?" agreed Pee Wee. "What do you say to rushing them and firing them out?" suggested Mouser. "Oh, don't do that," cried Fred in mock alarm. "Pee Wee might fall on one of us, and then there'd be nothing left but a grease spot." "Might as well have a ton of brick on top of you," confirmed Bobby. "I'll tell you what," grinned Pee Wee. "We'll draw straws for it and the fellows that get the two longest straws get the best seats." "That would be all right and I'd be glad to do it," said Fred with an air of candor. "Only there aren't any straws handy. So we'll have to let things stay as they are." "You don't get out of it that way, you old fox," cried Mouser. "Here's an old letter and we'll make strips of paper take the place of the straws." "All right," agreed Fred, driven into the open. "Give me the letter and I'll make the strips and you fellows can draw." "Will you play fair?" asked Mouser suspiciously. Fred put on an air of offended virtue. "Do you think I'm a crook?" he asked. "I don't know," retorted Mouser in a most unflattering way. "A fellow that will pour water down my back when I'm trying to do him a favor will do anything." Fred looked at him sadly as though lamenting his lack of faith, but proceeded briskly to tear the strips. The boys drew and Bobby had the luck to retain his seat, but Fred had to exchange with Mouser. "It's a shame to have to sit with Pee Wee," said Fred as he squeezed in beside the fat boy. "He takes up two-thirds of the seat." "The conductor ought to charge him double fare," grinned Mouser. Pee Wee only smiled lazily. "Look at him," jeered Bobby. "He looks just like the cat that's swallowed the canary." "It would take more than that to make Pee Wee happy," put in Fred. "A canary would be a mighty slim meal for him." "You'd think so if you'd seen how he piled into the buckwheat cakes this morning," chuckled Bobby. "Honestly, fellows, I thought that Meena would have heart failure trying to cook them fast enough." "I noticed that you did your part all right," laughed Pee Wee. "I had all I could do to get my share of the maple syrup." "Buckwheats and maple syrup!" groaned Mouser. "Say, fellows! stop talking about them or you'll make me so hungry I'll have to bite the woodwork." "We can do better than that," said Fred. "Here comes the train boy. Let's get some candy and peanuts." The boys bought lavishly and munched away contentedly. "Look at the way the snow's coming down!" exclaimed Fred, gazing out of the window. "It is for a fact," agreed Bobby. "Looks as though it had settled in for a regular storm," commented Mouser. "Maybe it will be a blizzard," suggested Pee Wee. As a matter of fact, it appeared to be that already. The snow was falling heavily and shutting out the view so that the boys could scarcely see the telegraph poles at the side of the track. A fierce wind was blowing, and in many places the fence rails were almost covered where the snow had drifted. "Hope we won't have any trouble in getting to Rockledge," remarked Fred rather apprehensively. "Not so bad as that I guess," said Bobby. "There's one place though, a little further on, where the track runs through a gulch and that may be pretty well filled up if the storm keeps on." "I wonder if there's anything to eat on the train if we should get snowbound," ventured Pee Wee. "Trust Pee Wee to think of his stomach the first thing," gibed Fred. "There isn't any dining car on the train," said Mouser. "And we're still a good way from the station where it usually stops for lunch." "We're all right anyway as long as the candy and peanuts hold out," laughed Bobby. "Yes," mourned Pee Wee, "but there isn't much nourishment in them when a fellow's really hungry." The storm continued without abatement, and the few passengers that got on at the way stations looked like so many polar bears as they shook the clinging flakes from their clothes and shoes. "Oh well, what do we care," concluded Pee Wee, settling back in his seat. "There's no use borrowing trouble. It always comes soon enough if it comes at all." "We ought to be used to snow by this time," remarked Mouser. "After what we went through up in the Big Woods this doesn't seem anything at all." "Listen to the north pole explorer," mocked Fred. "You'd think, to hear him talk, that he'd been up with Cook or Peary." "Well, I've got it all over those fellows in one way," maintained Mouser. "I'll bet they never had a snowslide come down and cover the shack they were living in." "That was a close shave all right," said Bobby a little soberly, as he thought of what had been almost a tragedy during their recent holiday at Snowtop Camp. "I thought once we were never going to get out of that scrape alive." "It was almost as bad when we were chased by the bear," put in Fred. "We did some good little running that day all right. I thought my breath would never come back." "And the running wouldn't have done us any good if it hadn't been for good old Don," added Mouser. "How that old dog did stand up to the bear." "He got some fierce old digs from the bear's claws while he was doing it," said Bobby. "He got over them all right," affirmed Mouser. "I got a letter from my uncle a couple of days ago, and he says that Don is as good as he ever was." The train for some time past had been going more and more slowly. Suddenly it came to a halt, although there was no station in sight. It backed up for perhaps three hundred feet, put on all steam and again rushed forward only to come to an abrupt stop with a jerk that almost threw the boys out of their seats. They looked at each other in consternation. CHAPTER IV HELD UP Once more, as though unwilling to admit that it was conquered, the train backed up and then made a forward dash. But the result was the same. The snorting monster seemed to give up the struggle, and stood puffing and wheezing, with the steam hissing and great volumes of smoke rising from the stack. "We're blocked," cried Bobby. "It must be that we've got to the gulch," observed Fred. "A pretty kettle of fish," grumbled Pee Wee. "We're up against it for fair, I guess," admitted Mouser. "But let's get out and see how bad the trouble is." The boys joined the procession of passengers going down the aisle and jumped off the steps of the car into a pile of snow beside the track that came up to their knees. Pee Wee, who as usual was last, lost his balance as he sprang, and went head over heels into a drift. His laughing comrades helped him to his feet. "Wallowing like a porpoise," grinned Fred. "You went into that snow as if you liked it," chuckled Bobby. "Lots of sympathy from you boobs," grumbled Pee Wee, as he brushed the snow from his face and hair. "Lots of that in the dictionary," sang out Mouser. "But come ahead, fellows, and see what's doing." The others waded after Mouser until they stood abreast of the locomotive. It was a scene of wintry desolation that lay stretched before their eyes. As far as they could see, they could make out little but the white blanket of snow, above which the trees tossed their black and leafless branches. Paths and fences were blotted out, and except for the thin column of smoke that rose from a farmhouse half a mile away, they might have been in an uninhabited world of white. "Looks like Snowtop, sure enough," muttered Mouser, as he looked around. The conductor and the engineer, together with the trainmen, had gathered in a little group near the engine, and the boys edged closer in order to hear what they were saying. "It's no use," the grizzled old engineer was remarking. "The jig's up as far as Seventy-three is concerned. I tried to get the old girl to buck the drifts, but she couldn't do it." The boys thought it was no wonder that Seventy-three had gone on strike, as they noted that her cowcatcher was buried while the drift rose higher than her stack. "It's too bad," rejoined the conductor, shaking his head in a perplexed fashion. "I've been worrying about the gulch ever since it came on to snow so hard. It wouldn't have mattered so much if it hadn't been for the wind. That's slacked up some now, but the damage is done already." "What are you going to do, boss?" asked one of the trainmen. "You'll have to go back to the last station and wire up to the Junction for them to send the snow-plough down and clear the track," responded the conductor. "Get a hustle on now and ask them to send it along in a hurry." The trainman started back at as fast a pace as the snow permitted, and the engineer climbed back into his cab to get out of the wind while waiting for help. The conductor started back for the smoking car, and as he went past, Bobby ventured to speak to him. "How long do you think we'll have to wait here?" he inquired. "No telling, sonny," the conductor answered. "Perhaps a couple of hours, maybe longer. It all depends on how soon they can get that snow-plough down to us." He passed on and Mouser gave a low whistle. "Scubbity-_yow_!" cried Fred, giving vent to his favorite exclamation. "Two long hours in this neck of the woods!" "And nothing to eat in sight," groaned Pee Wee. "I wish I'd let Meena put up that lunch for us this morning," said Bobby regretfully. "My mother wanted me to bring one along, but I was in a hurry and counted on getting something to eat at the railroad lunch station." "What are we going to do?" moaned Pee Wee. "Fill up on snowballs," suggested Mouser heartlessly. Pee Wee glared at him. "I'm almost as bad as Pee Wee," said Fred. "I feel as empty as though I hadn't had anything to eat for a week. I could eat the bark off a tree." "I tell you what, fellows," suggested Bobby, who was usually the leader when it came to action; "what do you say to going over to that farmhouse and trying to buy something to eat? I don't think they'd let us go away hungry." They followed the direction of his pointing finger, and new hope sprang up in them. "But it's an awful long way off," objected Pee Wee, whose fear of exertion was only second to his love of eating. "Have you got another stone bruise on your foot?" asked Mouser sarcastically. This was a standing joke among the boys. Whenever Pee Wee hung back from a walk or a run, he usually put forth the excuse of a stone bruise that made him lame for the time. "No, I haven't any stone bruise," Pee Wee rapped back at him, "but how do you know I didn't bark my shins when I had that tumble a few minutes ago?" He put on a pained look which might have deceived those who did not know him so well. But the steady stare of his comrades was too much for him to stand without wilting, and he had to join rather sheepishly in the laugh that followed. "You stay here then, Pee Wee, while we go over and get something to eat," suggested Fred. "We'll ask the farmer to bring you over something on a gold tray. He'll be glad to do it." "Oh, cut it out," grinned Pee Wee. "Go ahead and I'll follow." "Foxy boy, isn't he?" chuckled Fred. "He wants us to break out the path so that it will be easier for him." "I'd rather have Pee Wee go ahead," remarked Mouser. "He'd be better than any snow plough." With chaff and laughter they started out, Bobby leading the way and the rest following in single file. They had pulled their caps down over their ears and buttoned their coats tightly about their necks. Luckily for them the wind had moderated, although the snow still kept falling, but more lightly than before. They did not do much talking, for they needed all their breath to make their way through the drifts. As they had no path to guide them, they made straight across the fields, bumping every now and then into a fence that they had to climb. They were pretty well winded and panting hard when at last they reached the fence that bounded the spacious dooryard in front of the farmhouse. A big black dog came bounding down to the gate barking ferociously. The boys took comfort from the fact that the fence was high and that the dog was too big and heavy to leap over it. "He's glad to see us--I don't think," said Fred. "Seems to have a sweet disposition," muttered Pee Wee. "Let Mouser get to talking to him," suggested Bobby. "He'll tame him down in no time." Mouser, somewhat flattered, stepped forward. He had gained his nickname because he had a number of mice which he had taught to do all sorts of clever tricks. His fondness extended to all animals, and he had the remarkable power over them with which some people are gifted. No matter how savage or frightened they might be, they seemed to yield to his charm. It did not fail him now. He muttered some words soothingly to the dog, whose barking grew feebler. Soon it stopped altogether, and in another minute or two the brute was wagging his tail and poking his muzzle through the rails of the fence for Mouser to pat him. It was almost uncanny, and the boys held their breath as they watched the transformation. "It's all right now," said Mouser, lifting the latch of the gate. "Come along, fellows." "Gee whiz!" exclaimed Bobby. "How do you do it?" "You ought to be with a circus," said Fred in undisguised admiration. "You'd make a dandy lion tamer." Mouser was elated at the tribute, but accepted it modestly enough, and led the way up to the house, the dog prancing along with them in the most friendly manner. As they reached the door and were about to knock, it was opened, and a motherly looking woman appeared on the threshold. There was an expression of anxiety on her face. "Down, Tiger, down," she cried. Then as she saw the evident pleasure of the brute in the boys' company, her worried expression changed to one of surprise. "Mercy on us!" she exclaimed. "I was afraid the dog would eat you up. He's awfully savage, but we keep him on account of there being so many tramps around. I was upstairs when I heard him barking, and I hurried down as fast as I could, for I was sure he'd bite you if you came inside the gate." "Oh, Tiger's a good friend of mine, aren't you, Tiger?" laughed Mouser, as he stooped to caress the dog. Tiger licked his hand. "Well, I never saw anything like it," said their hostess. "I just can't understand it. But here I am keeping you standing outside when you must be half perished with the cold," she went on with quick sympathy. "Come right inside and get warm before you say another word." She led the way into a bright, cheerful sitting room, where there was a big wood fire blazing on the hearth. She bustled around and saw that they were comfortably seated before the fire. Then Bobby explained their errand. "I suppose we're sort of tramps ourselves," he said with the winning smile that always gained for him instant liking. "But we were on the train and it got stalled over there in the gulch on account of the snow. We hadn't brought any lunch with us and we thought we'd come over here and see if we could buy something to eat." "You poor starved boys!" she exclaimed with as ready a sympathy as though she had been the mother of them all. "Of course you can have all you want to eat. It's too early for dinner yet, as Mr. Wilson--that's my husband--went to town this morning and will be a little late in getting back. But I'll get up something for you right away. You just sit here and get warmed through and I'll have it on the table in a jiffy." "Don't go to too much trouble," put in Bobby. "Anything will do." She was off at once, and they heard the cheerful clatter of pans and dishes in the adjoining kitchen. The boys stretched out luxuriously before the fire and looked at each other in silent ecstasy. "Talk about luck," murmured Mouser. "All we want to eat," repeated Pee Wee. "She didn't know you when she said that," chaffed Fred. "I don't believe there's enough in the house to fill that contract." "Pee Wee will have to go some to get ahead of me," chimed in Bobby. A savory odor was soon wafted in from the kitchen. Pee Wee sat bolt upright and sniffed. "Say, fellows! do you smell that?" he asked. "If I'm dreaming, don't wake me up." "It's no dream," Mouser assured him. "It's something a good sight more real than that." Before long the door opened to reveal the smiling face of Mrs. Wilson. "All ready, boys," she announced cheerily. "Come right along." CHAPTER V THE TRAMPS' RETREAT The boys needed no second invitation. Even Pee Wee shook off his usual laziness. With a single impulse they sprang from their chairs and trooped out into the dining room. It seemed to the hungry boys as though nothing had ever looked so good as the meal that their hostess had provided for them. There was a huge dish of bacon and eggs, plates piled high with snowy, puffy biscuit, which, as Mrs. Wilson told them, she had "knocked together" in a hurry, smoking hot from the oven, a great platter of fried potatoes, and, to crown the feast, mince and apple and pumpkin pies whose flaky crusts seemed to fairly beg to be eaten. A simultaneous "ah-h" came from the boys, as they looked at the store of good things set before them, and the way they plunged into the meal was the sincerest tribute that could be paid to the cookery of their hostess. It brought a glow of pleasure into her kindly eyes and a happy flush to her cheeks. She fluttered about them like a hen over her chicks, renewing the dishes, pressing them to take more--a thing which was wholly unnecessary--and joining in their jokes and laughter. It is safe to say that a merrier meal had not been enjoyed in that old farmhouse for many a day. But even a meal like that had to come to an end at last, and it was with a sigh of perfect satisfaction that the boys finally sat back in their chairs and looked about at the complete wreck they had made of the viands. "Looks as if a whirlwind had passed this way," remarked Mouser. "I never enjoyed a meal so much," said Pee Wee. "Well, you're certainly a judge," laughed Fred. "When you say a meal's the limit you know what you're talking about. And this time I agree with you." "I'm glad you liked things," put in Mrs. Wilson. "It does me good to see the way you boys eat." "I'm afraid you wouldn't make much money if you had us as steady boarders," smiled Bobby. "Come right back to the living room and get yourselves warm as toast before you start out again in this wind," urged their hostess. "We'd like to ever so much," replied Bobby. "But I guess we'd better be getting along. Perhaps that snow plough will get down sooner than we thought, and everything's been so good here that I'm afraid perhaps we've stayed too long already." They wrapped themselves up warmly, and then Bobby as spokesman turned to their hostess. "How much do we owe you?" he asked, taking out his pocketbook, while the others prepared to do the same. "You don't owe me a cent!" declared Mrs. Wilson with emphasis. "Oh, but yes," rejoined Bobby, somewhat startled. "We couldn't think of letting you go to all that trouble and expense without paying for it." "I won't take a penny, bless your hearts," Mrs. Wilson repeated. "It's been a real joy to have you here. I haven't any children of my own, and the old place gets a bit lonesome at times. I haven't had such a good time for years as I've had this morning, seeing you eat so hearty and listening to your fun. I feel that I owe you a good deal more than you do me." She was firm in her determination, although the boys pressed the matter as far as they could without offending her. So they were forced at last to yield to her wishes and return the money to their pockets. It was with the warmest thanks that they left their kind-hearted hostess and went down the steps, Tiger accompanying them to the gate. He seemed to want to go further and whined softly when Mouser patted him good-bye. "Isn't she a prince?" said Pee Wee admiringly, as they waved their hands in farewell. "A princess you mean," corrected Mouser. "Have it your own way," retorted Pee Wee. "Whichever name's the best, she's that." They were in a high state of elation as they ploughed their way across the snowy fields. They were blissfully conscious of being, as Mouser put it, "full to the chin," and little else was needed at their age to make their happiness complete. But they were sharply awakened by the sound of a whistle. "That must be our train," cried Fred in alarm. "That's what it is," assented Bobby, quickening his pace. "We stayed a long time at the table, and the snow-plough must have come along sooner than they thought it would. Hurry, fellows, hurry!" and he tried to break into a run. The others followed his example, but the snow was too deep for that. It clung about their feet and legs until they felt that they were moving in a nightmare. "She's going, fellows!" shouted Mouser in despair, as a stream of smoke began to stretch out behind the moving train. "And all our bags and things are on board!" wailed Fred. "Now we're in a pretty mess," gasped Pee Wee, slumping down in the snow. There was no use in hurrying now, and they looked blankly at each other as they came to a full stop. "Scubbity-_yow_!" howled Fred as the only way to relieve his feelings. "Well, I'll be jiggered!" exclaimed Mouser. Pee Wee was too tired out from his exertion to say anything, and Bobby, too, kept silent, though for a different reason. He was busy thinking of the best way to get out of the tangle. "There's no use in worrying about our baggage, fellows," he said at last. "Probably the conductor will take good care of that. And we may be able to send a telegram from some place telling the conductor to put our things off at Rockledge and leave them in care of the station agent there. What we've got to worry about is ourselves. We can't stay here, and we've got to find some way to get another train as soon as we can. Have any of you fellows got a time table?" "I had one," replied Mouser, "but it's in my bag on the train." None of the others had one and Bobby came to a quick decision. "There's no other way," he announced. "We'll have to go back and ask Mrs. Wilson. She'll know all about the trains and what's the best station for us to go to." They trudged back rather forlornly and explained their plight to Mrs. Wilson, who was full of sympathy. "I'd like to have you stay here all night," she volunteered, "and Mr. Wilson will take you over to the station in a rig to-morrow morning." They thanked her heartily, but explained that this was out of the question. They would be missed from the train, telegrams would be flying back and forth and their parents would be anxious and excited. They must get to some place where they could either telegraph or, better yet, get a train that would land them in Rockledge that afternoon or evening. "I'll tell you what to do," she suggested, as a thought struck her. "You can't get a train on this line you've been traveling on until very late to-night. But there's another road that crosses this at a junction about two miles from here and connects with the main line that goes on to Rockledge. There's an afternoon train on that line that you'll have plenty of time to make, and it will land you in Rockledge before night. There's a telegraph office there too, and you can send any messages you like before you board the train." "That's just the very thing," cried Bobby with enthusiasm. "Just what the doctor ordered," chuckled Mouser. She gave them very careful directions for finding the station, and as there was none too much time and the walking was bound to be slow they set out at once, after thanking their friend for having come a second time to their relief. Their path led for the most part through a wood and they passed no other houses on their way. Even in summer it was evident that the locality was wild and deserted. Now with the snow over everything it was especially desolate. "You might almost think you were up in the Big Woods," commented Mouser. "That's what," agreed Fred. "It would be a dandy place for train robbers and that kind of fellows." "I'd hate to be wandering around here at night," remarked Pee Wee, who was panting with the exertion of keeping up with the others. "It would give one a sort of creepy feeling, like being in a cemetery," assented Bobby. Suddenly Fred uttered an exclamation. "There's a little house right over in that hollow," he cried, pointing to the right. "More like a hut or a shack than a regular house, seems to me," grunted Mouser. "I don't believe there's any one living there," commented Pee Wee. "Yes, there must be," declared Bobby. "I can see the light of a fire shining through the window." The hut in question was a dilapidated structure of only one story that stood in a little hollow just off the road. It was in the last stages of decay and looked as though a strong wind would blow it to pieces. There were no fences nor barn nor any wagon or farm implement in sight. Yet that some one lived in the crazy shack was evident, as Bobby had said, by the red light that came flickeringly through the only window that the cabin possessed. "Let's stop there for a minute and get warm," suggested Fred. "Then, too, we can make sure that we're still on the right road to the station." "What's the use?" cautioned Bobby. "We got left once to-day by stopping too long." "It will only take a minute," urged Fred. As the others also wanted to stop, and Bobby did not wish to insist too much, they all went down into the hollow together. The snow of course deadened their footsteps, so that whoever was in the cabin had no notice of their approach. Fred, who was in advance, rapped on the door. There was silence for a moment and then the door swung open and a rough looking man appeared on the sill. "What do you want?" he asked gruffly. "We wanted to ask directions about the road," said Fred, a little dismayed by the fellow's surly manner. The man looked them over for a moment, noticed that they were well dressed and hesitated no longer. "Come in," he said briefly, and stood aside for them to pass. CHAPTER VI HEAVY ODDS Although feeling rather uneasy because of the man's rough manner, the boys hardly saw what they could do but accept the invitation, and they went inside. The next moment they wished they had not. There were two other men within the hut besides the one who had opened the door. They were seated at a bare pine table, and on the table there was a bottle of liquor. There seemed to be no other furniture in the miserable room, except a rusty wood stove, which was at white heat, two or three stools and a pile of hay in the corner, which evidently served as a bed. The heat inside was stifling, and the room was rank with the fumes of liquor. The unshaven faces of the men were flushed, their eyes red and bleared, and a greasy pack of cards told of their occupation when they had been interrupted. "Tramps," whispered Bobby to Fred, who was nearest. "Let's get out of this." "You bet," returned Fred, as he made a motion toward the door. But the man who had let them in now stood with his back against the closed door, looking at them with an ugly grin on his face, a face which was made still more repellant by a livid scar up near the temple. "What do these young buckos want here?" asked one of the men at the table, rising and coming toward them. As he did so, Bobby noticed that he limped a trifle. "We stopped in for a minute to ask if we were on the right road to the station," said Bobby in a tone which he tried to render as careless as possible. "You did, eh?" said the man. "Well, just wait a minute and I'll tell you." He and his companion approached their comrade at the door, and for a few moments there was a whispered conversation. Then the man with the scar, who seemed to be the leader of the gang, turned to Bobby. "You're on the right road all right," he said. "Thank you," returned Bobby. "Then I guess we'll be getting on." The man laughed at this. "Guess again, young feller," said one of them. "What's your hurry?" asked the lame man. "We don't often have such nice young kids drop in to keep us company," sneered the man with the scar. "Take off your hats and stay awhile." The boys' hearts sank. They no longer had any doubts of the evil intentions of the men who held them virtually prisoners. They had fallen into a den of thieves. "We're going now," declared Bobby, in a last desperate attempt to bluff the matter through, "and if you try to stop us it will be the worse for you." The men laughed uproariously. "A fine young turkey cock he is!" croaked one of them. "We'll have to cut his comb for him." "You'll get your own cut first," shouted Fred, who was blazing with anger. "Don't forget that there are policemen and jails for just such fellows as you are." "Shut up, Redhead," commanded the scar-faced man, adding insult to injury. Then his jocular manner passed and was replaced by a wicked snarl. "Hand over what money you've got in your pockets," he commanded, "and turn your pockets inside out. Do it quick too, or we'll skin you alive." There was no mistaking the menace in his tone. He was in deadly earnest and his eyes shone like those of a beast of prey. There was nothing to do but to obey. His victims were trapped and helpless. They were only eleven year old boys, and were no match physically even for one such burly ruffian. Against three, resistance would have been ridiculous. Boiling with inward rage, they slowly and sullenly handed over the contents of their pockets. None of them had any great amount of money--only a few dollars for spending allowance. But taken altogether it made quite a respectable sum, over which the robbers gloated with evident satisfaction. Probably their chief calculation was the amount of liquor it would buy for their spree. But even with this the thieves were not content. Bobby's silver watch, a scarf pin of Mouser's, Fred's seal ring and Pee Wee's gold sleeve buttons went to swell the pile. They even carried their meanness so far as to rob the lads of their railroad tickets. Then when they found that there was nothing else worth the plucking, the leader opened the door. "Now beat it," he growled, "and thank your lucky stars that we didn't swipe your clothes." Half blinded with wrath, the crestfallen boys climbed out of the hollow and into the road which they had left in such high spirits a few minutes before. They had been stripped clean. If their outer clothing had fitted any of the rascals they would have probably lost that too. They were utterly forlorn and downhearted. If they had lost their possessions after a hot resistance against those who were anyway near their age and size, there would at least have been the exhilaration of the fight. But even that poor compensation was denied them. The odds had been too overwhelming even to think of a struggle. At first they could not even speak to each other. When they attempted to find words they were so mad that they could only splutter. "The skunks!" Fred managed to get out at last. "The low down brutes," growled Mouser. "Every cent gone," groaned Pee Wee. "And those sleeve buttons were a Christmas gift from my mother." "And that silver watch was one my father gave me on my last birthday," muttered Bobby thickly. "If they'd only left us our railroad tickets!" mourned Fred. "That was the dirtiest trick of all," put in Mouser. "You can understand why they took the money and jewelry. But they probably don't have any idea in the world of using the tickets." "Likely enough by this time they've torn them up and thrown them into the fire," Pee Wee conjectured. "Don't speak the word, 'fire,'" said Bobby. "If we hadn't seen the light of it through the window, we wouldn't have gone in there at all." "It was all my fault," moaned Fred. "What a fool stunt it was of me to want to stop there anyway." Bobby could easily have said, "I told you so," but that was not Bobby's way. "It wasn't anybody's fault," he said. "It was just our hard luck. We might have done it a thousand times and found only decent people there each time." "Lucky I gave that dime to Betty this morning anyway," grunted Fred. "That's one thing the thieves didn't get." The remark struck the boys as so comical that they broke into laughter. It was the one thing needed to relieve the tension. It cleared the air and all felt better. "Talk about looking on the bright side of things," chuckled Pee Wee. "You're a wonder as a little cheerer-up," commented Mouser. "That's looking at the doughnut instead of seeing only the hole in the doughnut," laughed Bobby. After all they were alive and unharmed. The thieves might have beaten them up or tied them in the cabin while they made their escape. "Things might have been a great deal worse," said Bobby cheerfully, putting their thoughts into words. "The money didn't amount to so much after all, and our folks will send us more. And we may be able to have the tramps arrested and get back our other things. We'll telegraph just as soon as we get to--" But here he stopped short in dismay. "We haven't even money enough to pay for the message!" he exclaimed. "Perhaps the station man will trust us," suggested Fred. "I think there's a way of sending messages so that the folks who get them pay on the other end," said Pee Wee hopefully. None of the boys were very clear on this point, but it offered a ray of cheer. "We won't need to send more than one message anyway," said practical Bobby as they trudged along. "Some of our folks might be away and there might be some delay in getting to them. But I know that my father is at home and I'll just ask him to send on enough money for the bunch of us. Then you fellows can square it up with me afterwards." They had reached the outskirts of a village now and the walking had become easier. They quickened their pace and soon came in sight of the station. "There it is!" cried Fred, and the boys broke into a run. CHAPTER VII PAYING AN OLD DEBT As Bobby's watch had been the only one in the party, the boys had not been able to keep track of the time during the latter part of their journey, and they were a little fearful that they might be late for their train. They were relieved therefore to learn they were in plenty of time. The train was not regularly due for half an hour, and owing to the snowstorm it would probably be an hour or more behind time. The station agent at Roseville, as the town was named, had charge of the telegraph office as well. He was a kindly man and listened with the greatest sympathy to the boys' story. His indignation at the robbers was hot, and he promised to put the constable on their trail at once. "It's a beastly outrage," he stormed. "That old deserted shack has been too handy for fellows of that kind. They make it a regular hang-out. We'll clean out the gang and burn the place to the ground. I've got to stay here now until after the train leaves, but as soon as it's gone, I'll get busy." He assured them that he would send on the telegram to be paid for at the other end, and the boys, possessing themselves of some blanks, withdrew to a quiet corner to prepare the message. It proved to be a matter requiring some thought, and several blanks were cast aside before it suited them. "You see," said Bobby, as he sat frowning over his stub of a pencil, "I don't want to scare the folks to death by telling them we've been robbed. They'd think that perhaps we'd been hurt besides and were keeping it quiet so as not to worry 'em. We can write 'em a letter afterward and tell 'em all about it." The final outcome of their combined efforts stated the matter with sufficient clearness: Lost money and tickets. All safe and sound. Please telegraph twenty dollars to me, care station agent, Roseville. Will explain in letter. Bobby. This suited them all, though Fred suggested that they might save by cutting out the "please." He was voted down however, and the telegram was handed through the office window and put on the wire at once. This being attended to, there was nothing to do but to wait. Then a new worry assailed them. "How long do you think it will be before we can get an answer?" asked Mouser. "Not very long," replied Bobby confidently. "The message must be in Clinton this very minute," chimed in Pee Wee. "Yes, but that's the least part of it," remarked Fred. "It will have to be carried up to your house from the station and I've heard my father say that Claxton isn't as quick about those things as he ought to be. Sometimes he gets Bailey to deliver for him, and you know what an old slow-poke he is." "And even when it gets to the house your father may be downtown and your mother may be out sleigh riding or visiting or something," observed Mouser gloomily. "And then too, it will take some time for your father to get down to the telegraph office and send the money," was Pee Wee's contribution. "Oh, stop your croaking, you fellows," cried Bobby. "I'm sure everything will be all right." But, just the same, their doleful suggestions made him a little uneasy, and he fidgeted about as he watched the hands of the station clock. "There's another thing," observed Mouser, returning to the charge. "Suppose now--just suppose--that the money doesn't get to us before the train starts, what are we going to do?" "Then we'll be stuck," admitted Bobby. "And we'll have to do a whole lot more telegraphing to Rockledge telling them that we can't get there till to-morrow. But even if the money is late, it's sure to come. We can pay for our meals and lodging over night and won't have to go to the poorhouse." "Lucky we got such a dandy feed at Mrs. Wilson's anyway," remarked Pee Wee. "That will keep us going until the money comes." "It was mighty good of her to give us such a meal and not charge a cent for it," said Mouser. "Free meals for five hungry boys," murmured Fred. "Five!" exclaimed Pee Wee in surprise. "Why, there were only four of us." "Yes," replied Fred, "but you counted for two." Pee Wee made a rush toward him, but Fred dodged adroitly. Just then, Mouser, who was looking out of the station window, gave a sudden exclamation. "Look here, fellows," he cried. "See who's coming!" They crowded together, looking over his shoulder. "Why, it's Tommy Stone!" ejaculated Bobby. "He must be going back to Belden School," added Fred. "And that's his father with him, I guess," put in Pee Wee. Tommy Stone was a boy who had played quite a part in the lives of Bobby and Fred a few months before. He had run away from home to go out West to "fight Indians." He had taken his father's pocketbook with him, intending to use only enough to pay his fare and send the rest back. Unluckily for the young Indian fighter--or rather luckily, as it turned out--he lost the pocketbook out of the car window. Bobby and Fred were standing by the side of the track as the train went thundering past, and the wallet fell almost at their feet. They picked it up and were wildly excited when they found that it contained no less than four hundred dollars. The boys had dreams of unlimited ice-cream and soda water as the result of their find. Still they and their parents made earnest effort to find the owner, but as the days passed by and no claimant appeared it looked as though the money would become the boys' property. Late in the fall, Bobby and Fred rescued a small boy from the clutches of some larger boys who were amusing themselves by tormenting him. The boy turned out to be Tommy Stone. He had been brought back after his runaway and sent to Belden School, which was not far from Rockledge. Tommy had heard that the boys had found a pocketbook and suspected that it was the one that he had lost. He made a clean breast of it, and the money was restored to its rightful owner. Mr. Stone wanted to reward the boys handsomely, but their parents would not permit them to accept a money reward, and Mr. Stone compromised by sending them the material for a royal feast at Rockledge. As for Tommy, he had an interview with his father, the nature of which can be guessed at by Tommy's statement afterward that he could not sit down for a week unless he had pillows under him. "He doesn't look like an Indian killer," laughed Mouser. "Not so that you could notice it," chuckled Pee Wee. "I don't see any scalps at his belt," grinned Fred. Tommy caught sight of the boys as he entered the station, and ran forward to meet them with exclamations of pleasure and surprise. Mr. Stone looked curiously at the group but said nothing, and went over to the agent's window to buy his son's ticket. "What in the world are you fellows doing here?" cried Tommy. "We're just as much surprised to see you as you are to see us," replied Bobby, with a smile. "On your way to Belden?" inquired Fred. "Yep," answered Tommy, making a wry face, "and I'm not any too glad, either. I've never liked that school. The big fellows are all the time taking it out on the little ones." "You ought to get your father to let you come to Rockledge," suggested Bobby. "Then you'd be going to a real school," remarked Fred, who felt to the full the traditional rivalry between Rockledge and its chief rival. "Not but what we've got some bullies of our own," put in Pee Wee. "Bill Bronson and Jack Jinks, for instance," observed Mouser. "I'd like first rate to change," admitted Tommy, "and perhaps next year I can. But my father has all his arrangements made now, and I'll have to stick it out at Belden for the rest of this term." "Is that your father over there?" asked Bobby. "Yes." "Looks as though he had a good right arm," said Fred slyly. "I'll bet he's practiced with it out in the woodshed," put in Pee Wee. "What's the price of strap oil, Tommy?" inquired Mouser. Tommy winced a little at the chaffing. It was evidently a painful subject. Bobby came to his rescue. "Oh, cut it out, fellows," he remonstrated. "We all make mistakes sometimes." Tommy flashed him a grateful look. "Yes," he agreed. "But you can bet that I'm not going to make the same mistake twice." "That's the way to talk," rejoined Bobby heartily. Mr. Stone had completed his purchase and now strolled over to the group. He had never seen the boys before, as the return of the pocketbook had been made by Mr. Blake. "Some young friends of yours, Tommy?" he asked, with a genial smile. "Yes, sir," Tommy answered. "They go to Rockledge School, right on the other side of the lake from Belden." He introduced the boys by name, and Mr. Stone pricked up his ears as he heard the names, "Blake" and "Martin." "What!" he exclaimed. "Can this be the Bobby Blake and Fred Martin who found my pocketbook and sent it back to me?" "That's who they are," replied Tommy, flushing. Mr. Stone took the boys' hands in both of his and wrung them warmly. "Well this is a bit of luck," he said heartily. "I can't tell you boys how glad I am to see you. I've often wanted to lay eyes on the boys who could find four hundred dollars and never rest till they got the money back to the owner." "Oh, that was nothing," answered Bobby, who always felt embarrassed when any one praised him. "It was the only thing to do," added Fred, his face getting almost as red as his hair. "All the same, there are lots of boys who would never have said a word about it," persisted Mr. Stone. "I've always felt sorry that your folks wouldn't let me show my gratitude by making you boys a present of something that would have been worth while." "You did give us the stuff for a dandy spread." "Some spread that was too, fellows," put in Pee Wee. "I was in on that and it was just scrumptious." "Trust Pee Wee to remember spreads if he never remembers anything else," laughed Mouser. Mr. Stone's eyes twinkled as he took in Pee Wee's generous proportions. "Well, I'm glad if you enjoyed it," he smiled. "But tell me now how you boys find yourselves here. I thought you traveled by the road that runs through Clinton." "So we do," replied Bobby, and started to relate the occurrences of the morning. "I see," said Mr. Stone, interrupting before Bobby had got very far into his story. "And then you found out you could get a train on this road and tramped over here. Well, you won't have long to wait now, for the train will be along in a few minutes." "But that isn't all," put in Fred. "No?" queried Mr. Stone. "What else is there?" "We were robbed on the way," answered Fred. Mr. Stone gasped and Tommy showed symptoms of great excitement. Robbed! It was almost as good as Indians. CHAPTER VIII THE CLOUD BREAKS AWAY Mr. Stone sank down into a seat. "Robbed!" he repeated. "Now tell me just what you mean." In simple words the boys told how they had been held up and despoiled by the tramps. Mr. Stone could hardly restrain his rage. "It's the most atrocious and cowardly thing I've heard of for a long time," he ejaculated. "To think of those scoundrels robbing you of everything you had, even your railroad tickets! They ought to be drawn and quartered." The boys were rather hazy as to what drawing and quartering involved, but they heartily agreed with him. "I'll have to get busy at once!" Mr. Stone exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "There isn't a minute to lose. Those rascals will know that the officers will be after them as soon as you tell your story and they'll be planning to clear out. They may have started already, for all we know. I'll get the constable and some other men after them and I'll go along to do all I can to put the thieves in jail. "But first," he went on, "I'll have to fix up you boys. The train will be along in a few minutes. I'll get your tickets for you and give you plenty of money besides to get on with." "I've already telegraphed for money and I'm expecting it every minute," put in Bobby. "That's all right, but we can't take chances on that. It may not come in time for you to catch the train. I'll look after the telegram if it comes after you leave, and see that it's sent on to you." "Of course our folks will make this all right with you," said Fred who, like Bobby himself, hated to be under any money obligation. "That's understood," assented Mr. Stone. "I'll send them a bill." But from the whimsical droop at the corner of his mouth it was evident that if the boys' fathers waited for a bill from Mr. Stone they would wait a long time. He hurried over to the window of the agent's office and bought four additional tickets for Rockledge. "Take these and distribute them among the other boys," he said, as he handed them to Bobby. "And here's some money to get on with until you hear from your folks," he added, thrusting a number of bills in his hand. "It's awfully good of you, Mr. Stone," replied Bobby, as he put them in his pocket. "I don't know how to thank you enough. I'll keep careful account and see that you get it back to the last cent." "Don't worry about that," rejoined Mr. Stone. "I'm only paying back an old debt, and even at that I still owe you a lot. Now you boys go right ahead and forget all your troubles. I'll take full charge of the answer to your telegram and see that it gets to you all right. "I'd like to stay with you until the train leaves," he went on, "but as I said before, every minute is precious now if we want to have any chance to nab those villains who robbed you. I'll hustle up the constable and I'll let you know later how we come out." He gave Tommy a kiss and a hug, waved good-bye to the others in a gesture that included them all, and went out of the door. Through the window they could see him going briskly up the village street in a walk that was almost a run. The boys, left alone, looked gleefully at each other. "Scubbity-_yow_!" shouted Fred, as he threw his cap to the ceiling. "All our troubles are over now," exulted Pee Wee. "Isn't he a brick?" demanded Bobby gratefully. "Reminds me of the bread cast upon the waters that our minister was talking about last Sunday," remarked Mouser. "He said it would come back to you after many days, and by ginger I believe it now." "It's more than bread," gloated Pee Wee. "It's cake." "If Pee Wee says it's cake, it _is_ cake," mocked Fred. "There's nobody knows more than he does about things to eat." They were now all as full of good spirits as they had formerly been full of misery. They had found that their cloud had a silver lining. In fact there was not a cloud any longer. It had broken away entirely. Their satisfaction was still greater when, a few minutes later, they saw two sleighs sweep past the station and take the direction that led toward the cabin in the woods. There were three determined-looking men in each sleigh, and among them they recognized the stalwart figure of Mr. Stone. "They're after them already," cried Fred joyfully. "Gee whiz, Tommy! your father is some hustler." "He sure is," assented Tommy proudly. "Here's hoping that they catch the thieves!" exclaimed Mouser. "Wouldn't it be bully!" cried Bobby. "I sure am crazy to get back my watch." "And my scarf pin." "And my sleeve buttons." "And my seal ring." The boys watched the sleighs intently until they were drawn out of sight. "What do you suppose they'll do to the thieves if they catch them?" wondered Bobby. "I don't know," said Mouser, whose notions of legal procedure were woefully indistinct. "Hang them, maybe." "Not so bad as that," objected Pee Wee. "But I'll bet they get a good long term in jail." "Perhaps they'll be drawn and quartered, as Mr. Stone said they ought to be," said Fred hopefully. "What do you suppose that means anyway, fellows?" "I'm not sure," answered Bobby, "but I guess it means to be cut up into quarters." "They can cut them up into eighths for all I care," rejoined Fred vindictively. "Especially that fellow who called me red-head." "Well, what if he did?" said Pee Wee mischievously. "He only told the truth, didn't he?" "What difference does that make?" flared up Fred, who was rather sensitive on the subject. "You wouldn't like to be called a pig because you're as fat as one, would you?" "Here, fellows, cut out your scrapping," soothed Bobby. "Let's agree that Pee Wee's as thin as a rail and Fred's hair is as black as ink," suggested Mouser. "Then we'll all be happy." In the general laugh that followed, the rumpled feathers were smoothed and all differences forgotten. A moment later the whistle of the train was heard in the distance. "Here she comes!" cried Mouser. "I'm sorry that telegram hasn't come yet," murmured Bobby regretfully. "Guess old Bailey's rheumatism made him slow in getting up to the house," suggested Fred. "Well, don't let's worry," observed Pee Wee, who was always ready to shunt his responsibilities to the shoulders of somebody else. "Mr. Stone will look after that." The boys boarded the train and sank back into their seats with a sigh of relief. Their troubles were over. They had been under a strain that would have been trying even to those much older than these eleven-year-old boys. "I never thought I'd be cheering for going back to school," remarked Fred. "But I'm ready to do it now. All together, fellows: "Hurrah for Rockledge!" They shouted it with a will. CHAPTER IX A COWARDLY TRICK "We seem to have this car almost all to ourselves," remarked Mouser, looking around. "We ought to call it the Rockledge Special," laughed Pee Wee. "Perhaps Tommy might object to that," said Bobby. "Go as far as you like," grinned Tommy. The travel was indeed very light on that particular day. There were only six or eight people scattered through the car. This was due in part to the snowstorm. Nobody would do much traveling on such a day unless it was absolutely necessary. Half-way down the car, and on the other side of the aisle, a very old man was seated. He was evidently traveling alone. His hair was gray and scanty and his face was seamed with wrinkles. It was clear that he was very tired, and every once in a while his head would drop on his breast in a doze from which he would awake with a start at any sudden jar of the train. "It's too bad that such an old man should have to be going on a journey all alone," remarked Bobby with quick sympathy. "Yes," agreed Fred. "He must be awful old. He looks as if he was as much as eighty." "He's a Grand Army man too," observed Mouser. "You can see that from the hat he has there up in the rack." "He may be going to visit some of his children," suggested Pee Wee. "More likely he's going to the Old Soldiers' Home," conjectured Bobby. "You know there is one a little way the other side of Rockledge." "I'll bet he could tell some mighty good stories about the war," said Fred. "I'd like to see all that he has seen," mused Bobby. "Or do all that he has done," added Mouser. "It must be great to have been in a big war like that." "Maybe he was at Gettysburg," guessed Pee Wee. "Or marched with Grant or Sherman," chimed in Fred. Their youthful imaginations quickened as they recalled the exciting scenes in which the veteran might have played a part, and they had a deep respect for him now as he sat there in his old age and weakness. "I'd almost like to go up and get him to talking," ventured Fred. "We might get him started on the war. It's all very well to read about it, but there's nothing like hearing from one who has been through it." "I don't think I would if I were you," objected Bobby. "He's probably too tired to do much talking and would rather be left alone." "There's another fellow going up to him now," replied Fred, "and I'll bet he'll get some good stories out of him." He indicated a large overgrown boy who seemed to be about fourteen years old. Up to now, he had been seated on the other side of the aisle from the veteran. But now he had risen and gone over in his direction. But instead of slipping into the seat beside him, as the boys had expected, he sat down in the seat directly behind him. "Guess again, Fred," laughed Pee Wee good-naturedly. "Everybody's hunches go wrong sometimes," answered Fred defensively. "What's the fellow up to anyway?" asked Mouser, with a sudden stirring of curiosity. The newcomer seemed to have a long feather in his hand such as is commonly used in feather dusters. While the old man's head drooped in a doze, the boy reached over and tickled the back of the old man's neck with the tip of the feather. The veteran reached up his hand fretfully as though to brush away a fly that was annoying him. The boy drew back and snickered audibly. The boys looked at each other indignantly. "What do you think of that?" demanded Mouser. "Queer sense of fun some people have," snorted Pee Wee. "He's a cheap skate," declared Fred angrily. "He ought to have a thrashing," exclaimed Bobby. Several times the scene was repeated, and the would-be joker was in high glee at the success of his trick. At last the old man gave up the attempt to sleep, and straightened up wearily in his seat. The joker looked around the car as though seeking for applause, but the silly grin on his face stiffened into a scowl as he met only contemptuous glances. But his delicate sense of humor was not yet exhausted. The old man rose from his seat to go to the back of the car to get a drink of water. As he passed the fellow's seat, the latter reached out the tip of his foot. The veteran tripped against it, stumbled and had all he could do to keep from falling by clutching the back of a seat. This was the last straw and the boys were furious. By a common impulse they sprang out of their seats and went quickly down the aisle to where the fellow was sitting. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" snapped Bobby. "You're too mean to live!" blazed out Fred. "A fellow that'll torment an old man like that ought to be tarred and feathered," blurted Mouser. "And ridden on a rail," finished Pee Wee. The fellow looked at them with surprise that was mingled with alarm as he noted their wrathful faces. He jumped up and stood with his back toward the window. Now that they saw him at closer range, their first impression of him was confirmed. He was strong and muscular, but the strength of his body was belied by the weakness of his face. It was a thoroughly mean face, pallid and unhealthy looking, with a loose mouth and shifty eyes that dropped when you looked straight into them. "What's the matter with you boobs?" he demanded, in a voice that he tried to make threatening. "You'd better mind your own business. Who asked you to butt in?" "We didn't need any asking," replied Bobby. "We saw what you did to that old man. You seemed to think it was funny, but we think it's mean and sneaking." "And you've got to stop it," put in Fred. "It will be the worse for you if you don't," added Mouser. "I'll do just exactly what I want to do," was the ugly reply, "and I'd like to see you Buttinskis stop me." "We'll stop you quick enough," said Bobby, "and the first thing we're going to do is to make you change your seat." "Oh, you own the car, do you? I've paid my fare on this train and I'll sit anywhere I want to. Any one would think you were president of the road to hear you talk." "We'll do something besides talk in a minute," Mouser came back at him. "What'll you do?" jeered the bully, though his voice now was getting unsteady as he saw that the boys were in earnest. Fred leaned forward, snatched the fellow's cap from his head and threw it in a seat some distance away. "Follow your hat and you'll find your seat," he cried. The fellow started forward in a rage, but just then the conductor came into the car. He came forward briskly. "Here, none of this!" he exclaimed. "You boys mustn't do any scrapping on this train. Get back in your seats now, all of you, and behave yourselves." The boys slowly obeyed, although Fred, whose fighting blood was up, had to be urged along a little by the others. "No sense in not minding the conductor," counseled Bobby. "We've carried our point and that's enough." They had indeed carried their point, for the fellow, having regained his cap, slumped down in the seat where Fred had thrown it, and for the rest of the trip the old man was left in peace. Nor did the bully try to get even for his discomfiture. But if looks could kill, the boys would surely have been withered up by the angry glances he shot at them from time to time. "He's a sweet specimen, isn't he?" chuckled Mouser. "A nice thing to have around the house," commented Pee Wee. "He'd brighten it up on rainy days," laughed Bobby. "A cute little cut-up, all right," affirmed Fred. "I'd hate to have him at Rockledge," said Mouser. "Perhaps he's going there, for all we know," Pee Wee suggested. "I hope not!" exclaimed Fred. "Bronson and Jinks are about all we can stand as it is." "Wouldn't Bronson and Jinks be glad to have him there?" said Bobby. "They'd be as thick as peas in a pod in less than no time." But further comment was cut short by the brake man throwing open the door and shouting: "All out for Rockledge!" CHAPTER X ROCKLEDGE SCHOOL The boys reached instinctively for their bags. Then they remembered that they had none, and looked at each other with a sheepish grin on their faces. "Nothing doing in that line," mourned Fred. "I wonder if we'll find them in the station." They stepped off the platform into a crowd of their schoolmates, who had come down to welcome them. There they were, shouting and laughing and all talking at once--Billy Bassett, Jimmy Ailshine, "Sparrow" Bangs, Howell Purdy and a host of others. They fairly mobbed the newcomers and were for dragging them off at once to the trolley car that ran to the school. But the boys explained that they first had to look after their missing baggage and they all trooped into the station. "Haven't we got a lot to tell you fellows!" exclaimed Mouser. "You just wait till you hear it all!" "Caught in a snowslide," volunteered Pee Wee. "Held up by tramps," declared Fred. "Robbed of all we had," added Bobby. These tantalizing bits of information only served to whet the appetite for more. Their friends crowded around them open-eyed, and questions shot out at them like bullets from guns. The boys suddenly found themselves exalted to the rank of heroes. But they bore their honors meekly enough, although they were almost bursting with the feeling of their importance. They were delighted to find their missing bags and suit-cases waiting for them. The conductor had known the station their tickets called for, and had left the articles in the care of the Rockledge station agent. There was a telegram too from Mr. Blake to Bobby. He had wired the money to Roseville and Mr. Stone had seen to it that it was sent on to Bobby at Rockledge. Mr. Blake's telegram was a lengthy one and full of anxiety. In it he told Bobby to wire at once on his arrival at Rockledge, which Bobby promptly did. Mr. Stone had sent a separate telegram also on his own account. He stated briefly that the robbers had not yet been caught, but that the police were busily hunting for them and hoped to get them soon. "Well," sighed Bobby, as he folded up the telegram, "I suppose all we can do is to watch and wait." "Wait for the watch you mean," laughed Mouser. "Now don't start anything like that," grinned Fred. "You'll start Billy Bassett going if you do, and I can see that he's got a lot of conundrums all ready to fire off at us." "Who's that talking about me?" laughed Billy, coming forward. "Let him say it to my face." "Ginger thought you'd be springing something on us," replied Pee Wee, "and we were getting ready to duck." Billy looked aggrieved. "You fellows don't know a good riddle when you hear one," he remarked scornfully. "How do you know?" countered Mouser. "You never give us a chance to try. Spring a real good one and see how quick we'll tumble." Billy looked dubious but took a chance. "Well, take this one, then," he said. "What is it that happens twice in a moment, once in a minute, and not once in a thousand years." The boys put on their thinking caps, but the problem was beyond them, and Billy strutted around with a triumphant look upon his face. "Don't seem to be any too much brains in this crowd," he said, in a superior way. "Give us time," pleaded Mouser. "Maybe it's because it's so bad and not because it's so good that we can't guess it," conjectured Fred. "Take all the time you want," said Billy patronizingly, "but I guessed it as soon as I heard it." As they had no evidence to the contrary, they had to take Billy's word for this. They pondered it for several minutes, but no answer was forthcoming. "Nobody home," taunted Billy. "You're a bunch of dead ones for fair." "I'll give it up," said Mouser. "Let's have it, Billy," surrendered Fred. "I'll be the goat," said Bobby. "What's the answer?" "The letter M," crowed Billy. Disgust and discomfiture sat on the boys' faces. "Rotten," groaned Pee Wee. "The worst I ever heard," grunted Fred. "Wish I had a gun," remarked Mouser. "It's a mighty good one," defended Billy. "But what's the use in giving you fellows something to chew over. It's like casting diamonds before swine." "You mean pearls," corrected Mouser. "Well, I may be mistaken about the diamonds," Billy came back at them, "but I'm dead sure about the swine." The laugh that followed told Billy that he had made a hit, and he swelled up like a pouter pigeon. "I've got another good one," he volunteered, "a regular peach. Why is--" But here the boys fell on Billy in a body and he was forced to hold his "peach" in reserve for another time. Bobby by this time had finished all he had to do in the station, and the boys gathered up their recovered suit-cases and made a bee line for the trolley. A car was coming, not a block away, and they piled aboard almost before it had come to a stop with wild clatter and hubbub. But the motorman and conductor were used to the uproar and the pranks of the Rockledge boys, and what few other passengers there were smiled indulgently. Rockledge was a lively little town with good stores and pleasant residence streets shaded by handsome oak trees. There were gas and electric lights, a number of churches and all the usual appurtenances of a bustling village that hoped some day to become a city. And not the least of the things in which the townspeople took pride was Rockledge School. Dr. Raymond, the head of the school, had been fortunate in choosing its location. He had been able to secure, at a remarkably low price, a beautiful private estate, whose owner had died and whose family had moved away. There were several buildings on the grounds and these he had remodeled and adapted to the purposes of a school, and he had built up an institution that was well and favorably known in all that section of the State. The school was select. By this is not meant that it was in the least degree snobbish. Dr. Raymond hated anything of that kind, and the school was run on a purely democratic basis, with every pupil on exactly the same level, whether his parents happened to be rich or poor. But the doctor was a great believer in the personal influence of teacher over pupil, and this could not be exerted so well if the classes were large. So the school was limited to fifty pupils, and this limit was never exceeded. At this figure the school was always full, and there was usually a waiting list from which any vacancy that might occur could be quickly filled. The doctor himself was a scholar of high standing, and he had surrounded himself with an efficient staff of teachers. Discipline was firm without being severe, and the boys were put largely on their honor to do the right thing. There was a society called the "Sword and Star" to which admission could be gained only on the ground of scholarship and good behavior. Bobby had won membership in this the year before and had also gained the Medal of Honor which was allotted each year to that pupil who, in the judgment both of his teachers and school-fellows, had stood out above all others. Fred, who was more flighty and less inclined to study, and whose "red-headed" disposition was always getting him into trouble, was not yet a member of the society, but had faithfully promised himself that he would win membership in the term just beginning. A ride of only a few minutes brought them close to the school grounds and the boys prepared to get off. Tommy Stone was to stay on the trolley car, which ran as far as Belden School. Tommy had kept himself rather in the background during the trip. He happened to be the only Belden boy on the car, and, owing to the intense rivalry between the two schools, a Belden boy was usually as popular with the Rockledge boys as poison ivy at a picnic party. But just now Tommy was traveling under the protection of Bobby and his party, and this saved him from the horse play he would otherwise have had to undergo. "Good-bye, Tommy!" said Bobby, as he got ready to leave the car. "Tell your father when you write to him how much obliged we are to him for all he has done for us. I'm going to write him a letter myself about it to-morrow." "Oh, that's all right," said Tommy. "Your father would have done the same for me if I'd been in the same fix as you fellows were." "And tell the Belden boys that we're going to trim 'em good and plenty when the baseball season begins," laughed Mouser. "Don't be too sure of that," grinned Tommy in return. "But I'll tell them and they'll be all ready for you." The boys dropped off the car, and in a few minutes saw the school buildings looming up before them. "Scubbity-_yow_!" cried Fred, dropping his suitcase and executing a jig. "The old place certainly looks good to me." "Seemed a long way off a few hours ago when we didn't have a cent to our names," remarked Mouser. "Looked as if we'd have to walk the ties to get here," laughed Pee Wee. "And think how many stone bruises you'd have got," suggested Bobby. "'Barked shins,' you mean," corrected Mouser. "They're the latest thing in Pee Wee's collection." The fat boy grinned. He was too happy or perhaps too lazy to enter any protest just then. The school was beautifully located on a high bluff overlooking Monatook Lake, a sheet of water, nearly oval in shape. It was about ten miles long and five miles wide at its broadest part. There were several small islands scattered over the lake, and, as may be imagined, these were favorite resorts of the boys when they were permitted to visit them. A strong fence guarded the edge of the bluff for the entire length of the school grounds. A winding staircase led from the top of the bluff to the boathouse and the lake level. Just now Monatook was clothed in an icy mantle that shone like silver under the light of the moon which had just risen. It was a scene of wintry splendor that gladdened the heart to look upon. There were four buildings on the grounds. In the main building, which was made of brick and sandstone, the classrooms and dining-room were located. The basement had two sections, one for the kitchen and the other for the indoor gymnasium. On the upper floor were ranged the dormitories. These were two in number. There were beds for twenty boys in each one. Then there were five separate sleeping rooms, each one designed for the use of two boys. A little off from the main building, but connected with it by a portico, was a roomy house in which the doctor and his family lived, together with the members of the teaching staff. Besides these there were a gate-keeper's cottage, where the servants slept, and a minor building used for storage purposes. The grounds were skillfully laid out, and with their well kept lawns and shaded paths formed a very attractive campus. To supply the athletic needs of the boys there was a football field, a baseball diamond, and tennis and basketball courts. So that the boys who had the luck to be sent by their parents to Rockledge School were usually convinced before they had been there long that their lines had fallen in pleasant places. "Well, I suppose the first thing we'll have to do is to report to Dr. Raymond," said Bobby. "He'll know that the school can go on all right now that we're here," grinned Mouser. "I suppose we'll have to let him know that we're on deck," admitted Fred, "but let's get it over in a hurry and get some grub. I'm hungry enough to eat nails." "Couldn't we get something to eat first?" asked Pee Wee wistfully. "You ate enough at Mrs. Wilson's to last for a week, I should think," said Bobby. "I notice that you weren't very far behind," retorted Pee Wee. They trooped into the doctor's office and found him busy with some papers, which he laid aside at once, however, as he stood up to greet them. He was a tall, spare man, with a clean-cut face and kindly eyes that usually had a humorous twinkle in them, although they could flash fire if he caught any of the boys doing a mean or tricky thing. He smiled cordially and shook hands with them all. "You're a little later than you expected to be, aren't you?" he asked. "I was looking for you on an earlier train." "We've had a hard time getting here," smiled Bobby, and in a few words he told of the stirring adventures through which the little party had gone that day. The doctor listened intently, surprise, indignation and sympathy in his eyes. "It was an outrage!" he exclaimed, when Bobby had finished, "and I will get in touch with Mr. Stone at once and lend him any aid I can in catching the thieves. But I am very glad and thankful that it was only a loss of money and property. Those rascals might have used personal violence. I'll telephone to-morrow to a number of different towns, giving a description of the tramps and urging the authorities to be on the look-out for them. The sooner such fellows are put in jail the better." He made notes of as many points about the robbers as the boys could remember, especially of the scar of one man and the limp of the other. As to the third man, the boys were somewhat hazy. He was just "plain tramp." "And now," said the doctor, his eyes twinkling, "I suppose there's no need of asking you boys whether you are hungry." There was an eager assent on the part of the other boys and a heart-felt groan from Pee Wee. "Of course it is long after the usual supper hour," smiled the doctor, "but go over to the dining-room, find the housekeeper and tell her I want her to give you the very best meal she knows how to get up." There was no need of a second injunction, and the boys wished the head of the school good-night and were off to hunt up the housekeeper. "Isn't the doctor a brick?" ejaculated Mouser. "I thought he'd keep us there half an hour or more talking about the work for the coming term and what he would expect of us." "That'll come later," said Fred. "Just now he knew that we were hungry." "That's what makes him such a bully sort," said Bobby. "He hasn't forgotten that he was once a boy himself," he added, with a happy sigh. And this, perhaps, was as high tribute as could be paid by one of his pupils to the master of Rockledge School. CHAPTER XI TOM HICKSLEY REAPPEARS The housekeeper carried out the principal's order to the letter. And she did it with the better grace because she herself was fond of the boys. She bustled about and in a very short time, which seemed long enough, however, to the hungry boys, had a smoking hot meal on the table. The boys gathered around and pitched into the good things like so many hungry wolves, while the housekeeper watched them with a genial smile on her good-natured face. "Some feed," pronounced Fred, with a sigh of satisfaction, when at last they were through. "We've had a tough day in some ways," declared Pee Wee, "but a mighty lucky one in another. Just think of the three cooks we've come up against. Meena for breakfast, Mrs. Wilson for dinner, and Mary here for supper. Yum-yum!" "Sounds as if you were a cannibal," commented Mouser, with a grin. "Oh, Pee Wee hasn't got to that yet," mocked Fred, "but there's no telling when he will if that appetite of his holds out." "I'd hate to be out on a raft with Pee Wee in the middle of the ocean, if we were short of grub," chuckled Mouser. "Just think of the hungry looks he'd be throwing at me." "I'd like nothing better than to have Pee Wee along," put in Bobby. "We could live off him for a month." The chaff flew back and forth for a while, and then the call of sleep began to make itself felt. Bobby yawned and reached for his watch. "I wonder what time--" he began, and then stopped short in chagrin. "No use, Bobby," said Mouser. "The chances are that you'll never see that watch again." "Maybe it's in some pawnshop by this time," was the cold comfort that Fred had to offer. "No loss without some gain," chimed in Pee Wee. "I won't have the trouble of unfastening my sleeve buttons anyway." "That's looking on the bright side of things all right," laughed Bobby. "Come along, fellows, and let's get to bed." There was no dissenting voice, and they made their way upstairs to the old familiar dormitory. This was one of the brightest and most cheerful rooms in the school and not the least of its charm was that it commanded a splendid view of the lake. There was ample space for the twenty beds that the room contained. A locker stood beside each bed for the exclusive use of the occupant, and there was a chair at the head of each bed on which the regulations of the school demanded that clothing should be carefully folded and arranged each night upon retiring. Most of the boys had already arrived for the beginning of the term, and the room was full of noise and the clatter of tongues. Later on, a little more quiet would be insisted upon, but the regular school course was not in full swing yet and the boys were allowed a little more latitude than usual. The other occupants of the room clustered instantly about Bobby and his party, who were general favorites. They had already learned almost all there was to be told about the adventures of the day, but they were keenly interested in the exploits of the party during their winter holiday in the Big Woods. "Shiner"--the nickname that had been bestowed on Jimmy Ailshine--Howell Purdy and "Sparrow" Bangs, had also been on that memorable trip, but as they too had reached school but a little earlier in the day, they had been able to tell only enough of their adventures to whet the appetite for more. The newcomers were pleased at this, as they had feared that all the wind would be taken out of their sails and that the trip would be an old story when they arrived upon the scene. "Sparrow says that you killed a big bear up in the woods," said Sam Thompson, one of the younger boys. "And to hear Sparrow tell it, it must have been a twenty-foot bear at least," laughed Frank Durrock. "No," grinned Fred. "It had only four feet, just like any other bear." "Smarty!" Frank shot back at him. "But it seemed like twenty feet when he reared up at us," explained Bobby. "He was an old sockdolager, all right," added Mouser. "I don't want to see any bear so close again," remarked Pee Wee. "I've seen him in my sleep once or twice since," said Fred, "and I've waked up all in a sweat." "Just which one of you was it that killed it?" asked Sam, his eyes as big as saucers. "That's something we can't tell," answered Bobby. "We all fired at it, but I guess it was Gid Harple, the guide, who did the trick. He was a dandy shot, all right." "Gid's going to fix up the claws and teeth and send 'em down to us," said Mouser. "Then you can see for yourself just what a big fellow that bear was." "I heard that you had a shot at a wildcat too," put in "Skeets" Brody. "Yes," said Fred, "and that was a fool stunt too. We didn't have much chance of getting him, and that left our guns empty when we saw the bear the first time. My! but we had a run for it that day. Talk about a Marathon!" "How did Pee Wee manage to make it?" asked Frank skeptically. "I can't imagine him putting on speed." "Pee Wee wasn't with us that time," explained Bobby. "The rest of the fellows walked down to the station, but Pee Wee came behind in the sleigh with Gid." "I had more sense than the rest of the gang," put in Pee Wee, with a superior air. "I hear you got a lot of muskrats by stunning them through the ice," said Skeets. "How did you make out with training them, Mouser?" "Not very well," confessed Mouser. "They're too wild. Gid said I couldn't train 'em, and I guess he knew what he was talking about." The finding of Pat's father in the little shack, and the story of the hunting lodge, completely buried in the big snowslide, and the great fight they had to get out alive were also subjects of which their audience could not have enough. The listeners kept clamoring for more details and still more, until in sheer self-defense the boys had to call a halt. "Have a heart, fellows," said Bobby. "I'm so dead tired that I can hardly keep my eyes open." "Yes," added Fred, "we'll have all the term to tell you about the rest of it." Their hearers had to be content with this, and in a few moments more the boys had undressed and were in bed. But it is safe to say that in their dreams that night enough bears and wildcats were seen to stock a menagerie. "Say, Fred," was Bobby's last remark that night, as he slipped between the sheets, "isn't it bully to be back in the old dormitory again? Just suppose the tramps had tied us up in that old shack while they slipped out and left us there." "Ugh!" shuddered Fred, as he snuggled still deeper in his bed. "It gives me the cold shivers just to think of it." It was a hard thing for the boys to get out of their warm beds when the rising bell sounded the next morning. But there was no help for it, and they washed and dressed in a hurry, cheered by the thought of breakfast waiting for them. Several tables were spread in the large bright dining-room. One of them was reserved for Dr. Raymond and his family, together with the head teachers. The boys were ranged about the others, with a junior instructor sitting at the head of each to keep order. But his duties were light, for the boys were so intent upon dispatching their food that they had little time left for mischief. Each kept a wary eye on his plate, however, for special dainties had a way sometimes of vanishing mysteriously, and "eternal vigilance" was the price of pie. The morning was frosty but sunny, and after they had finished their meal, the boys lost no time in getting outdoors. There was little to be done on the first day except to gather in the classrooms for a few minutes and have their lessons assigned for the following day. "Any new fellows here this term, Skeets?" Bobby asked, as the latter strolled with him and Fred on the hard snowy path in front of the main building. "Two or three came in yesterday, I heard," answered Skeets, "but I've only met one of them so far. His name's Tom Hicksley." "What kind of fellow does he seem to be?" asked Fred. "I don't care for him very much," replied Skeets. "That is, judging by his looks. But you can't always tell by that. There he is now," he added, as a boy approached them. Fred and Bobby looked first at the newcomer and then at each other. "My! it's the fellow we squelched for teasing the old soldier on the train!" gasped Bobby. CHAPTER XII A NEW ENEMY Tom Hicksley had caught sight of the three boys at the same moment, and from the spiteful look that came into his small eyes it was clear that he recognized Bobby and Fred. The boys looked at him coldly but did not speak, and Hicksley, on his part, seemed at first as though he were going to pass them without saying anything. But the events of the evening before still rankled in him, and he suddenly stopped. "So you're the butt-ins that mixed up in my affairs last night, are you?" he asked, in a tone that he tried to make sarcastic. Fred flared up at once. "Yes, we did," he shot out; "and we'd do it again if we saw you up to your mean tricks. You can't do anything of that kind while we're around and expect to get away with it." "Hello! what's the fuss about?" asked Skeets, with sudden interest. "You shut up!" commanded Hicksley. "This isn't any of your funeral. I'm talking to these two boobs here." "Don't tell me to shut up!" cried Skeets, who had a hair trigger temper very much like Fred's own. "I'll tell you anything I like," retorted Hicksley, who seemed to be a master in the "gentle art of making enemies." "I'll tell you what it was, Skeets," said Bobby. "I don't wonder that he's so ashamed of it that he doesn't want it talked about. We saw him teasing an old soldier--a real old man, mind you--who was trying to get a little sleep. Then when the old man went up the aisle to get some water, this fellow stuck out his foot and tried to trip him up. The man had all he could do to keep from falling. That was too much for us fellows and we made him stop." "He ought to have had his head knocked off," growled Skeets. "It would take more than you fellows to knock my head off," returned Hicksley belligerently. "You'd probably get along as well without it as with it," retorted Fred. "We knocked your cap off anyway, and I notice that you changed your seat just as we told you to." "That was because the conductor came along," replied Hicksley. "And it's a mighty good thing for you that he did. If he hadn't I'd have knocked you into the middle of next week." "You couldn't knock me into to-morrow, let alone the middle of next week," returned Fred, who was now thoroughly aroused. "Come, come, Fred," said Bobby soothingly. "There's no use in getting into a temper about this fellow. He isn't worth it." "I'll show you whether I'm worth it or not," cried Hicksley, in a rage. "Don't you think for a minute that you've heard the last of this. There were four of you fellows last night, and there are three of you now. But I'll catch each one of you alone some time, and I'll tan each one of you within an inch of your life." "You'd better try it," answered Fred. "You'd be afraid to tackle a live one. All you're good for is to torment a helpless old man. You're a nice fellow, you are." The quarrel, although it was none of the boys' seeking, was growing so hot that it was perhaps just as well that Mr. Carrier, one of the teachers, should come walking briskly along just at that moment. He saw from their flushed faces that something unpleasant was in the wind, but thought it just as well to ignore it rather than give it importance by taking notice of it. "Good morning, boys," he called cordially. "It's just about time for meeting in the main hall. I'm going over there now, and you'd better come along with me." This put an end to the threatening trouble for the time, and the boys followed along in his wake, Hicksley some distance behind the other three and muttering threats under his breath. "Isn't he a pippin?" said Bobby, in a low voice, so that Mr. Carrier could not hear. "Looks to me like something that the cat brought in," grumbled Fred, whose rumpled feathers took some time for smoothing. "He's going around looking for trouble," observed Skeets; "and that kind is sure to find it before very long." "No decent fellow will want to have anything to do with him," remarked Fred. "Except perhaps Bill Bronson and Jack Jinks," amended Bobby. "He'll be just nuts for them." "I said _decent_ fellow," repeated Fred. They soon reached the main assembly room into which the boys were streaming from all directions. Dr. Raymond and the rest of the teaching staff were seated on a platform in the front of the room. When the gathering had subsided into silence, the principal rose and gave the boys a little informal talk about the duties of the coming term and the spirit in which he hoped they would go about their work. He dwelt especially on the incentives offered them to become members of the "Sword and Star," the main society of the school, and as he mentioned the name of the society, the boys who were members jumped to their feet and gave the society yell: "One, two, three--_boom!_ Boom Z-z-z-ah! Rockledge! Rockledge! Sword and Star! Who's on top? We sure are-- _Rock_-ledge!" The hearty shout brought a flush of pleasure into the doctor's cheeks and he looked around upon his charges with a face beaming with pride. He concluded his talk with an urgent invitation to each of the boys to strive for the Medal of Honor, the highest prize within the gift of the school, and then dismissed them to their respective classes. Here the proceedings were brief. The tasks for the following day were assigned and then the boys were left to their own devices until the hours set aside that afternoon and evening for preparing their lessons. "Our soft snap is nearly over," mourned Fred. "From now on it will be steady work until the end of the term." "But think how much fun we'll have in between," comforted Bobby. "I've got a hunch that we're going to have the bulliest time at Rockledge that we've ever had yet." "What makes you think that?" asked Fred pessimistically. "I said it was a hunch, didn't I?" demanded Bobby. "You don't have to explain a hunch. You just have it and that's all there is to it." "I hate to think of buckling down to work again," said Fred. "We had such a bully free time up in the woods that I wish it would last forever." "That's all the more reason you ought to be willing to work when the time comes," remonstrated Bobby. "Think of the poor fellows that never have any outings and have to work hard all the time." "I suppose you're right," conceded Fred. "I don't know just what it is that makes me feel that way. It wasn't so when I got up this morning. I'll tell you just what I think it is," he said, as a sudden explanation of his mood suggested itself to him. "I'll bet it's that Tom Hicksley. I wanted to get a crack at him this morning when Mr. Carrier came along and stopped us. I'd have felt better if I'd lit out at him." "Now, Fred, cut out that fighting talk," said Bobby impatiently. "There's nothing in it. What's the use of getting into a row that will make your folks feel bad when they hear of it and perhaps bring you up before the doctor?" "I notice that you're ready enough to fight sometimes," grumbled Fred in self-defense. "You'd have pitched into Ap Plunkit if he'd hit you with that whip yesterday morning, and you were all worked up on the train at Hicksley." "That's a very different thing from looking for trouble," said Bobby stoutly. "It's all right to take your own part when people try to bully or strike you. But it's always best to keep out of a fight unless you're forced into it. There wasn't really any reason to fight Tom Hicksley this morning, and you know it." "Perhaps if you had hair as red as mine you wouldn't find it so easy to keep your temper," said Fred, falling back on an excuse he was fond of using. "Maybe not," laughed Bobby, "but you can make a try at it anyhow." "What's this I hear about fighting?" said Frank Durrock, as he came up behind them. Frank was larger and older than the two boys, and a prime favorite with them. He held the post of captain of the school. This carried with it no official power, as that rested wholly with the teachers. But Frank was supposed to have a general oversight, stop any disorder that went too far and in general to act as a sort of big brother to the younger boys. He was a fine athlete also, and had been captain of the football team on which Bobby and Fred had played the preceding fall and which had won the Thanksgiving game from Belden. His skill in baseball was also marked, and he was expected to play first base on the nine in the spring. "Oh, Fred was feeling a little sore over a row he had with Hicksley this morning," explained Bobby. "That new fellow?" asked Durrock. "I passed him a little while ago and he was talking with Bronson and Jinks. They seemed to be quite chummy together." "What did I tell you?" cried Fred to Bobby. "I knew those fellows would get together as sure as shooting." "They're three of a kind," assented Bobby. "I don't know anything about what kind of fellow he is," remarked Frank, "but somebody was telling me that he was a good baseball player." The boys did not think it was worth while to tell what they knew of Hicksley and so kept quiet. "He's big and husky and ought to make a good slugger," continued Frank, "and we can't have too much batting strength on our nine. So if he can field as well as bat, he may be able to get a place on the team." The prospect was not at all pleasing to Bobby and Fred, but above everything else they were loyal to the school, and if the newcomer would be a help to the Rockledge nine they were perfectly willing to forget their own feeling. "So you see, Fred," continued Frank, "you don't want to hold any grudge you may have against Hicksley. I don't know what your scrap was about and I don't want to know, but whatever it is, forget it." "Sure I will," said Fred heartily. "You know how it was on the football team," went on Frank. "There were fellows on that team that you didn't like--Jinks, for instance--but you overlooked that feeling and played good football just the same. And we want to do the same thing on the nine. "I'm especially anxious to get up a strong nine this year," he continued, "because we're going to have some pretty nifty teams against us. Belden has got two or three new fellows that they say are crackerjacks and they'll give us all we want to do to beat 'em. "Then, too, we're going to have a little different scheme this season than we ever had before. While you hunters have been up in the woods shooting bears"--here he grinned--"I've been hustling around with a few others and organized a new league." "A new league!" exclaimed Bobby and Fred in the same breath. "A new league!" repeated Skeets Brody and Sparrow Bangs, who had come up just in time to hear the last words. "What do you mean, Frank? Tell us all about it." They gathered about him, their eyes glistening. CHAPTER XIII THE MONATOOK LAKE LEAGUE "Now, now, don't all get excited," admonished Frank, who, all the same, was immensely delighted with the sensation he had stirred up by his announcement. "Don't keep us waiting, Frank," pleaded Fred, who would rather play baseball at any time than eat. "Out with it, like a good fellow," chimed in Bobby, whose pitching had won a game from Belden the previous term. Frank, with the instinct of the true story teller, waited until he had got his audience worked up to the proper pitch. Then when they were on edge, he proceeded: "It's this way," he explained. "Up to now we've been going on in a kind of rut. Belden is about the only team we've ever played any real games with, and that hasn't given us enough practice. We've had our own scrub nine to practice with, but as a rule they've been so easy that we haven't had to work hard enough to win. The only way we can learn to hit different kinds of pitching is to come up against nines that give us a stiff fight to win." "But we have played with village nines sometimes," interrupted Fred. "We played the Benton team last year and beat them six to five," reminded Bobby. "Yes, I know," admitted Frank; "but those were only single games, and there wasn't enough at stake. It didn't make much difference whether we won from them or not as long as we put it all over Belden. "Now, don't you see how much more exciting it would be to have several different teams, all members of one league, each one playing the other a certain number of games, each one fighting hard for every game and each team working its head off to get the pennant, which would be given to the nine that had won the most games at the end of the season?" The boys broke into a chorus of delighted exclamations. "That would be bully!" cried Bobby. "It would be a regular see-saw!" exclaimed Fred. "First one team would be in the lead and then the other. It would be a rattling hard fight all the way from the start of the season to the finish." "It's a corker," agreed Skeets. "A pippin of a scheme," declared Sparrow with emphasis. "I thought you fellows would like it," said Frank, much pleased at the enthusiastic reception of his plan. "I talked it over with Dr. Raymond, and he said that he saw no objection to it." "The doc's a good old sport," commented Fred. "And Dr. Raymond saw the head of the Belden school and he agreed to it too," continued Frank, "while the captain of the Belden nine is fairly daffy over it." "How many clubs are there to be in the league?" asked Bobby. "We decided that four would be enough," answered Frank. "You see, we have only Saturdays to play, and if we had too many clubs in the league we couldn't play enough games to really make the thing go. But with four teams, each can play three games with every other team and that would give us a pretty good line on the strength of each nine." "Every team would play nine games altogether, then," figured Fred. "Yes, and that would take nine Saturdays. Allowing for some days when it might be too rainy to play that will just about cover the playing season before school closes for the summer." "Who are to be the other two nines besides Belden and ourselves?" asked Sparrow. "We've been scouting around and have found two town nines that will be glad to go in with us," answered Frank. "One is at Somerset and the other at Ridgefield. They're all within a few miles so that we wouldn't have to travel far to play them. The fellows are about the same age as we are, from eleven to fourteen." "What will be the name of the league?" asked Skeets. "How does Monatook Lake League strike you?" asked Frank. "Both towns are right on the lake, just as Rockledge and Belden are." "Just the thing," was the verdict of all. "Some of those town boys are dandy players," said Skeets. "I saw the Somerset team play once and they certainly put up a fine game." "And the Ridgefield boys have a pitcher who is a peach, all right," said Frank. "But that's just what we're looking for. It wouldn't be any fun defeating a lot of dubs." "We'll have to look out that they don't ring in some good players from other towns to fill up weak places on their team," said Fred. "Of course we'll have to take a chance on that," admitted Frank. "But I don't think we'll have to worry much. I know some of the boys on both teams and they seem to be pretty square fellows." "You'll have to limber up that pitching arm of yours and get it in good shape, Bobby," cried Fred jubilantly, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "How do you know I'll get a chance to pitch?" asked Bobby modestly. "The nine isn't made up yet and won't be till we've had a chance to practice. Some of the new fellows may be a good deal better than I am at pitching." "I don't believe they will be," returned Skeets. "Do you remember, Fred, that last game when Bobby pitched and we beat Belden by three to two?" "You bet I do," replied Fred. "And I remember that catch that Bobby made in the ninth inning when he rolled over and over and yet held on to the ball. If he had let it get away from him, Belden would have won sure." "I wish we could go right out on the field tomorrow!" exclaimed impatient Fred, who was very much worked up over the prospect of sport that the new league opened up. "That would be rushing things for fair," laughed Frank. "It would hardly do to be playing ball in overcoats and mittens," grinned Skeets. "Let's see," said Sparrow. "This is the twenty-fifth of January. To the twenty-fifth of February is one month and to the twenty-fifth of March is another. The field ought to be in shape for playing by that time. Don't you think so, Frank?" "If we have a fairly early spring it ought to," said Frank. "Still in this climate I've seen snow on the ground sometimes in April." "February is a short month," said Fred hopefully. "That will cut the time down some." "Anyway we can do a whole lot of practicing indoors," said Bobby. "The gymnasium is good and warm and we can rig up some kind of a cage for pitching and catching." "Just as they do in colleges," said Sparrow proudly. "I tell you, fellows, we're some class!" "I'll bet the town papers'll put in reports of the games," said Fred, who already in imagination saw his name in print. "Sure they will," agreed Skeets. "They'll be glad of a chance to fill up space." This was not very flattering, and Fred, who saw fame coming his way with giant strides, rather resented it. "They won't do it only for that reason," he said indignantly. "I bet there'll be some dandy games played and lots of people in the towns will come out to see them." "Maybe, especially as they won't have to pay to get in," retorted Skeets, who was not averse at times to stirring Fred up just for the fun of seeing him roiled. "Well, we can always count on big crowds when Rockledge and Belden play anyway," put in Bobby, before Fred had a chance to throw back at Skeets. "We ought to get some kind of monogram sewed on our uniforms or caps to show the name of the league," said Sparrow, who was quite as alive as Fred was to the new dignity that was coming to them. "The letters M. L. L. would look nifty, sure enough," agreed Bobby. "Well there's plenty of time to think of those things before the season opens," remarked Frank. "The main thing now is to get up a team that will put it all over the other fellows." "Just think how it would feel to be the champions of the league," said Sparrow. "And to pull up the pennant on the flagpole just back of center field," gloated Fred. "Rockledge wouldn't be big enough to hold us," said Bobby. "That's all right, fellows," cautioned Frank. "But remember all the other fellows are feeling the same way. It's easy enough to win games in our dreams, but the only ones that count are those that are won on the diamond." "We'll win them all right there too," replied Fred, who already saw himself cracking out a home run with the bases full. "We'll be there with bells on from the time the season opens." "I bet we'll go all through the season without losing a game," declared Sparrow, in a wild flight of fancy. "Come off the perch," warned Bobby. "Turn over, turn over, you're on your back," said the irreverent Skeets. "You'll bring bad luck on us if you talk like that," cautioned Frank. "It stands to reason that we'll have to lose some games. The other fellows are no slouches, don't you forget that, and they'll be out to win just as we are." "The best teams in the big leagues lose lots of games, even to the poorest ones," said Bobby. "You'll notice that the nines that win the championships don't often come through the season with much more than six hundred per cent." "Just what does that mean?" asked Skeets, who had never been especially strong in mathematics. Bobby did a swift sum in mental arithmetic. "That means they won three games out of five," he announced. "So you see they had lots of losses before they won the pennant. We've got a swell chance of winning every game--I don't think. If we win six out of the nine, I shall be perfectly satisfied. That will give us a percentage of six hundred and sixty-seven." "Bobby's right," confirmed Frank. "That would be two out of every three, and the team that wins isn't likely to do any better than that. The best team in the world will sometimes be whipped by a poor one. That's what makes baseball such a bully game. Lots of good luck and hard luck come into a game, and it's never settled until the last man is out in the ninth inning." "But in the long run it's the best team that wins," protested Fred, still undaunted. "And the best team in the Monatook Lake League this year will be the team of Rockledge School." CHAPTER XIV GLOWING HOPES The boys all laughed at Fred's declaration, though they hoped ardently that it would turn out to be true. "Well," conceded Frank, "confidence is a good thing, especially if there is good hard work back of it. One thing is certain, and that is if any team beats Rockledge it will know it's been in a fight." "I suppose Larry Cronk will be pitching for Belden," mused Fred. "I suppose so, and he's a corking good pitcher too. But Bobby beat him the last time he faced him and I guess he can do it again." "Trust Bobby," replied Fred loyally. "Well, I'll have to go now," concluded Frank. "I'm glad you boys think the league is going to be a good thing." "The best thing that ever happened," declared Sparrow. "I'm tickled to death with it," agreed Fred. "Hits me awful hard," said Bobby. "Monatook Lake League sounds mighty good to me," added Skeets. "There's a lot of work to be done yet in getting it fairly started," observed Frank. "We'll have to work out a schedule of dates and decide on the kind of pennant we're going to have and a bunch of things like that. But we'll have plenty of time for that, and everything will be running slick as grease by the time the season begins. And remember what I said, Fred, about cutting out all hard feelings," he concluded. "I'll do it all right," answered Fred. "I don't like the fellow and I never will, but I'll forget all about that when it comes to working for the good of the team." "That's the way I like to hear you talk," returned Frank with a smile, as he went away. "What did Frank mean by that?" asked Skeets curiously. "Oh, it's about that Tom Hicksley," Fred replied. "Frank has heard that he's a good ball player, and if he is, he wants him on the nine. He heard Bobby and me talking of the scrap we had with him this morning, and he doesn't want trouble in the team." "Maybe Frank's right, at that," conceded Skeets. "But I don't know that it's good dope to have a fellow like that on the nine, no matter how good a player he is. He'll be wanting to run things and perhaps break up the whole team." "We'll hope not," said Bobby. "At any rate, there's no use worrying about it yet. He may not be so good a player as Frank has heard he is, and may not play on the team at all." "We'll have to look over our baseball togs and see if they're in good shape," said Fred. "I know the spikes on my shoes need sharpening." "And I'll have to pound that new baseball glove of mine until it's good and soft and has a big hollow in the middle," added Bobby. "We mustn't overlook the least thing that's going to help us to win." "Won't the Clinton boys open their eyes if we can tell them when we go home for the summer vacation that we're the champions of the Monatook Lake League?" gloated Fred. "Don't count your chickens before they're hatched," laughed Sparrow. "It's a long time yet before the end of the season." "It's all over but the shouting, the way I look at it," persisted Fred defiantly. "Don't wake him up, he is dreaming," mocked Skeets. "The pennant bee is buzzing in his bonnet," laughed Sparrow. For that matter, they all heard the buzzing of the same bee, and it was a very pleasant sound to them. To these four eleven-year-old boys the words "league" and "pennant" conveyed a sense of dignity and importance that they had never felt before. From that time on, baseball took up a large part of their thoughts, even though the ground was covered with snow and the lake held fast in icy fetters. The gymnasium was warm and comfortable, and though they had no regular cage and the limited space did not give much chance for batting practice the boys got in quite a lot of pitching and catching. And this was quickened by the news that came to them that Belden had taken up the idea of the league with as much enthusiasm as they had, and were already predicting that they would be the victors in the coming struggle. It was said that two of the new Belden boys were hard hitters and could "send the ball a mile." "But we heard something like that before the last game, and we licked them just the same," remarked Fred, who expected to play short stop, the same position he had held the previous season. "Belden's bark is worse than its bite," confirmed Bobby. "But because they didn't come through the last time doesn't say they won't now. We'll have to be right up on our toes all the time. It isn't going to be a walkover for anybody." The study hours at Rockledge were not excessive, and had been arranged with a view of giving the growing boys all the time they needed for wholesome exercise and recreation. Dr. Raymond knew that a well trained mind and strong body must go together in order to get the best results. And on the occasions of the big baseball and football games he was always sure to be present as a keenly interested spectator. Mr. Carrier, too, the second assistant on the teaching staff, had himself been an athlete in his college days, and his advice and coaching on the diamond and the gridiron were very valuable to the Rockledge boys. With the lake so near at hand, there were plenty of winter sports. The smooth level of the ice, stretching away for miles in every direction, made skating a delight and offered a splendid field for hockey games. On all fine afternoons and every Saturday from morning till night, the ice was alive with darting figures, and rang with the music of steel against the frozen surface and the merry laughter of the skaters as they cracked the whip or flew by in impromptu races. There was plenty of snow on the ground this year and this gave a chance for some good coasting. Most of the boys had sleds, and Bobby had brought along the splendid one that he had received as a Christmas present. He had had considerable trouble in settling on a name. Billy Barry's suggestion that it be called "Lightning" and Betty Martin's laughing idea that it ought to be called "Oyster," because it "slipped down so easily," had received due consideration, but Bobby had finally settled on "Red Arrow." This seemed to him to cover both its color and its speed. And that speed could not be questioned. It certainly shot down hill like an arrow from a how. None of the other sleds at the school could do such fetching. Naturally Bobby took great pride in his sled, and the runners were rubbed with emery and oil until they were as smooth as silk and shone like silver. There were several good hills in the vicinity of the school, but most of them were dangerous; one because it crossed the railroad at its base and others because cross streets, along which there was much travel, offered chances for collisions. These were therefore forbidden to the boys. On one hill, however, they were permitted to coast whenever they wanted to do so. This stretched away from the town, and there were no cross streets throughout its entire length. It was absolutely safe, and as it was very long and reasonably steep, the boys felt no special regret at not being allowed to use the other hills. For several days before Lincoln's Birthday the weather had been mild and there was a considerable thaw. The snow on the hill had become soft and mushy and coasting had been impossible. This interfered with the plans of the boys in Bobby's dormitory, who had expected to have a big coasting carnival on the night of the holiday, when there would be a full moon. Now it looked as if the ground might be bare. But on the eleventh of February there came a sudden change in the weather that gladdened the hearts of the would-be coasters. The thermometer fell rapidly until it was ten degrees below zero. The hill froze solid and was even better than it had been before, because the water from the melting snow now formed a glare of ice over the whole surface. Bobby and his chums were jubilant over the change as they got together in the gymnasium after breakfast on the morning of the holiday. "Isn't it just bully?" cried Fred, doing a handspring. "The hill will be like glass," gloated Mouser. "I'll bet we fetch further than we ever did before," exulted Bobby, who could see himself scudding like the wind on his trusty Red Arrow. "But, gee! won't it be tough climbing up to the top again," put in Pee Wee, who liked well enough to ride down but hated the task of walking back. "Don't worry, Pee Wee," chaffed Fred. "We wouldn't let a hard-working fellow like you walk back. We'll take turns drawing you up on our sleds." "Sure we will," added Sparrow. "We'll just fight for the privilege." "I'd hate to have Pee Wee bark his shins again," laughed Bobby. The boys were so engrossed in the lively give and take that none of them noticed that Tom Hicksley, who had been practicing on the rings and had been near enough to hear their conversation, had quietly slipped out of the gymnasium. There had been no open trouble between him and Bobby and his friends since that morning when the coming of Mr. Carrier had stopped the quarrel. None of the boys took any special pains to avoid him but had simply left him alone. Hicksley had cast sullen and angry glances at them as they passed him on the campus or in the halls, but they cared nothing for that. They did not doubt that he was nursing his grudge and would lose no chance to get back at them if he could, but they felt able to take care of themselves. As a matter of fact, Hicksley had only two friends in the school. These were Bill Bronson and Jack Jinks, the two most detested boys at Rockledge. They were of the same type as Hicksley, mean and tyrannical. They were two of the largest pupils and took advantage of their size to make themselves thoroughly disliked by the other boys. They had "cottoned" to Hicksley at once, recognizing him as a kindred spirit, and the three were almost constantly together. Bronson and Jinks belonged to neither of the dormitories, but occupied one of the smaller rooms together. To this room Hicksley went straight from the gymnasium and rapped on the door. CHAPTER XV SPOILING THE FUN There was a scurrying within the room and Hicksley heard the sound of a window being hastily thrown up. Then after a long pause the door was slowly opened. "Oh, it's you, is it?" said Bronson in a tone of relief. "Sure it is," replied Hicksley tersely. "Who did you think it was? What's the matter with you fellows anyway. Any one might think I was a cop, from the time you took to open the door." "Worse than that," grinned Bronson. "I thought you might be Dr. Raymond or one of the teachers. We were smoking. Now you've made us throw away two perfectly good cigarettes and freeze ourselves by opening the window to get the smoke out of the room. Shut the window again, Jack. It's only Tom." "Well, I'm not going to tell on you," replied Hicksley. "That is," he added with a grin, "if you've got another cigarette left for me." It was strictly against the rules to smoke, but in the opinion of these worthless fellows rules were made only to be broken, and all three were soon puffing away, after making sure that the door was securely locked. Bronson was a tall, thin boy, with straw-colored hair. Jinks was shorter, but very stocky. A squint that made his small eyes look smaller still gave him a most unprepossessing appearance. "Well, what's up?" asked Bronson, seeing from Hicksley's manner that he had something to propose. "I've just heard something that gave me an idea of how to get even with that Bobby Blake and the bunch of boobs he goes with," replied Hicksley. "Hope it's a good idea," said Bronson. "Anything that will down those fellows you can count me in on." "Same here!" ejaculated Jinks. "I never had any use for any of that crowd." "Let's have it, Tom," broke in Bronson impatiently. "Don't keep us waiting." "They're planning to have a big coasting time to-night," explained Hicksley. "I heard them talking about it when I was down in the gymnasium just now. And while I was listening I thought of a way to queer the whole thing." This sounded promising, and the interest on the faces of the others grew intense. "What is it?" they asked in the same breath, leaning forward eagerly. Hicksley lowered his voice a trifle and rapidly outlined the plan that had come to him. He was fully satisfied with its reception, for both of his hearers roared with delight. "It's just bully!" cried Bronson. "Best thing I've heard since Hector was a pup!" ejaculated Jinks. "That'll put a spoke in their wheel all right," gloated Hicksley. "Won't they feel sore?" "They'll be frothing at the mouth." "We'll have to be hiding somewhere near by where we can see the whole thing," said Bronson. "I wouldn't miss it for a hundred dollars," chuckled Jinks. "They'll sing small for a long time after that," grinned Hicksley. "But now if you think the plan is all right, we'll have to figure out just how to go about it. It'll be a lot of hard work, and I don't want to do it myself. I don't suppose you fellows want to muss yourselves up either." "I'll tell you what!" exclaimed Bronson. "Do you know who Dago Joe is?" "He's that Italian fellow down town who goes about doing odd jobs, isn't he?" queried Hicksley. "That's the one," Bronson assented. "Well, what about him?" asked Hicksley. "Just this," Bronson answered. "He's just the fellow for this job. He's got a hand cart, and that will make it easy for him. Then, too, a dollar will look as big to him as a meeting house. But even if he charges more than that we can all chip in and it won't make very much for any of us." "I wouldn't care if it cost us a dollar apiece," said Jinks. "It would be worth it." They talked for a few minutes longer, and then decided that rather than let Hicksley do it alone they would all go down together to see Dago Joe. But to their surprise, Joe was at first inclined to balk at the proposition. He was poor and had a large family to support and he needed every dollar he could get, but he seemed to fear that the plan that the bullies suggested might get him into trouble. "I donta know," he said, shrugging his shoulders and extending the palms of his hands. "Perhaps people nota like it. Maybe I be arrest." "Nonsense, Joe," said Bronson. "There isn't a chance in the world that anybody will get on to who did it. It will be after dark anyway. Be a sport and take a chance." "We'll make it two dollars," said Jinks. "It's easy money and you'd be a fool not to take it." Joe still had some qualms, but when the boys raised the price to three dollars his scruples vanished. "You can get the stuff down near the roundhouse," suggested Jinks. "There's always plenty of it there." Joe wanted his three dollars at once, but they compromised by paying him half down with a promise of the other half when the work was done. "Now for the big blowout," chuckled Jinks, as they wended their way back to the school. "It'll be a scream," gloated Bronson. "A perfect riot," added Hicksley, who was in high feather, now that his scheme seemed in a fair way of going through. As for Dago Joe, he was a busy man for the rest of the day and for some time after darkness fell. There was an unusually good supper that night in honor of the holiday, and the boys did it full justice. But they would have lingered still longer at the table, if they had not been impatient to get out on the hill for their carnival of coasting. The wind had died down, but the air was keen and brought a frosty glow to their eyes and cheeks as they made their way to the hill, drawing their sleds behind them by ropes that hung over their shoulders. "We'll make a new record to-night," said Bobby jubilantly. "I shouldn't wonder if we fetched as far as the bridge; and we've never done that yet." "If we don't do it to-night we never shall," replied Fred, as they came to the hill. "It doesn't seem as if the sleds could ever stop when they get started on ice like this," exulted Mouser. "I'll tell you what let's do," suggested Sparrow. "The hill's wide enough to hold six sleds going down at the same time. There's just about seventeen or eighteen of us here. Let's start out in a bunch of six at a time and go the whole length. Then, after that, we can have the separate races." "That's all right," agreed Fred. "The trouble is that each fellow will want to go off in the first six." "We'll soon settle that," replied Sparrow. "We'll draw lots and then nobody will have any kick coming." This proposal was greeted with acclamation, and amid a great deal of chaff and laughter the lots were drawn. The lucky ones happened to be Fred, Bobby, Mouser, Sparrow, Skeets and Pee Wee. "We'll let Pee Wee go in the middle," laughed Fred, "and we'd better take care to keep close to the side of the road. He'll need more room than any of the rest of us." "I'd hate to have him plunk into me," grinned Bobby. "It would be a case for the doctor, for sure." "For the undertaker, more likely," chuckled Mouser. "You fellows think you're smart, don't you?" grunted Pee Wee. "All the same I bet I'll fetch farther than any of you." "Hear who's talking," jibed Sparrow. "We'll leave you so far behind you won't be able to see us with a telescope." They ranged their sleds side by side and lay upon them flat on their stomachs, holding firmly on the sides in front in order steer correctly. "Are you all ready?" asked Howell Purdy, who had been chosen to give the word. "Ready," they answered. "Then go!" shouted Howell. The six sleds shot forward with a rush. CHAPTER XVI WHO WAS GUILTY? For the first third of the distance, the ice was as smooth as quicksilver, with never a lump or hummock to mar the surface. The sleds flew down the frozen surface, gaining a velocity that took the boys' breath away and almost frightened them. Then suddenly there was a jar, a chorus of shouts, and they were thrown headlong over the fronts of their sleds, landing in a confused heap of limbs and bodies, while the sleds relieved of their burdens swirled around aimlessly for a time and finally came to a stop. A yell of consternation and alarm came from the mass, as the boys tried to struggle to their feet. Those who had been left at the top of the hill, hearing the yells and knowing that some accident had happened, came slipping and scrambling down to the scene of the disaster. They helped the half stunned victims to their feet, and for a time there was a wild hullabaloo of questions and answers as they tried to solve the mystery. Fortunately none of them was badly hurt, though at the rate they were going it might very easily have turned out to be a tragedy. Most of the boys had rubbed pieces of skin off their arms and legs, and Fred had a cut in his scalp from which the blood was flowing. "What did it?" shouted Howell. "I don't know," replied Bobby hesitatingly. His head was going round like a top. "M-must have hit a tree trunk or something like that," stammered Sparrow. "That isn't it," replied Howell, looking around him. "There isn't anything of that kind in sight as far as I can see. Just wait a minute till I get Sam Thompson's flashlight." Luckily Sam had it with him and promptly handed it over. Howell flashed it about him and gave a shout. "It's ashes!" he cried. "The whole hill's littered with 'em." "Ashes?" came a chorus of surprised questions. "That's what it is," declared Howell emphatically. "There are heaps and heaps of 'em. I'll bet they reach clear down to the bottom of the hill." He went down further and confirmed what he had said. He had no trouble in walking, for he could not have slipped if he had wanted to. The whole lower surface of the hill was strewn with ashes that spoiled the coasting for that night utterly, and promised to ruin it for many days to come. A wave of wrath and fierce indignation swept over the boys as they heard Howell's report. "Who could have done it?" was the question that came to the lips of all. "Could it have been the town council?" suggested Skeets. "They might have done it to keep the horses from slipping." "They never did anything like that before," objected Sparrow. "And if they were the ones, they would have made a clean job of it and gone right up to the top of the hill," said Mouser. "But you fellows will notice that it was perfectly clear for a long part of the way down." "Mouser is right," declared Bobby. "Somebody did this just to spoil our fun." "And they wanted us to be fooled and get started down so that we'd get a tumble when we came to the ashes," added Fred. "That's why they left it smooth at the top." "Some of us might have been killed," groaned Skeets, gingerly soothing an injured knee. "And it's only a bit of luck that we weren't," growled Fred. "My shins are barked for fair," moaned Pee Wee, "and that's no joke this time either." "Whoever did it was a low-down skunk," burst out Howell angrily. "He might have been a murderer," added Skeets. "I'd like to have my hands on him for a minute," declared Fred. "Well, our fun is over for this night anyway," said Bobby sadly. "And for a whole lot of other nights," put in Pee Wee. "Those ashes will get ground in and there's no sweeping 'em off." "We'll have to wait for another snow storm before we can do any more coasting," wailed Sparrow. It was a sorely disgruntled band of boys who gathered up their sleds and limped slowly to the top of the hill. One of the sleds was smashed and all had been more or less scratched and bruised. Once at the top, they squatted down on their sleds and held a council of war. "Now, fellows," said Bobby, "we've got to get to the bottom of this thing somehow. The ashes didn't come there of themselves. Somebody put them there, and whoever it was knew that we were out for a grand coasting bee to-night. So it must have been some fellow in the school." "I hate to think that there's any fellow at Rockledge who could do such a dirty trick," remarked Howell. "If we can find out who it was we ought to tell Doctor Raymond about it and have the fellow sent away from school." "No," objected Bobby. "This is our affair and we oughtn't to bring the teachers into it at all." "The question is who could have done it," put in Skeets. "Whoever did it is mean enough to steal sheep," growled Fred. "Or take the pennies from a dead man's eyes," added Mouser. "I can figure out just three fellows in the school who could do a thing like that," said Howell. "Bill Bronson." "Jack Jinks." "Tom Hicksley." The answers came from as many different lips, and the readiness with which they were accepted was not at all flattering to the boys who bore the names. "It may have been one of those three or all three together," said Bobby, coming nearer to the mark than he knew. "That reminds me," cried Fred suddenly. "Tom Hicksley was practicing on the flying rings when we were talking this thing over in the gymnasium this morning." "That's so," chimed in Mouser. "And I remember now that he seemed to stop all of a sudden and slip away. I didn't think anything about it then, but I remember it plainly now." "He owes some of us a grudge for what happened on the train," remarked Pee Wee. "And he said then he'd get even with us," observed Fred. "There's one thing we fellows have forgotten," said Skeets. "Whoever did this would want to be hiding around and see what happened. We ought to hunt them out and pay them up." This seemed likely enough and the boys looked eagerly about them. "Doesn't seem to be any place up here where they could hide without our seeing them," remarked Mouser. "No, but there's a lot of bushes at the side of the road half way down the hill," put in Sparrow. "Let's go down there." They went down in a body. There was no one there, but as they got to the other side of the bushes they could faintly make out three figures retreating in the distance. They were too far away to be recognized and they had too long a start to make it worth while pursuing them, but from their general size and build the boys had little doubt as to who they were. "What did I tell you?" cried Fred. "I knew that they were the only ones who could do a thing like that." "It seems that the whole bunch of them are in it," remarked Mouser. "I'll bet that Hicksley went straight to them and cooked this up when he left the gym this morning," conjectured Sparrow. "That makes something else we owe those fellows," growled Skeets. "We owed them enough without that," said Howell. "The big bullies have tried to pester the life out of us ever since we've been at Rockledge." "Our turn will come," replied Bobby with conviction. "But now, fellows, we might as well hustle back to the dormitory. There's no use of staying here any longer." They made their way back to the school with very different feelings from those they had when they left it. "A holiday spoiled," grumbled Mouser. "And there's only two more holidays this month," observed Sparrow. "Two!" exclaimed Bobby. "There's only one more and that's Washington's Birthday." "How about St. Valentine's Day?" objected Sparrow. "That's only two days from now." "Oh, that's only a fake holiday," replied Fred. "Lessons will go on just the same." "I don't care whether it's a fake holiday or a real one," answered Sparrow. "I'm going to get a lot of fun out of it just the same." CHAPTER XVII ON THE TRAIL The school chums sat up late in the dormitory that night, nursing their bruises, and by the time they had got through applying arnica and other lotions, the place smelled like a hospital. How they could bring the trick home to those who had played it was a problem that was too much for them at the present. They felt sure that the bullies would deny it if taxed with it, and there was no way of actually proving it, no matter how sure they might feel in their own minds. The matter could of course have been carried to the authorities of the school, and there is no doubt that they would have looked upon it very gravely because of the serious accident that might have resulted from it. But their code of schoolboy ethics was to keep the teachers out of such things and fight it out among themselves. They felt reasonably sure that sometime or other they would get even, and they bided their time. It was a very lame and sore lot of boys who dragged themselves out of bed when the rising hell rang on the following morning. "Scubbity-_yow_!" exclaimed Fred. "I feel as though I'd been in a railroad smash-up." "I'm one big ache all over," groaned Pee Wee. "One _big_ ache is right," grinned Mouser. "You couldn't be a little one if you tried." "My joints creak like a wooden doll's, every time I go to move," complained Sparrow. "I bet I'll go to pieces on the stairs and have to be shoveled up in bits," prophesied Skeets. "We'll each keep a part to remember you by," laughed Bobby. "Quit your groaning, you fellows, and let's go down to the table. You'll feel better when you get filled up." The filling up process was carried out with neatness and despatch, and when it was over the boys were inclined to look on life in a more cheerful way. "We can't do anything this morning on account of lessons," remarked Bobby. "But as soon as they're over this afternoon, let's make a break for that hill and see what we can find out." "And see how Hicksley and his pals act in the classrooms," suggested Skeets. "That may give us a tip to go by." "I don't count much on that," said Mouser. "They'll be on their guard and won't want to give themselves away." To a certain extent this proved true. There was no attempt on the part of the bullies to gloat over the victims of their trick. But the boys surprised furtive grins and winks that passed between the three when they thought no one was looking, and this confirmed their suspicions that now were almost certainties. "They did it all right," pronounced Fred. "I'm sure of it from the way I saw them grinning at each other. But they'll laugh on the other side of their mouths before long." As soon as the boys were free from their duties, they went with all speed to the scene of their misadventure. And again they lamented, when they saw by daylight how thoroughly the hill was spoiled for coasting. "There must be bushels and bushels of ashes!" exclaimed Mouser, as his eyes roamed over the lower half of the hill. "It beats me how they managed to get it all here," observed Skeets. "It must have been brought a long way," commented Sparrow. "There's no place round here they could have got them from." "They couldn't have carried all that stuff themselves," said Bobby thoughtfully. "It would have been an awful job," added Howell, "and those fellows don't like work well enough for that." "They might have hired a man with a horse and wagon," suggested Skeets. "If that's so, there must be some tracks in the snow," returned Bobby. "Scatter out, fellows, and see if you can find any marks of hoofs or wheels." They followed his directions, and in a moment there was a cry from Sparrow. "Here're the marks of wheels," he called. "But I don't see any horse tracks." There, indeed, were the clearly defined print of wheels leading in a roundabout way toward the town. As they looked a little more closely they could see too where a man's feet had broken at places through the crust of snow. "It must have been a hand cart," said Bobby, "and you can see that it held ashes from the bits that lie along its tracks. That's what they brought it in and you can bet on it." "There aren't many hand carts in town," observed Fred reflectively. "How many do you fellows remember seeing?" "The laundryman has one," replied Howell, "and the paper man has another. Those are the only ones I know of, except that shaky thing of Dago Joe's." "He's the fellow!" cried Fred excitedly. "None of the others would lend their carts for anything like that." "Let's follow up the tracks and see where they lead to," suggested Sparrow. This was detective work to their liking and even Pee Wee made no objections to the tramp over the snow. Their satisfaction was increased when they found that the tracks led straight to the roundhouse. Here there were great piles of ashes that had been dropped from the fire boxes of the locomotives when they were being shifted or put up for the night. It was quite clear that here was the place where the hand cart had been filled. But their elation received a sudden check when they prepared to trace the wheel prints to the shabby shack in town where Joe lived with his numerous brood. For now they were in the outskirts of the town, where wagons were coming and going all the time, and the tracks they had been following were lost in a multitude of others. They looked at each other a little sheepishly. "Stung!" muttered Fred. "Bum detectives we are," grinned Sparrow. "We're up a tree now for sure," declared Sparrow. "All this walk for nothing," growled Pee Wee. "We do seem to be stumped," admitted Bobby. "What do you say to going to Joe and asking him right up and down whether he did it or not?" "Swell chance we'd have of getting anything out of him," commented Mouser. "He'd lie about it sure," declared Sparrow. "I suppose likely he would," agreed Bobby. "But we might be able to tell something by the way he acts. It won't do any harm to try anyhow." They found Dago Joe pottering about some work in the small yard in front of his shack. But Joe had seen them coming and his uneasy conscience had taken alarm. If he had had time, he would have slipped inside the house and had his wife or one of the children deny that he was at home. But it was too late for that, and he took refuge in the assumed ignorance that had served him many times before. He greeted them with a genial smile that showed his mouthful of white teeth which was the only personal attraction he possessed. "Goota day," he said blandly. "How are you, Joe?" said Bobby, as spokesman for the party. "Been pretty busy?" Joe's mouth drooped. "Not do nottin much," he answered. "Beesness bad, ver' bad." "Carry any loads of ashes lately?" Bobby went on. Joe looked puzzled. Then a light came into his face. "Hash?" he said delightedly. "Me likea hash. Tasta good. Bambino like it too." "Not hash, but ashes," returned Bobby, joining in the laugh of the rest of the boys. "You know, ashes--what falls out of the stove, wood ashes, coal ashes." Joe's face resembled that of a graven image. "No unnerstan," he said, shrugging his shoulders with an air of perplexity. In the face of his determination, the boys saw that it was of no use to prolong the conversation. "You're a good actor, Joe," said Bobby, half vexed, half amused, as the boys turned to go. Joe showed his teeth again in an engaging smile that embraced all the party and waved them a cordial good-bye. "How sweetly the old rascal smiles at us!" grinned Mouser. "Laughs at us, you mean," snorted Fred. "He's tickled to death inside to think of the way he's got the best of us." "I bet if we asked him if he'd like to have us give him five dollars, he'd understand, all right," laughed Sparrow. "He couldn't grab the money too quick," agreed Skeets. "Well, we haven't wasted our afternoon anyway," Bobby summed up. "We've found out how the ashes were taken there, and we feel dead certain in our own minds that Joe did it. We know, of course, that he didn't do it of his own accord. Somebody hired him to do it. Now if we could only find some one who saw Hicksley and Joe talking together, it would help some." "But that wouldn't prove anything," objected Sparrow. "They might be talking about the weather." "Or about hash," interjected Pee Wee. "Hash seems to stick in your crop," grinned Skeets. "I wish some of it were sticking there right now," answered Pee Wee, "especially if it were like the hash that Meena makes." "By the way, fellows," chimed in Fred, "it must be close to supper time this very minute. Let's beat it." They started off on a run. "The one that gets there last is a Chinaman," Skeets flung back over his shoulder. Pee Wee was the Chinaman. CHAPTER XVIII A HARD HIT The next morning the boys woke to the realization that it was St. Valentine's Day. There were valentines in their mail, valentines that had been slipped slyly into their pockets, valentines that had found their way under their pillows. Some of them were the grotesque "comics" that were on sale in the village stationery store, while others were mere scrawls adorned with so-called pictures, and had been made by the boys themselves with pen and pencil. There was not much art about them, but there was a good deal of fun, and that was all the boys were looking for. Most of them were based on nicknames that the boys carried or on some event in their lives that was known to the rest. Mouser, for instance, was pictured with his own face on the body of a mouse who was creeping toward a cage in which a big piece of cheese was temptingly displayed. Skeets was buzzing about as a big mosquito, over the bald head of a fat man, who was getting ready to crash him as soon as he should settle down. Fred's red head had been drawn in red ink, and above his flaming mop one boy was holding a frying pan and another was breaking eggs to cook an omelet. The boys had learned from Fred of the time when Bobby had coasted down the Trent Street hill and gone head over heels into the drift. Bobby's head could not be seen but his two heels were waving wildly in the air and on one of them was the word "Bobby" and on the other "Blake." Of course Pee Wee had not been overlooked. He was shown as a big fat boy, and each of his knees had a dog's head on it. The dogs were barking furiously. This was supposed to indicate his "barked" shins. Because Billy Bassett was always asking questions with his conundrums, he was shown as a great big question mark with the word "guess" underneath. Sparrow Bangs sat on a branch with a flock of birds, singing with all his might, while in the bushes a hunter was taking careful aim and getting ready to fire. Under most of the pictures there were verses that brought forth shrieks of laughter--usually from all, but sometimes from all but the recipient. As a rule, it was pure fun without any sting in it, though Fred pointed out that the hair in the picture was a good deal redder than that which really waved over his freckled forehead. Pee Wee too was sure that he was not anyway near so big as the human mountain that his picture showed him to be. There was plenty of chaff and laughter as the boys pored over the valentines, and they would have gladly spent more time discussing them. But as Fred had said, Valentine's Day was only a "fake" holiday, and the hard-hearted teachers insisted on lessons and recitations. So the pictures were hastily thrust into pockets until they had more time to look at them and the boys trooped over to the classrooms. Several times through the morning's work, they noticed that Tom Hicksley shot furious glances at them and this aroused their curiosity. "His royal highness seems mighty sore about something this morning," Fred whispered to Bobby. "Got out of bed the wrong foot first maybe," replied Bobby. "I hope he's got something to feel sore about," snapped Fred. What that something was they learned after the lessons were over, and they stood chattering with their friends, a little way off from the main building. Hicksley came up to them, accompanied by Bronson and Jinks. There was an ugly look in the bully's eyes and he held a folded sheet of paper in his hand. "Which one of you boobs sent me this valentine?" he asked threateningly. "How do you know that any of us did?" replied Bobby in Yankee fashion, answering a question by asking one. "I know that some of you did, because you butted in on me before," replied Hicksley. "When was that?" asked Fred aggravatingly. "You know well enough," growled Hicksley, who was not any too anxious to recall his bully-ragging of the old soldier. "Oh, yes, I remember," put in Mouser, as though he had just thought of it. "You remember, fellows, how Hicksley reached out his foot and tried to trip the old man up." "I didn't," cried Hicksley untruthfully. "He fell over it by accident." "And I suppose it was an accident that you kept at him with the feather so that he couldn't get any sleep?" retorted Fred. "That's neither here nor there," snarled Hicksley, dodging the matter. "What I want to know is which one of you sent this valentine?" "What are you going to do if you find out?" asked Bobby innocently. "I'm going to give him a trimming that he'll remember," growled Hicksley. Bronson and Jinks ranged up alongside of him as though to assure him of their support, and it looked as if trouble were coming. "Give it to him good and plenty, Tom," said Bronson. "The whole bunch of them need a licking," added Jinks. "It will take more than you to give it to us," blazed out Fred defiantly. The bullies were much larger and stronger than any of the boys opposed to them. On the other hand, the smaller boys had a larger number, so that if a tussle did come, the forces would be about equal. "What is this valentine you're making all this fuss about?" demanded Bobby. "Here it is," cried Hicksley furiously, thrusting it forward. "And I'm going to make the fellow that sent it pay for it." The boys crowded round and looked at it curiously, at the same time keeping wary eyes on the bullies. The picture was fairly well done, and had evidently taken a great deal of work and time on the part of the one who had made it. It represented a boy taking a dead mouse from a blind kitten. The boy was grinning, and the kitten was pawing wildly about, trying to get back its mouse. To make sure there could be no mistake, the kitten had a card around its neck bearing the words, "I am blind," and under the figure of the boy was scrawled the name, "Tom Hicksley." The boys roared with laughter, and Hicksley's temper rose to the boiling point. "Own up now, which one of you did it," he demanded fiercely. "Whoever did it knew you pretty well, Tom Hicksley," said Fred. "What do you suppose the picture means?" inquired Mouser, as though he could not quite make it out. "I think it means that the fellow who would take a dead mouse from a blind kitten is about as mean as they make them," put in Sparrow. "Mean enough to torment a poor old soldier, I shouldn't wonder," added Shiner, pouring oil on the flames. "Are you going to tell me who did it?" snarled Hicksley once more, snatching back the valentine, which he now regretted having shown, and doubling up his fist. "I would have done it if I'd thought of it," Fred came back at him. Hicksley sprang forward, followed by Bronson and Jinks. The boys stood their ground and there was a wild mix-up. In a moment they were all down in the snow in a flying tangle of arms and legs. There was no telling how the tussle would have terminated, though Hicksley was getting his face well washed with snow that the boys were cramming into his mouth and eyes, when a shout arose: "Cheese it, fellows, there's a teacher coming!" The combatants scrambled to their feet and scurried in all directions, and when Mr. Leith, the head teacher, arrived on the spot, there was no one to be seen. Bobby and his friends found themselves, red, panting and uproariously happy, in their dormitory, where they flung their books upon their beds and fairly danced about with glee. "I jammed so much snow in Tom Hicksley's mouth that I bet he'll taste it for a month," chortled Fred. "They tackled the wrong bunch that time," gurgled Mouser. "They thought we'd run," chuckled Bobby. "Wasn't that a dandy valentine?" demanded Skeets. "What a fool he was to show it," grinned Pee Wee. "Now it'll go all over the school." "Who do you suppose sent it?" wondered Shiner. "I'd give a dollar to know," declared Fred. "All right," grinned Sparrow, holding out his hand. "Pass over the dollar." "You?" cried the other boys in chorus. CHAPTER XIX SPRING PRACTICE "I'm the fellow who did it," admitted Sparrow modestly. "Sparrow, old scout, you're a wonder!" cried Mouser, clapping him on the back. "It hit him right where he lived," chuckled Skeets. "That pays him up for scattering ashes on the hill," grinned Fred. "He'll never hear the last of it as long as he stays in school," said Shiner. "Every once in a while a dead mouse will turn up on his desk and make him hopping mad." "He'll never be much madder than he was this morning," put in Skeets. "His eyes were fairly snapping." "Bronson and Jinks got theirs, too," said Pee Wee. "I guess they'll think twice before they pick on the other fellows again." "They've been rather quiet since the goat tumbled them over at our last initiation," laughed Bobby, referring to an incident of the previous term, "but since Hicksley came they've been getting ugly again. I guess what they got this morning will hold them for a while." As a matter of fact, the bullies did seem to be somewhat dashed by the stout resistance that the smaller boys had put up and they did not refer to the valentine again. They were only too willing to have it forgotten, and Tom Hicksley ground his teeth more than once at not having kept it to himself. Spring was now at hand, coming this year a little earlier than usual. The snow disappeared from the ground, the ice vanished from the lake, and the soft winds that blew up from the south turned the thoughts of the boys to track games and baseball. Fred and Bobby had done a good deal of practicing in the gymnasium and were in prime condition. But actual practice on the diamond was the real thing they wanted, and they were delighted when the ground had dried out enough to play in the open air. Frank Durrock had been busy for a month past, getting all the details perfected for the entrance of Rockledge into the Monatook Lake League. But now everything was ready and he could devote himself to picking the members of the team. This proved to be no easy matter. An unusually large number of good players were at Rockledge, and the struggle for places on the nine was interesting and exciting. It seemed that Bobby should play in the pitcher's box and Fred at short stop. They had both done exceedingly well at those positions the previous spring and fall. But there was a new boy, Willis by name, who had been a good short stop on his home nine before he had come to the school, and it seemed to be a toss up between him and Fred as to who could do better in the position. Bobby, too, had rivalry to face in the person of Tom Hicksley. On the first day that they actually had field practice, Hicksley came out on the ball ground in an old uniform that proclaimed that he had once been a member of the "Eagles" of Cresskill, his native town. Frank knew that he had been a pitcher, and so he put him in the box and had him toss up some balls for the rest of the team in batting practice. And Hicksley did exceedingly well. Whatever his defects in character, he certainly knew how to pitch. He had a good outcurve, a fair incurve and a high fast ball that Bobby himself generously declared to be a "peach." Hicksley's height and strength, too, were greater than Bobby's, which was not to be wondered at when it was considered that he was three years older. But he was inclined to be a little wild, and his control was not as good as Bobby's. But what made his work of special interest to Frank was that he pitched with his left hand. Most of the pitchers in the new league were right-handed, and the boys were used to hitting that kind of pitching. Frank felt that with a left-handed pitcher he would have the other fellows all at sea when it came to "lining them out," and for that reason he watched Hicksley with the closest attention. "He puts them over all right," conceded Bobby, as he watched Hicksley winging them over the plate. "Yes," said Fred, "when he gets them over at all. But lots of them don't even cut the corners. He'll give too many bases on balls." "And a base on balls is as good for the fellow that gets it as a base hit," commented Mouser. "His arm seems to be all right, but we don't know how he'll act when he gets in a pinch," said Skeets dubiously. "That's what makes Bobby so strong as a pitcher," said Shiner. "No matter how tight a hole he finds himself in, he's cool as an iceberg." "That's so," remarked Pee Wee, who was too fat and too slow to play himself, but was an ardent rooter for the home team. "I've never seen Bobby get rattled yet." "That's because there isn't a bit of yellow in him," said Fred, throwing his arm affectionately about his chum's shoulder. "And I'll bet that Hicksley has a yellow streak in him a yard wide," snapped Sparrow. "Oh he may not be that way when it comes to baseball," remonstrated Bobby who always tried to be fair. "At any rate he ought to have a chance to show what he can do before we make up our minds about him. You fellows know that I don't like him a bit more than you do, but that doesn't say he may not be a good baseball player." Jinks was not on the nine, but Bronson, who was a good batter and a fair fielder, was expected to play center field. They were both delighted at the showing that their crony was making and were loud in their applause. Their praise was so extravagant in fact that it was clear that they did it to depreciate Bobby. "You're the best pitcher we ever had at Rockledge, Tom," cried Bronson, casting a side glance at Bobby to make sure that he heard. "You lay over them all," crowed Jinks. "There's no one else can hold a candle to you." "Here, cut that out, you fellows," called Frank Durrock sharply. "Blake has proved what he can do and I don't want any talk like that. He won both of the last games he pitched against Belden, and any one who can do better than he did will have to be going some." "You bet they will," cried Fred loyally, and there was a round of hand clapping from the other boys, with most of whom Bobby was a prime favorite. Frank's hearty defense put Bobby on his mettle, and when his turn came to put the balls over, he did so with a snap and skill that delighted his friends. The practice all around was sharp and spirited, and Frank was greatly encouraged as he saw how well the team took hold. But it would not do to play too long on the first day, and after an hour or so, he called a halt. "We want to keep an eye on those fellows, Bobby," remarked Fred a little uneasily as they were going toward the school. "They're going to crowd you out if they can." "Let them try," replied Bobby. "I'm going to try my best to hold up my end with Hicksley and beat him if I can. But if he can prove that he's a better pitcher than I am, I won't kick if I have to play second fiddle. I'd be willing to do anything to help Rockledge win." CHAPTER XX THE SUGAR CAMP An untimely snow storm that was wholly unlooked for by the boys dismayed them by putting a stop to their practice for the time being. But the snow, though heavy, did not last long, and began to melt rapidly under the rays of the sun. "See how the water is running down those trees," remarked Shiner, looking out of the window one Friday morning. "That isn't water, boy," said Sparrow. "That's sap. The trees are bursting with it just now." "By the way, fellows," put in Skeets, "have you ever been to a maple sugar camp when the sap was running?" Most of them had not and Skeets went on to explain. "It's the best fun ever," he said; "and now's just the time to see it running full blast when the snow is melting and the air is warm. On a day like this the sap comes down in bucketfuls. And you can see just how they collect it, and how they boil it down until it's a thick syrup, and the way that hot maple sugar does taste--yum yum!" and here he closed his eyes in blissful recollection. "Sounds mighty good to me," said Pee Wee, with whom the memory of Meena and her breakfast of buckwheat cakes and maple syrup still lingered. "You can take out the hot sugar in big spoons and let it cool on a pan of snow," continued Skeets, drawing out the details as he saw that his friends' mouths were watering in anticipation, "and when you get the first taste of it you never want to stop eating." "I wonder if there's a sugar camp anywhere around here," said Pee Wee with great animation. "I know of one that's about three miles away," said Sparrow. "What do you say to our making up a party and going out there to-morrow if Doc Raymond will let us go out of bounds?" There was a general chorus of gleeful assent. "What we ought to do," said Skeets, "is to have a couple of fellows go out there to-day and make arrangements. We want to take up a collection and fix it up with the farmer's wife to have hot biscuits and other things ready for us. I tell you what, fellows, hot biscuits and fresh butter and hot thick maple sugar just out of the boiler--" "Don't say another word," cried Pee Wee frantically, "or I'll never, never be able to wait till to-morrow." They took stock of their resources and collected several dollars between them, enough they thought to cover the expense. Bobby and Fred were appointed as a committee of two to go out to the camp that afternoon so that everything would be in readiness on the morrow. Dr. Raymond's permission was readily obtained, and the chums set out on their three mile walk. They had no trouble in finding the camp and the farmer's wife, a bright, cheery person, was very ready to entertain the party and promised to have an abundant lunch provided for them. The boys would have dearly liked to inspect the camp, but they had promised their chums that they would not do so until all could see it together, and they kept loyally to their word. No finer day could have been selected for that particular outing than the one that dawned the next morning. The air was mild and the sun shining brightly. The only drawback was the walking, as the roads were full of mud in some places and melting slush in others, but as they were all warmly shod that made little difference. Pee Wee groaned occasionally as he lagged along in the rear, but they had no fear of his dropping out. It would have taken a good deal more than a three-mile walk to keep Pee Wee away from that sugar camp after Skeets's description. "There it is," cried Fred at last, pointing to a big grove of trees in the rear of a farmhouse. Pee Wee sniffed the air. "Seems to me I can smell the sugar cooking from here," he said joyously. They left the road now, took a short cut across the fields and soon entered the grove of maples. It was an extensive grove, containing several hundred of the stately trees. Into each one of these that had reached their full growth a hole had been made, a spigot driven in, and a bright tin pail suspended from each spigot. Into these pails the sap was falling with a musical drip so that a tinkling murmur ran through the grove as though some one were gently touching the strings of a zither. An old horse attached to a low sled was shambling slowly along through the woodland paths, stopping at each tree. The driver would empty the pail into one of several large cans that the sled contained, replace the pail and go on to the next. "Seems almost a shame to tap those splendid trees," murmured Mouser. "It's almost like bleeding them to death." "Doesn't do them a bit of harm," explained Skeets cheerfully. "The farmers take good care not to drain out more sap than the tree can spare." When the sled had made its round, the boys followed it to the shed where the sap was boiled down into sugar. Here they saw an enormous caldron with a roaring fire underneath. Into this caldron the sap was poured, and here its transformation began. A delicious odor arose that made the nostrils of the boys dilate hungrily. Every little while, the man who was supervising the boiling drew out a huge ladleful to see how thick it was getting. At a certain stage he turned to the boys with a grin. "Each one of you take one of those pans," he directed, pointing to a bright row of dairy tins which the housewife had made ready. "Fill them up with snow and pack the snow down hard." In a twinkling the boys were ready. Then, as each held up his pan, the man poured a big ladle of the hot syrup on the snow. The rich golden brown against the whiteness of the snow would have delighted the soul of an artist. But these lads were not artists, only hungry boys, and their only concern was to get the sugar cool enough to eat. Pee Wee in fact burned his lips and tongue by starting too soon, but he soon forgot a trifle like that, and in a moment more he and the others were eating as if they had never tasted anything so good in all their lives. "Hot biscuits coming, boys," smiled the farmer. "Better leave some room." "Let them come," mumbled Mouser with his mouth full of sugar. "None of them will go away again." And they made good this prophecy when a little later they were called into the farmhouse, where a table was spread, heaped high with fluffy biscuits just from the oven. On these the boys spread butter and then piled them up with the delicious syrup. There were other things on the table too, pickles and pies and cakes, but to these the boys paid slight attention. They could have those any day, but to-day maple sugar was king. When at length they were through, they all acknowledged to having eaten more than was good for them. "We'll have to use a derrick to get Pee Wee on his feet," laughed Bobby. "And borrow the horse and sled to take him back to school," said Sparrow. But it was not quite so bad as that, though after they started back the other boys had to moderate their gait in order not to leave Pee Wee too far behind. "Hurry up, Pee Wee," admonished Skeets. "You're slow as molasses." "Slow as maple syrup when it's cooling," amended Sparrow. "Well, fellows, this has sure been a bully trip," remarked Shiner, summing up the sentiments of all. "This is the end of a perfect day," Fred chanted gayly, lifting up his voice in song. CHAPTER XXI THE FIRST GAME Notwithstanding Fred's jubilant song, the day was not yet ended. As the boys approached the school, they saw a figure in the road a little way ahead that seemed familiar to them. They quickened their pace, quickly overtaking Dago Joe. "Hello, Joe," came from many voices at once. Joe flashed them a smile, showing his fine, white teeth. "Hello," he answered genially. "Wonder if he's as fond of hash as ever," Fred remarked in a low voice to Mouser. "What are you doing up this way, Joe?" asked Bobby. "Looking for any one?" inquired Sparrow. But Joe was wary and refused to be drawn out. "Can't get that old fox to give himself away," muttered Skeets. Just then Tom Hicksley approached, accompanied by Bronson and Jinks. They caught sight of Joe at the same time that he saw them, and tried to retreat. Bronson and Jinks succeeded, but Joe was too quick for Hicksley, and hurrying forward laid his hand on his arm, while he jabbered away excitedly. "Ha ha!" exclaimed Fred in a tragic way. "I see it all now." "He's boning Hicksley for something," guessed Sparrow. "Money, I'll bet," ventured Shiner. "I shouldn't wonder if it's on account of that job he did for those fellows, hauling those ashes," said Bobby. "Wasn't it luck that we happened along just at this minute?" chuckled Mouser delightedly. As Joe and Hicksley were right in the path that led up to the school, the boys sauntered along carelessly until they were nearly abreast of them. For a man who understood so little English, Joe was talking at a great rate. "I wanta ze mon," the boys heard him say. "I tell you I haven't got it with me just now," Hicksley responded in an undertone, trying to quiet the man and keep the boys from hearing. "I wanta ze mon now," repeated Joe doggedly. "Oh, give the man his money, Hicksley," broke in Sparrow suddenly. "He needs it to buy hash with," said the irrepressible Fred. "Let's take up a collection to help out," suggested Skeets sarcastically. "You fellows shut up," cried Hicksley, turning on them fiercely. "We know how he earned it," returned Bobby undauntedly. "You don't know anything of the kind," snarled the bully, but his eyes wavered as they met Bobby's fixed upon them. "It was pretty hard work carting ashes all that way to spoil our coast," went on Bobby. "You'd better pony up, Hicksley." "I don't know what you're talking about," growled Hicksley. But as he did not like the way the boys were gathering around him, he put his hand in his pocket, drew out the dollar and a half that he had promised to pay when the work should be finished and which he had ever since been trying to cheat Joe out of, and slunk away, glad to escape the contempt that he felt in the eyes and manner of the boys. "Caught with the goods!" cried Fred jubilantly, throwing his cap into the air. "Couldn't have been nicer if we'd planned it ourselves," exulted Sparrow. "Well, now that we're sure that he did it, what are we going to do about it?" asked Skeets. "Oh, I guess there's nothing to be done," said Bobby slowly. "If it wasn't that he's likely to be on the baseball team we might make it hot for him. Not with the teachers of course, but among ourselves. But we want Rockledge to win the championship, and it won't help any to have trouble with any boy on the nine. Besides, he's had a good deal of punishment just in the last few minutes. I never saw a fellow look as cheap as he did when he faded away just now." "I guess you're right, Bobby," assented Sparrow. "But all the same he wouldn't let up on you if he had you in a fix." The next day they all felt rather logy after their feast of the day before, and Pee Wee, who had a severe stomach ache, did not get up at all. Fortunately it was Sunday, and the day of rest helped to get them in shape again before their school duties began on Monday morning. From that time on the weather was all that the boys could ask, and every hour the ball players could spare was spent in practice on the diamond. Gradually, under the coaching of Mr. Carrier, their athletic instructor, ably assisted by Frank Durrock, the nine was getting into good form. Fred, at short stop, was thought to be a shade better than Willis, and he was slated to play in the first game. As to the pitchers, while there was no doubt that they would be Bobby and Hicksley, it was by no means certain which of them would twirl in the opening game, which was to be with the Somerset nine on the Rockledge grounds. Each was doing well, and each had some points that the other did not possess. Hicksley, the older of the two, had more muscular strength, and could whip the ball over with more speed than Bobby. But Bobby was a better general, a quicker thinker, and he had a control of his curves that was far better than his rival's. "One thing is certain," said Mr. Carrier, in one of his conferences with Frank. "We're better fixed in the box than we ever were before. It's hard to choose between them, though, take all things together, I think Blake is the better pitcher of the two." "Yes," agreed Frank. "I feel a little safer myself with Bobby in there than I do with Hicksley. Hicksley has lots of speed but he's liable to go up with a bang. But I've never yet seen Bobby get rattled." The long expected day arrived at last, and all Rockledge turned out to see the game. The stand was full, and Dr. Raymond himself, with most of the teachers, sat in a little space that had been railed off and decorated with the Rockledge colors. The Somerset nine, made up of strong, sturdy looking boys, had come over with a large number of rooters from their town. They were full of confidence, and they went through their preliminary practice with a snap and a vim that showed they were good players. Frank had watched them as they batted out flies, and noted that several of them were left-handed batters. He held an anxious conference with Mr. Carrier, and then came over to Bobby who was warming up. "I had expected to have you pitch to-day, Bobby," he said; "but I've just been noticing that those fellows have two or three left-handed batters. Now you know as well as I do that for that kind it's best to have left-handed pitching. They can't hit it so easily." "Sure," replied Bobby. "And so I think I'll have to put in Hicksley," continued Frank. "That's all right," said Bobby heartily, "and I'll be rooting my head off for him to win." "You're a brick, Bobby!" exclaimed Frank. "I was sure you'd understand." When the umpire cried: "Play ball!" there was a buzz of surprise among the spectators, when, instead of Bobby, it was Tom Hicksley who picked up the ball and faced the batter. CHAPTER XXII TO THE RESCUE Hicksley started off in good shape. The first man up went out on a foul that Sparrow caught after a long run. The second batter, who was left-handed, could do nothing with the ball at all and went out on strikes. The third man connected and shot a sharp grounder which Fred picked up neatly and threw in plenty of time to Durrock at first. The side was out, and hearty applause greeted Hicksley as he came in to the bench, Bobby joining in as heartily as any of the others. "That was a dandy start!" cried Bronson. "Keep it up, Tom!" exclaimed Jinks, encouragingly. "They can't touch you." Rockledge was more fortunate in its half of the inning. Frank, who led off in the batting order, had two halls and one strike called on him, but on his second attempt he sent the ball on a line between center and right for three bases. He was tempted to try to stretch it to a home run, but Bobby, who was coaching, saw that the ball would get there before him and held him at third. The next batter fouled out, but Mouser, who followed him, sent a neat single to left on which Frank scored easily. Barry went out on strikes, and Mouser was left on the bag when Spentz died on a weak dribbler to the box. But Rockledge was one run to the good and had shown that they were in a batting humor, so that their rooters in the stand were jubilant at the promising beginning. The next two innings went by without a score for either side. Hicksley was still pitching well, and the opposing pitcher had tightened up considerably. In the fourth, Somerset broke the ice. The first man up laid down a bunt that Hicksley picked up, but threw wild to Durrock, and the batter reached second before the ball was recovered. A neat sacrifice put him on third, from which he scored on a long fly to right, which Spentz gobbled after a long run, but could not return to the plate in time to catch the man running in from third after the out. No further damage was done as Fred and Durrock disposed of the batter, but the score was tied, and it was Somerset's turn to cheer. But Rockledge got the run right back again in the fifth, and added one for good measure. Fred smashing out a rattling two-bagger to left. He stole third on the first ball pitched. Two infield flies followed, and it began to look as though Fred's hit had gone for nothing. Then Mouser brought the stand yelling to its feet by a clean home run, following Fred over the plate and making the score three to one. His comrades gathered around him, pawing and mauling him exultantly. "That's what you call hitting it a mile!" cried Bobby. "A lallapaloozer!" shouted Fred, doing a war dance. "A peach!" "A pippin!" "You're all there, Mouser!" yelled Pee Wee. Mouser grinned appreciatively at the medley of shouts that greeted him, and then retired to the bench, where he sat panting and happy. Radford, the Somerset pitcher, pulled himself together and retired the next man on strikes, and Somerset came in for its turn at the bat. "Go for 'em now, fellows!" shouted their supporters. "Eat 'em up!" "Get right after 'em!" "The game's young yet." But Hicksley, encouraged by the two-run lead his team had handed him, was still more than they could solve, and again they went out into the field runless. The Rockledge boys also had a goose egg for their portion in their half, but this did not worry them much. The game was two thirds over, and at that stage a lead of two runs looked mighty good to them. But in the seventh inning their confidence began to give way to anxiety. Hicksley began well by retiring the first man on strikes. But then he began to lose control. Two batters in succession were given their bases on balls. A fine pickup of Fred's disposed of the next batter at first, each of the others advancing a base on the play. There was only one other to be put out and end the inning without a run being recorded. But the next batter landed square on the ball, which whizzed like a bullet between first and second, and in a jiffy two runs came over the plate, tying the score. The batter reached second on the play and then imprudently tried to make third. A quick throw to Sparrow caught him ten feet from the bag and the side was out. Hicksley came in shaking and with a strained look in his face. The Rockledge rooters yelled encouragement to him, but he paid no attention to them and sat moping sullenly on the bench. Frank and Mr. Carrier had a hurried consultation, and then the former came over to Bobby. "You'd better get out there at one side and warm up," he directed him. Bobby did as ordered. "What are you going to do?" demanded Hicksley in a surly tone. "Take me out and put that fellow in?" "Not yet," answered Frank soothingly. "You've had a bad inning, but that can happen to any one. Perhaps you'll be all right after a rest. We'll see how you start out the next inning." The Somerset boys, with their chances brightened, had taken a mighty brace, and Rockledge went out in one, two, three order. Hicksley took up his position in the box with an air of confidence that Frank felt was assumed. Still, the first ball he pitched cut the plate for a strike. The next two were balls. Then followed another strike and a third ball, making the count three and two. With both batter and pitcher "in the hole," the next was a hall and the batter capered happily down to first. Durrock walked over to Hicksley. "How about it, Hicksley?" he asked. "Let me alone," growled Hicksley. The next batter connected for a clean single, advancing his mate to second. Hicksley now was plainly cracking, and when he issued another "pass," filling the bases, Frank motioned him to retire and beckoned Bobby to the box. Hicksley glared at Bobby as the latter came forward. "Sorry, Hicksley," said Bobby regretfully, as he reached out for the ball. "You pitched a dandy game for the first six innings." "Yes, you're sorry a lot," snarled Hicksley. "You're tickled to death at the chance to show me up." Instead of handing the ball to Bobby, he threw it angrily on the ground and slouched away to the bench. Bobby's eyes flashed, but he controlled himself, quietly picked up the ball and took his position in the box. It was no time now to get angry when he needed above all things to keep cool. It was a trying position for so young a player. The bases were full with no one out, and the Somerset rooters were yelling at the top of their lungs, trying to rattle him. A clean hit would bring in at least one run, probably two. Even a long fly to the outfield would probably enable the man on third to score. "Go to it, Bobby, old boy!" called Fred from short. "You can hold them!" encouraged Mouser. "We're all behind you, Bobby!" sang out Sparrow. Bobby sized up the batter and wound up for the first pitch. CHAPTER XXIII THE EGG AND THE FAN The ball whizzed over the plate, cutting an outside corner for a strike. The Rockledge rooters regarded this as a good omen and greeted it with wild shouts. They all had a warm spot in their hearts for Bobby, and they had been disgusted at the unsportsmanlike way in which Hicksley had left the box. The next ball was a high fast one, at which the batter refused to bite. Bobby had seen out of the corner of his eye that the occupant of the third bag was taking too big a lead. As the ball came back to him from the catcher, he suddenly turned and shot it to third. The runner tried frantically to get back, but Sparrow had the ball on him like a flash. "You're out!" shouted the umpire. "Scubbity-_yow_!" yelled Fred. "That was nice work, Bobby." This relieved the pressure somewhat, and the crowd breathed more freely. But the danger was still threatening, and the batter was the captain of the Somerset team and one of its best hitters. He fouled off the next two. On his third attempt, he chopped a bounder to Mouser at second, who made a clever stop and threw him out at first, while the runners each advanced a base. "Two down," cried Sparrow from third. "You're getting them, Bobby. Keep it up." Bobby now put on all steam. There was only one more inning after this one, and he did not need to save his arm. He sent two outcurves in succession. Each went for a strike. Then when the batter was set for another of the same kind, Bobby outguessed him with a straight fast one, and the ball plunked into the catcher's mitt for an out. There was a chorus of cheers from the Rockledge rooters as Bobby drew off his glove and came in to the bench. "That's what you call getting out of a hole," cried one. "The bases full and nobody out and yet they couldn't score," shouted another. "We'll give you a run this time, Bobby, and all you'll need to do then will be to hold them down in the ninth," prophesied Frank, as he selected his bat. He started in to make his words good by cracking out a single on the second ball pitched. A sacrifice bunt to the right of the pitcher's box advanced him to second. The next batter went out on an infield fly that held Frank anchored to the bag. Barry was given his base on balls. Then Spentz walloped a corker to left, on which Frank scored and Barry reached third. A moment later a quick throw caught him napping and the side was out. "We're in the lead now, Bobby," exulted Fred, as Rockledge took the field. "Put the kibosh on them just once more and we're all right." "Make this inning short and sweet, old scout!" sang out Mouser. And short and sweet was what Bobby made it. He was on his mettle, and put every bit of control he had upon the ball. Despite the frantic efforts of the Somerset coachers to rattle him, he kept perfectly cool. Victory was too close now for him to let it go. The first batter up knocked a high foul to Sparrow, who held it tight. The next sent a weak bounder to Frank, which he tossed to Bobby, who had run over to cover the bag. Then Bobby shattered the last hope of Somerset by striking out the last man on three pitched balls. The Rockledge rooters, wild with delight, rushed down from the stands and gathered about their favorites, who were grinning happily. They had played a good game and deserved to win, but Bobby, because of his gallant stand when the team had its back against the wall, came in naturally for the lion's share of the applause. "That was some sweet pitching all right." "You had them standing on their heads." "Your nerve was right with you." "Wait till he tackles Belden. He'll show them a thing or two." "I'm glad we pulled through all right," said Bobby modestly. "All the boys put up a dandy game. And don't forget that Hicksley held them down splendidly in the first part of the game." "That's so," conceded Mouser. "But when it came to the pinch he cracked." "He couldn't stand the gaff," put in Sparrow. "Any pitcher will get knocked out of the box sometimes," argued Bobby. "Then, too, he had been pitching six hard innings and was tired. I was fresh when I went in and only had two innings to pitch." Hicksley had left the bench as soon as the last man was out. He could not bear to wait to see the praise that he knew would be showered on his rival. He had been joined by Jinks and Bronson, and the three were now slouching grumpily toward the school buildings. "Doesn't seem as if they were tickled to death because Rockledge won," commented Fred, as he looked at the group. "Well, the rest of us are, anyway," cried Sparrow. "We've made a mighty good start, taking the first game." "I can see the pennant flying from that pole already," jubilated Skeets, pointing to the flagstaff back of center field. "You've got dandy eyesight, Skeets," laughed Bobby. "We've got a long way to go yet." "One swallow doesn't make a summer," cautioned Frank, who, while he was as pleased as the rest, did not want his team to be too confident. "And if the Ridgefield nine is as good as the Somersets, we'll have our work cut out for us," remarked Mouser. "Those fellows gave us all we wanted to do to win." "They put up a bully fight," agreed Shiner. Doctor Raymond came down among the boys to congratulate them on the victory they had won for the school, and Mr. Carrier was even more enthusiastic over the success of his charges. "You've made a fine start, boys, and I'm proud of you," he told them. "Now, don't let down a bit, but keep it right up to the finish of the season." "We will." "Trust us." "We've only begun to fight." "That's the right spirit," said Mr. Carrier, smiling. "And now to make you feel better, I'm going to tell you that I've just received a telegram that Ridgefield whipped Belden this afternoon by seven to three." A tremendous shout arose at this. They had counted on Belden as the rival from whom they had the most to fear, and they were immensely pleased to learn that it had begun the season with a defeat. It was a jubilant throng of boys that made their way toward the school buildings that afternoon. They knew that a rocky road lay ahead of them, but a good deal depended upon the start, and it was a great thing to know that they had the lead on the other fellows. "Hicksley acted like a game sport this afternoon when he threw the ball down in the box instead of handing it to you," remarked Fred, with whom the incident rankled. "Oh, well," said Bobby, "you must make some allowance for him. It was natural that he should feel sore." "That isn't the point," persisted Fred. "A thoroughbred might have felt sore, but he wouldn't have shown it. I tell you, Bobby, you want to look out for that fellow. If you could have seen the way he looked at you while you were pitching." "Looks don't hurt," Bobby flung back carelessly. But a few days later an incident occurred which showed that Hicksley was willing to go much further than looks in his hatred of his rival. It was one of those unseasonably warm days that sometimes come in the spring. Recitations were being held in the classroom of Mr. Leith, the head teacher, and in order to make the air cooler the electric fan had been set going. The seats of Hicksley, Bronson and Jinks were just behind those of Bobby and Fred, and were in the rear of the room. The lessons were proceeding as usual, when suddenly there was a crash, and something wet and sticky and evil smelling was scattered over the room. Almost all the boys got some of it, and a large yellow splash showed against the immaculate white shirt of Mr. Leith himself. Somebody had thrown an egg into the electric fan! And it was a very old egg, as was proved by the vile odor which spread through the classroom. CHAPTER XXIV AN UNDESERVED PUNISHMENT The whirling fan, going at tremendous speed, had scattered the contents of the egg far and wide, and hardly any one had escaped. For a moment there was a stunned silence. Then a roar of laughter broke from the boys. To them it seemed a capital joke. But Mr. Leith did not laugh. His black eyes snapped and his face was pale with anger. "Who did that?" he asked, as he took out his handkerchief and wiped the smear from the bosom of his shirt. Naturally there was no answer. The laughter died out, and everything became as silent as the grave. "Such conduct is subversive of all discipline," went on Mr. Leith in his stilted way and trying to get control of his voice. "If the boy who did that will confess, I will take that into account in the punishment I shall lay upon him. But no matter how long it takes, I am determined to find the culprit." Still no answer. "Well," said Mr. Leith after waiting a moment, "I see that I shall have to question each one of you separately." He called them up one by one, beginning at the front of the room, and each one denied knowing anything about it, Bobby among the rest. Then he came last to Hicksley. "I didn't do it," said Hicksley; "but--" Then he stopped, as though he had gone further than he intended. "But what?" queried the teacher sharply. "Nothing," mumbled Hicksley, in apparent confusion. "You were going to say something else," said Mr. Leith, "and I insist on knowing what it was." Hicksley kept silent. He wanted to give the impression that if he told anything it would have to be dragged out of him against his will. "You had better tell me what you were going to say," snapped the teacher severely, "or it will be the worse for you." "I don't want to tell on anybody," said Hicksley. "Oh, then you know who threw it," said Mr. Leith, brisking up like a hound on the trail. "Yes," replied Hicksley. "Who was it?" "I don't want to tell." "Who was it, I say?" thundered Mr. Leith in exasperation. "Blake," blurted out Hicksley, as though he did not want to say it but had to yield to force. Bobby was thunderstruck, and for a minute the room seemed to be whirling around him. "It isn't true," he cried, recovering himself. "It's a--a whopper!" shouted Fred fiercely. "I was sitting right beside Bobby, and he didn't throw it." "Keep quiet, Martin," commanded Mr. Leith. "Blake, come here." Bobby went forward and stood in front of the desk. "Why did you do a thing like that?" asked Mr. Leith. "I didn't do it," replied Bobby stoutly. "I was as surprised as any one else when it happened." Mr. Leith beckoned to Fred. "You say that Blake didn't throw it," he said. "Were you looking at him at the time?" "N-no, sir," Fred had to confess, "I was looking at the blackboard. But I know I'd have noticed it if he had made any motion. Besides," he added in his attempt to help his friend, "if Bobby had been going to do anything of that kind he'd have told me beforehand." "That isn't proof," remarked the teacher; "especially when Hicksley says that he actually saw him do it. Do you still stick to that, Hicksley?" "Yes sir," answered Hicksley, who was scared now at the tempest he had raised but had gone too far to back out. But he carefully avoided meeting the blazing eyes of Bobby. "Go to your seats," Mr. Leith ordered. They obeyed, and as Hicksley sank down between Bronson and Jinks, he whispered in a panic: "Don't forget that you fellows have got to stand by me." Mr. Leith reflected for a moment. "Did any one else see Blake throw the egg?" he asked at length. Hicksley nudged his cronies and both raised their hands. "I did," came from both at once. Bobby half rose from his seat and Fred clenched his fists. "It's not so!" exclaimed Bobby. "The low-down skunks!" ejaculated Fred. Mr. Leith quieted them with a gesture. He was a good man, and he tried to be just. But he had been sorely tried by this breach of discipline, and his dignity had received a severe shock. He could not forget the glaring yellow smear on his shirt front, and he felt that he had been made a laughing stock before his class. He had always liked Bobby, who had stood high in his lessons and whose behavior in class had always been good. Yet it was possible that an impish spirit of mischief had suddenly taken possession of him, and that on the impulse of the moment he might have taken refuge in denial. And there was the positive testimony of three witnesses that they had actually seen Bobby throw the egg. To be sure, he knew something of the character of those witnesses, and against any one of them he would have been inclined to take Bobby's word in preference. But he knew nothing of the grudge the bullies held against Bobby, and to a man of his upright character it was inconceivable that three of them should make such a charge if it were not true. He pondered the matter for several minutes, while the class waited breathlessly. "I shall look into this matter further," he finally announced; "but for the present, Blake, and until the affair is cleared up, you are not to take part in track sports or play on the baseball team." CHAPTER XXV OFF FOR A SWIM Bobby sat as if stunned. There was bitter revolt in his heart against the injustice of it all. And, in addition, he felt as though he would like to get at Hicksley and thrash him well. But for the moment he was helpless. The evidence was against him, and he was too proud to make any further protest or appeal to Mr. Leith. To the rest of the boys, the sentence came like a clap of thunder. They were fond of Bobby and believed he was telling the truth. They would have been sorry to see him punished for any reason. But it was not only the fact of the punishment, but the nature of it, that filled them with consternation. Bobby Blake off the ball team! Where would Rockledge be now in the race for the pennant of the Monatook Lake League? The lessons proceeded, but the class might as well have been dismissed at once, for only one thought filled the minds of all. And when at last the gong rang, there was a rush for Bobby on the campus, and a buzzing arose that resembled a hive of angry bees. It was well for the bullies that, sitting on the rear seats, they had slipped out of the door quickly and disappeared. They would surely have come to grief in the present excited condition of the boys. Fred slammed his books so violently on the ground that he broke the strap that held them. "Just wait!" he stormed, "just wait! I'll pitch into that Tom Hicksley the minute I see him, big as he is." "It would have been bad enough of him to tell, even if Bobby had done it," growled Mouser. "He ought to have his head knocked off," raged Skeets. "Swell chance now we'll have of winning the pennant," groaned Shiner. "Not a Chinaman's chance," mourned Pee Wee. "I can see us coming in as tail-enders," prophesied Sparrow. "Was such a dirty trick ever heard of?" wailed Billy Bassett, appealing to high heaven, as though even in his grief he was asking the answer to a riddle. Bobby had had time now to get a grip on himself, and although his heart was hot within him, he was outwardly the coolest of them all. "Tom Hicksley will pay for this all right," he declared. "Some time the truth will come out and I hope it will be soon. I haven't any doubt of course that he did it himself. Then he got cold feet when he saw how angry Mr. Leith was and fibbed out of it." "Of course, he'd fib out of it!" exclaimed Fred. "Nobody who knows Tom Hicksley would expect him to do anything else. But why did he put it on you?" "Because he's sore at me, I suppose," Bobby answered. "He's always hated me since that afternoon on the train." "Yes, but he's just as sore at the rest of us who butted in, as he calls it," persisted Fred. "It's something more than that, Bobby. It's because you saved the game when he had almost lost it." "He's never forgiven you for that," agreed Mouser. "Well, whatever his reason was, I'm the goat all right," said Bobby, in a feeble attempt to put the best face on the matter. "It isn't only you, but it's Rockledge that's the goat," amended Sparrow. "We'll be licked out of our boots." "You fellows will have to play all the harder," said Bobby. "Mr. Leith may change his mind when he comes to think it over. I have a hunch that Hicksley isn't going to get away with such a whopper as that." "I'd like to have him by the throat and choke the truth out of him," snapped Fred wrathfully. "It would be a pretty big job to get any truth out of that fellow," grunted Mouser. "What did the old weather want to go and get so hot for all of a sudden?" burst out Pee Wee. "If it hadn't been for that, the fan wouldn't have been going and the whole thing wouldn't have happened." This kick against nature struck the boys as comical, and the laugh that followed cleared the air somewhat and relieved their excited feelings. But for the rest of the day and evening, there was but one topic that held the attention of any of them. Bobby felt blue and depressed. He would rather have had any other penalty put on him than to be ordered not to play on the team. The very sight of his glove and uniform made him miserable. It would have been bad enough, even if he had been guilty of that special bit of mischief. But then he would have "taken his medicine" with as good grace as possible. But it made him raging angry to feel that he had been made the victim of a contemptible plot by such a fellow as Tom Hicksley. What made it still more exasperating was the fact that he did not see any way to get at the real truth. Hicksley had been on the rear row of seats, and his only companions were Bronson and Jinks, who were just as bad as himself. No one but they had seen the egg thrown, if, as Bobby felt sure, Hicksley had thrown it. And now that they had put it on Bobby, they had to stand by the falsehood. One was as deep in the mud as the others were in the mire, and there was not a chance in the world of their confessing. It hurt Bobby, too, to know that he rested under a cloud in the eyes of Mr. Leith, who had practically told him that afternoon that he did not believe him. He was a truthful boy and it came hard to have his word questioned. All the next morning he was gloomy and downhearted. In the afternoon, Fred, like the loyal friend he was, tried to get his mind off his troubles by suggesting that they go swimming. "Don't let's go to the lake this time," said Fred. "Let's go to Beekman's Pond up in the woods. There's a dandy place there for diving." It was a little early in the season yet for a swim, but the warm weather, which still continued, made the prospect an agreeable one. So, shortly after dinner, having received permission to go out of bounds, Bobby and Fred with half a dozen of the other boys started out for the pond. "Say, fellows," asked Billy as they trudged along, "what's the dif--" "There goes the human question mark again," interrupted Mouser. "He's not to blame, he was born that way," said Skeets with large toleration. "Honestly, Billy," chaffed Fred, "I don't believe you can say a single sentence that isn't a question." "Can't I?" said Billy, a little nettled. "There! what did I tell you?" said Fred, trapping him neatly. The boys roared, and even Billy grinned. "Well," he said, "I might as well have the game as the name. What's the difference--" "Stop him, somebody," cried Sparrow, wringing his hands in pretended agony. Billy looked at him scornfully. "Oh, let him get it out," said Bobby resignedly. "Go ahead, Billy." "Shoot," said Fred. "What's the difference," asked Billy, "between a fisherman and a lazy scholar?" "Ask Pee Wee," replied Skeets. "He ought to know." "Pee Wee isn't a fisherman," objected Mouser. "Who said he was?" retorted Skeets. "If you're hinting that I'm a lazy scholar," remarked Pee Wee, "all I've got to say is that I'll never be lonesome among you boobs." "Stop your chinning," said Billy, "and answer my question." "One catches fish and the other catches a licking," ventured Fred. "Each one sometimes finds himself in deep water," guessed Skeets. "No," said Billy. "They're not so bad, but neither one's the real answer." Finally the boys gave it up. "One baits his hooks and the other hates his books," chirped Billy. A groan went up from the sufferers. "I think that's a pippin," remarked Billy proudly; "but I've got another one that's better still. Why is a--" "Sic the dog on him!" ejaculated Mouser. "What's the use of letting him live?" asked Fred. "He seems to be human, but is he?" queried Sparrow. As Beekman's Pond came in sight just then, they broke into a run, and Billy had to save his masterpiece for another time. They found a secluded spot, and with a whoop and a shout were out of their clothes in a hurry. Then with a shiver each took the plunge into the clear waters of the pond. CHAPTER XXVI THE SCAR AND THE LIMP The chums came up shuddering, with hair plastered over their faces and the water streaming from their shoulders. "Ugh," sputtered Fred, "the water's as cold as ice!" "A polar bear would like it," chattered Skeets. "Turn on the hot water faucet, Jeems," laughed Bobby. "We'll be all right in a minute or two," remarked Sparrow. They swam around, racing and diving like so many young porpoises, and in a little while the blood returned to their chilled surfaces, making them perfectly comfortable again. "Reminds you something of Plunkit's Creek, doesn't it, Fred?" said Bobby. "Yes," agreed Fred, "only this is a good deal longer and wider than that." "Then, too, we haven't got Ap here, watching us from the bank and getting ready to set his dog on us," grinned Mouser. "We don't owe Ap anything," laughed Bobby. "We paid him all up that day we made him walk the plank." "Do you remember how he looked when he struck the water?" chuckled Pee Wee. "I wonder if he and Pat have met each other since we came away," said Bobby, as he recalled the scene at the railway station on the morning they left Clinton. "Ap had better keep his whip handy," observed Fred. "That wouldn't help him much," returned Bobby. "Pat would take it away from him and wade into him." They had been in and out of the water for perhaps an hour, when Bobby, who had swum down to where the shore curved a little, suddenly turned and swam back again as fast as he could. "Come along with me, fellows," he cried, "and don't make any more noise than you can help." The others followed him wonderingly until they reached the bend. Then, while they hid behind some grasses, Bobby pointed to two men who were lounging under a tree a short distance away. They were smoking stubby pipes as they lay at their ease. Their faces were rough and unshaven and their clothing dirty and ragged. "Don't see much to get excited about," remarked Shiner disappointedly. "Just a couple of tramps." "They're more than that to us," replied Bobby. "They're the very tramps who robbed us in that old hut." The boys were on edge in an instant. Just then one of the men rose, stretched himself lazily and took a few steps toward the tree. As he did so, the boys saw that he had a perceptible limp. "And the other one has a scar on his face," whispered Bobby excitedly. "You can see it if you look close." They looked more closely, and Fred in his eagerness rose a little too high. His red head caught the eye of the man with the scar, and he uttered a startled exclamation. "Now you've, done it," whispered Mouser disgustedly. "Why didn't you keep that red mop of yours out of sight?" "Hurry, fellows," urged Bobby. "We've got to catch those fellows before they can get away. Whip on your clothes and let's get back after them." The boys swam back as fast as possible and rushed up on the bank. "Who put a knot in the leg of my pants?" came in a howl from Fred as he struggled desperately to unfasten the knot. "I'd like to catch the fellow who tied my socks together," growled Mouser. "And here's one of my shoes floating in the water," wailed Skeets. They had to pay the penalty now of the tricks they had played on one another, and they felt as though they were in a nightmare as they tried frantically to get into their clothes. "They'll get away sure," groaned Bobby. "Hustle, fellows, hustle! Come along just as you are if you can't do any better." He led the way, and the rest came stumbling after him in all conditions of dress and undress. Mouser had stuffed his stockings in his pocket, Skeets carried his wet shoes in his hands, while Fred, with one leg in his trousers, held up the rest of the garment in his hand and made what speed he could. But when they reached the tree under which the tramps had been sitting, they found no one. The birds had flown. They may possibly have recognized Fred's red head as that of one of their victims, or they may have thought that he was one of a company, including men, who might ask them curious and troublesome questions. At any rate they had quickly gotten out of sight. The boys searched about everywhere in that part of the woods, but fruitlessly. Pee Wee fell into a small excavation, this time barking his shins in reality. But he had no other injury except to his feelings, and his comrades hauled him out without much trouble. "Well," said Fred at last, "there doesn't seem any more reason for hurry, and I guess I'll get my pants on." "And I'll put on my shoes," said Skeets, suiting the action to the word. "This stubble has hurt my feet something fierce." Mouser's socks also took their rightful place, and the boys began to feel more like human beings. "What would you have done anyway, Bobby, if you'd found them under the tree?" asked Mouser. "I don't know exactly," answered Bobby frankly. "Of course, we couldn't tackle grown men. But we could have kept them in sight until we met some farmers and had them nabbed. Or one of us could have gone back to Rockledge and got the constable. But we know that they're hanging round in this neighborhood now, and we'll tell the constable about it and he'll telephone to all the towns near by to be on the lookout for them." "I sure would like to get back my ring," said Fred longingly. "Those sleeve buttons would look mighty good to me," chimed in Pee Wee. "I could use my scarf pin too," added Mouser. "I don't _much_ expect to see my watch again," said Bobby, "but there's a _chance_ of finding where they pawned 'em if we can get those fellows arrested." "There were only two of 'em," mused Fred. "I wonder where the other one was." "Round at some farmhouse begging for grub maybe," suggested Skeets. "Or in jail perhaps," guessed Sparrow. "If he isn't, he ought to be." "He'll get there sooner or later," said Fred, "and so will the rest of the bunch." The boys hurried back to town and put the matter in the hands of the constable, who promised that he would do all in his power to catch the thieves. But the days passed into weeks with the tramps still at liberty, and the chances of the boys ever getting back the stolen articles became more and more unlikely. But this did not hold such a place in their thoughts as the race for the championship of the Monatook Lake League, which kept getting hotter and hotter as the various teams tried their strength against each other. It was a case of nip and tuck. First one team and then the other would forge to the front. By the time the first five games had been played not a single team could be said to be out of it. But what grieved the Rockledge boys was that their bitter rival, Belden, although it started the season with a defeat at the hands of Ridgefield, had made a strong rally and was now in front with a total of four victories and one lost game. Somerset and Ridgefield were tied for second place, while Rockledge--Rockledge, which had so proudly counted on the pennant--was _last_! CHAPTER XXVII A GLEAM OF LIGHT There was no trouble at all in finding out the reason why Rockledge was the tail-ender. The batting and fielding of the team was all that could be asked for. Both in offense and defense they had the edge on their rivals. The weakness lay in the pitcher's box. It was not that Hicksley did not work hard. He had a double reason now for pitching at the top of his speed, for he not only wanted to win the glory to himself, but he wanted to show that the absence of Bobby did not weaken the team. But the trouble with him was that, as a rule, he could not last for the full nine innings. He would go along like a house afire for the first half of the game. Then about the fifth or sixth inning, he would begin to falter, and in some one of the remaining innings would "go up with a bang." At such times there was no one to come to the rescue, as in the first game that Bobby had pulled out of the fire. Spentz, the right fielder, who knew a little about twirling, had replaced him once but had not been able to undo the damage. In the game with Ridgefield, Hicksley had managed to last long enough to win by one run, and in the second game with Somerset had pitched fairly well, though he lost. But Ridgefield had come back with an easy victory, and Belden had fairly smothered him under a shower of hits to every part of the field. So that the outlook was very blue for Rockledge, and the boys fairly squirmed under the crowing of the Belden fellows whenever they met them on the trolley or in the town. "If we only had Bobby in the box, we'd be going along at the head of the procession," groaned Fred. "That yellow streak of Hicksley's comes out in almost every game," growled Sparrow. "He can't stand the gaff when it comes to a pinch," assented Skeets gloomily. "A fellow who would lie as he did about Bobby doesn't deserve to have any luck," grunted Pee Wee. "He's a hoodoo," agreed Shiner. "But what are we going to do?" he asked despairingly. "We haven't anybody else to take his place, now that Bobby is out of it." Things were at this stage, when Bobby and Fred, who had been on a trip to town, were caught on their return in a terrific thunder storm. They were lucky enough to find refuge in a culvert under the railroad, and there they waited till the storm had spent its fury. It was one of the worst storms they ever remembered, and peal after peal of thunder shook the earth, while streaks of jagged lightning shot across the sky. "Scubbity-_yow_!" exclaimed Fred, after one particularly violent clap of thunder, followed by a blinding flash. "I'll bet that hit around here somewhere." "I wouldn't like to be near anything it hit," replied Bobby. The rain came down in torrents for some time longer, but at last the storm abated, rifts of blue sky appeared in the clouds, and the boys started off toward the school. They were taking a short cut through the woods, when they were startled at seeing a great tree, that had been split from top to base, lying across the path. "Jiminy Christmas!" exclaimed Bobby. "This is what the lightning hit that time." "It made a clean job of it," cried Fred. "But listen," he added, as muffled sounds came from the great tangle of branches. "What's making that noise?" "It's somebody in there!" ejaculated Bobby, as he peered through the green welter of boughs and branches. "Quick, Fred, let's get in there." With much difficulty, they forced their way through the tangle of foliage, until they were able to see two dim figures crouching in the center of the mass. Their surprise was great and became still greater, when they recognized them as two of the smaller of the Rockledge boys, Charlie White and Jimmy Thacker. They were confused by their fright, and were whimpering. They gave only broken and stammering replies to the questions of their rescuers, who had a good deal of work in getting them out from the boughs that held them down. They were finally pulled out to the open air. They were more frightened than hurt, although they had a number of scratches and bruises where the branches had swept against them in their fall. "How did you boys manage to be caught in there?" queried Bobby and Fred in one breath. "We were standing under a tree while it was raining," answered Charlie, who was not quite as upset as his companion, "when this other tree was hit and fell over. We tried to run, but the branches caught us before we could get away." "I thought sure we were going to get killed!" whimpered Jimmy. "Don't you fellows know that you ought never to stand under a tree in a thunderstorm?" demanded Fred. "We know it now," returned Charlie; "and you can be sure we'll never do it again." "Are you much hurt?" asked Bobby anxiously. "I guess not," answered Charlie, "but we've got lots of scratches." "Let's see if you can walk all right," ordered Bobby. They made the attempt, and although they were wobbly and uncertain on their legs, all were relieved to find that no bones had been broken. "You'll be all right as soon as you get over your scare," pronounced Fred. "It was mighty lucky for us that you two boys came along," said Jimmy gratefully. "Yes," added Charlie. "We were held down by those heavy branches, and I don't see how we would have got out by ourselves." "After this, Charlie," said Jimmy, looking at his companion, "we ought to tell Bobby all we know about the fellow who threw that egg into the electric fan." Their hearers started as though they had been shot. "Who was it?" cried Fred excitedly. "Out with it!" commanded Bobby. CHAPTER XXVIII TOM HICKSLEY GETS A THRASHING The boys looked for a moment as though they almost regretted having let the cat out of the bag. "Come along, now," urged Bobby eagerly. "Let's have the whole story," cried Fred. "It--it was Tom Hicksley," Jimmy stammered. "I knew it," cried Fred jubilantly. "Do you know that, or are you only guessing?" asked Bobby, wild with anxiety. "We _saw_ him do it," returned Charlie, who saw now that the only thing left was to tell the whole story. "We were going along the hall to Mr. Carrier's classroom that afternoon," put in Jimmy, "and the door into your room was open because the day was so warm. We peeped in as we went by, and we saw Hicksley take the egg out of his pocket and throw it into the electric fan." "And why didn't you tell about it before?" asked Fred. "'Cause we were afraid that Hicksley would lick us if we did," confessed Jimmy. "He's so much bigger than we are, and he jumped on us once for nothing at all," added Charlie in self-defense. "That's all right," said Bobby, who was perfectly willing to excuse them, now that he saw he was going to be cleared. "We all know that he's a big bully and always picking on the little fellows." "You come right along with me," said Fred, in a masterful way. "You keep out of this, Bobby. I'll have this thing fixed up in a jiffy." Bobby was perfectly satisfied to leave the settlement of the matter in the hands of his loyal friend, and he went on to the dormitory, while Fred headed the little procession that a few minutes after marched into the office of Mr. Leith. What went on there was shown the following morning after Mr. Leith had called his class to order. "Blake," he said, clearing his throat, "come up here." Bobby went up and stood in front of the desk. "Blake," went on Mr. Leith, "I did a great injustice to you a few weeks ago, and I want to apologize to you before the whole class. I have found out the real culprit. I know the name of the boy who threw the egg into the electric fan." There was a buzz of wild excitement in the class, and Hicksley, together with his two cronies, flushed red and grew pale in turn. "That will do, Blake," Mr. Leith went on. "You may go to your seat." Bobby retired, murmuring something, he did not know what. "Hicksley, come here," commanded the teacher. "And you, Bronson, and Jinks, come along." The three of them, with shuffling steps and hang-dog looks, walked slowly up the aisle. "Hicksley," said Mr. Leith severely, "you said at the time this thing happened that you actually saw Blake throw the egg. I do not want to condemn you without your being heard, and I am going to give you this chance to tell the truth. Are you willing to stand by your statement, or do you wish to take it back?" Hicksley hesitated for a moment and then decided to bluff it out. "I did see him," he muttered doggedly. "Martin," directed Mr. Leith. "Step to the door and tell White and Thacker to come in." Fred did as ordered and returned, bringing the two small boys with him. "Tell me now, boys, what you told me yesterday," the teacher commanded. They looked fearfully at Hicksley and his companions, who shot threatening glances at them. But they went ahead and related what they had seen on the afternoon in question. The simple story bore the mark of truth on its face and carried conviction. Mr. Leith dismissed them and turned to the three in front of him. "What have you to say to this?" he demanded. They kept silent, with their heads lowered, and after a moment the teacher continued: "I am not going to say anything more just now to add to the shame you must be feeling. You are all to report to Doctor Raymond in his study at three o'clock this afternoon. That is all for the present." They stumbled back to their seats, avoiding the contemptuous looks of their schoolmates. And that afternoon at the hour named they had the interview they dreaded with the head of the school. That interview was short, but quite long enough to make their faces blanch and their hearts quake. If Hicksley had been guilty simply of denying the act as having been done by him, that would have been bad enough, but the punishment would have been lighter. But to try deliberately to put it on another was unforgivable. Hicksley was dismissed from the school and Bronson and Jinks were suspended for the remainder of the term. Hicksley, boiling with rage, went to his room to pack. On his way down to summon the expressman, he met Bobby coming alone up the stairs. Hicksley saw his opportunity and plunged heavily into Bobby, sending him stumbling backwards down the stairs almost to the lower landing. Had it not been for a wild clutch at the banister, Bobby would have fallen flat on his back. All his fighting blood awoke at this unprovoked assault. It was the last straw. He had been under great restraint for the past few weeks while the injustice done him had rankled sorely. He clenched his fists, and as the bully reached the landing he received a blow that drove his head back and chased the malicious grin from his face. In a moment the two boys were fighting, hammer and tongs. Hicksley was the larger but Bobby was strong and as quick as a young wildcat. Besides, he had no "yellow streak" in him. CHAPTER XXIX A WILD CHASE Not five minutes had elapsed before Hicksley was lying on the floor of the hall, holding his hand to his eyes and nose. "Get up!" Bobby commanded. Hicksley did nothing but grunt. "Have you had enough?" asked Bobby. "Enough," mumbled the bully, all the fight taken out of him. He slunk away, while the boys, who had crowded out into the hall at the sound of combat and had viewed with rapture the defeat of the bully, gathered about Bobby, who, except for a bruise on his forehead, showed no sign of the battle. "Bully for you, Bobby!" crowed Mouser. "Scubbity-_yow_!" howled Fred in delight. "That was a peach of a scrap." "He got all that was coming to him," exulted Sparrow. "Hicksley couldn't lick a postage stamp!" exclaimed Skeets gleefully. "He must have learned to fight by mail," grinned Shiner. "A mighty good job you made of it, Bobby," commended Billy Bassett. "I wasn't looking for trouble," explained Bobby, "but when he butted into me and knocked me down the stairs, I couldn't help pitching into him." For the rest of that day and evening little else was thought of or spoken of but the "trimming" that Bobby had given to the bully. But apart from the satisfaction of having Hicksley get what he so richly deserved, a still greater joy was in the hearts of all. Bobby Blake was back again on the team! "Now," cried Fred, expressing the hope and belief of all, "you'll see Rockledge begin to climb." And Rockledge did climb with a vengeance. The very next Saturday with Bobby in the box and pitching gilt-edged ball they walked all over Belden, not only beating their chief rival but doing it to the score of seven to nothing. The whole team played behind their pitcher as though they were inspired with new life. And from that time on, the Beldenites drew into their shell and did not do so much crowing when they met the Rockledge boys in the town. But Bobby and his comrades knew that they still had a heavy task before them, if they were to win the pennant of the Monatook Lake League. Belden had now won four games and lost two. Rockledge was even in gains and losses, having won three and lost three. If there had been many more games to play, Rockledge would have felt much more confident, for she was now traveling faster than her rival. But the end of the season was coming fearfully close, and there were only three more games to play. "Belden is the one we've got to beat," declared Frank. "We've got the Indian sign, I think, on Somerset and Ridgefield." As far as Ridgefield was concerned, this seemed true, for Rockledge won the game by four to two, his mates handing Bobby a lead in the first inning that he was able to keep throughout the game. But as Belden also won on the same day from Somerset, though after a harder battle, the Rockledge boys were still "trailing" the school across the lake. The excitement now was reaching fever pitch, and it broke all bounds the following Saturday, when Belden came a cropper with Ridgefield, being "nosed out" in the ninth by a sudden rally on the part of their opponents, while Rockledge won handily from Somerset in a free batting game by ten runs to six. "Hurrah!" yelled Mouser, "we're tied with Belden now." "Bobby has pulled us up in dandy shape," declared Frank. "You're a wonder, Bobby, old scout." "Just keep it up for one more game, Bobby," pleaded Sparrow. "Scubbity-_yow_!" shouted Fred. "I'll bet old Belden is shaking in its boots." Somerset and Ridgefield had played good ball in spots, but now they were out of the race. Belden and Rockledge had each won five and lost three, and the game that was to be played between them on the following Saturday would wind up the season and decide which of the teams was to win the pennant of the Monatook Lake League. It was almost impossible for the boys to keep their minds on their lessons, but as there were only ten days remaining in the school term this did not matter to the same degree as it would have done earlier in the year. But an incident occurred on the Monday following the game with Somerset that gave a new slant to their thoughts, and for a few hours drove even thoughts of the pennant from the minds of Bobby and his friends. Shiner had been invited to go for an automobile ride by a friend of his family, who was staying for a few days at Rockledge. He came rushing into the dormitory with his eyes bulging. "Say, fellows!" he gasped, "if you want to catch those tramps of yours, come along with me." "What do you mean?" his chums asked in chorus, as they made a wild grab for their hats. "I've seen them," panted Shiner. "But come along and I'll tell you. Hustle!" The boys rushed downstairs to find an automobile waiting. Beside Mr. Wharton, the owner, they recognized the constable. "Tumble in," said Mr. Wharton, smiling, and a half dozen boys swarmed into the automobile. "You see," explained Shiner, "we passed three tramps about two miles from here, and I saw that two of them were the ones we saw the day we were swimming. I told Mr. Wharton and we put on speed, picked up the constable and hurried up for you, so that you could go along and identify them." Mr. Wharton had started the car the moment the boys were inside, and it was skimming along like a bird. It went so fast that the boys had to hold on to their caps, and although they were all chattering with might and main, the wind made it almost impossible for one to hear what the others were saying. In a very few minutes they saw three figures on the lonely country road ahead. The one in the center had a limp that was familiar. The tramps heard the coming car, and at first stood aside to let it pass. But as it slowed up on approaching them, they took alarm, climbed over a fence and started across the fields toward a piece of woodland a little way off. Their pursuers leaped from the car and gave chase. The lithe limbs of the boys gave them an advantage over their heavier companions, and they were soon on the heels of the tramps, who turned snarling and faced them. "Keep off or I'll club the life out of you," shouted one, whom they recognized as the man with the scar. "No you won't," cried Bobby, defiantly. "We want the things you stole from us," sang out Fred. "Jail for yours!" Mouser shouted. They circled round the men, thus holding them in check, and in another moment Mr. Wharton and the constable had come up and each grabbed one of the men by the collar. At the sight of the constable's star, the other quickly wilted. The officer slipped handcuffs on them all and pushed them into the ear, while the boys crowded in as best they could, two of them standing on the running-board. In triumph, they went back to town and the men were placed in jail. First they were searched, and, greatly to the boys' delight, pawn tickets were found that accounted for all the articles that had been stolen from them. The money of course was gone, but the boys cared little for that, as long as they were sure that they could get back their cherished personal possessions. "We're some demon thief catchers, all right," chuckled Mouser. "He would call me red-head, would he?" grinned Fred, referring to the scar-faced tramp. "It means good luck for us, fellows," declared Bobby. "Now, I'm _sure_ we're going to down Belden." CHAPTER XXX WINNING THE PENNANT--CONCLUSION Belden had its own idea as to who was to be "downed," and almost the whole school went to Rockledge with colors flying on the great day that was to decide who should carry off the flag of the Monatook Lake League. As the teams had each played a game on the other's grounds, it had been left to the toss of a coin as to where the deciding game should take place, and Rockledge had won. This was a good omen in itself, and the Rockledge boys were chock-full of confidence, as they slipped into their baseball suits in the gymnasium before going on the field. "We've just _got_ to win to-day, Fred," remarked Bobby. "It would never do to lose with all our folks in the stand looking on." "You bet we'll win," replied Fred emphatically. "If we don't, I'll hunt up some hole, slip in and pull the hole in after me." Mr. and Mrs. Blake had come down on this last day. Fred's father and mother were also present, accompanied by Betty. And to give the boys a pleasant surprise they had brought Scat Monroe and Pat Moriarty along with them. The weather had been a little threatening in the morning, but about noon it cleared beautifully. A great crowd was present, for all the towns near Monatook Lake had become interested in the pennant fight, and people came in droves to see the deciding game. Bobby and Fred went up in the stand for a little chat with their friends and families before the game began. "Oh, I'm so glad it's such a beautiful day!" exclaimed Betty gleefully. "I was so afraid the rain would come down this morning." "You wouldn't expect the rain to go up, would you?" asked her brother airily. "Smarty!" said Betty, and she made a little face at him. "Fred had better behave himself or we'll say 'snowball' to him, won't we, Betty?" laughed Bobby. "I'm rooting for you boys to win to-day," remarked Pat, his freckled face wreathed with smiles. "We're going to fight like the mischief to do it," returned Bobby. "Put the whitewash brush on them," said Scat. "Perhaps that's asking a little too much," grinned Fred. "We'll be satisfied with the big end of the score." Their parents smiled on them fondly and urged them to do their best to win for Rockledge, and the boys went down on the field with their hearts full of determination. But it was evident from the moment the first ball went over the plate that it would be no easy task for either side to win. Each team was screwed to the highest pitch and full of determination and enthusiasm. Bobby started out like a winner. His arm had never felt better, and he whipped the ball over the plate at a speed that delighted the spectators--always excepting the Belden rooters--but that made Frank Durrock a little anxious. "Easy there, Bobby," he counseled from first base, when the first batter had gone out on strikes. "The game's young yet, and you've a long way to go." Bobby realized the wisdom of this, and made the next batter pop up an infield fly to Mouser at second. Then he mixed in a slow one that seemed easy enough to hit as it came floating up to the plate, but which resulted in an easy roller to the box which Bobby had plenty of time to throw to first. "That's what you call a change of pace, old scout," congratulated Sparrow, as the nine came in from the field amid a general clapping of hands at the promising beginning. But Bobby was not to carry off the pitching honors of the game without a struggle. Larry Cronk, the Belden pitcher, was in splendid form, and he had had the benefit of being coached by his brother, who was a student at Yale and a member of the Varsity team. The result of this training was shown in a new "hop" ball that Larry sprung on them for the first time. It came singing over the plate with a jump on it just before it reached the batter that at first puzzled the Rockledge boys completely. Two of them struck out and the third was an easy victim on a foul. Now it was Belden's turn to howl. And howl they did. "Bobby's got his work cut out for him to-day," remarked Sparrow to Skeets, as they went out into the field. "That's just the time Bobby's at his best," returned Skeets confidently. "Bobby's got that fadeaway of his when it comes to the pinch," added Mouser, "and I'll back that against Larry's hop any time." Bobby was not daunted by this showing on the part of his opponent. But he knew that he must not slow down for a second. He must put brains in his work as well as muscle, must study and outguess the batters and give them just what they did not want. So he worked with exceeding care, mixing up his curves and his fast and slow balls so skillfully that in the first four innings only two hits were made off him, and one of them a scratch, and no one got as far as second base. And in doing this he nursed his strength, so that he felt almost as strong and fresh as at the beginning. "Talk about a fox," chuckled Fred, "he isn't in it with Bobby." Larry, too, had kept any one from denting the home plate, but he was so exultant over the success of his new delivery that he relied upon it almost entirely. And by and by the Rockledge boys began to find him more easily than they did at first. They had not yet made more than one clean hit, but the bat was beginning to meet the ball more solidly and it was only a matter of a little time before they would be lining out base hits, unless Larry changed his style and mixed in his other curves. "We'll straighten them out in the next inning, see if we don't," remarked Spentz confidently. And so they did. Spentz himself led off with a crashing three-bagger to right. Fred brought him home with a sizzling single and stole second on the next ball pitched. Larry tightened up then, and although a clever sacrifice bunt put Fred on third, he was left there, as the next two batters went out on strikes. Belden's half had been scoreless, so that the end of the fifth inning found Rockledge in the lead by one to none. And in such a close game as this promised to be, that one run looked as big as a mountain. But by the time Belden's sixth inning was over, the Rockledge rooters were in a panic. The trouble began when Frank Durrock, old reliable Frank, muffed an easy fly that ordinarily he would have "eaten up." Not only did he drop the ball, but he let it get so far away from him that the batter took a chance of making second. Frank, in his haste to catch him, threw the ball over Mouser's head into left field, and before it could be recovered, the runner had made the circuit of the bases. The error seemed to demoralize the whole team. Sparrow booted a grounder, and by the time he had got through fumbling, it was too late to throw to first. Spentz, in right, dropped a high fly and then threw wildly to head off the runner, who was legging it for third. The ball went ten feet over Sparrow's head and both boys scored, making the count three to one in favor of the visitors. Rockledge had a bad case of "rattles." Bobby walked down to first as though he wanted to talk to Frank, but really to give his mates time to recover. "Play ball!" shouted the Belden rooters. Bobby took his time in returning, and even when he was back in the box found a shoe lace that needed tying. Not until he was fully ready did he straighten up. He put on all speed now and disposed of the next batters in order, two on high fouls and one on strikes. He did not want to let any balls go far out, in the present nervous conditions of his mates. As for them, they were full of rage and self-reproach. "Three runs without a single hit!" groaned Frank. "Never mind, fellows!" cried Bobby cheerily. "Go right in now and get them back again. Knock the cover off the ball." But this was more easily said than done. Once in that inning and again in the seventh and eighth, they got men on the bases, but they could not bring them in. In the eighth inning a rattling double play brought groans from the Rockledge rooters, as they saw a promising rally nipped in the bud. Bobby had been mowing the Belden boys down almost as fast as they came to the plate. He had brought out his fadeaway now and mixed it in so well with the others that the batters never had a chance. His mates had recovered their nerve and were backing him up splendidly. Nevertheless the fact still faced them that their rivals were two runs ahead. In the ninth inning, after disposing of Belden, Rockledge went in to do or die. Yells of encouragement came from their partisans as they made their last stand. "Go to it, boys!" "You can beat them yet!" "Never say die!" "Rockledge! Rockledge! Rockledge!" But the shouts turned to groans, when Willis, who was playing center field in place of Bronson, put up a skyscraper which Cronk gobbled up without moving in his tracks. Barry sent a hot grounder to short which was fielded cleverly and sent to first ahead of the batter. There was a movement in the stand, as the spectators got ready to leave. But they stopped short when Spentz sent a screaming hit to center for a clean single. Frank followed with a grasser between short and second that gave him first and sent Spentz to third. Larry faltered and gave Fred his base on balls. The bases were full when Bobby came to the bat. Larry eyed him narrowly and wound a fast one about his neck, at which Bobby refused to bite. The next was right in the groove, and Bobby caught it square on the end of his bat and sent it whistling over the head of the first baseman. It rolled clear to the right field fence, and before it could be recovered, the Rockledge runners had gone round the bases like so many jack rabbits, and had jumped on the home plate, while Bobby pulled up at second. The game was over, the game was won and the Rockledge boys were the champions of the Monatook Lake League! Bobby's comrades rushed upon him, mauling and pounding him; the shouting crowd swooped out from the stand and surrounded him. "Champions!" "Champions!" "Champions!" they yelled, until their throats were husky and their lungs were sore. It was a long time before Bobby could get through the crowd to where his visitors awaited him. There Betty cried one minute and laughed the next, in her happy excitement. Mrs. Blake's eyes, too, were moist as she hugged her boy, and Mr. Blake cleared his throat as he put his hand on Bobby and told him he was proud of him. Fred, too, came in for his share of well-earned praise and the boys were happy beyond words. And Scat and Pat were almost as delighted as though they had won the game themselves. Finally, when matters were somewhat quieted down, some one asked the boys about their plans for the summer vacation. How full that summer proved to be of stirring and exciting adventure will be told in the next volume of this series. But just now all their thoughts were of the present. Their school term was over. There had been some unpleasant features, but in the main their experiences had been happy ones. "We did it, Bobby!" exclaimed Fred joyfully, for perhaps the twentieth time. "We got there," agreed Bobby; "but it was a mighty hard fight." "That's what makes it all the more worth winning," Fred declared. "Yes," said Bobby, "I guess the things that come easy aren't worth much. That's what makes us feel so good about being champions. For there wasn't anything easy about winning the pennant of the Monatook Lake League." THE END ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE BOBBY BLAKE SERIES BY FRANK A. WARNER BOOKS FOR BOYS FROM EIGHT TO TWELVE YEARS OLD [Illustration: "Bobby Blake at Rockledge School" book cover] True stories of life at a modern American boarding school. Bobby attends this institution of learning with his particular chum and the boys have no end of good times. The tales of outdoor life, especially the exciting times they have when engaged in sports against rival schools, are written in a manner so true, so realistic, that the reader, too, is bound to share with these boys their thrills and pleasures. 1 BOBBY BLAKE AT ROCKLEDGE SCHOOL. 2 BOBBY BLAKE AT BASS COVE. 3 BOBBY BLAKE ON A CRUISE. 4 BOBBY BLAKE AND HIS SCHOOL CHUMS. 5 BOBBY BLAKE AT SNOWTOP CAMP. 6 BOBBY BLAKE ON THE SCHOOL NINE. 7 BOBBY BLAKE ON A RANCH. 8 BOBBY BLAKE ON AN AUTO TOUR. 9 BOBBY BLAKE ON THE SCHOOL ELEVEN. 10 BOBBY BLAKE ON A PLANTATION. 11 BOBBY BLAKE IN THE FROZEN NORTH. 12 BOBBY BLAKE ON MYSTERY MOUNTAIN. PUBLISHERS BARSE & CO. NEW YORK, N. Y. NEWARK, N. J. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE BOY SCOUT LIFE SERIES Published with the approval of The Boy Scouts of America [Illustration: "The Boy Scout Fire Fighters" book cover] In the boys' world of story books, none better than those about boy scouts arrest and grip attention. In a most alluring way, the stories in the BOY SCOUT LIFE SERIES tell of the glorious good times and wonderful adventures of boy scouts. All the books were written by authors possessed of an intimate knowledge of this greatest of all movements organized for the welfare of boys, and are published with the approval of the National Headquarters of the Boy Scouts of America. The Chief Scout Librarian, Mr. F. K. Mathiews, writes concerning them: "It is a bully bunch of books. I hope you will sell 100,000 copies of each one, for these stories are the sort that will help instead of hurt our movement." THE BOY SCOUT FIRE FIGHTERS--CRUMP THE BOY SCOUTS OF THE LIGHTHOUSE TROOP--McCLANE THE BOY SCOUT TRAIL BLAZERS--CHELEY THE BOY SCOUT TREASURE HUNTERS--LERRIGO BOY SCOUTS AFLOAT--WALDEN BOY SCOUTS COURAGEOUS--MATHIEWS BOY SCOUTS TO THE RESCUE--LERRIGO BOY SCOUTS ON THE TRAIL--GARTH THE BOY SCOUTS IN AFRICA--CORCORAN THE BOY SCOUTS OF ROUND TABLE PATROL--LERRIGO PUBLISHERS BARSE & CO. NEW YORK, N. Y. NEWARK, N. J. 
43940	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 43940-h.htm or 43940-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/43940/43940-h/43940-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/43940/43940-h.zip) Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). [Illustration: IT WAS THE LONGEST HIT THAT EVER HAD BEEN MADE ON THE POLO GROUNDS.] BASEBALL JOE, HOME RUN KING Or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record by LESTER CHADWICK Author of "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars," "Baseball Joe in the Big League," "The Rival Pitchers," "The Eight-Oared Victors," etc. ILLUSTRATED New York Cupples & Leon Company * * * * * * BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK =THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES= =12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.= BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE BASEBALL JOE AT YALE BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD BASEBALL JOE, HOME RUN KING =THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES= =12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.= THE RIVAL PITCHERS A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK BATTING TO WIN THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York * * * * * * Copyright, 1922, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY =Baseball Joe, Home Run King= Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I A DANGEROUS PLUNGE 1 II A SURPRISE 17 III REGGIE TURNS UP 33 IV THE ANONYMOUS LETTER 43 V "PLAY BALL!" 54 VI GETTING THE JUMP 61 VII STEALING HOME 71 VIII A BASEBALL IDOL 79 IX AN OLD ENEMY 87 X THREE IN A ROW 94 XI RIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER 101 XII JIM'S WINNING WAYS 108 XIII A BREAK IN THE LUCK 117 XIV A DELIGHTFUL SURPRISE 123 XV AN EVENING RIDE 131 XVI THE ATTACK ON THE ROAD 136 XVII FALLING BEHIND 143 XVIII IN THE THROES OF A SLUMP 151 XIX A CLOSE CALL 157 XX SPEEDING UP 163 XXI THE WINNING STREAK 170 XXII STRIVING FOR MASTERY 178 XXIII HOLDING THEM DOWN 184 XXIV A CRUSHING BLOW 191 XXV LINING THEM OUT 197 XXVI THE TIRELESS FOE 203 XXVII CHAMPIONS OF THE LEAGUE 210 XXVIII THE WORLD SERIES 218 XXIX THE GAME OF HIS LIFE 224 XXX CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD 230 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS IT WAS THE LONGEST HIT THAT EVER HAD BEEN MADE ON THE POLO GROUNDS. THERE WAS NO DOUBT OF THE WARMTH OF THAT WELCOME. SUDDENLY PICKING UP THE BALL HE HURLED IT TO SECOND. "GREAT SCOTT!" HE CRIED. "WHAT�S THE MATTER WITH YOUR HAND?" BASEBALL JOE, HOME RUN KING CHAPTER I A DANGEROUS PLUNGE "I'm going to tie you up in knots, old man," said Jim Barclay, with a smile, as he picked up the ball and stepped into the box in batting practice at the training camp. "I've heard that kind of talk before," retorted Joe Matson, known all over the country as "Baseball Joe," the king pitcher of the Giants. "But untying knots is the best thing I do. Give me the best you have in the shop." Jim wound up and put one over that just cut the corner of the plate. Joe made a mighty swing at it, but it was just beyond his reach. "Nearly broke your back reaching for that one, eh?" laughed Jim, as the ball was thrown back to him. "I was just kidding you that time," grinned Joe. "I'm going to kill the next one." Again the ball whizzed to the plate. It was a fast, straight ball with a slight hop to it. Joe caught it near the end of his bat and "leaned on it" heavily. The ball soared out between right and center, and the outfielders covering that position gave one look at it and then turned and ran with the ball. But it kept on and on until it cleared the fence, and the discomfited fielders threw up their hands and came slowly back to their positions. Jim looked sheepish, and Joe, who was his chum and best friend, laughed outright as he relinquished the bat to the next man in line. "A sweet home run, Jim," he remarked. "I should say so!" snorted Jim. "That hit was good for two home runs. The ball was ticketed for kingdom come." "Who was it said that pitchers couldn't hit?" laughed Mylert, the burly catcher of the Giant team, as he took Joe's place. "I'll tell the world that some of them can!" exclaimed Jim, as he prepared to try his luck again. "Gee, Joe, if that had happened to me in a regular game, it would have broken my heart." Two keen-eyed men in uniform had been standing near the side lines, watching intently every move of the players, as they tried out their batting eyes and arms. One was stocky and of medium height, with hair that had begun to grey at the temples. The other was stout and ruddy, with a twinkle in his eyes that bespoke good nature. Both were veterans of many hard-fought baseball campaigns, and both had played on the Baltimore Orioles when that great organization of stars was the sensation of the baseball world. "Did you see that hit, Robbie?" asked McRae, the manager of the Giants, of his stout companion. "Not all of it," replied Robson, the coach of the team. "But I followed it as far as the fence. That was a whale of a wallop. I'll bet the ball's going yet," and the man chuckled gleefully. "Of course, this was only in practice," mused McRae. "Perhaps Barclay wasn't trying over hard." "Don't kid yourself, Mac," replied Robson. "Barclay wasn't just lobbing them up. That ball came over like a bullet. It had a hop on it too, but Joe gauged it just right. I tell you that boy is a wonder. If he wasn't a wizard in the box, he'd be a terror at the bat." "I wish there were two of him, Robbie," said the manager, smiling. "One to cover the mound and the other to use as a pinch hitter or play him in the outfield. That would make a combination hard to beat." "It was the best day's work you ever did when you got that lad from St. Louis," remarked Robson. "I'll bet the Cardinal's manager feels like throwing a fit every time he thinks what a fool he was to let him go." "Well," said McRae, "if everybody's foresight in baseball was as good as his hindsight, there'd be no trading done. I don't mind saying that I throw out my chest a little for having seen what was in the kid. He's certainly been the making of the team." "One thing is certain; and that is that you wouldn't have the World's Championship tucked away if it hadn't been for his great work in the Series," rejoined Robson. "He just had those Chicago birds eating out of his hand." "Right you are," admitted McRae. "Here's hoping he'll repeat this season." "Don't worry a bit about that," was Robson's confident answer. "You can see for yourself that he's been going great guns in practice. And even at that he hasn't been letting himself out. He's taking good care of that old soup-bone of his." "He was never better in his life," declared McRae. "I'll admit that I was a little worried for fear that the trip around the world had taken something out of him. You know what a strain he was under in that All-Star League affair, Robbie. But it hasn't seemed to affect him at all." "He'll need all he's got this year," said Robbie thoughtfully. "We'll have to depend more on the pitching than we did last year, because we're not so strong on the batting end. When Burkett quit, it took away a good deal of our hitting strength, and you've seen that Mylert is slipping. On the form he's shown in practice this spring, he won't be good for more than a two hundred and fifty per cent average, and that's about sixty points below what he showed last year." "I know it," agreed the manager, a worried look coming into his face. "And what makes it worse is that Larry, too, is slow in rounding into form. Instead of lining them out, he's sending them up in the air. He'll be just pie for the fielders if he keeps it up. I can't understand the thing at all." "Oh, well," said Robbie, whose jolly disposition never let him stay long under a cloud, "here's hoping that they'll come to the scratch when the season opens. Some of the rookies look pretty good to me, and if the old-timers fall down we may be able to fill their places all right. Come along, Mac; let's finish working out that schedule for the trip north. We'll have to get a hustle on to be in shape to start to-morrow." McRae gave the signal to his men that practice time was over, and the young athletes, nothing loth to drop their work and get down to the hotel for dinner, began to gather up their bats preparatory to jumping into the bus which was waiting outside the grounds. But before they got to it, McRae and Robson had climbed in and given the signal to the driver to start. "No, you don't!" he called out with a grin, as the bus started away. "You fellows leg it down to the hotel. It's only two miles, and you need the exercise. Get a move on, or Robbie and I will clear the table before you get there." There were grunts and groans from the players, for the sun was warm and the practice had been strenuous. But there was no help for it, and they dropped into a dog trot that was quickened by the thought of the dinner that was waiting for them at the end of the journey. They reached the hotel in good time, took a shower bath, changed into their regular clothes, and were soon at the table with an appetite that swept the board and made the colored waiters roll their eyes in wonder, not unmixed with awe. After the meal was finished, Joe and Jim were on their way to the room they shared together when they passed McRae and Robbie, who were sitting in the lobby enjoying their after-dinner cigars. McRae beckoned to them, and they went over to where the pair was sitting. "Well, boys," said the manager, as he motioned to a couple of chairs into which they dropped, "our spring practice is over and I don't mind saying that I'm feeling good over the way you fellows ate up your work. Both of you look as fit as fiddles." "That's sure the way we feel," answered Joe, and Jim murmured acquiescence. "In fact you look so good," went on McRae, knocking the ashes from his cigar and settling back comfortably in his chair, "that I'm going to call training finished, as far as you two are concerned. Just now you're right at the top of your form, and I don't want to take any chances on your going stale. So I'm going to let you rest up for the next week or ten days. All you have to do is to take good care of yourselves--and I know you boys well enough to be sure you'll do that--and turn up in shape when the season opens week after next." Joe and Jim looked at each other, and the same thought was in the mind of each. This seemed too good to be true! "We start north to-morrow," went on McRae, "in two lots, playing minor league teams on the way to keep in practice. The regulars will go along with me, while Robbie will take the second string men and the rookies. We'll jog along in easy fashion and hope to reach the Polo Grounds in the pink of condition." By this time Joe had found his voice. He smiled broadly. "That's mighty good of you, Mac," he said. "I suppose you want us then to go right through to New York." "That's the idea," replied the manager. "Robbie will see to your transportation this afternoon." But just here, Robson, who had been watching the boys' faces, broke into a laugh. "For the love of Mike, wake up Mac!" he adjured his friend. "Don't you know that Joe lives only a couple of hundred miles from here right over the border? And don't you remember those two pretty girls that were with us on the World Tour? And didn't we hear Joe telling Jim a few days ago that his sweetheart was visiting his folks? And here you are sending the lads straight through to New York with never a stop on the way. Mac, old man, I'm ashamed of you." McRae grinned as he looked at the faces of the young men--faces that had grown suddenly red. "Robbie hit the nail on the head, did he?" he said, with a chuckle. "Well, I'm Irishman enough to have a soft spot in my heart for the lads and their colleens. Fix it up, boys, to suit yourselves. As long as you report on time, that's all I ask. Get along with you now, as Robbie and I have got to fix up our routes." Joe and Jim were only too glad to "get along," and after thanking McRae hurried to their room, where they indulged in a wild war dance. "Glory, hallelujah!" shouted Joe. "A whole week or more to ourselves, and home only two hundred miles away!" "Your home is," replied Jim. "Mine's more than a thousand miles away." "You old sardine!" cried Joe, throwing a book at his head. "Isn't my home yours? Do you think I'd dare show my face there without bringing you along? Clara would never forgive me. Neither would Mabel. Neither would Momsey nor Dad. Get a wiggle on now, old man, and hunt up a time-table." Jim, with his face jubilant at the thought of soon seeing Joe's pretty sister, hustled about for the time-table; and with heads close together the young men were soon poring over the schedules. At last Joe straightened up with a vexed exclamation. "Of all the roundabout ways!" he ejaculated. "We'll have to change three or four different times with all sorts of bad connections, and can't reach Riverside until to-morrow afternoon." "Wait a minute," said Jim, running his pencil along a column. "Here's a line that will get us to Martinsville early to-morrow morning, just before daylight. How far is Martinsville from Riverside?" "About fifty miles more or less," replied Joe. "But crickey, Jim, that gives me an idea! What's the matter with going to Martinsville and hiring an auto there? I know Hank Bixby who keeps a garage there and has autos for hire. He used to live in Riverside, and played with me on the old school nine before his folks moved away. I'll send him a wire telling him what time we'll get there and asking him to have a first-class car ready for us." "You know the road all right, do you?" asked Jim. "Remember it will be dark when we get there." "I know it like a book," replied Joe. "I've been over it many a time. I could travel it in the dark. It's as level as a table until you get to Hebron. Just beyond that there's a steep hill that will give the car something to do. But Hank will give me a machine that can climb it, and, besides, it will be just about daylight by the time we get there. It's a cinch that we won't have any trouble. I'll bet a hat--what's the matter, Jim?" For Jim had risen and moved quickly toward the door, which had been standing partly open. He put out his head and looked down the corridor. Not satisfied with that, he went down the hall to the head of the stairs. Then he slowly retraced his steps. Joe, who had followed his chum to the door, looked at him with open-mouthed wonder. "What's the matter with you?" he queried. "Have you gone daffy?" "Not exactly," replied Jim. "I thought I saw somebody I knew go past the door." "Likely enough," said Joe, with a touch of sarcasm. "It wouldn't be at all surprising. The hotel is full of our fellows." "It wasn't one of our boys," returned Jim slowly. "Well, who was it then?" asked Joe, a little impatiently. "Come out of your trance, old man." "I think it was a fellow we know only too well," Jim replied. "I think it was Braxton." "Braxton!" exclaimed Joe with sudden interest. "The fellow that was with us on the World Tour?" "The same one," affirmed Jim. "The fellow you licked within an inch of his life in the old Irish castle." "Are you sure?" asked Joe. "It doesn't seem at all likely that we'd run across that rascal in this little training-camp town. What on earth would he be doing down here?" "That's just what I want to know," replied Jim soberly. "As you say, it's all against the chances that we should run across him here by accident. If he's here, he's come with some purpose. And that purpose means nothing good for you. He's exactly the sort of man that won't forget that thrashing." "I guess he won't," replied Joe grimly. "My knuckles ache now when I think of it. But if he's looking for another licking, he sure can have it." "He isn't looking for another," Jim returned. "He's looking to get even for the first one you gave him. You know he swore at the time that he'd pay you up for it." "He's welcome to try," declared Joe indifferently. "But really, Jim, I think you're mistaken. It seems too improbable. There are plenty of men in the world who look like Braxton." "Of course, I wouldn't swear it was he," admitted Jim. "I only saw him side-face, and he slipped past the door like a ghost." "Well, we'll keep our eyes open about the hotel and around the town," rejoined Joe. "But now let's think of pleasanter things. Our train goes at six, and we've got lots to do in getting our duds packed. Then, too, I've got to wire to Hank and must get the tickets for as far as the cars will carry us." The afternoon proved a busy one, but by train time they had completed their packing, said good-by to the rest of the team, who frankly envied them their luck, and were snugly ensconced in the day coach, as the little road had no sleeping cars, and even if they had the frequent changes they had to make would have made a sleeper not worth while. As it was, they slept in snatches, had luck in their connections, and about an hour before dawn stepped off the train at the little station of Martinsville. Both Baseball Joe and Jim Barclay had expected to find the town asleep, but were surprised to find a large number of the inhabitants, chiefly the younger men, at the station. Still another group stood in the lighted doorway of Hank Bixby's garage, which was directly across the street. "What's the big idea?" Jim asked Joe, as he looked in surprise at the crowd that drew close about them. "Blest if I know," replied Joe. "Maybe there's been a fire or something." But they were soon enlightened, as Hank came bustling across the street, his face aglow with welcome and self-importance. "Howdy, Mr. Matson!" he exclaimed, as he wrung Joe's hand. "Mr. Matson!" laughed Joe, returning the handshake. "Where do you get that stuff? What's the matter with Joe?" "Well, Joe, then," beamed Hank. "You see, Joe, you've got to be such a big fellow now, known all over the United States, that I felt a bit shy about calling you by your first name. I got your wire and mentioned it to a fellow or two, and by heck it was all over town in no time that the greatest pitcher in the country was going to be here. This crowd's been waiting here all night to say howdy to you." The people were all crowding around him by now, waiting their turn to shake hands, and Joe, although embarrassed, as he always was when he found himself the center of attention, did his best to respond to the expressions of good will and admiration that were showered upon him. Jim also came in for his share of the crowd's interest as a promising and rapidly rising pitcher of the baseball champions of the world. It was with a sigh of relief that they settled themselves at last in the speedy car which Hank had provided for them and which he proudly assured them would "just burn up the road" between Martinsville and Riverside. Joe took the wheel and the car started off, amid a waving of hands and a roar of farewell from the crowd. "Great day for Martinsville," said Jim mischievously, as he settled down by the side of his chum and the car purred along over the level road. "How does it feel to be a hero, Joe?" "Quit your kidding," replied Joe, with a grin. "If they'd wrung this old wing of mine much more, McRae would have been minus one of his pitchers." "One of the penalties of greatness," chaffed Jim. "And now for home!" exulted Joe, as he put on added speed and the car leaped forward. "And Clara," murmured Jim under his breath, as he thought of Joe's charming sister. Joe did not hear him, for his thoughts were engrossed with Mabel, the girl who had promised to marry him and who he fondly hoped might be at this moment dreaming of him, as without her knowledge he was speeding toward her. She had been visiting at his father's home as the guest of his sister Clara. Since their trip together around the world the two girls had become almost inseparable, and Mr. and Mrs. Matson already regarded Mabel as a second daughter. The day for the marriage of Joe and Mabel had not yet been set, but Joe was determined that it should take place soon, and he hoped that now he would be able to get Mabel to set a definite date for that happy event. Jim, too, had his dreams, and they all centered about Clara. He had fallen desperately in love with her at their first meeting, and he had made up his mind that on this visit he would ask the all-important question, on the answer to which his happiness depended. The car dashed along at rapid speed, and as they came near Hebron Joe roused himself from his reverie. The darkness was disappearing, and in the faint light of the spring morning they could see a steep hill a little way ahead. At the side of the road ran a little river, of whose murmur they had been conscious for some time, although in the darkness they could scarcely see it. "Here's where we'll see whether Hank was bragging overmuch about this car," remarked Joe, as he tightened his grasp on the wheel and put his foot on the accelerator. "I'll give her a good start and see how she can climb." The car gathered speed as it neared the bottom of the hill. Joe peered forward, and then from his lips came a startled shout. Directly in front of them, completely blocking the road, was a mass of heavy timbers. To strike them at that speed meant maiming or death! At one side of the road was a steep cliff. On the other side was the river. Joe's brain worked like lightning. There was but one chance. He swung the wheel around, the car crashed through a fence at the side of the road, suddenly stopped short, and Joe and Jim were sent headlong into the river! CHAPTER II A SURPRISE The water was icy and deep, and at this point the current was swift. The force with which the luckless occupants of the car had been propelled sent them far beneath the surface and some distance out into the stream. A moment later their heads appeared above the water, and they struck out for the shore. Both were strong swimmers, and in a few strokes they reached the bank. Fortunately they had escaped striking any part of the car in their wild hurtling through space, and apart from the chill and wetting were unharmed. From the mud at the river's edge, they dragged their dripping feet to the solid ground of the road. Then they stood still and looked at each other. The shock and suddenness of it all still affected them, but as they continued to look at the comical figure that each presented, with hair plastered over their faces and clothes clinging to their bodies, their sense of the ludicrous got the better of them and they burst into laughter. "Talk about scarecrows!" gurgled Jim, as he dragged a wet handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face in a vain attempt to dry it. "None of them have anything on us," admitted Joe, as he threw off his coat and wrung one dripping trousers leg after the other. "If only the team could get a snapshot of us now, they'd kid us for the rest of our natural lives," remarked Jim. "You said it," agreed Joe. "But now," he added more soberly, "just let's take a look at what it was that so nearly killed us or crippled us for life." They made their way to the mass of timber in the road. At first Jim thought that it might have fallen off some wagon, unknown to the driver. But a closer examination showed that this was an error. The timbers were piled in a way that could have been done only by human hands, and what made this certain was the fact that rocks had been placed on either side to prevent the logs from slipping. It was a formidable barrier, and if the car had dashed into it at the rate it was going, the occupants would almost certainly have been killed. "Whoever put those timbers there meant harm," said Joe solemnly, when the examination had been completed. "It looks that way," agreed Jim. "Whoever did it was a scoundrel who ought to be in jail." "It might have been the work of a crazy man," suggested Joe. "As crazy as a fox," rejoined Jim, looking squarely into his chum's eyes. "What do you mean?" asked Joe, in some perplexity. "I mean," said Jim, carefully weighing every word, "that the man who put that mass of timber there was just as sane as you or I. I mean that he intended that some one should be seriously hurt. I'll go even further. That man meant to injure Joe Matson, whom he hated with a deadly hatred." "You mean that Braxton did it?" cried Joe. "I mean that Braxton did it," replied Jim quietly. They stared at each other with strange emotions stirring in their hearts. And while they stand there, as if turned to stone, it may be well, for the benefit of those who have not read the earlier volumes of this series, to trace the fortunes of Baseball Joe up to the time that this story opens. Joe Matson was born in a little inland village of the Middle West, and grew up in a pleasant home amid wholesome surroundings. His first experience in the great national game, where he was destined to become famous as the greatest pitcher of his time, was gained on the simple diamond of his home town, and his natural aptitude was such that he soon became known as a rising player all over the county. What obstacles he met and surmounted at that time are related in the first volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars." Some time later, when playing on his school nine, he had considerable trouble with a bully who tried to down him, but found out, as so many trouble makers did later on in life, that Joe Matson was not easily downed. He put into his playing all that experience, combined with his native ability, could teach him, and he served an apprenticeship that stood him in good stead when later he went to Yale. The trials and triumphs of his school experience are told in the second volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe on the School Nine." With the natural buoyancy of youth, Joe had hoped when he entered Yale that he would have a chance to show his mettle in the box in some of the great annual games that Yale played with Harvard and Princeton. There were many rivals, however, for the honor, including those who had already won their spurs in actual contests. But Joe's light was not made to shine under a bushel, and one day when the cohorts of Princeton came down in their orange and black prepared to "tie the can" to the Bulldog's tail, Joe got his chance and sent a very bedraggled Tiger back to his lair in Princeton. How Joe won gloriously is told in the third volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe at Yale." Though he enjoyed his college days at Yale, stood high in his studies, and was popular with his mates, he felt that he was not cut out for one of the learned professions. His mother had hoped that he would be a clergyman and had been urgent in having him adopt that profession. But Joe, though he respected the noble aims of that calling, was not drawn to it. It was the open air life that he craved and for which he was fitted, and the scholastic calm of a study had little attraction for him. He felt that he had it in him to win supremacy in athletic fields. His mother, of course, was greatly disappointed when she learned how he felt, but she was too wise to insist on her plan when she realized that it was contrary to his special gifts. She knew very little about baseball, but she had the impression that it was no place for an educated man. The fact, however, that so many college men were entering the ranks of professional baseball was made the most of by Joe, and she finally yielded to his wishes. His chance was not long in coming, for he was soon picked up by one of the scouts who are always looking for "diamonds in the rough," and was offered a contract with the Pittston team of the Central League. The League was a minor one, but Joe had already learned that a man who proved that he had the makings of a star in him would soon have an opportunity with one of the majors. How speedily his ability was proved and recognized is narrated in the fourth volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe in the Central League." From the bushes to the National League was a big jump, but Joe made it when he was drafted into the ranks of the St. Louis Cardinals. The team was in the second division when Joe came into action, and was altogether out of the running for the championship. But Joe's twirling was just what it needed to put new heart and life into it, and before the season ended it had climbed into the first division and if the race had been a little longer might have made a big stroke for the pennant. The story of the team's climb, with all its exciting episodes, is told in the fifth volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe in the Big League." McRae, the crafty and resourceful manager of the New York Giants, had had his eye on Joe all the season, and when the race was ended he made an offer for him that the St. Louis management could not refuse. Now, indeed, Joe felt that the ambition of his life was in a fair way to be realized. McRae had intended to bring him along slowly, so that he could be thoroughly seasoned, but circumstances put on him the heft of the pitching, and how fully he justified his manager's confidence is narrated in the sixth volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe on the Giants." After the winning of the National League Championship by the Giants, came the World Series with the Boston Red Sox, who had won the title that year in the American League. The Sox were a hard team to beat, and the Giants had their work cut out for them. In addition to the strain of the games in which he was slated to pitch, Joe had to contend with the foul tactics of a gang of gamblers who had wagered heavily on the Sox and did all they could to put Joe out of action. But his indomitable will and quick wit triumphed over all obstacles, and his magnificent pitching in the last game of the series won the World's Championship for the Giants. The story of that stirring fight is told in the seventh volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe in the World Series." During these experiences, Joe had not escaped the toils of Cupid. Mabel Varley, a charming young girl, had been rescued by Joe at the moment that a runaway horse was about to carry her over a cliff. The romantic acquaintanceship thus begun soon grew into a deep affection, and Joe knew that Mabel held the happiness of his life in her hands. Jim Barclay, also, a promising young Princeton man and second string pitcher for the Giants, who was Joe's special chum, had grown very fond of Clara, Joe's pretty sister, and hoped that some day she would promise to be his wife. The World Series had scarcely ended before Joe and Jim were invited by McRae to make a trip around the world with the Giant and All-American teams. They were eager for the chance, and their delight was increased when it developed that there were to be a number of wives of the players in the party so that Mabel and Clara could go along. The teams played in Japan, in China, and in many of the cities of Europe, and the experience would have been a thoroughly happy one for Joe, had it not been for the machinations of men who were trying to form a rival league and had by the meanest trickery secured Joe's signature to what afterward turned out to be a contract. How Joe finally unmasked the plotters and had the satisfaction of giving the ringleader a tremendous thrashing is narrated in the preceding volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe Around the World." And now to return to Joe and Jim, as they stood in their dripping clothes on the country road in the growing light of the spring morning. For some seconds after Jim's startling statement, Joe stood as though rooted to the spot. Then he pulled himself together. "Come now, Jim, isn't that pretty far-fetched?" he said, with a forced laugh, in which, however, there was little mirth. "You haven't a shred of proof of anything of the kind." "No," admitted Jim, "there isn't anything--yet--that would convince a judge or a jury. I'll agree that it wouldn't go far in a court of law. But just put two and two together. Yesterday afternoon we were talking about this trip. You distinctly mentioned the hill near Hebron. It was just after you spoke that I saw Braxton pass the door." "Thought you saw," corrected Joe. "All right, then," said Jim patiently, "let it go at that--thought I saw Braxton passing the door. Now just suppose for a minute that I was right and see what comes of it. The man who hates you worse, probably, than any man on earth--the man to whom you gave a terrible thrashing--knew that you would be driving a car just before daylight--knew that you would have to climb a hill--knew that as you got near it you'd probably put on speed to carry the car up--knew that an obstacle put near the bottom of the hill would almost certainly wreck the car and hurt the driver. Knowing all this, might not such a man as we know Braxton to be see his chance and take it?" There was silence for a moment. Then: "It certainly sounds strong the way you put it," Joe said thoughtfully. "But how on earth could Braxton get here in time to do all this? Think of the distance." "It isn't so great a distance," rejoined Jim. "That is, if a man came straight across country in a speedy car for instance. It seemed long to us because of the roundabout way we had to go by train. Then too that was early in the afternoon, and Braxton could have had four hours' start of us. He's a rich man and probably has a fast car. He could have made it all right and got here hours ago." "Yes, but even then," argued Joe, "he couldn't have done it all alone. It's as much as you and I can do together to handle these timbers." "That's true," conceded Jim. "But he may have had one or more confederates with him. Money you know can do almost anything. I shouldn't wonder if that fellow Fleming helped him. He owed you a debt too, you remember, and the pair were as thick as thieves on the world tour." "Well, it may be just as you say," replied Joe. "But I hate to think that any man hates me so badly as to try to injure me in such a cowardly way as that. At any rate, it won't do any harm for us to keep our eyes open in the future. But we've got plenty of time to think of that. Now let's get busy and hustle these timbers over to the side of the road so that nobody else can run into them. Then we'll take a look at the car." They set to work with a will, and in a few minutes had removed the obstacles from the road. "Now for the machine," said Joe, as he led the way to the river bank. "I've got an idea that what we owe Hank will put a dent in our bank rolls." To their delight they found, however, that, apart from superficial injuries, the car seemed to be intact. The wind shield had been shattered and the mud guards were badly bent. But the axles seemed to be sound, the wheels were in place, and as far as they could judge there had been no injury to the engine. To all appearances the expenditure of a hundred dollars would put the car in good shape again. But the wheels were so firmly imbedded in the mud of the shore that despite all their efforts they could not budge the car. They strained and pushed and lifted, but to no avail. Joe climbed into the driver's seat and set the engine going, but the car was stubborn and refused to back. "Swell chance of our getting home in time for breakfast," grumbled Joe, as he stopped to rest for a moment. "Lucky if we get there in time for supper," muttered Jim. "We'll have to go somewhere and borrow a shovel so that we can dig the wheels out of the mud." But just at this moment they heard the rumbling of a cart, and running to the road they saw it coming, drawn by two stout horses, while the driver sat handling the reins in leisurely fashion. They waved their hands and the cart came to a halt, the driver scanning curiously the two young men who had appeared so unexpectedly from the side of the road. He was a bluff, jovial person, and his eyes twinkled with amusement as he noted the wet garments that were clinging to their limbs. "Been taking a bath with all your clothes on?" he asked, as he got down from his seat. "Something like that," replied Joe, with a laugh, "but the bath came as a sort of surprise party. The road was blocked, and it was either the morgue or the river for us, so we chose the river." "Road blocked?" repeated the newcomer, looking about with a puzzled expression. "I don't get you. Looks clear enough to me." "It wouldn't if you'd been here half an hour ago," replied Joe, and then, as the man listened with interest that soon changed to indignation, he recounted briefly the events of the morning. "Whoever did that ought to be jailed," he burst out, when the boys had concluded their story. "And he can't be very far away, either. This road was clear when I passed over it last night. Jump in and I'll drive you into town and we can send out an alarm." "Not much use of that I'm afraid," replied Joe. "The man or men may be fifty miles away by this time. But if you'll give us a hand to get this auto out of the mud, you'll do us a big favor." "Sure I'll help you," said the friend in need, whose name they learned was Thompson. "I've got a spade right here in the cart. We'll dig around the wheels a little. Then I'll hitch a trace chain to the machine and my horses will yank it out in a jiffy." A few minutes of work sufficed to clear the wheels. Then boards were placed behind them, the chain was attached to the rear axle, and the horses drew the car back into the road. It presented rather a forlorn appearance, but the boys cared little for that. What they were far more concerned about was their own bedraggled condition. "We match the car all right," remarked Jim disgustedly, as he looked at his own clothes and those of his companion. "It will never do to let Mabel and Clara see us like this," responded Joe lugubriously. "Don't let that worry you," laughed their new friend. "Just drive into town and stop at Eph Allen's tailor shop. It's pretty early, but Eph sleeps in the back of his shop and he'll let you in and fix you up in no time." This was evidently the best thing to be done, and the young men, after repeated thanks to their newly made friend and with fullest directions as to how to find the tailor shop in question, jumped into the auto and started on the way back to Hebron. "Old bus seems to work as well as ever," commented Joe, as the car moved on without any visible evidence of injury. "That's one bit of good luck," replied Jim. "And it's certainly coming to us to make up in part for the bad." They thanked their stars that it was too early yet for many people to be stirring in the town, and were relieved when they found themselves in front of Allen's shop. Eph must have been a pretty sound sleeper, for it took a good deal of knocking to wake him up, and when at last he thrust his tousled head through the door to ask what was wanted, he was not in the best of temper. But as soon as he learned the circumstances that had occasioned the early call, he became at once all interest and attention, and hustled about to put their clothes in presentable shape. It was a fairly good job that he at length turned out after he had ironed and pressed their suits, though they had by no means the Beau Brummel effect with which the boys had planned to impress the girls. By this time the sun had fully risen and Joe looked at his watch. "Perhaps we'll be in time to catch them at breakfast yet," he remarked. "It's only about twenty miles from here to Riverside. Maybe they won't be surprised when we break in on them. They don't think we're within several hundred miles of them." "Perhaps we ought to have telegraphed that we were coming," said Jim. "It might have been just as well, I suppose," admitted Joe. "But that would have taken away the fun of the surprise. I want to see the look on their faces." "Of course we won't say anything about what happened to us this morning," suggested Jim, as the machine bowled along over a road that with every minute that passed was growing more familiar. "Not on your life," replied Joe earnestly. "None of them would ever have another easy minute. They'd be seeing our mangled remains every night in their dreams. All we'll tell them is that we had a little spill and got wet. But not a word about the blocked road or what we suspect regarding Braxton." Before long they were passing the straggling houses that marked the outskirts of Riverside. Joe pulled his cap down over his eyes so that he would not be recognized and stopped by any of the people of the town, where he was regarded as something of an idol. All he wanted to do was to get to his family and Mabel, or, as perhaps he would have put it, get to Mabel and his family. His ruse was successful, for there was no sign of recognition from the few he passed on the streets, and in a few minutes he brought the car to a stop in front of the Matson home. The young men jumped out, and with Joe leading the way ran lightly up the steps. He tried the front door and found that it yielded to his touch. With his finger on his lips as a warning to Jim, he tiptoed softly through the hall to the door of the dining room. The odor of coffee and bacon came to them and from the click of plates and cups, as well as the murmur of several voices, they knew that the family was still at the breakfast table. Joe waited no longer but threw open the door. "Hello, folks!" he cried. CHAPTER III REGGIE TURNS UP If Joe had counted upon producing a surprise, his success surpassed his wildest expectations. At first there was a second of paralyzed silence. Then there was a wild hubbub of delighted cries, as four figures started up from the table and launched themselves upon the stalwart figure that stood framed in the doorway. "Joe!" "Mabel!" "Clara!" "Momsey!" "Dad!" "Jim!" The names were repeated in quick succession and were punctuated with hugs and kisses. In a moment Joe had his right arm around Mabel, his left about his mother, while Clara had thrown her arms about his neck and his father was attempting to get hold of one of his hands. There was no doubt of the warmth of that welcome. [Illustration: THERE WAS NO DOUBT OF THE WARMTH OF THAT WELCOME.] Nor was Jim left out in the cold. Joe naturally had the center of the stage, but after the first rapturous greeting had passed, they all made Jim feel how delighted they were that he had come along with Joe. In Clara's eyes especially there was a look that Jim hoped he read aright. Her flushed and sparkling face was alive with happiness that might not be due altogether to the return of her brother, dearly as she loved him. For a few minutes questions and answers followed close on each other's heels, and it was Mrs. Matson at last who suggested that probably the boys were hungry. They agreed with her emphatically that they were. The girls flew about, and in a short time fresh coffee and hot biscuits and bacon and eggs were set before them in tempting profusion. Then while they ate like famished wolves, the others, who had been just finishing breakfast when they burst in upon them, sat about the table and talked and laughed and beamed to their hearts' content. Perhaps in all the broad land there was no happier group than was gathered about that table in the little town of Riverside. "You ought to have telegraphed that you were coming, Joe," said Mrs. Matson. "Then we could have had a good breakfast ready for you." "What do you call this?" laughed Joe, as he helped himself to another biscuit, watching at the same time the bewitching way in which Mabel was pouring him another cup of coffee. "There couldn't be anything better than this this side of kingdom come." "You're right there, old man," observed Jim, his own appetite keeping pace with that of his chum. "Seems to me, Joe, that your clothes look a little seedy this morning," Clara remarked, with a sister's frankness, during a moment's pause in the conversation. "The last time you came home you looked like a fashion plate. But now your shirt front is wrinkled, your collar is wilted, and the colors in your necktie have run together. Looks as though you'd got wet through and hadn't dried out yet." "Perhaps they've been in the river," laughed Mabel gaily, little thinking how near she came to hitting the nail on the head. Mrs. Matson's motherly heart was quick to take alarm. "What's that?" she asked. "Nothing really has happened to you, has it, Joe?" she inquired, looking anxiously at her son, who after one glare at the sister who had precipitated the topic, was trying to assume an air of nonchalance. But this direct inquiry from his mother left him no recourse except to tell her a part of the truth, though not necessarily the whole truth. "We did have a little spill this morning," he returned indifferently. "I turned the car a little too much to the right and we went through a fence and into a little stream at the side of the road. Jim and I got wet, but after we got over being mad we had a good laugh over it. Neither one of us was a bit hurt, and it's only our clothes that got the worst of it." "Oh, but you might have been killed!" exclaimed Mrs. Matson, clasping her hands together nervously. "You must be more careful, Joe. It would break my heart if anything happened to you." "Don't worry a bit, Momsey," replied Joe, placing his hand affectionately over hers. "Only the good die young, you know, and that makes me safe." They all pressed him for the details of the accident, and he and Jim both made light of it, making a joke out of their plight and their visit to the tailor, so that apprehension vanished, and after a while the matter was dropped. Joe was eager for a chance to get alone with Mabel, and Jim was quite as keen for a tête-à-tête with Clara. The girls were quite as eager, but as there was no servant in the simple little household the girls flew around to clear the table, while Joe had a chance for a quiet talk with his mother, and Jim beguiled his impatience by going out on the porch with Mr. Matson for a smoke before the latter had to go downtown to business. "How have you been feeling, Momsey?" Joe asked when they had settled down in a cosy corner of the living room. "It seems to me that you're a little thinner than you were." "I'm not feeling any too well," replied Mrs. Matson. "I have trouble with my breathing whenever I go up or down stairs. But I'll be all right pretty soon," she added, with an attempt at brightness. "I'm afraid you've been working too hard, Momsey," replied Joe, patting her hand. "Why don't you let me get you a maid to help out with the work? The money doesn't matter, and you know how glad I'd be to bear the expense." "I don't want any regular servant, Joe," replied Mrs. Matson. "I haven't been used to one, and she'd be more bother than help. We have a wash woman. There isn't much to be done in this little house, and Clara is the dearest girl. If I did what she wanted, I'd just fold my hands and sit around in the living room. And Mabel, too, has spoiled me since she's been here. She's already like a second daughter to me." "She'll be really your daughter before long, if I have anything to say about it," replied Joe. "I'm going to put it right up to her to marry me while I'm here this time." Mrs. Matson was both delighted and flustered at the boldness of this announcement. "You take my breath away, talking like that," she replied. "But I'm afraid Mabel won't let herself be carried off her feet in that way. A girl wants to get her trousseau ready. And then, too, she'll want to be married in her father's house. You're a dear boy, Joe, but you've got a lot to learn about women." "Mabel will agree all right," replied Joe confidently, though his masculine assurance had been slightly dashed by his mother's prediction. The opportunity to make sure about that important matter came a few minutes later, when Mabel came into the room looking more lovely, Joe thought, than he had ever seen her before. Mrs. Matson lingered only a moment longer, and then made an excuse to leave the room. The door had hardly closed behind her before Mabel was in Joe's arms. It was a long time before they were able to talk coherently, and when at last Mabel told Joe that he was too greedy and laughingly bade him be sensible, she was more rosy and beautiful than ever, and Joe was deeper in love than before, if that could be possible. Joe was not long in putting his mother's prediction to the test. "Do you remember what Jim said when we said good-by to McRae after the World Tour was over?" he asked, with a twinkle in his eye. The flush in Mabel's cheeks deepened. "Jim talks so much nonsense," she countered. "Think a minute." Joe was jogging her memory. "Wasn't it something about bells?" "How should I remember?" asked Mabel, though she did remember perfectly. "Well, I remember," said Joe. "He said I'd soon be hearing wedding bells. Now do you remember?" "Y-yes," admitted Mabel at last, hiding her face on Joe's shoulder, which was very close to her. "I want to hear those wedding bells, very soon, dearest," said Joe tenderly. "Next week--this week--to-morrow----" Mabel sat up with a little scream. "Next week--this week--to-morrow!" she repeated. "Why, Joe dear, we can't!" "Why can't we?" asked Joe with masculine directness. "Why--why--we just can't," replied Mabel. "I haven't got my wedding clothes ready. And I'll have to be married in my own home. What would my family think? What would my friends think? It would look like a runaway affair. People would talk. Oh, Joe dear, I'd love to, but I just can't. Don't you see I can't?" Joe did not see at all, and he renewed his importunities with all his powers of persuasion. But Mabel, though she softened her refusal with lover-like endearments, was set in her convictions, and Joe at last was forced to confess in his heart with a groan that his mother was right, and that he had a lot to learn about women. He suggested in desperation that they go on at once to her home in Goldsboro and be married there, but although that would have taken away one of her arguments, the others still continued in full force, and she added another for good measure. "You see, Joe, dear, your mother isn't well enough just now to travel so far, and it would break her heart if she weren't present at our marriage. By fall she may be better." "By fall!" echoed Joe in dismay. "Have I got to wait that long?" "I think it would be better, dear," said Mabel gently. "You see if we got married any time after the baseball season had commenced, you would find it hard to get away from your club. In any case, our honeymoon trip would have to be very short. Then, too, if I traveled about the circuit with you, you'd have me on your mind, and it might affect your playing. But I promise you that we shall get married in the fall, just as soon as the baseball season is over." And as she sealed this promise in the way that Joe liked best, he was forced to be content. The days passed by, as though on wings, with Joe grudging every minute as it passed that brought him nearer to the day when he would have to rejoin his team. The hours were precious and he spent every one of them that he could with Mabel. Jim, too, was finding his vacation delightful. He was getting on famously with Clara, and the latter's heart was learning to beat very fast when she heard the step and saw the face of the handsome young athlete. The prospects were very good that two weddings would be celebrated in the fall, and that Baseball Joe would gain not only a wife but a brother-in-law. During that week the moon was at its full, and almost every night saw the two couples out for a stroll. They would start out from the house together and walk down the village street, with only a few yards separating them. However, they usually lost sight of each other before they had gone far. Joe was happy, supremely happy. Mabel had never been so dear, so affectionate. He knew that he possessed her heart utterly. Yet there was a faint something, a mysterious impression to which he could scarcely give a name, that at times marred his happiness and caused him to feel depressed. He chased the feeling away, and yet it returned. There were moments when Mabel grew quiet and seemed as though brooding over something. Her face would become sad, and only brighten with a gayety that seemed a little forced, when she saw that he was studying her and seeking to learn what troubled her. At times she would cling to him as though she feared he was to be taken from her. Once or twice he questioned her, but she laughed his fears away and declared that there was nothing the matter. Despite her denials, he remained vaguely uneasy. The day before his brief vacation came to an end there was a ring at the bell of the Matson home. Mabel, who happened to be in the hall at the time, opened the door. There was an exclamation of surprise and delight as the newcomer threw his arms about her. "Reggie!" "Mabel!" There was a fond embrace, and then Mabel came into the living room where the family were assembled, while close behind her came Reggie Varley, her brother, the same old Reggie, monocle, cane, lisp, English clothes, English accent, fancy waistcoat, fitted in topcoat, spats and all--a vision of sartorial splendor! CHAPTER IV THE ANONYMOUS LETTER All rose to their feet in hearty welcome. It was not the first time Reggie had visited the Matson home, and all were fond of him. Joe and Jim especially gave him a hilarious greeting. "Hello, Reggie, old man," cried Joe, as he shook hands. "I'm tickled to death to see you. What good wind blew you down this way? I didn't think you were within a thousand miles of here." "Well, old top," explained Reggie, as he gracefully drew off his gloves and divested himself of his topcoat, "it was so beastly quiet in Goldsboro, don't y'know, that I got fed up with it and when the guv'nor suggested that there was a bit of business I could attend to in Chicago I just blew the bally town and ran out there. Then bein' so near, I thought I'd run down and see Sis and the rest of you. It's simply rippin' to see y'all again, don't y'know." He sat down in a chair, carefully adjusting his trousers so as not to mar the creases in the legs, and beamed blandly upon the friendly faces that surrounded him. Joe and Reggie had first met under rather unpleasant circumstances, that bore no promise of a close friendship later on. Reggie had left his bag in a seat of a railroad station while he went to buy his ticket. Upon his return he missed his bag, which had been left in a seat adjoining the one in which Joe had in the meantime seated himself, and had practically accused Joe of taking it. As may be readily imagined, Joe was not the one to take lightly such an accusation, and Reggie had to apologize. It was only after Joe had met Mabel that he again encountered Reggie and learned that he was the girl's brother. But apart from his relationship to Mabel, Joe had found further reason for liking Reggie, as time wore on and he became better acquainted with him. Reggie had never been restrained much by his father, who was rich and indulgent. He had an inordinate love of fine clothes and an affectation of English customs and manner of speech. But these, after all, were foibles, and at heart Reggie was "true blue." He was a staunch friend, generous, kindly and honorable. He idolized his charming sister, who in return was devotedly attached to him. Another thing that strengthened the friendship between Joe and Reggie was that they were both ardent lovers of the great national game. Reggie was a "dyed-in-the-wool fan," and though his general information was none too great he had the records of individual players and the history of the game at his tongue's end, and could rattle on for an hour on a stretch when he once got started on his favorite theme. He was a great admirer of Joe as a player, and intensely proud that he was going to be his brother-in-law. Whenever the Giants played and Joe was slated to pitch, the latter could be perfectly certain that Reggie, even if he chanced to be at the time in San Francisco, was "rooting" for him to win. Jim also had met Reggie frequently and liked him thoroughly. The other members of the Matson family liked him, both for Mabel's sake and his own. So it was a very friendly circle into which Reggie had come so unexpectedly. "But I didn't expect to see you two chaps here," said Reggie, as he looked from Joe to Jim. "I thought you were down in the training camp, or else on your way to New York with the rest of the Giants." "It was just a bit of luck that we are here," replied Joe. "McRae thought that we were trained fine enough, and might go stale if we worked out in practice any longer. He wants us to be at the top of our form when the bell rings at the Polo Grounds." "Bally good sense, I call it, too," replied Reggie, looking admiringly at their athletic forms. "Just now you look fit to fight for a man's life, don't y'know." "Never felt better," admitted Joe. "Nor happier either," he added, as he glanced at Mabel, who dropped her eyes before his ardent look. "You came just in time to see the boys," put in Mrs. Matson. "They're starting to-morrow for New York." "Bah Jove, I'd like to go with them," said Reggie. "I'd give a lot to see that opening game on the Polo Grounds. But this beastly business in Chicago will make it necessary for me to go back there in a few days. In the meantime I thought that perhaps you might put me up here for a little while, don't y'know?" He looked toward Mr. Matson as he spoke, and both he and Mrs. Matson hastened to assure the young man that they would be only too glad to do so. All had a lot to talk about, and the evening passed quickly, until at last Mrs. Matson excused herself on the plea that she wanted to see about Reggie's room. Mr. Matson soon followed, and the young people were left to themselves. "Well, what do you think the chances are of the Giants copping the flag again, old top?" asked Reggie, as he pulled down his cuffs and put up his hand to make sure that his immaculate tie was all right. "The Giants look mighty sweet to me," answered Joe. "They've had a good training season and shown up well in practice. They've won every game they've played with the minor leaguers so far, and haven't had to exert themselves. Of course that doesn't mean very much in itself, as the bushers ought to be easy meat for us. But we've got practically the same team with which we won the pennant last year, and I can't see why we shouldn't repeat. Jim here has been coming along like a house afire, and he'll make the fans sit up and take notice when they see him in action." "Oh, I'm only an also ran," said Jim modestly. "Indeed you're not," Clara started to say indignantly, but checked herself in time. Not so quickly, however, that Jim failed to catch her meaning and note the flush that rose to her cheek. "Funny thing happened when I was in Chicago," mused Reggie. "I heard a chap say in one of the hotels that there was heavy betting against the Giants winning this year. Some one, he didn't know who, was putting up cash in great wads against them, and doing it with such confidence that it almost seemed as though he thought he was betting on a sure thing. Taking ridiculous odds too. Queer, wasn't it?" "A fool and his money are soon parted," remarked Joe. "That fellow will be a little wiser and a good deal poorer when the season ends, or I miss my guess. Who's going to beat us out? Nothing short of a train wreck can stop us." "Now you're talking!" cried Jim. "Another thing that's going to help us," said Joe, "was that trip we had around the world. We had some mighty hot playing on that tour against the All-Americans, and it kept the boys in fine fettle." "Speaking about that trip, old chap," put in Reggie, "reminds me of another thing that happened in Chicago. I was going down State Street one afternoon, and almost ran into that Braxton that you handed such a trimming to over in Ireland." "Braxton!" cried Joe. "Braxton!" echoed Jim. "Sure thing," replied Reggie, mildly puzzled at the agitation that the name aroused in the two chums. "I'm not spoofing you. Braxton it was, as large as life. The bounder recognized me and started to speak, but I gave him the glassy eye and he thought better of it and passed on. Funny what a little world it is, don't y'know." "It surely is a little world," replied Jim, as a significant glance passed between him and Joe. "I glanced back," Reggie went on, "and saw him getting into a car drawn up at the curb. As classy a machine as I've seen, too, for a long time. Built for speed, y'know. If he hadn't driven off too quickly, I'd have made a note of the make. My own is getting rather old, and I've been thinking about replacing it." The conversation turned into other channels and finally began to drag a little. The others made no sign of being ready to retire, and at last Reggie woke to the fact that he would have to make the first move. He looked at his watch, remarked that he was rather tired after his journey, and thought that he would "pound the pillow." Joe showed him to his room, chatted with him a few minutes, and then returned to the living room where he found Mabel alone, as Clara and Jim had drifted into the dining room. It was the last night the boys would have at home, and the two young couples had a lot to talk about. To Jim especially the time was very precious, for he had made up his mind to ask a very momentous question, and there is little doubt but that Clara knew it was coming and had already made up her mind how it should be answered. It was an exceedingly agitated Jim that asked Mr. Matson for a private interview the next morning, and it was an exceedingly happy Jim that emerged from the room a few minutes later and announced to the family already seated at the breakfast table that Clara had promised to be his wife. There was a stampede from the chairs, to the imminent danger of the coffee being upset, and Clara was hugged and kissed by Mabel and hugged and kissed and cried over by her mother, while Jim's hand was almost wrung off by Joe and Reggie in the general jubilation. For Jim was a splendid fellow, a Princeton graduate, a rising man in his chosen calling, and an all round good fellow. And there was no sweeter or prettier girl than Clara in all Riverside, or, as Jim stood ready to maintain, in the whole world. Needless to say that for the rest of that morning Reggie and Joe had no other masculine society than each could furnish to the other, for Jim had shamelessly abandoned them. Soon Reggie, too, had to chum with himself, as Joe and Mabel had found a sequestered corner and seemed to be dead to the rest of the world. Just before noon, however, when Mabel had gone in to help Mrs. Matson to prepare lunch, Joe had a chance to talk with Reggie alone. "Mabel's looking rippin', don't you think?" remarked Reggie, as he caught a glimpse of his sister passing the door of the room in which they sat. "Most beautiful girl that lives," returned Joe, with enthusiasm. "I guess she's stopped worrying about----" began Reggie, and then checked himself as though he had said more than he intended to. "Worrying about what?" asked Joe, with the quick apprehension of a lover. "Oh, about--about things in general," replied Reggie, in some confusion and evading Joe's searching eyes. "Look here, Reggie," said Joe with decision. "If anything's worrying Mabel, I've got a right to know what it is. I've noticed lately that she seemed to have something on her mind. Come now, out with it." Reggie still tried to put him off, but Joe would have none of it. "I've got to know, Reggie," he declared. "You've simply got to tell me." Reggie pondered a moment. "Well, old top," he said at last, "I suppose you have a right to know, and perhaps it's best that you should know. The fact is that Mabel got a letter a little while ago telling her that it would be a sorry day for her if she ever married Joe Matson. Threatened all sorts of terrible things against you, don't y'know." "What!" cried Joe, wild with rage and leaping to his feet. "The scoundrel! The coward! Who signed that letter? What's his name? If I ever lay my hands on him, may heaven have mercy on him, for I won't!" "That's the worst of it," replied Reggie. "There wasn't any name signed to it. The bounder who wrote it took good care of that." "But the handwriting!" cried Joe. "Perhaps I can recognize it. Where is the letter? Give it to me." "I haven't got it with me," Reggie explained. "It's at my home in Goldsboro. The poor girl had to confide in somebody, so she sent it to me. And even if you had it, it wouldn't tell you anything. It was in typewriting." "But the postmark!" ejaculated Joe. "Perhaps that would give a clue. Where did it come from?" "There again we're stumped," responded Reggie. "It was postmarked Chicago. But that doesn't do us any good, for there are two million people in Chicago." "Oh!" cried Joe, as he walked the floor and clenched his fists until the nails dug into his palms. "The beastliness of it! The cowardice of it! An anonymous letter! That such a villain should dare to torture the dearest girl in the world! But somewhere, somehow, I'll hunt him out and thrash him soundly." "Don't take the beastly thing so much to heart," returned Reggie. "Of course it's just a bluff by some bally bounder. Nobody ought to do anything with such a letter but tear it up and think no more about it. Some coward has done it that has a grudge against you, but he'd probably never have the nerve to carry out his threats." "It isn't that I care about," answered Joe. "I've always been able to take care of myself. I'd like nothing better than to have the rascal come out in the open and try to make his bluff good. But it's Mabel I'm thinking about. You know a woman doesn't dismiss those things as a man would. She worries her heart out about it. So that's what has been weighing on her mind, poor, dear girl. Oh, if I only had my hands on the fellow that wrote that letter!" And here he yielded again to a justified rage that was terrible to behold. It would have been a bad day for the rascally writer of that anonymous letter if he had suddenly stood revealed in the presence of Joe Matson! CHAPTER V "PLAY BALL!" Just then Mabel came in with her hands full of flowers that she meant to arrange for the table. She stopped short in consternation as she saw the thundercloud on Joe's brow. For a moment she thought that he and Reggie had been quarreling. "Oh, Joe, what is it?" she asked in alarm. Joe looked at her lovingly and his brow cleared. "Nothing, honey," he said, as he came up to her and slipped his arm around her. "It's only that I've just found out from Reggie what it is that's been worrying you." Mabel shot a reproachful glance at Reggie, who looked a little embarrassed. "Joe got it out of me, Sis," he explained. "Said he had a right to know and all that sort of thing, don't y'know. And 'pon honor, Sis, I don't know but what he's right about it." "Of course I'm right about it," affirmed Joe. "There can't be anything now that concerns Mabel that doesn't concern me. Don't you agree with me, dearest?" "I suppose so," returned Mabel, as Joe drew her closer. "But, oh, Joe, I didn't want to distress you about it. I was afraid that it would weigh on your mind and affect your work this season, and I knew how your heart was set on making a record. It was just for your sake, dearest, that I kept it to myself. Of course I would have told you sooner or later." "Well, now Mabel, listen to me," said Joe, as he placed a chair and sat down beside her. "I don't know what fellow has done this. But whoever he is, he is a coward as well as a rascal, and will never dare to carry out his threats against me. And even if he should, you know that I am perfectly able to take care of myself. You know that others have tried to injure me, but I always came out on top. Fleming tried it; Braxton tried it, and you know what happened to them. Now what I want you to promise me is to banish this beastly thing entirely from your memory. Treat it with the contempt it deserves. Will you promise me this?" "I will promise, Joe," answered Mabel. "I'll try to forget that it ever happened." "That's the girl," commended Joe. "And to set your mind at rest I'll promise on my part to take especially good care of myself. That's a bargain." But while Joe had secured the promise of Mabel to forget the letter, he had made no such promise himself, and he vowed that if he could ever get any trace of the writer of that letter he would give him the punishment he so richly deserved. The train Baseball Joe and Jim Barclay would take was to leave late that afternoon. Somehow general knowledge of that fact had got abroad, and the boys were dismayed, on reaching the station, to find that half the population of the little town had gathered there to say good-by and wish them luck. To many of the townspeople, Joe was a bigger man than the President of the United States. He had put Riverside "on the map," and through the columns of the papers they followed his triumphs and felt that in a sense they were their own. Of course Joe appreciated this affectionate interest, but just at the moment all he wanted was to be alone with Mabel. He had already bidden his mother a loving farewell at the house, as she was not well enough to go to the station. Jim also had eyes and thoughts only for Clara. But there was no help for it, and they had to exchange greetings and good wishes with the kindly friends who clustered around them. At the last minute, however, the young folks had a chance to say a few words to each other, and what they did not have time to say was eloquent in their eyes. The train moved off, and the boys leaned far out of the windows and waved to the girls as long as they were in sight. Then they settled back in their seats, and for a long time were engrossed in their thoughts. Usually they were full of chaff and banter, but to-day it was some time before they roused themselves from reverie and paid attention to the realities around them. It was after they had come back from the dining car after supper that Joe told Jim about his interview with Reggie and the anonymous letter. Jim's wrath was almost as great as that which had shaken Joe himself. "And the worst of it is," said Joe, "that there doesn't seem the slightest chance of getting hold of the cowardly fellow that did it. You might as well look for a needle in a haystack." "Yes," agreed Jim, "that's the exasperating feature of it. It may be the work of gamblers who have bet against the Giants and want to worry you so that you won't pitch your best ball. Some of those fellows will do anything for money. Or it may have been done by some enemy who chose that way of striking in the dark." "If it's an enemy," mused Joe, "that narrows it down. There's old Bugs Hartley, but I don't think he has intelligence enough to write a letter. Then there's Fleming, with whom I'm just about as popular as poison ivy. Add to that Braxton and a few old-time enemies, and you've about completed the list." "I wouldn't put it past Braxton," remarked Jim thoughtfully. "That fellow's a rattlesnake. He wouldn't stop at anything to get even with you." "I hate to think he'd stoop as low as to try to strike me through a woman," replied Joe. "But, by Jove!" he went on, as a thought struck him, "do you remember what Reggie said about meeting Braxton in Chicago? You know while we were on the trip he mentioned Chicago as his home town. And that letter had the Chicago postmark." "Oh, well, you couldn't hang a yellow dog on that," Jim replied. "But what struck me was what Reggie said about the speedy car that Braxton had. It must have been a mighty speedy car that got the fellow who laid that trap on the road from the training town to Hebron. Of course those things are only straws, of no value separately, though straws show which way the wind blows. One thing is certain. We've got to keep one man in our mind and guard against him. And that man's name is Braxton." They reached New York without incident the day before the opening game, and found the city baseball mad. The front pages of the newspapers had big headlines discussing the opening of the season. The sporting pages overflowed with speculation and prophecy as to the way the different teams would shape up for the pennant race. In the street cars, in the subways, in the restaurants, in the lobbies of the theatres, wherever men congregated, baseball was the subject of discussion. The long winter had made the populace hungry for their favorite game. On the following day, the migration toward the Polo Grounds began long before noon. Every train was packed with eager, good-natured humanity on its way to the game. By noon the bleachers were packed, and an hour before the game was scheduled to begin, every inch of the grandstands were packed to overflowing. The Bostons were to be the Giants' opponents in the opening game. The team had finished poorly the year before, but many winter trades had strengthened the weak spots, and the spring training of the nine had been full of promise. A close game was looked for, with the chances favoring the Giants. McRae was anxious to win the opening game, and had selected Joe to "bring home the bacon." Hughson's arm was not yet in shape, and the prospects were that Joe would have to bear the heft of the pitcher's burden if the Giants were to carry off the flag. Both teams were greeted with hearty cheers as they came out on the field. The Bostons as the visiting team, had the first chance at practice, and they uncovered a lot of speed in their preliminary work. Then the Giants took their turn in shooting the ball across the diamond and batting long flies to the outfielders. The bell rang and the field was cleared, while a hush of expectation fell on the crowds. The blue-uniformed umpire stepped to the plate. "Ladies and gentlemen," he bawled, "the batteries for to-day's game are Albaugh and Menken for Boston, and Matson and Mylert for New York. Play ball!" CHAPTER VI GETTING THE JUMP Neale, the heavy hitting center fielder of the Bostons, who led off in the batting order, came to the plate, swinging three bats. He discarded two of them and took up his position, after having tapped his heel for luck. Joe looked him over for a moment. Then he wound up and whipped one over the plate. It was a high fast one, and Neale swung at it, his bat missing the ball by fully three inches. "Strike one!" called the umpire, and the crowd roared in approval. It was an auspicious beginning. The next one was wide, and Neale refused to "bite." Again Joe tempted him with a bad one, and again Neale was too wary. The next ball was a swift incurve that broke so suddenly that it buffaloed Neale completely. The lunge he made at it swung him round so that he almost lost his balance, and he looked rather sheepish as Mylert, the burly catcher of the Giants, grinned at him. "Had that in my mitt before you swung at it," taunted Mylert. "Gee, but you're slow." Neale glared at him, but made no reply and tightened his grip on the bat. This time Joe floated up a slow teaser that looked as big as a balloon as it sailed lazily for the plate. Neale, who was all set for a fast one, nearly broke his back reaching for it. "You're out," declared the umpire, while shouts and laughter came from the crowded stands, as Neale, flinging down his bat disgustedly, went back to the dugout. Kopf, the next man up, dribbled a slow one to the box that Joe had no trouble in getting to first on time. Mitchell lifted a towering fly that Iredell gobbled up without moving in his tracks. "Classy work, old man!" cried out Robbie, his face glowing with satisfaction, as Joe drew off his glove and came in to the bench. "The old wing seems to be working as well as ever." The Giants did a little better in the first inning, though not well enough to chalk up a run. Curry started well by lining to center for a single, the ball just escaping Warner's fingers, as he leaped into the air for it. Iredell tried to sacrifice, but the ball went too quickly to the pitcher, who turned and caught Curry at second. Iredell tried to get down on the first ball pitched, but Menken showed that his throwing arm was right and nipped him by three feet. Burkett lifted one between right and center that had all the earmarks of a home run, but Mitchell, by a great run, got to it with one hand and froze on to it. It was a remarkable catch, and the sportsmanlike New York crowd applauded it as heartily as though it had been made by one of their favorites. "Highway robbery," growled Burkett, who had almost reached second before the ball was caught, and was cherishing hopes of having knocked out the first home run of the season. It seemed clear that the Bostons were not to be trifled with, at least as far as their fielding was concerned, and the crowd settled down in expectation of a close struggle. The second inning for the Bostons was short. Douglas sent up a pop fly to Willis at third. Barber fouled to Mylert. Warner tapped a little one in front of the plate that Mylert heaved to first. Each had offered at the first ball pitched, so that only three balls had been thrown for the entire inning. The hard hitting that the Giants had done in the first session had resulted in nothing, but it had shown them that Albaugh could be hit, and they faced him with confidence when they next went to the bat. But Albaugh had braced in his short breathing spell, and he set the Giants down in short order. The best that Wheeler could do was to lift a high fly behind second that nestled comfortably in Douglas' hands. Willis got to first base on an error by Warner, but Denton hit into a double play, Ellis to Douglas to Kopf, and the inning was over. In the third inning, the Bostons swung their bats in vain. Joe struck out Ellis, Menken and Albaugh, one after the other. His fast ball shot over the plate as though propelled by a gun. It came so swiftly that the Boston batsmen either winced and drew back, or struck at it after the ball had passed. His outcurve had a tremendous break, and Mylert had all he could do to get it. It was a superb example of pitching, and Joe had to remove his cap in response to the thunderous applause of the stands. "Isn't that boy a wonder, Mac?" asked Robbie in exultation. "He's simply standing those fellows on their heads. They just can't touch him." "He's the goods all right," agreed the less demonstrative McRae. "But don't let's crow too loud. The game isn't over yet by a long shot, and anything can happen in baseball." Allen was the first man up in the Giants' half, and he went out on a grasser to Warner, who got him at first by yards. It was Joe's turn next. "Win your own game now, Joe," said Jim, as his chum left the bench for the plate. "None of the other boys seem to be doing much. Show them one of the clouts you made at the training camp." Joe grinned in reply and went to the plate. Albaugh looked at him and thought he sensed an easy victim. He seldom had much trouble with pitchers. The first ball was wide and Joe let it go by. The second and third also went as balls. "Good eye, Joe," sang out Robbie, who was coaching at third. "Make him put it over." Albaugh now was "in a hole." Three balls had been called on him, and he had to get the next one over the plate. He wound up carefully and sent over a swift straight one about waist high. Joe timed it perfectly and caught it near the end of his bat. The ball went on a line straight toward the right field stands. On and on it went, still almost in a line. Neale and Barber had both started for it from the crack of the bat, but it stayed so low and went so fast that it eluded them and struck just at the foot of the right field bleachers. Joe in the meantime was running like a deer around the bases, while his comrades leaped about and howled, and the crowds in the stands were on their feet and shouting like madmen. He had rounded second and was well on toward third before Neale retrieved the ball. He relayed it to Douglas like a shot. By this time Joe had turned third and was dashing toward the plate. It was a race between him and the ball, but he beat the sphere by an eyelash, sliding into the rubber in a cloud of dust. For a few moments pandemonium reigned, as Joe, flushed and smiling, rose from the ground and dusted himself off while his mates mauled and pounded him and the multitude roared approval. "Jumping jiminy!" cried Jim, "that was a lallapaloozer! It was a longer hit than you made off of me this spring, and that's going some. And on a line too. I thought it was never going to drop." "It was a dandy, Joe," commended McRae, clapping him on the shoulder. "It's only a pity that there weren't men on bases at the time for you to bring in ahead of you. But we've broken the ice now, and perhaps the rest of the boys will get busy." Albaugh was rather shaken by the blow, and gave Mylert his base on balls. Curry too was passed to first, advancing Mylert to second. The stage seemed set for more Giant runs, but Iredell hit a liner to Ellis who took it at his shoe tops and made a smart double play by getting it to second before Mylert could scramble back. Still the Giants were a run to the good, and as the fourth and fifth innings went by without a score that run began to look as big as a meeting house. Albaugh had stiffened up and was pitching superbly, while his mates were giving him splendid support. He mowed down the heavy batters of the Giants one after another, and McRae began to fidget about uneasily on the bench. One run was a slender margin, and he was intensely eager to win this first game, not only because of the enormous crowd that had turned out to see their favorites win, but because of the moral effect on his players of "getting the jump" on at least four of the other teams by winning the first game of the season. When Joe came to the bat for the second time, there was a short consultation between Albaugh and his catcher, in which the astute manager of the Braves, Sutton, joined. Then Albaugh deliberately pitched four wild balls, and Joe trotted down to first. There was a chorus of jeers and catcalls from the crowds. "Got you rattled by that homer, did he?" "You're a sport--I don't think!" "Don't blame you for being afraid to let him hit it!" "He'll lose the ball next time!" "Crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after you!" But although it was not exactly sportsmanlike, it was within the rules of the game, and when Mylert went out on a fly a moment later, making the third out and leaving Joe stranded at first, Albaugh took off his glove and waved it mockingly at his tormentors. In the sixth inning the Bostons took their turn at scoring. Kopf sent an easy grounder to Iredell, who ordinarily would have eaten it up. This time, however, he fumbled it for a moment, and then in his haste to make up for the mishap threw wild to first. Burkett made a great jump for it, but it went high over his head to the right field fence, and before Burkett could regain it Kopf was on third. Mitchell tried to bring him home, but his efforts resulted in a weak grounder along the third base line. It looked as though the ball would roll over the foul line, and Willis waited too long. It proved to be fair, and by this time Mitchell was legging it for second. Willis threw low and the ball hit the bag, bounding out into center field. Wheeler ran in and got it, making a superb throw to the plate. But it was too late, and both Kopf and Mitchell had scored, putting Boston in the lead by two runs to one. Joe put on steam and struck out the next three batters. But the mischief had been done. Two miserable errors had given them as many unearned runs. Now all they had to do was to keep the Giants scoreless and the game would be won. Poor Iredell and Willis were disconsolate as they came in to the bench and their discomfiture was not lessened by the tongue lashing that McRae gave them. Joe, too, might naturally have been angered at the wretched support accorded to him in a game where he was showing such airtight pitching, but he was too fair and generous to find fault with comrades for a blunder that all athletes make more or less often. "Never mind, boys," he said to them in an undertone, as he sat beside them on the bench. "Just get busy with your bats and we'll pull the game out of the fire yet." Although the Giants made a desperate rally and in each of the next two innings got men on second and third, the score was unchanged and the game still "in the fire" when the eighth inning ended. Joe in the meantime had pitched with such effect that in the two innings not a man reached first. The ninth inning came, and the Giants took the field for the last time. "Now Joe," said McRae, as the former picked up his glove to walk out to the box, "hold them down just for one more inning, and we'll have a chance either to tie or win, if our boobs can wake up enough to do a little batting. The head of their batting order is coming up, but the way you've been pitching up to now they all look alike to you." "I'll pitch my head off if necessary," Joe assured him. The twirling that Joe did in that last inning was phenomenal. His control of the ball was almost uncanny. It writhed and twisted about the bats like a snake. Neale, the slugger of the Braves, struck out on the first three balls pitched. Kopf lifted a foul that came down straight over the plate, where Mylert gathered it in. Mitchell drove the ball straight over Joe's head, but the latter leaped high in the air and speared it with his gloved hand, while the stands rocked with applause. McRae gathered the Giants about him as they came in from the field. "Now you fellows listen to me," he commanded. "You've got to cop this game. No excuses. You've got to. Show these bean-eaters where they get off. Make them look like thirty cents. Knock the cover off the ball. Go in and win!" CHAPTER VII STEALING HOME Willis was first to the bat, and he strode to the plate with blood in his eye. He was still smarting from the sharp words of the manager and was anxious for a chance to redeem himself. A hit would help to wipe out the memory of his error. The first ball was an outshoot that just cut the corner of the plate. Willis struck at it and missed. The next one was a straight ball about knee high. Willis gave it a resounding clout, and it soared out toward the flagpole in left field. Willis was off with the crack of the bat, footing it down to first, while a roar went up from the stands. It looked like a sure home run, and it was clear that the Boston left fielder could not get under it. The runner was well on his way to second before the ball touched the ground. "Foul ball!" called the umpire. There was a groan from the Giant rooters, and Robbie rushed from the dugout to protest. The umpire coldly waved him off. "I said foul and that settles it," he declared, at the same time waving to Willis to come back to the plate. It was a very disgruntled Willis that complied, and he took up his bat mumbling something about "blind" and "robber." "What's that?" asked the umpire sharply. "Nothing," growled Willis, as he squared himself to meet the next ball. It was a bad one, and he let it go by. The next suited him, and he sent a sizzling grounder between second and third, on which he might have made a double, had he been quicker on his feet. But he was of the "ice wagon" type and had to be content with a single. Still it was a hit, and it put all the Giants on their toes in an instant. Their coachers at first and third began a chattering designed to rattle the pitcher. McRae hustled Denton out of the dugout with directions to sacrifice. The latter did his best, but Albaugh pounced on the ball and shot it to second, putting Willis out. Douglas whipped the ball to first in an endeavor to complete a double play, but Denton beat the ball by a step. With one man out and the tail end of the Giant batting order coming up the outlook was decidedly gloomy. Hope revived, however, when Allen laced a single to left. It was a clean hit, but Mitchell ran in on it and fielded so smartly that Denton was held at second. With two men on bases, Joe came to the bat, while the great throng gave him an ovation. "Win your own game, Matson," was shouted at him from thousands of throats. "Give the ball a ride!" "Another homer, Joe!" "Give the ball a passport and send it out of the country!" These and other encouraging cries greeted Joe as he waited for the ball. Albaugh looked at him with some apprehension. His respect for him as a batter had grown considerably since the beginning of the game. Joe refused to offer at the first ball, which was high and wide. Menken caught it and instead of returning it to the pitcher shot it down to second. Denton had taken too long a lead off the base and was trapped. His first impulse was to slide back to the bag, but he saw that he was too late for that and set out for third. The whole Boston infield joined in running him down, and despite his doubling and twisting, he was run down and put out near third. During the fracas, Allen reached second, but this was poor consolation, for now two men were out. Albaugh grinned as he picked up the ball and stepped on the mound. Baseball Joe resolved to knock that grin off his face. The ball came toward the plate like a bullet. Joe timed it perfectly, and poled a tremendous hit out toward center. "A homer! A homer!" yelled the crowd, wild with excitement. By the time Allen had galloped over the plate, Joe had rounded second, running like a frightened jackrabbit. But in the meantime, Mitchell, by a herculean effort, had managed to knock down the ball, after it had struck the ground and was speeding toward the fence. He straightened up and threw it in a line to third. It came plump into the waiting hands of the guardian of the bag. But Joe had already pulled up there, panting a little, but with his heart full of exultation. "Jumping Jehoshaphat, how that boy can hit!" cried McRae, while Joe's comrades jigged about and threw their caps into the air. "As pretty a three-bagger as I ever saw," declared Robson. "That ties the score anyway. Now if Mylert can only bring him in, the game's ours." Albaugh, though sore and enraged, still maintained perfect control of the ball. Twice in succession he sent it whizzing over the plate, and twice Mylert missed it by inches. Perhaps he was too anxious, but it was evident that his batting eye was off. Albaugh sensed this, and felt so sure of his victim that he paid little attention to third. Suddenly, as Albaugh began to wind up for his pitch, Joe darted down the line for the plate. A warning cry from Menken and a roar from the crowd told Albaugh what was happening. He stopped his windup and threw to Menken, who was covering the rubber and yelling to him to throw. He threw high in his excitement. Menken caught the ball and bent down, just as Joe slid over the plate in a cloud of dust. Menken dabbed frantically at him, and they rolled on the ground together. "Safe!" cried the umpire. The game was won and the Giants had "got the jump." The crowd went mad. By thousands they rushed down from the stands and swarmed down over the field. Joe saw them coming and made a dash for the clubhouse. But before he had reached it, the crowd had closed in about him, and it was only by the assistance of his mates, who cleared a way for him, that he could get away from their wild enthusiasm and slip into its welcome shelter. In a few minutes more the whole team had gathered there, laughing and shouting and going over the details of the game, while they took the showers and changed into their street clothes. There too came Robbie and McRae, as full of glee and happiness as the rest. "You old rascal!" chortled Robbie, as he slapped Joe on the back. "What are you trying to do? Be the whole team--gyp the other fellows out of their jobs? Such pitching, such batting--and then to cap it all by stealing home! Joe, old boy, I've seen lots of ball games, but your work to-day takes the cake." McRae, though less demonstrative, was not a whit less delighted. "Great work, Matson," he said. "Keep that up and there isn't a man in either league will be able to touch you." Jim too was fairly stuttering with his pride in his chum's achievements. "Picked the game right out of the fire," he exulted. "Tied it first and won it afterward. Joe old fellow, you're in a class by yourself. And that steal home! They'll talk about it all the season." "Well," replied Baseball Joe, with a grin, "I got rather homesick on third, and that home plate looked mighty good to me." Then Hughson came along with his congratulations, and these perhaps were the greatest reward that Joe could have asked for his day's work. For Hughson had been Joe's baseball idol for the last ten years. For at least that period of time, Hughson had been confessedly the greatest pitcher that baseball had ever seen. During that decade he had been the mainstay of the Giant team. When Hughson was slated to pitch, his mates were ready to chalk that game up in advance as won. And on the other hand, the opposing team was almost ready to concede the game before it was played. He had speed, curves and everything. At the most critical stage of a game he never lost his head. There might be three men on bases and none out, but that never disturbed Hughson. He would bring his wonderful "fadeaway" into action and the batters would go down like ninepins. He had brawn--plenty of it--but in addition he had brain, and when it came to strategy and quick thinking there was no one to be compared with him. But it was not merely his remarkable skill that had made him the hero of the baseball world. He was a gentleman through and through. He had had a college training and could meet and talk with educated men on equal terms. He was upright in his principles, clean in his living, quiet, plain, and unassuming. He was hail fellow well met with the other members of his team, and in fact with baseball players everywhere. Everybody liked him, and those who knew him best had a warm affection for him. Nor was there the slightest touch of jealousy about him. If any one else could take his laurels by showing that he was a better pitcher, Hughson welcomed the opportunity to give him every chance to do so. He was wholly wrapped up in the success of his team, and was only too glad to see any one helping to gain that success. His treatment of Joe since the latter had joined the team had been cordial in the extreme. He coached him, encouraged him, and did everything in his power to make him the star pitcher he saw he was destined to become. Hughson had been hurt in a collision just before the final games of the previous year, and had not been able to take part in the World Series. His arm had become better, but he was still in no condition to pitch. So that it had been merely as a spectator that he had witnessed the triumph of the Giants in this opening game of the season. Joe's eyes lighted up as he saw Hughson coming toward him with extended hand. CHAPTER VIII A BASEBALL IDOL "Put her there, Matson!" cried Hughson, his face beaming with pleasure. "I never saw better pitching than you showed us to-day." Joe's face flushed. He shook Hughson's hand heartily. "Oh, it's nothing compared with lots of games you've pitched, Hughson," he said. "I'm only in the infant class yet." "A mighty husky infant," laughed Hughson. "At least that's what the Bostons think. It was a hard game for them to lose, just when they thought they had it tucked away in their bat bag." "I feel rather sorry for Albaugh," said Joe. "He pitched a peach of a game and deserved to win." "He sure did," conceded Hughson. "And nine times out of ten that kind of pitching would have won. But to-day he had the hard luck to be pitted against a better man. They got only one clean hit off of you. The other was a scratch. A little more and you'd have pitched a no-hit game. And that's going some for the first game of the season, I'll tell the world. "Another thing that tickled me," he went on, "was to see him pass you to first rather than give you a chance to hit the ball. That's a compliment to all the boxmen of the country. As a rule we're easy meat. The other pitchers are glad to see us come up to the plate. It has got to be a proverb that pitchers can't hit. But you gave the lie to that proverb to-day. Those two hits of yours were ticketed for the fence. And that steal home was the classiest thing I've seen for a blue moon. That's the kind of thinking that wins ball games. Do the thing the other fellow doesn't expect you to do." "It was a case of touch and go," replied Joe. "I knew that I had touched the plate before Menken put the ball on me, but I wasn't sure the umpire would see it the same way. But he did, and that's all that matters. By the way, Hughson, how is that arm of yours coming along?" "Not as well as I should like," responded Hughson, while a touch of gloom came into his face. "There are days when it feels all right, and other days when I can't lift it without pain. I've been down to see Reese again about it, and he can't see anything radically wrong with it. Says I'll have to be patient and give it time. But it's mighty hard to have to sit on the bench when I'm fairly aching to get in the box again." "I know just how you must feel," returned Joe sympathetically. "The boys are all rooting for you to get back into harness again. It doesn't seem the same old team with you out of the running." "I'll be back with bells on before long," answered Hughson with a smile, as he moved on to have a chat with Robbie. "Isn't he a prince?" Joe remarked admiringly to Jim, as they watched the back of the tall figure. "He sure is an honor to the game," returned Jim. "Here's hoping that he'll soon be on deck again." The next day the New York papers were full of the story of the game. There was a general feeling of jubilation over the auspicious start by the Giants, a feeling that was the more pronounced, because of the feeling that had previously prevailed that Hughson's continued disability would be a serious handicap to the chances of again winning the pennant. One great subject dwelt upon in all the accounts was the marvelous pitching that Joe had shown. The sporting reporters "spread themselves" on the way he had held the Bostons in the hollow of his hand. To allow only two hits in the opening game, and one of them a scratch, was a feat that they dwelt upon at length. But scarcely less space was devoted to his batting. Although it was recalled that in the previous year he had had a creditable average at the bat, considering that he was a pitcher, his power as a twirler had kept his other qualities in the shade. Comment was made on the perfect way he had timed the ball and of the fact that his homer had gone nearly to the end of the grounds almost on a straight line, a fact that attested the tremendous power behind the hit. One of the papers headed its article: "Is There to Be a New Batting King?" and went on to say among other things: "It is an extraordinary thing to pitch a two-hit game at the beginning of the season. But it is still more extraordinary that, despite the strain on the muscles and nerves of the pitcher who achieves that distinction, he should also have a perfect batting average for the day. That is what occurred yesterday. In four times at the bat he was passed twice and the other times poled out a triple and a home run. And this was done against heady and effective pitching, for Albaugh has seldom showed better form than in yesterday's game. "One might have thought that with this record Matson would have called it a day and let it go at that. But he was still not satisfied. In the ninth, with two men out and two strikes called on Mylert, he put the game on ice by stealing home from third--as unexpected and dazzling a play as we shall probably be fortunate enough to see this year. It was the climax of a wonderful game. "McRae never made a shrewder deal than when he secured this phenomenal pitcher from St. Louis. We said this last year, when Matson's great pitching disposed of Chicago's chances for the pennant. We said it again when in the World Series he bore the heft of the pitcher's burden and made his team champions of the world. But a true thing will bear repeating twice or even thrice, and so we say it now with added emphasis." All of the comment was in the same laudatory strain, although in reference to his batting, one paper cautioned its readers that not too much importance was to be attached to that. It was probably one of Matson's good days, and one swallow did not make a summer. But whether he kept up his remarkable batting or not, the New York public would ask nothing more of him than to keep up his magnificent work in the box. Joe would not have been human if he had not enjoyed the praise that was showered upon him in the columns that he and Jim read with interest the next morning. It was pleasant to know that his work was appreciated. But he was far too sensible to be unduly elated or to get a "swelled head" in consequence. He knew how quickly a popular idol could be dethroned, and he did not want the public to set up an ideal that he could not live up to. It was for that reason that he read with especial approval the article that warned against expecting him to be a batting phenomenon because of his performance of yesterday. "That fellow's got it right," he remarked to Jim, as he pointed to the paragraph in question. "I just had luck yesterday in straightening out Albaugh's slants. Another time and I might be as helpless as a baby." "Luck, nothing!" replied Jim, who had no patience with Joe's depreciation of himself. "There was nothing fluky about those hits. You timed them perfectly and soaked the ball right on the nose. And look at the way you've been lining them out in training this spring. Wake up, man. You're not only the king of pitchers, but you've got it in you to become the king of sluggers." "Oh, quit your kidding," protested Joe. "I'm not kidding," Jim affirmed earnestly. "It's the solemn truth. You'll win many a game this year not only by your pitching but by your batting too. Just put a pin in that." At this moment a bellboy tapped at the door, and being told to come in, handed Joe two telegrams. He tore them open in haste. The first was from Reggie and read: "Keep it up, old top. Simply ripping, don't you know." Joe laughed and passed it on to Jim. "Sounds just like the old boy, doesn't it?" he commented. The second one was from Mabel: "So proud of you, Joe. Not surprised though. Best love. Am writing." Jim did not see this one, but it went promptly into that one of Joe's pockets that was nearest his heart, the same one that carried the little glove of Mabel's that had been his inspiration in all his victorious baseball campaigns. After a hearty breakfast, the chums went out for a stroll. Neither was slated to pitch for that day, and they had no immediate weight of responsibility on their minds. Markwith, the left-handed twirler of the Giants, would do the box work that day unless McRae altered his plans. "Hope Red puts it over the Braves to-day the way you did yesterday," remarked Jim, as they sauntered along. "I hope so," echoed Joe. "The old boy seems to be in good shape, and they've usually had trouble in hitting him. They'll be out for blood though, and if they put in Belden against him it ought to be a pretty battle. Markwith beat him the last time he was pitted against him, but only by a hair." It was a glorious spring morning, and as they had plenty of time they prolonged their walk far up on the west side of the city. As they were approaching a corner, they saw a rather shabbily dressed man slouching toward them. Jim gave him a casual glance, and then clutched Joe by the arm. "Look who's coming, Joe!" he exclaimed. "It's Bugs Hartley!" CHAPTER IX AN OLD ENEMY Baseball Joe started as he looked at the man more closely. "Bugs Hartley!" he ejaculated. "I thought we'd seen the last of that fellow. I imagined that by this time he'd be in jail or in a lunatic asylum." "He'll get there some time likely enough," replied Jim. "But just now he's here. That's Bugs as sure as shooting." It was evident that the man had recognized them also, for he stopped suddenly, as though debating whether to advance or retreat. He decided on the former course, and with an air of bravado came toward them. Joe and Jim would have passed him without speaking, but he planted himself squarely in their path, a malignant look glowing in his bleary eyes. "So here you are again," he snarled, addressing himself to Joe. "Sure thing," answered Joe coolly. "You see me, don't you?" "I see you all right," replied Hartley, as his eye took in Joe's well-dressed form. "All dolled up too. The man who took the bread and butter out of my mouth. Oh, I see you all right, worse luck." Bugs Hartley had been a well known character in baseball for some years. He had gained his nickname from his erratic habits. He had never been any too strong mentally, and his addiction to liquor had still further contributed to throw him off his balance. But he had been a remarkable pitcher, with a throwing arm that made up for some of his mental deficiencies, and had played in several major league clubs. For some years he had been a member of the Giants, and was still a member when Joe joined the team. His vicious habits and utter failure to obey the rules of discipline had made him a thorn in his manager's side, but McRae had tolerated him because of his unusual skill in the box. Joe had felt sorry for the man, and had done all he could to help him along. Once he had found him wandering intoxicated in the streets on the eve of an important game, and had got him off quietly to bed so as to hide the matter from McRae. But there was no gratitude in Hartley's disposition, and besides he was consumed with envy at seeing Joe's rapid progress in his profession, while he himself, owing to his dissipation, was going backward. On one occasion, he had tried to queer Joe by doping his coffee just before the latter was scheduled to pitch in a game with Philadelphia. His hatred was increased when, after being knocked out of the box during a game, Joe had taken his place and won out. McRae at last lost patience with him and gave him his walking papers. Hartley's twisted brain attributed this to Joe, though as a matter of fact Joe had asked McRae to give Bugs another chance. Hartley's reputation was so bad as a man and it was so generally understood that he was through as a pitcher that no other club cared to engage him. This increased his bitterness against the supposed author of his misfortunes. On one occasion he had tried to injure Joe in a dark street by hurling a jagged bolt of iron at his head, and the only thing that saved Baseball Joe was that at the moment he had stooped to adjust his shoelace. At that time Joe might have handed him over to the police, but instead he let him go with a warning. Now he had again met this dangerous semi-lunatic in the streets of New York. "Now look here, Bugs," said Joe quietly and decidedly. "I'm just about tired of that kind of talk. I've done everything I could for you, and in return you've doped me and otherwise tried to hurt me. You've been your own worst enemy. I'm sorry if you're hard up, and if you need money I'll give it to you. But I want you to keep away from me, and if there's any more funny business you won't get off as easily as you did last time." "I don't want your money," snapped Bugs. "I'm after you, and I'll get you yet." "I don't think you'd better try it. It won't get you anywhere, except perhaps in jail." "There's ways of doing it," growled Hartley. "Ways that you ain't dreamin' of." A sudden thought struck Joe. "Do you mean anonymous letters?" he asked, looking keenly into Hartley's eyes. "Anon-non--what do you mean?" the man asked sullenly. He was an illiterate man and had probably never heard the word before. "Letters without any name signed to them," persisted Joe. "Aw! what are you giving me?" snapped Hartley. "I don't know what you're talking about." His mystification was so genuine that Joe knew that his shot, fired at random, had missed the mark. He could eliminate Hartley at once as a possible author of the anonymous letter Mabel had received. "Never mind," said Joe. "Now one last word, Bugs. Twice you've tried to do me up and twice you've failed. Don't let it happen a third time. It will be three strikes and out for you if you do." He made a move to pass on. Hartley seemed for a moment as though he would bar the way, but the steely look in Joe's eyes made him think better of it. With a muttered imprecation he stepped aside, and the two friends moved on. "A bad egg," remarked Jim, as they walked along. "I don't know whether he's just bad or is mad," replied Joe regretfully. "A combination of both I suppose. He's got the fixed idea that I've done him a wrong of some kind and his poor brain hasn't room for anything else. It's too bad to see a man that was once a great pitcher go to the dogs the way he has. I suppose he picks up a few dollars now and then by pitching for semi-professional teams. But most of that I suppose is dissipated." "Well, you want to keep on your guard against him, Joe," warned Jim, in some anxiety. "A crazy man makes a dangerous enemy." "Oh, I don't think there's any need of worrying about Bugs," rejoined Joe carelessly. "The chances are ten to one we'll never run across him again." The encounter had rather spoiled their morning, and they hailed a taxicab to take them back to their hotel. There they had lunch and then rode up to the Polo Grounds for the game. As Joe had predicted, the Bostons that afternoon were out for blood and they evened up the score. Markwith pitched a good game except for one bad inning when he lost control, and hits, sandwiched in with passes and a wild pitch, let in three runs. He braced up after that, but it was too late, and the Giants had to take the little end of the score. In the next two weeks the Giants met the rest of the Eastern teams, and, taking it as a whole, the result was satisfactory. They had no trouble in taking the Phillies into camp, for that once great team had been shot to pieces. The majority of the Boston games also went to the Giants' credit. They met a snag, however, in Brooklyn, and the team from over the bridge took four games out of six from their Manhattan rivals. But then the Brooklyns always had been a hoodoo for the Giants, and in this season, as in many others, they lived up to the tradition. Still the Giants wound up their first Eastern series with a percentage of 610, which was respectable if not brilliant. But now their real test was coming. They were about to make their first invasion of the West, where the teams were much stronger than those of the East. Cincinnati was going strong under the great leader who had once piloted the Phillies to a championship. Chicago was quite as formidable as in the year before, when the Giants had just nosed them out at the finish. St. Louis, though perhaps the least to be feared, was developing sluggers that would put the Giants' pitchers on their mettle. But most of all to be feared was Pittsburgh, which had been going through the rest of the Western teams like a prairie fire. "Pittsburgh's the enemy," McRae told his men, and Robbie agreed with him. "Beat those birds and you'll cop the flag!" CHAPTER X THREE IN A ROW The first jump of the team was to Cincinnati, and there they found their work cut out for them. The Reds had just lost three out of four to Pittsburgh, and they had got such a talking to from their manager, from the fans, and from the press of the city that they knew they had to do something to redeem themselves. They knew that if they could hold the Giants even, it would be something; if they could take three out of four they would be forgiven; while if they could make a clean sweep of the series they would "own the town." It was a singular thing what delight all the Western teams, and for that matter all the teams of the League, took in beating the Giants. A victory over them, of course, did not count any more in the final score than a victory over one of the tailenders; but there was a fiendish satisfaction in taking the scalps of the team from the "Big Town." So that the managers always saved their best pitchers for the games with the Giants, while they took a chance with their second string pitchers against the other teams. This of course was a compliment; but it was a compliment that the Giants did not especially appreciate, for it made their task harder than that of any other team in the League. So when the Giants learned that Dutch Rutter was to try his prowess against them in the opening game, they were not surprised. Rutter was a left-hander who had made a phenomenal record the preceding year, and he had been especially rested up and groomed with the Giant series in view. Meran, the manager, had figured that if he could win the first game with Rutter he could come back with him in the fourth, and thus have at least a chance of getting an even break on the series. But McRae, anticipating such a move, had so arranged his own selection of pitchers that Joe was in line for the first game, and he was not afraid to pit his "ace" against the star boxman of the Cincinnatis. His confidence was justified, for Baseball Joe won out after a gruelling struggle. In Rutter he had found an opponent worthy of his steel. For six innings neither team broke into the run column. Rutter had superb control for a left-hander, and he showed a most dazzling assortment of curves and slants. But Joe came back at him with the same brand of pitching that he had shown in the opening game, and the Cincinnati batsmen were turned back from the plate bewildered and disgruntled. In vain their manager raved and stormed. "Why don't you hit him?" he asked of his star slugger, as the latter came back to the bench, after having been called out on strikes. "Hit him!" Duncan came back at him. "What chance have I got of hitting him, when I can't even hit the ball he pitches?" Still the Giants had a scare thrown into them when in the ninth inning, by a succession of fumbles and wild throws, the Cincinnatis had three men on bases and none out. As they themselves had only one run, scored in the seventh inning by a three base hit by Joe, aided by a clean single by Mylert, the chances looked exceedingly good that the Cincinnatis might tie the score or win the game. A clean single would have brought in one run and probably two. But Baseball Joe was always at his best when most depended on him. While the coachers tried to rattle him and the crowds frantically adjured Thompson, who was at the bat, to bring the men on bases in to the plate, Joe was as cool as a cucumber. He threw a swift high one to Thompson which the latter missed by three inches. Mylert threw the ball back to Joe, who stopped it with his foot and stooped as though to adjust his shoe lace. He fumbled an instant with the lace, and then suddenly picking up the ball hurled it to second like a shot. Emden, who was taking a long lead off the base, tried to scramble back, but Denton had the ball on him like a flash. Mellen who was on third made a bolt for the plate, but Denton shot the ball to Mylert, and Mellen was run down between third and home. While this was going on, Gallagher had taken second, and profiting by the running down of Mellen, kept on half way to third. He did not dare go all the way to third, because Mellen still had a chance to get back to that base. But the instant Mellen was touched out, Joe, who had taken part in running him down, shot the ball to Willis at third and Gallagher was caught between the second and third bags. Three men were out, the game was over, and the Giants had begun their Western invasion with a 1 to 0 victory. [Illustration: SUDDENLY PICKING UP THE BALL HE HURLED IT TO SECOND.] Joe's quick thinking had cleared the bags in a twinkling. It had all come so suddenly that the crowd was dumbfounded. Meran, the Cincinnati manager, sat on the bench with his mouth open like a man in a daze. His men were equally "flabbergasted." Thompson still stood at the plate with his bat in hand. It seemed to him that a bunco game had been played on him, and he was still trying to fathom it. Then at last the crowd woke up. They hated to see the home team lose, but they could not restrain their meed of admiration and applause. The stands fairly rocked with cheering. They had seen a play that they could talk about all their lives, one that happens perhaps once in a generation, one that they would probably never see again. McRae and Robbie for a moment acted like men in a trance. Over Robbie's rubicund face chased all the colors of the chameleon. It almost seemed as though he might have a stroke of apoplexy. Then at last he turned to McRae and smote him mightily on the knees. "Did you see it, John?" he roared. "Did you see it?" "I saw it," answered McRae. "But for the love of Pete, Robbie, keep that pile driver off my knees. Yes, I saw it, and I don't mind saying that I never saw anything like it in my thirty years of baseball. I have to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming." "A miracle man, that's what he is!" ejaculated Robbie. "That wing of his is wonderful, but it's the head on him that tops any other in the league. He wasn't behind the door when brains were given out." Meran, the Cincinnati manager, who was a good sport, after he had recovered from his astonishment, came over to the Giants' bench and shook hands with McRae and Robson. "It was a hard game to lose, John," he said to the Giants' manager. "I thought we had it sewed up in the ninth. But there's no use bucking against that pitcher of yours. I'm only glad that you can't pitch him in all your games." Joe, flushed and smiling, was overwhelmed with congratulations, but he made light of his feat, as was his custom. "It was simple enough," he protested. "I had the luck to catch Emden off second and the boys did all the rest." "Simple enough," mimicked Jim. "Oh, yes, it was simple enough. That's the reason it happens every day of the week." It was a good beginning, but the old proverb that "a good beginning makes a bad ending" was illustrated in this Western tour. For some reason most of the Giant pitchers could not "get going." Jim pulled out a victory in the Cincinnati series, but Markwith lost his game, and Hughson, who tried to pitch one of the games, found that he was not yet in shape. That series ended two and two. In Chicago the Giants had to be content with only one victory out of the series. They hoped to make up for this in St. Louis. But they found that the fame of "Murderers' Row" had not been exaggerated, and there was a perfect rain of hits from the Cardinals' bats that took two games out of three, the fourth that had been scheduled being held up by rain. When the team swung around to Pittsburgh, there were some added wrinkles between McRae's brows. "If we can only break even with Cincinnati and get the little end of it in Chicago and St. Louis, what will Pittsburgh do to us?" he asked Robbie, with a groan. "What Pittsburgh will do to us, John," replied Robbie soberly, "is a sin and a shame!" CHAPTER XI RIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER The Smoky City was all agog over the games. It had won championships before, but that was in the days of Fred Clarke and Honus Wagner and other fence breakers. It had been a good many years since it had seen a pennant floating over Forbes Field, and old-timers were wont to shake their heads sadly and say they never would see it again. But this year the "dope" pointed in the right direction. The management of the team had strengthened the weak point in the infield by a winter trade that had brought to them "Rabbit" Baskerville, the crackerjack shortstop of the Braves. The benefit of the change had been manifested in the spring practice when the Rabbit had put new pep and ginger in the team. And in the regular games so far they had had little difficulty in winning a large majority from their rivals. How they would hold out against the Giants was the problem that yet remained to be solved. But unless the Giants showed a decided reversal from the form in which they had been playing recently, it would not be so very hard to take them also into camp. The Giants themselves felt none too much confidence, as they prepared for this important series. One bit of luck came to them, however, in the return at this juncture of Larry Barrett to the team. He had been down with an attack of intermittent fever that had kept him out of part of the spring practice and had prevented him thus far from playing in any of the regular games. But on the team's arrival in Pittsburgh, they found Barrett waiting for them, looking a little lighter than usual, but declaring himself in excellent condition and fit to play the game of his life. The previous year he had guarded the keystone bag, and by general consent was regarded as the best second baseman in the League. His batting too was a powerful asset to the team, as season after season he ranked among the .300 hitters. Apart from his superb playing at bat and in the field, he also helped to keep the boys in good spirits. His wit and love of fun had gained him the nickname of "Laughing Larry," and no team of which Larry was a member could stay long in the doleful dumps. His coming made necessary a change in the team. Allen, who had not made a success in playing the "sun field," was benched, and Denton, whose batting could not be spared, was shifted to right field in his place, while Larry resumed his old position at second. On the morning of the day of the first game, McRae called his players together for a few words of counsel. At least he called it counsel. The players were apt to refer to it as roasting. "I've been thinking," he said, "that I've got the greatest collection of false alarms of any manager in either of the big leagues." This was not an especially encouraging beginning, but each of the men tried to look as though the manager could not by any possibility be referring to him. Some of them hoped that he would not descend from generalities to particulars. The manager's keen eyes ranged around the circle as though looking for contradiction. There was a silence as of the tomb. "You fellows haven't been playing baseball," he went on. "You've been playing hooky. Look at the way you've let the other teams walk over you. The Chicagos took three out of four from you. The Cardinals grabbed two out of three, and it's only the mercy of heaven that rain kept them from copping another. Look at the way you've been batting. Every team in the League except the Phillies has a better average. You've got enough beef about you to knock the ball out of the lot, and you've been doing fungo hitting, knocking up pop flies. What in the name of seven spittin' cats do you mean by it? Every time you collect your salaries you ought to be arrested for getting money on false pretenses." He paused for a moment, and some of the more hopeful players thought that perhaps he was through. But he was only getting his breath. He faced them scornfully. "Giants!" he exclaimed with sarcasm. "Giants you call yourselves. Get wise to yourselves. If you're Giants, I'm a Chinaman. It's dwarfs you are, pygmies. Now I want you boobs to get one thing into your heads. Get it straight. You've got to win this series from Pittsburgh. Do you get me? You've got to! If you don't, I'll disband the whole team and start getting another one from the old ladies' home." Much more he said to the same effect, with the result that when the men, with heightened color and nerves rasped by his caustic tongue lashing, left the clubhouse, they were in red-hot fighting mood. Pygmies were they? Well, on the ball field they'd prove to McRae that he didn't know what he was talking about. An immense crowd was present that filled Forbes Field to capacity when the bell rang for the beginning of the game. Joe had pitched only two days before, and McRae decided to send Markwith into the box. In the first inning, Dawley, the Pittsburgh pitcher, found it hard to locate the plate, and Curry was passed to first. On the hit and run play, Iredell popped to the pitcher, and Curry had all he could do to get back to first. Burkett lined a clean hit over the second baseman's head, but by sharp fielding Curry was kept from going beyond the middle bag. On the next ball pitched, Curry tried to steal third but was thrown out. Burkett in the meantime had got to second, but he was left there when Wheeler sent a long fly to center that Ralston captured after a hard run. The Pittsburghs were not long in proving that they had their batting clothes on. Ralston landed on the first ball that Markwith sent up for a home run. The crowd chortled with glee, and the Giants and the few supporters they had in the stands were correspondingly glum. The blow seemed to shake Markwith's nerve, and the next batter was passed. Bemis sent a sizzling grounder to Iredell and it bounced off his glove, the batter reaching first and Baskerville taking second on the play. Astley dribbled a slow one to Markwith, who turned to throw to third, but finding that Baskerville was sure of making the bag, turned and threw high to Burkett at first. The tall first baseman leaped high in the air and knocked it down, but not in time to get his man. With the bases full Brown slapped a two bagger to center that cleared the bases, three men galloping over the plate in succession. It was evidently not Markwith's day, and McRae beckoned him to come in to the bench while the crowd jeered the visitors and cheered their own favorites. Poor Markwith looked disconsolate enough, and after a moment's conference with McRae, which he was not anxious to prolong, he meandered over the field to the showers. "Bring on the next victim!" taunted some of the spectators. "All pitchers look alike to us to-day. Next dead one to the front." McRae held a brief consultation with Robbie, and then nodded to Jim. "Go to it, Jim," encouraged Joe. "I'm rooting for you, old man. Pull some of the feathers out of those birds. It's a tough job bucking against a four run lead, but you're the boy to do it." "I'll do my best," answered Jim, as he put on his glove and went into the box. It was the cue for the crowd to try to rattle him. The coachers began chattering like a lot of magpies, and the man on second began to dance about the bag and shout to Garrity, the next batsman, to bring him in. Jim sent one over the plate that cut it in half, but the batsman had orders to wait him out, under the supposition that he would be wild. So he let the second one go by also. "Strike two!" called the umpire. Garrity braced. This was getting serious. This time Jim resorted to a fadeaway that Garrity swung at with all his might. But the ball eluded him and dropped into Mylert's mitt. "You're out!" snapped the umpire, waving him away from the plate. CHAPTER XII JIM'S WINNING WAYS "Good boy, Jim!" cried Joe, as his chum came in to the bench. "You put the Indian sign on that fellow all right. Just hold them down and trust to the boys to bat in some runs to even up the score." But if the boys had any such intentions they certainly took their time about it. Larry, to be sure, poled out a long hit to right that had all the signs of a homer, but Astley backed up and fairly picked it off the wall. Denton cracked out a single between first and second. Jim hit sharply to third, and O'Connor by a superb stop got the ball to first in time, Denton in the meantime reaching second. Mylert swung savagely at the ball, but it went up straight in the air and Dawley gathered it in. In their half of the second, the Pittsburghs increased their lead to five. O'Connor struck out on the first three balls pitched, but Jenkins caught the ball on the nose for a single to center. Curry thought he had a chance to make a catch, and ran in for it, instead of waiting for it on a bound. By this mistake of judgment the ball got past him, and before it could be retrieved Jenkins by fast running had crossed the plate. Dawley was easy on a bounder to Willis, and Ralston, in trying to duck away from a high incurve, struck the ball with his bat and sent it rolling to Burkett for an out. "Not much nourishment for us in that inning," muttered McRae, as he watched the man chalking up another run for Pittsburgh on the big scoreboard at the side of the field. "No," agreed Robbie. "But you'll notice that the run wasn't earned. If that hit had been played right, Jenkins would have been held for a single." "Give them a row of goose eggs, Dawley," was the advice shouted to the Pittsburgh pitcher, as he stepped into the box. Dawley grinned with supreme confidence. And for the third and fourth inning his confidence seemed justified. The ball came zipping over the plate with all sorts of twists and contortions, and the Giants seemed helpless before him. They either struck out or put up feeble flies and fouls that were easily gathered up. Only one hit went outside the diamond and that plumped square into the hands of the waiting center fielder. But in the meantime, the Pittsburghs were getting a little uneasy about the kind of pitching that Jim was sending across. His fast ball went so swiftly that the eye could scarcely follow it. He had perfect control, and the "hop" on the ball just before it got to the plate was working to perfection. The way he worked the corners of the plate was a revelation. And in the fourth inning, when he struck out the side on nine pitched balls, a ripple of applause was forced from the spectators, despite their desire to see the home team win. "You're going like a house afire, old man," exclaimed Joe, as the Giants came in for their turn. "That's what he is," agreed Robbie, who had overheard the remark. "But it won't do any good unless our boys wake up and do something with their bats. That five run lead is bad medicine." It did not look any better to the Giants than it did to Robbie, and in the fifth inning they began to come to life. Dawley, for the first time, seemed to be a little shaky in his control. He passed Iredell and then tried to fool Burkett on a slow ball. But the latter timed it exactly and poled it out between left and center for a beautiful three-bagger. Iredell scored easily and a roar went up from the men in the Giants' dugout as he crossed the plate. "Here's where we start a rally, boys!" cried Robbie. "Every man on his toes now. Here's where we send this pitcher to the showers." Wheeler went to the plate with directions to sacrifice, which he did neatly by sending a slow roller to first, on which Burkett scored. Willis clipped out a liner to right, which was really only good for a single, but in trying to stretch it to a two baser he fell a victim at second. Then Larry came to the bat. "Show them that your layoff hasn't hurt your batting eye, Larry," sang out McRae. The first ball was wide, and Larry held his bat motionless. On the second offering he fouled off. The third was about waist high, and Larry swung at it. The ball soared off to right field and landed in the bleachers. It was a clean home run and Larry trotted easily around the bases, a broad grin on his good-natured Irish face. "We're finding him!" shouted McRae. "We've got him going! Now, Denton, put another one in the same place." Denton did his best, but it was not good enough. Dawley had tightened up and was sending the ball over the plate as though thrown from a catapult. Two strikes were called on Denton, and then he put up a fly just back of second which Baskerville caught in good style. The inning was over, but the Giants felt better. There was a big difference between five to none and five to three. Besides, they had learned that Dawley could be hit. "Keep them down, Jim, and we'll put you in the lead next inning," prophesied Larry, as he passed him on his way out to second. Jim proceeded at once to keep them down. He had never been in better form. The three runs that his mates had scored had put new heart in him and he made the Pittsburghs "eat out of his hand." They simply could not get going against him. His sharp breaking curve had their best batters completely at sea. They were swinging in bewilderment at balls that they could not reach. For the next three innings not a man reached first base and in the eighth inning he mowed them down on strikes as fast as they came to the plate. "Oh, if we'd only started the game with him!" groaned McRae, as the eighth inning ended with the score unchanged. For in the meantime Larry's prophecy had not been fulfilled that the Giant batsmen would gain the lead. They had been hitting more freely than in the early part of the game, but had been batting in hard luck. Every ball they hit seemed to go straight to some fielder, and the Pittsburghs were giving their pitcher magnificent support. There was one gleam of hope in the eighth, when with two men out, a Giant was roosting on second and another on third. But hope went glimmering when Burkett's hoist to center was easily gathered in by Ralston. "We can win yet," crowed Robbie, with a confidence he was far from feeling, as the Giants entered on their last inning. "There's many a game been won in the ninth. Go in now and knock him out of the box." Wheeler started in with a single that just escaped the outstretched hands of Baskerville. McRae himself ran down to first to coach him. Willis followed with another single on which Wheeler went all the way to third. It looked as though the long-hoped for rally had at last commenced. But a groan went up from the Giant dugout when Willis, on the next ball pitched, started for second and was nailed by three feet. Still Larry was next at bat, and his comrades, remembering his last home run, urged him to repeat. Larry was only too eager to do so, and on the second ball pitched laced it to right field for what looked to be a homer but went foul by a few feet only. The next was a missed strike. Two balls followed in quick succession and then, with the count three to two, slapped out a rattling two-bagger to center. Wheeler scored and the tally was five to four in Pittsburgh's favor. Then to Joe's surprise McRae beckoned him from the dugout. "What's the big idea?" Joe asked, as he came up to his manager. "I'm going to put you in as a pinch hitter," answered McRae. "I'd rather take a chance on you than Denton. Get in there now and knock the cover off the ball." There was a gasp of surprise from the stands. In their experience it was usually a pitcher who was taken out to make room for a pinch hitter. It was almost unheard of that the procedure should be reversed. To them it seemed a sign that McRae was at the end of his rope, and there were catcalls and shouts of derision as Joe came to the plate. And these redoubled in volume as he missed the first ball that Dawley sent over. "What did I tell you, boys?" "Nit, on that!" "Matson is all right as a pitcher, but as a batter, nothing doing." "Give him two more like that, Dawley!" "Take your time, Joe!" "Make him give you the kind you want!" "Here is where Pittsburgh chews the Giants up!" "Maybe you can do it somewhere else, but you can't do it here!" "One, two, three, Dawley, remember." So the calls ran on as Joe waited for the pitcher to deliver the sphere again. The Pittsburgh rooters thought they had Joe's "goat" and they were prepared to make the most of it. They began a chorus of yells and groans that grew louder and louder. They stopped suddenly as Joe caught the next ball about a foot from the end of his bat. There was a mighty crack and the ball soared up and up into the sky over right field. The fielders started to run for it and then stopped short in their tracks, throwing up their hands in despair. The ball cleared the bleachers, cleared the wall, and went through the window of a house on the other side of the street. Joe had started running like a deer at the crack of the bat, but as he rounded first McRae shouted at him to take his time, and he completed the rest of his journey at a jog trot, Larry of course having preceded him. There was a wild jubilee at the plate. Robbie threw dignity to the winds and danced a jig, and Joe was sore from the thumping of his mates. "The longest hit that's ever been made on Forbes Field!" cried Larry exultingly. "Old Honus Wagner in his best days never made such a clout," joined in Jim. "Joe, old boy, you've saved the game." "It isn't over yet," cautioned Joe smilingly; "but if you keep up the same brand of pitching you've been showing us, they won't have a Chinaman's chance." The next two batters were easy outs and the Giants' half was over. The Pittsburghs came in for their last chance, determined to do or die. It was exasperating for them to have the game snatched from them when they were just about to put it on their side of the ledger. But Jim put out the first one on a puny fly and sent the last two back to the bench by the strike-out route--and the game was over. In their first clash with the redoubtable Pittsburghs, the Giants had won by six to five! CHAPTER XIII A BREAK IN THE LUCK It was a highly elated crowd of Giants that chattered away excitedly in the clubhouse after the finish of the game. Jim and Joe came in for the major share of the honors, the first because of his superb pitching and the latter for the glorious home run that had clinched the victory. "Some pitching, Barclay," said Hughson, clapping Jim on the shoulder. "Do you realize that only thirty-two batters faced you and that eleven of them went out on strikes? That's what I call twirling." "It'll take some of the chestiness out of these Pirates," laughed Larry. "They thought we were going to be as easy meat for them as the rest of the teams. And, begorra, it looked as though we would from the way the game started." "You did your share all right, Larry," replied Jim. "That home run of yours was a beauty. And that two-bagger was no slouch." "But that clout of Joe's was the real cheese," said Denton generously. "Gee, Joe, I was a little sore when McRae put you in to take my turn at bat. But when I saw that old apple clear the fence I knew that the old man had the right dope. I haven't made a hit like that since I've been in the game." "Who has?" queried Curry. "I'll bet it comes pretty close to being a record. If that house hadn't been in the way the ball would be going yet." "Don't forget, Joe, that you'll have to pay for that broken window," laughed Wheeler. "I guess McRae would pay for a hundred broken windows and never say a word," chuckled Iredell. He would have been still more sure of this had he been able to see McRae's face at that moment and overheard what he was saying to Robson. "You've had a real bit of luck to-day, John," the latter had remarked, his broad face radiant with satisfaction. "You've discovered that you have another first string pitcher. That work of young Barclay was simply marvelous." "You said it, Robbie," agreed McRae. "It was a rough deal to give a young pitcher the job of beating the Pittsburghs after they had a four run lead. But he stood the gaff and came through all right. From this time on he'll take his regular turn in the box. But it isn't that that pleases me most in this day's work." "What is it then?" asked Robbie. "It's the batting of Matson," replied McRae thoughtfully. "I've been in the game thirty years, and I've seen all the fence-breakers--Wagner, Delehanty, Brouthers, Lajoie, and all the rest of them. And I tell you now, Robbie, that he's the king of all of them. The way he stands at the plate, the way he holds his bat, the way he times his blow, the way he meets the ball--those are the things that mark out the natural batter. It's got to be born in a man. You can't teach it to him. All the weight of those great shoulders go into his stroke, and he makes a homer where another man would make a single or a double. Now mark what I'm telling you, Robbie, but keep it under your hat, for I don't want the kid to be getting a swelled head. In Baseball Joe Matson we've got not only the greatest pitcher in the game, but the hardest hitter in either league. And that goes." "Oh, come now, John," protested Robbie, "aren't you going a little too strong? The greatest pitcher, yes. I admit that. There's no one in sight now that can touch him, now that Hughson's laid up. And between you and me, John, I don't believe that even Hughson in his best days had anything on Matson. But when you speak of batting, how about Kid Rose of the Yankees?" "He's all to the good," admitted McRae. "He's got a wonderful record; the best record in fact of any man that has ever broken into the game. He topped the record for home runs last season, and by the way he's starting in this year he'll do it again. Up to now we haven't had anyone in the National League that could approach him. But I'm willing to bet right now that he never made so long a hit as Matson made this afternoon. Of course Rose has had more experience in batting than Matson, and for the last two or three years he's hardly done any pitching. But if I should take Matson out of the box right now and play him in the outfield every day, I'll bet that by the end of the season he'd be running neck and neck with Kid Rose and perhaps a wee bit ahead of him." "Well, maybe, John," agreed Robbie, though a little doubtfully. "But what's the use of talking about it? You know that we can't spare him from the box. He's our pitching ace." "I know that well enough," replied McRae. "But all the same I'm going to see that he has many a chance to win games for us by his batting as well as by his pitching. On the days he isn't pitching, I'll use him as a pinch hitter, as I did to-day. Then, too, when he is pitching, I'm going to make a change in the batting order. Instead of having him down at the end I'm going to put him fourth--in the cleanup position. If that old wallop of his doesn't bring in many a run I'll miss my guess." The very next day McRae had a chance to justify his theories. Hughson had told the manager that he thought he was in shape to pitch, and McRae, who had great faith in his judgment, told him to go in. The "Old Master," as he was affectionately called, used his head rather than his arm and by mixing up his slow ball with his fast one and resorting on occasion to his famous fadeaway, got by in a close game. In the sixth, Joe was called on as a pinch hitter, and came across with another homer, which, although not as long as that of the previous day, enabled him to reach the plate without sliding and bring in two runs ahead of him. Two homers in two consecutive days were not common enough to pass without notice, and the Pittsburgh sporting writers began to feature Joe in their headlines. There was a marked increase in the attendance on the third day when Joe was slated to pitch. On that day he "made monkeys" of the Pittsburgh batters, and on the two turns at bat when he was permitted to hit made a single and a three-bagger. In two other appearances at bat, the Pittsburgh pitcher deliberately passed him, at which even the Pittsburgh crowd expressed their displeasure by jeers. On the final day, Markwith was given a chance to redeem himself, and pitched an airtight game. But Hooper of the Pittsburghs was also at his best, and with the game tied in the ninth Joe again cracked out a homer to the right field bleachers, his third home run in four days! Markwith prevented further scoring by the enemy, and the game went into the Giants' winning column. "Four straight from the league leaders," McRae chuckled happily. "The break in the luck has come at last." CHAPTER XIV A DELIGHTFUL SURPRISE "Well, we wound up the trip in a blaze of glory, anyway," remarked Jim to Baseball Joe, as they sat in the Pullman coach that was carrying them and the rest of the team back to New York. "Yes, and we just saved our bacon by doing it," replied Joe. "Those last four games gave us eight out of fifteen for the trip. Not so awfully bad for a team on a trip, and yet not good enough to win the championship. But even at that I guess McRae won't supplant us with a team from the old ladies' home," he added, with a laugh. "We've got a long series of games on the home grounds now," put in Larry, the optimist. "We'll show these other fellows how the game ought to be played. Just watch us climb." "Here's hoping you're right," chimed in Burkett. "A slice of the World Series money this year would look mighty good to me." "That's looking pretty far ahead," said Curry. "Still, if Joe keeps up the batting he's been showing us in Pittsburgh, I'll bet we cop the flag." "That may be just a flash in the pan," cautioned Joe. "I may have had just a few good days when everything broke just right for me. I'm a pitcher, not a batter." "Not a batter, eh?" remarked Larry, in feigned surprise. "How surprised Dawley and Hooper and the other Pittsburgh pitchers will be to hear that. They seemed to think you could pickle the pill all right." The players found the baseball circles of New York in a ferment of interest and excitement over the team. There had been considerable despondency over the poor showing of the Giants in the first three series they had played on the trip. But the four rattling victories they had gained over Pittsburgh had redeemed them in the minds of their followers, and hopes for the pennant had revived. But the one thing that obscured everything else was the tremendous batting that Joe had done in that last series. The sporting columns of the newspapers had headlines like: "The New Batting Star;" "A Rival to Kid Rose;" "Is There to Be a New Home-Run King?" and "The Colossus of Swat." Joe found his footsteps dogged by reporters eager to get interviews telling how he did it. Moving picture operators begged the privilege of taking him in all positions--as he gripped his bat--the way he stood at the plate--as he drew back for his swing. Illustrated weekly papers had full page pictures of him. Magazines offered him large sums for articles signed with his name. He found himself in the calcium light, holding the center of the stage, the focus of sporting interest and attention. Joe was, of course, pleased at the distinction he had won, and yet at the same time he was somewhat uneasy and bewildered. He was not especially irked at the attention he was attracting. That had already become an old story as to his pitching. He was hardened to reporters, to being pointed out in the streets, to having a table at which he happened to be dining in a restaurant or hotel become the magnet for all eyes while whispers went about as to who he was. That was one of the penalties of fame, and he had become used to it. But hitherto his reputation had been that of a great pitcher, and in his own heart he knew he could sustain it. The pitching box was his throne, and he knew he could make good. But he was somewhat nervous about the acclamations which greeted his batting feats. He was not at all sure that he could keep it up. He had never thought of himself as any more than an ordinary batter. He knew that as a pitcher he was not expected to do much batting, and so he had devoted most of his training to perfecting himself in the pitching art. Now he found himself suddenly placed on a pedestal as a Batting King. Suppose it were, as he himself had suggested, merely a flash in the pan. It would be rather humiliating after all this excitement to have the public find out that their new batting idol was only an idol of clay after all. He confided some of his apprehension to Jim, but his chum only laughed at him. "Don't worry a bit over that, old man," Jim reassured him. "I only wish I were as sure of getting a million dollars as I am that you've got the batting stuff in you. You've got the eye, you've got the shoulders, you've got the knack of putting all your weight into your blow. You're a natural born batter, and you've just waked up to it." "But this is only the beginning of the season," argued Joe. "The pitchers haven't yet got into their stride. By midsummer they'll be burning them over, and then more than likely I'll come a cropper." "Not a bit of it," Jim affirmed confidently. "You won't face better pitching anywhere than we stacked up against in Pittsburgh, and you made all those birds look like thirty cents. They had chills and fever every time you came to the bat." The matter was not long left in doubt. In the games that followed Joe speedily proved that the Pittsburgh outburst was not a fluke. Home runs rained from his bat in the games with the Brooklyns, the Bostons and the Phillies. And when the Western teams came on for their invasion of the East, they had to take the same medicine. All pitchers looked alike to him. Of course he had his off days when all he could get was a single, and sometimes not that. Once in a long while he went out on strikes, and the pitcher who was lucky or skilful enough to perform that feat hugged it to his breast as a triumph that would help him the next season in demanding a rise in salary. But these occasions were few and far between. The newspapers added a daily slab to their sporting page devoted to Joe's mounting home run record, giving the dates, the parks and the pitchers off whom they were made. And there was hardly a pitcher in the league whose scalp Joe had not added to his rapidly growing collection. In the business offices of the city, in restaurants, at all kinds of gathering places, the daily question changed. Formerly it had been: "Will the Giants win to-day?" Now it became: "Will Baseball Joe knock out another homer?" And the fever showed itself in the attendance at the Polo Grounds. Day by day the crowds grew denser. Soon they were having as many spectators at a single game as they had formerly looked for at a double-header. The money rolled into the ticket offices in a steady stream, and the owners and manager of the club wore the "smile that won't come off." The same effect was noted in all the cities of the circuit. The crowds turned out not so much to see the Giants play as to see if Baseball Joe would knock another home run. Joe Matson had become the greatest drawing card of the circuit. If this kept up, it would mean the most prosperous season the League had ever known. For the Giants' owners alone, it meant an added half million dollars for the season. Already, with not more than a third of the games played, they had taken in enough to pay all expenses for the year, and were "on velvet" for the rest of the season. Nothing in all this turned Joe's head. He was still the same modest, hardworking player he had always been. First and all the time he worked for the success of his team. Already the Giants' owners had voluntarily added ten thousand dollars to his salary, and he was at present the most highly paid player in his League. He knew that next year even this would be doubled, if he kept up his phenomenal work. But he was still the same modest youth, and was still the same hail fellow well met, the pal and idol of all his comrades. What delighted Baseball Joe far more than any of his triumphs was the information contained in a letter he wore close to his heart that Mabel was coming on to New York with her brother Reggie for a brief stay on her way to her home in Goldsboro. They had been in almost daily correspondence, and their affection had deepened with every day that passed. Jim also had been equally assiduous and equally happy, and both players were counting the days that must elapse before the wedding march would be played at the end of the season. Luck was with Joe when, in company with Jim, he drove to the station to meet Mabel and Reggie. The rain was falling in torrents. Ordinarily that would have been depressing. But to-day it meant that there would be no game and that he could count on having Mabel to himself with nothing to distract his attention. Jim was glad on his friend's account, but nevertheless was unusually quiet for him. "Come out of your trance, old boy," cried Joe, slapping him jovially on the knee. Jim affected to smile. "Oh, I know what you're thinking about," charged Joe. "You're jealous because I'm going to see Mabel and you're not going to see Clara. But cheer up, old man. The next time we strike Chicago we'll both run down to Riverside for a visit. Then you'll have the laugh on me, for you'll have Clara all to yourself while Mabel will be in Goldsboro." Jim tried to find what comfort he could from the prospect, but the Chicago trip seemed a long way off. They reached the station ahead of time and walked up and down impatiently. The rain and wet tracks had detained the train a little, but at length its giant bulk drew into the station. They scanned the long line of Pullmans anxiously. Then Joe rushed forward with an exclamation of delight as he saw Reggie descend holding out his hand to assist Mabel--Mabel, radiant, starry-eyed, a vision of loveliness. Jim had followed a little more slowly to give Joe time for the first greeting. But his steps quickened and his eyes lighted up with rapture as behind Mabel Joe's sister Clara came down the steps, sweet as a rose, and with a look in her eyes as she caught sight of Jim that made that young man's heart lose a beat. CHAPTER XV AN EVENING RIDE There was a hubbub of delighted and incoherent exclamations as the young people greeted each other with all their heart in their eyes. Of course in the crowded station the greetings could not be just what the boys--and the girls, too--desired, but those would come later. Reggie too came in for warm handshakes. "My word!" he exclaimed, as he smiled affably upon them all, "you folks seem glad to see one another. I'll just slip over and look after the luggage." They spared him without any regret at all. Indeed, it is doubtful if they even heard him. Joe was saying things to Mabel in an undertone, and Jim was doing the same thing to Clara. What they said was their own affair, but it seemed eminently satisfactory to all concerned. When at last they had come somewhat to their senses, Joe poked Jim in the ribs. "Some surprise, old man!" he remarked mischievously. "Surprise!" repeated Jim. "It's Paradise. It's heaven. Don't tell me I'm going to wake up and find it all a dream. And you knew this all the time, you old rascal, and didn't let me in on it." "Just a little scheme that Mabel and I cooked up," laughed Joe happily. "I thought Sis might like to come on and take a look at her only brother." "Brother," mimicked Mabel saucily. "Don't flatter yourself. You won't be looked at much while Jim's around." Clara flushed and laughed in protest. Joe, however, did not seem disturbed at the prospect. As long as Mabel looked at him the way she was looking now, he had nothing more to ask. A taxicab whirled them up to the pretty suite that Joe had reserved for the girls in a hotel. There were two rooms in the suite, and it was surprising how quickly Joe and Mabel took possession of one of them, while Jim and Clara found the other one much preferable. They had so much to say to each other that required no audience. Reggie, who had an adjoining room, took himself off on the plea of an engagement that would keep him till luncheon time, and the happy young people had a long delightful morning to themselves. "Oh, I'm so proud of you, Joe," Mabel assured him, among many other things. "You're making such a wonderful record. You don't know how I read and treasure all the things the papers are saying about you. They give you more space than they give the President of the United States." "You mustn't make too much of it, honey," Joe replied. "I'm in luck just now; but if I should have a slump the same people that cheer me now when I make a homer would be jeering at me when I came to the bat. There's nothing more fickle than the public. One day you're a king and the next you're a dub." "You'll always be a king," cried Mabel. "Always my king, anyway," she added blushingly. In the meantime Clara and Jim were saying things equally precious to themselves and each other, but of no importance at all to the general public. Jim was surprised and pleased at the intimate acquaintance she had with all the phases of his rapid rise in his profession. She knew quite as well as the rest of the world that Jim already stood in the very front rank of pitchers, second only perhaps to Joe himself, and she had no hesitation in telling him what she thought of him. Sometimes it is not a pleasant thing for a man to know what a woman thinks of him, but in Jim's case it was decidedly different, if his shining face went for anything. The young people took in a matinee in the afternoon and a musical show, followed by dinner, in the evening, and all were agreed in declaring it a perfect day. Jim was slated to pitch the next day and with Clara watching from a box he turned in a perfect game, winning by a score of 1 to 0, the run being contributed by Joe, who turned loose a screaming homer in the sixth. Naturally both young men felt elated. It was a beautiful summer evening, and they had arranged for an automobile ride out on Long Island. Joe had hired a speedy car, but dispensed with the services of a chauffeur. He himself was an accomplished driver and knew all the roads. A chauffeur would have been only a restraint on their freedom of conversation. They bowled along over the perfect roads, happy beyond words and at peace with all the world. Mabel was seated in front with Joe, while Jim and Clara occupied the tonneau. All were in the gayest of spirits. Much of the time they talked, but speech and silences were equally sweet. They had dinner at an excellent inn, about forty miles out of the city. There was a good string band and the young couples had several dances. The evening wore away before they knew it, and it was rather late when they turned their faces cityward. The car was purring along merrily on a rather lonely stretch of road in the vicinity of Merrick, when a big car came swiftly up behind them. The driver tooted his horn and Joe drew a little to one side to give the car plenty of room to pass. The car rushed by and lengthened the distance until it was about a hundred yards ahead. "Seems to be in a hurry," remarked Jim. "A bunch of joy riders, I suppose," answered Joe. "Hello, what does that mean?" For the car had suddenly stopped and the driver had swung it across the road, blocking it. "Something gone wrong with the steering gear," commented Joe. "Looks like a breakdown. Perhaps we can help them." He slowed up as he drew near the car. The next instant four men jumped out of the car and ran toward them. They had their caps drawn down over their eyes, and each of them carried a leveled revolver. "Hands up!" commanded their leader, as he covered Joe with his weapon. CHAPTER XVI THE ATTACK ON THE ROAD In an instant Baseball Joe brought the car to a stop. But in that instant his brain worked like lightning. Neither he nor Jim was armed. He must temporize. Resistance at the moment might be fatal. Shooting would result probably in the death of one or more of the party. Before he had taken his hand from the wheel, he had formed a plan. The women had screamed and Jim had jumped to his feet. "Sit down, Jim," said Joe. "Don't you see they have the drop on us. I suppose it's money you want?" he went on coolly, addressing the leader of the gang. "No," was the unexpected answer. "We're not after money this time. We want a man named Matson." "I didn't know I was so popular," replied Joe jokingly, though the mention of his name in so ominous a way had sent a start through him. "My name is Matson, Joe Matson. What do you want of me?" "Are you giving it to us straight?" asked the leader. "Are you Matson? How many men are there with you anyway?" he went on, peering into the tonneau. "There are two of us," replied Joe. "Then get down in the road, both of you," commanded the bandit. "I want to have a look at both of you so that there won't be any mistake. My orders are for the man named Matson. No monkey work now!" Joe and Jim, inwardly boiling but outwardly cool, got down into the road. As they climbed down, Joe's hand nudged Jim ever so slightly. Jim knew what that meant. It meant to make no move until Joe gave the sign. "Up with your hands!" ordered the leader curtly. "Bill, frisk them and see if they have guns." The bandit called Bill ran his hands along their bodies and reported that they were entirely unarmed. "Now strike a match and let's have a look at their faces," was the next order. Bill obeyed, and as the light flared up, not only the leader but the rest of the band looked over the young men keenly. "You're Matson, all right," said the leader to Joe, and the rest acquiesced. "I've seen your picture in the papers many a time, and I've seen you at the Polo Grounds too. All right. You get back in the car," he said to Jim, poking him in the side with his pistol, "and drive off." "What do you want with me?" asked Joe steadily. "Oh, we're not going to kill you," replied the leader, with an evil grin. "But," he muttered under his breath so low that only Joe could hear him, "by the time we're through with you, that pitching arm of yours will be out of business. Them's our orders." "Who gave you those orders?" asked Joe. "Never you mind who gave them," snarled the bandit. "I've got them, and I'm going----" He never finished the sentence. Like lightning Joe's foot shot up and kicked the weapon from the leader's hand. The next instant his fist caught another of the scoundrels a terrific crack on the jaw. The man went down as though he had been hit with an axe. At the same moment Jim's hard right fist smashed into another straight between the eyes. There was the snap of a breaking bone and the man toppled over. The fourth rascal, who had been paralyzed with astonishment, forgot to shoot and started to run, but Jim was on him like a tiger and bore him to the ground, his hands tightening on his throat until the rascal lay limp and motionless. In the meantime, the leader, nursing his hurt wrist, had hobbled to the car, whose engine all this time had remained running. Joe made a dash for the car, but the chauffeur put on all speed and darted away into the darkness. The first task of Joe and Jim was to gather up the weapons of the assailants. The three still lay dazed or unconscious. Under other circumstances, the boys would have waited until the trio had regained their senses. But their first duty now was to the girls, who were half hysterical with fright. Joe took Mabel in his arms, after assuring her again and again in answer to her frantic questions that he was unhurt, and Jim comforted Clara until she had recovered her composure. They laid the bandits at the side of the road, so that they could not be run over, and then Joe took the wheel and drove on. To the first policeman they saw, Joe reported that he had seen some men who seemed to be hurt, alongside the road, and suggested that they be looked after. But he said nothing about the attempted holdup. Then he sped on, and soon they were in the precincts of the city. The girls in their alarm had failed to gather the true significance of the affair. To them it was like a confused dream. Their general impression was that a holdup had been attempted for the purposes of robbery. Still Mabel did remember that they had asked specifically for Matson. "Why was it that they asked for you especially, Joe?" she asked, snuggling closely to the arm that had so stoutly done its work that night. "Why was it?" "How do I know, honey?" answered Joe. "Perhaps," he said jokingly, "they had heard of my increase in salary and thought I was rolling in money. Sometimes you know they kidnap a man, make him sign a check and then hold him prisoner until they cash it. No knowing what such rascals may do." "Whatever it was, they've lost all interest in the matter now," said Jim, with a laugh, as he thought of the discomfited bandits by the roadside and the fleeing leader in the automobile. Both Joe and Jim made light of it to the girls and laughed away their fears until they had seen them safely to their hotel. But later on two very sober and wrathful young men sat in their own room discussing the holdup. Joe had told Jim what the bandit leader had said about putting his pitching arm out of business, and his friend was white with anger. "The scoundrels!" he ejaculated. "That meant that they would have twisted your arm until they had snapped the tendons or pulled it from its socket and crippled you for life. If I'd known that when I had my hands on that rascal's throat, I'd have choked the life out of him." "You did enough," returned Joe. "As it is they got a pretty good dose. I know I cracked the leader's wrist, and I heard a bone snap when you smashed that other fellow. Gee, Jim, you hit like a pile driver." "No harder than you did," replied Jim. "That fellow you clipped in the jaw was dead to the world before he hit the ground." "After all, those fellows were merely tools," mused Joe thoughtfully. "Did you hear the leader say that he had his orders? Who gave him those orders? If only the girls hadn't been there, I'd have trussed the rascals up, waited until they had got their senses back, and then put them through the third degree until I'd found out the name of their employer. But I wouldn't for the world have the girls know what those scoundrels were up to. They'd never have a happy moment. They'd worry themselves to death. We've got to keep this thing absolutely to ourselves." "All the same, I can guess who the fellow was that employed them," said Jim. "I think I can come pretty near it, too," affirmed Joe. "In the first place, it was a man who had money. Those fellows wouldn't have taken the job unless they had been well paid. Then, too, it was somebody who hated me like poison. There are two men who fulfil both of those conditions, and their names are----" "Fleming and Braxton," Jim finished for him. "Exactly," agreed Joe. "And knowing what I do of the two, I have a hunch that it was Braxton." CHAPTER XVII FALLING BEHIND "Braxton's the more likely one of the two to use violence--or have it used," said Jim. "Not but what either one of them would be mean enough to do it. But Braxton has got more nerve than Fleming. Then, too, I happen to know that Fleming has run pretty well through his money, while Braxton is a millionaire. He was pretty hard hit by the failure of the All-Star League to go through last year, but he's got plenty left. He could give those rascals a thousand, or five thousand if necessary, and never feel it." "Speaking of money," said Joe, "reminds me of something else that may be connected with this case. Do you remember what Reggie told us when he was in Riverside about that fellow in Chicago that was betting great wads of money that the Giants wouldn't cop the flag? Betting it, Reggie said, as though he had something up his sleeve, as though he were betting on a sure thing. Now what could be a surer thing in a race as close as this than to cripple the Giant team by robbing it of one of its pitchers? He'd be getting a double satisfaction then--making a pile of money to make up for his losses last season and getting even with me for the thrashing I gave him. That is, of course, if the man is really Braxton." "By Jove, I believe you're right!" exclaimed Jim. "Of course that might seem a little far-fetched, if it weren't for the other things that point to the same man. But when you remember that Braxton hails from Chicago, that the anonymous letter had a Chicago postmark, when you recall that somebody tried to injure us in that road blockade the day after I thought I saw Braxton in the training town, and that he was the only one besides ourselves who knew the road we were going to take--when you take all these things together, it seems a dead open-and-shut proposition that Braxton was the man that plotted all this scoundrelism." "Some day soon I hope we'll know the truth," said Joe. "And when that day comes----" He did not finish the sentence, but his clenched fist and flashing eyes were eloquent. The next morning the chums went around early, to learn how the girls were feeling after their trying experience. They found them still a little nervous and overwrought, but the society of the boys and the knowledge that they had come through without injury soon brightened them up, and before long they were their natural selves again. The way the boys had carried themselves in the fight with their assailants made them more than ever heroes in the eyes of those they loved best, and if it had not been for the deeper knowledge they had of the affair, Joe and Jim would have been rather glad it happened. Reggie, of course, had been told of the holdup and was almost stuttering in his wrath and indignation. But he, like the girls, figured that it had been an attack simply for the purpose of robbery, and the boys were not sure enough of Reggie's discretion to tell him the real facts. They feared that some slip of the tongue on his part might reveal the matter, and they knew that a constant fear would from then on shadow the lives of Mabel and Clara. In about ten days the next Western trip of the Giants was to begin, and then Clara would return home, while Mabel would go on with Reggie to Goldsboro. But those precious ten days were enjoyed to the full by the young folks. Every hour that the boys could spare from the games was spent in the society of the girls, and every day that a game was played Mabel and Clara occupied a box in the grandstand at the Polo Grounds. The knowledge of the bright eyes that were following their every move put the boys on their mettle, and they played up to the top of their form. Jim's progress as a boxman was evident with each succeeding game, and Joe covered himself with laurels as both pitcher and batsman. But more than once, after Joe had let down an opposing team with but a few hits, he had an involuntary shudder as he looked at the mighty arm that had scored the victory and thought of it as hanging withered and helpless at his side. And only by the narrowest of margins had he escaped that fate. The hour of parting came at last, and it was a great wrench to all of them. There were promises on both sides of daily letters, that would serve to bridge the gulf of separation. The fight for the pennant was waxing hotter and hotter. The Giants and the Pittsburghs were running neck and neck. First one and then the other was at the head in victories won. At times one would forge ahead for a week or two, but the other refused obstinately to be shaken off and would again assume the leadership. Everything promised a ding-dong, hammer-and-tongs finish. Some of the other teams were still in striking distance, but the first two were really the "class" of the League. The great pitching staff of the Brooklyns had gone to pieces, and it looked as though they were definitely out of the running. The Bostons, after a poor start, had braced and were rapidly improving their average, but they seemed too far behind to be really dangerous. The unfortunate Phillies were in for the "cellar championship" and did not have a ghost of a chance. Of the Western teams, outside of Pittsburgh, no fear was felt, though the consistent slugging of the Cardinals gave the leaders some uneasy moments. Still, batting alone could not win games, and the Cardinals' pitching staff, though it had some brilliant performers, was surpassed in ability by several teams in the League. In the American League also a spirited contest was going on. The White Sox, who had usually been a dangerous factor, were out of the running because they had had to build up practically a new team. But the Clevelands were as strong as they had been the year before, and were making a great bid for the flag. Detroit had started out brilliantly, and with its hard hitting outfield was winning many a game by sheer slugging. Washington loomed up as a dangerous contender, and only a little while before had won fifteen straight games. But the chief antagonist of the Clevelands was the New York Yankee team. For many years they had struggled to win the championship, but though they had come so close at one time that a single wild pitch beat them out of it, they had never been able to gain the coveted emblem. "It seems at times as though a 'jinx' were pursuing the Yankees," remarked Jim. "But this year they have got together a rattling good crowd in all departments of the game. Most of all that counts in their hopes, I imagine, is the acquisition of Kid Rose." Kid Rose was a phenomenal batter of whom every baseball fan in the United States was talking. He had been a pitcher on the Red Sox and had done fine work in the box. It was only after he had been playing some time in that position that he himself, as well as others, began to realize the tremendous strength that resided in his batting arm and shoulders. He was a left handed batter, so that most of his hits went into right field, or rather into the right field bleachers, where they counted as home runs. In one season he accumulated twenty-nine home runs, which was a record for the major leagues. The Yankee owners made a deal with the Red Sox by which the "Kid" was brought to the New York club at a price larger than had ever been paid for a player. It was a good investment, however, for the newcomer was excelling his home run record of the year before and drew so many people to the parks where he played that a constant golden stream flowed into the strong boxes of the club. He made as many home runs as all the other players of his team together. Now, owing to his work, the Yankees were fighting it out with the Clevelands for the lead, and the papers were already beginning to talk of the possibility of both championships coming to New York. If this should be the case, the World Series games would probably draw the greatest crowds that had ever witnessed such a contest, and the prize money for the players would undoubtedly be larger than ever before in the history of the game. Joe and his comrades needed no such spur as this to make them play their best. A strong loyalty to the club marked every player of the team. Still it was not at all an unpleasing thought that the result of winning would add a good many thousand dollars to the salary of every member. The Giants started out in high hopes on this second Western invasion. "Sixteen games to be played on this trip, boys," McRae had said to them, as they boarded the train at the Pennsylvania Station. "And out of that sixteen I want at least twelve. Nix on the breaking even stuff. That won't go with me at all. I want to get so far ahead on this trip that we'll be on easy street for the rest of the race." "Why not cop the whole sixteen, Mac?" asked Larry, with a broad grin. "So much the better," answered McRae. "But I'm no hog. Give me an average of three out of four in each series and I'll ask for nothing better." The team started out as though they were going to give their manager what he wanted. Their first stop this time was Pittsburgh, and here they won the first two games right off the reel. The third, however, was lost by a close margin. In the fourth the Giants' bats got going and they sent three Pirate pitchers to the showers, winning by the one-sided score of eleven to two. So that it was in high spirits that they left the Smoky City for Cincinnati. Here they met with a rude shock. The Reds were in the midst of one of their winning streaks and were on a hitting rampage. They had the "breaks," too, and cleaned up by taking every game. It was a complete reversal, and the Giants were stunned. CHAPTER XVIII IN THE THROES OF A SLUMP Robson's round face had lost its usual smile. McRae's was like a thundercloud, and the players evaded him as much as they could. Even Larry was "Laughing Larry" no longer. It was a disgruntled crowd of baseball players that shook the dust of Cincinnati from their feet and started for Chicago. "Better luck next time," Joe comforted his mates. "After all it's the uncertainty of the game that makes baseball. How many people would have been at the park if they thought their pets didn't have a chance to win?" "That's all very well," grumbled Curry, "but we ought at least to have had our share of the breaks. We hit the ball hard enough, but every time it went straight to the fielders. They didn't hit any better, but the ball went just out of the reach of our fellows. Talk about fool luck! If those Cincinnati players fell in the water they'd come up with a fish dinner." "That's just the reason we're due for a change," argued Jim. "We'll get it all back from the Cubs." But here again there was disappointment. Joe pitched the first game and won in a close fight, although the Cubs tied it up in the ninth and Joe had to win his own game in the eleventh by a homer. But the next two went to Chicago, and in the fourth game, which Jim pitched, the best he could do was to make it a tie, called in the twelfth on account of darkness. This time it was not luck that gave to the Giants only one game out of three. They had as many of the breaks of the game as their opponents. They simply slumped. One of those mysterious things that come to almost every team once at least in a season had them in its clutches. Perhaps it was overanxiety, perhaps it was a superstitious feeling that a "jinx" was after them, but, whatever it was, it spread through the team like an epidemic. Their fingers were "all thumbs." Their bats had "holes" in them. The most reliable fielders slipped up on easy chances. They booted the ball, or if they got it they threw either too high or too low to first. Double plays became less frequent. Two of the best batters in the team, Larry and Burkett, fell off woefully in their hitting. In vain McRae raged and stormed. In vain Robbie begged and pleaded and cajoled. In vain Jim and Joe, who still resisted the infection, sought to stem the tide of disaster. The members of the team with a few exceptions continued to act as if they were in a trance. McRae did everything in his power to bring about a change. He laid off Willis and Iredell, and put two promising rookies, Barry and Ward, in their places. This added a little speed on the bases to the team, but did not materially add to the batting or fielding, for the rookies were nervous and made many misplays, while they were lamentably short on the "inside stuff" that takes long experience to acquire. He shook up the batting order. But the hits were still few and far between. St. Louis gave the Giants a sound trouncing in the first game, but in the second the Giants came to life and reversed the score. Joe was in the box in this contest, and as he came in to the bench in the fourth inning, he noted, sitting in the grandstand, a figure that seemed familiar to him. The man seemed to have seen Baseball Joe at the same time, but he hid himself behind the form of a big man sitting in front of him, so that Joe could not be sure of his identification. "What were you looking at so steadily, Joe?" inquired Jim, as his friend sat down on the bench beside him. "Did you by any chance catch sight of the jinx that's been following us?" he continued jokingly. "Maybe I did, at that," replied Joe. "I could have sworn that I got a glimpse of Bugs Hartley in the grandstand." "Bugs Hartley?" echoed Jim in surprise. "How could that old rascal have got as far as St. Louis?" "Beat his way, perhaps," answered Joe. "Of course I'm not dead sure but that I might have been mistaken. And I won't have much time to look for him while I'm in the box. But suppose in the meantime you go down to the coaching line near first. While you're pretending to coach, you can take an occasional look at the grandstand and see if you can pick out Bugs. He's somewhere about the third row near the center. Just where the wire netting is broken." Jim did as suggested, and studied the grandstand with care. He had only a chance to make an affirmative nod of the head as Joe, the inning ended, went out again to the box, but when he returned after pitching the side out on strikes, Jim told Joe that he was right. "It's Bugs all right," he said. "I had a good chance to see that ugly mug of his, and there can't be any mistake. But what in thunder can he be doing in St. Louis?" "Oh, panhandling and drinking himself to death, I suppose," answered Joe carelessly, his mind intent upon the game. "But how did he get here?" persisted Jim. "I don't like it, old man. It takes money to travel, and I don't think Bugs could hustle up railroad fare to save his life. And if somebody gave him the money to get here, why was it done? I tell you again, Joe, I don't like it." "Well, perhaps it's just as well we caught sight of him," admitted Joe. "It will help us to keep our eyes open." In the seventh inning for the Giants, with the score tied at 3 to 3, Larry started a rally for the Giants by lining out a screaming single to right. Denton followed with a hit to short that was too hot for the shortstop to handle. He knocked the ball down, however, and got it to first. Denton had thought the play would be made on Larry, who was already on his way to third. Denton, therefore, had rounded first and started for second, but saw the ball coming and scrambled back to first. There was a grand mixup, but the umpire declared Denton safe. It was a close play, and the St. Louis team was up in arms in a moment. Some of them, including their manager, rushed to the spot to argue with the umpire. The crowd also was enraged at the decision and began to hoot and howl. One or two pop bottles were thrown at the umpire, but fell short. Joe, who was next at bat, had taken his stand at the plate, awaiting the outcome of the argument. Suddenly a bottle, aimed with great skill and tremendous force, came through the broken wire netting, whizzed close by his head, the top of it grazing his ear in passing. If it had hit his head, it would have injured him greatly beyond a doubt. Joe turned toward the stand and saw a man hastily making his way out toward the entrance. He could only see his back, but he knew at once to whom that back belonged. "Stop him! Stop him!" he shouted, as he threw aside his bat and rushed toward the stand. But Jim had already vaulted over the barrier and was rushing through the aisle. CHAPTER XIX A CLOSE CALL The people in the grandstand had not fully grasped the significance of the cowardly attack, as the attention of most of them was centered upon the dispute at first base. But the shout of Baseball Joe and the rush of Jim through the aisle of the stand had brought them to their feet, and some of them started in pursuit or tried to stop the flying figure of the fugitive. But this very desire of so many to apprehend him helped in his escape. Men crowded in the aisle, and Jim, who could otherwise have captured him, found himself in the midst of a throng that effectually hindered his progress. He pushed his way through desperately, using his arms and hands to clear a passage, but by the time he arrived at the outer edge, the man had disappeared. Either he had mixed with the enormous crowd or had found his way through one of the numerous exits. In any event, he was not to be seen, and at last Jim, flaming-eyed and dripping with sweat from his exertions, had to come back empty-handed. In the meantime, the umpire had asserted his authority at first base, and given the St. Louis players one minute by his watch to resume play. With much muttering and grumbling they obeyed. The decision stood, and Larry was on third, while Denton danced around on first and "kidded" the Cardinal first baseman on the umpire's decision. Joe again took up his position at the plate, the fairer-minded among the spectators giving him a cheer as he did so, to express their indignation at the dastardly attack that had been made on him. He was somewhat shaken by the close call he had had, and the first two balls were strikes. Then he took a grip on himself, and when the next one came over he smashed a beauty to right. It went for two bases, while Larry scored easily, and Denton by great running and a headlong slide also reached the plate. The next man up sacrificed Joe to third, but there he remained, as the next two batters, despite McRae's adjurations, were not able to bring him in. The Giants, however, had now broken the tie and had a two-run lead, and although that ended their scoring, it was sufficient, as Joe put on extra steam and mowed down the Cardinals almost as fast as they came to the bat. One hit was made off him for the remainder of the game, but as the batter got no farther than first there was no damage done. Joe and Jim did not care to discuss the matter before their mates, and the attack was put down to some rowdy who was sore at the umpire's decision and took that method of showing it. But the two friends knew that it was much more than that. "Well, what do you think now of my hunch?" demanded Jim, when the chums were alone together. "Was I right when I said I was uneasy about that fellow being in the grandstand?" "You certainly were, Jim," answered Joe. "It must have been Bugs who threw that bottle. I know at any rate that it was he whom I saw hustling out of the stands. And when I looked at where he had been sitting the seat was empty." "It was Bugs all right," affirmed Jim with decision. "I saw his face once, when he glanced behind him while he was running. Then, too, only a pitcher could have hurled the bottle with the swiftness and precision that he did. It went nearly as far as the pitcher's box before it struck the ground. Gee! my heart was in my mouth for a second when I saw it go whizzing past your ear. If it had hit you fair and square, it would have been good night." "It did barely touch me," replied Joe, pointing to a scratch on his ear. "The old rascal hasn't forgotten how to throw. How that fellow must hate me! And yet I was the best friend that he had on the team." "He hates you all right," replied Jim. "But it wasn't only his own personal feeling that prompted him to do that thing to-day. That isn't Bugs' way. He'd dope your coffee on the sly. Or he'd throw a stone at your head in a dark street, as he did that time when we'd started on our tour around the world. But to do a thing in the open, as he did to-day, means that he had a mighty big incentive to lay you out. That incentive was probably money. Somebody has put up the cash to send him to St. Louis, and that same somebody has probably promised him a big wad of dough if he could do you up. The chance came to-day, when the fans began to throw bottles at the umpire. He figured that that was the time to get in his work. If he'd been caught, he could have said that he was only one of a good many who did the same thing, and that he had no idea the bottle was going to hit anybody." "Then you think that Bugs this time was acting as the tool of Braxton, or whoever it is that's trying to put me out of business," remarked Joe. "Think so!" cried Jim. "I'm sure of it. So many things, all pointing to deliberate purpose, don't happen by accident. The same fellow who hired those auto bandits to cripple you hired Bugs for the same purpose. Lots of people have heard of the hatred that Bugs has for you. I suppose he's panning you all the time in the joints where he hangs out. This fellow that's after your hide has heard of Bugs and put him on the job. If he can't get you in one way, he's going to try to get you in another. He figures that some time or other one of his schemes will go through. Gee!" he exclaimed, jumping up and pacing the floor, "what would I give just to come face to face with him and have him in a room alone with me for five minutes. Just five minutes! I'd change his face so that his own brother wouldn't know him." "I hope that job's reserved for me," replied Joe, as his fist clenched. "He'd get a receipt in full for all I owe him." "In the meantime, what shall we do about Bugs?" asked Jim anxiously. "He ought to be put in jail. It isn't right that a man who's tried to cripple another should be at large." "No," agreed Joe, "it isn't. But I don't see just what we can do about it. The chances are ten to one against his being found. Even if he were, nobody could be found probably who saw him actually throw the bottle. We didn't ourselves, though we feel absolutely certain that he did. He could explain his leaving by saying that he was taken ill and had to leave. Then, too, if he were arrested, we'd have to stay here and prosecute him, and we can't stay away from the team. Besides the whole thing would get in the papers, and Mabel and Clara and all the folks would have heart failure about it. No, I guess we'll have to keep quiet about it." "I suppose we will," admitted Jim reluctantly. "But some day this scoundrel who's hounding you will be caught in the open. And I'm still hoping for that five minutes!" CHAPTER XX SPEEDING UP St. Louis was in good form on the following day, and a perfect deluge of hits came from their bats. The Giants, too, had a good hitting day, and the fans who like to see free batting had their desire satisfied to the full. And their pleasure was all the greater because the home team had the best of the duel, and came out on top by a score of 17 to 12. Jim was in the box on the next day, and by superb pitching had the St. Louis sluggers hitting like a kindergarten team. They simply could not solve him. His team mates had scarcely anything to do, and only by the narrowest of margins did he miss turning the Cardinals back without a hit. One hit narrowly escaped the fingers of the second baseman, as he leaped in the air for it. But it did escape him, and counted for the only hit made by the St. Louis in the game. It was a magnificent exhibition and wound up a disastrous trip in a blaze of glory. Still it could not be denied that the trip had put a big dent in the Giants' aspirations for the pennant. Instead of the twelve games out of sixteen that McRae had asked for, they had only turned in six victories. It was the most miserable record that the Giants had made for years. "And we call ourselves a good road team!" snorted Curry in disgust, as they settled down in the Pullman for the long ride back from St. Louis to New York. "A bunch of school girls could have done better work." "Luck was against us," ventured Larry. "It sure was against us." "Luck, nothing!" exclaimed Curry. "We simply fell down, and fell down hard. The whole League is laughing at us. Look at the way the other Eastern teams held up their end. The Brooklyns copped ten games, the Bostons got eleven, and the Phillies pulled down seven. We ought to sneak back into New York on a freight train instead of riding in Pullmans." "I guess there won't be any band at the station to meet us," remarked Joe. "But after all, any team is liable to have a slump and play like a lot of dubs. Let's hope we've got all the bad playing out of our systems. From now on we're going to climb." "That's the way to talk," chimed in Jim. "Of course we can't deny that we've stubbed our toes on this trip. But we know in our heart that we've got the best team in the League. We've got the Indian sign on all of them. The fans that are roasting us now will be shouting their heads off when we get started on our winning streak. Remember, boys, it's a long worm that has no turning." There was a general laugh at this, and the spirits of the party lightened a little. But not all of the gloom was lifted. The prediction that their reception in New York would be rather frosty was true. Such high hopes had been built on the result of this trip that the reaction was correspondingly depressing. And what made the Giants feel the change of attitude the more keenly was the fact that while they had been doing so poorly, the Yankees at home had been going "like a house afire." They had taken the lead definitely away from the Clevelands, and it did not seem as though there was any team in their League that could stop them. New York was quite sure that it was going to have one championship team. But it was quite as certain that it was not going to have two. That hope had gone glimmering. Both teams were occupying the Polo Grounds for the season, while the new park of the Yankees was being completed. The schedule therefore had been arranged so that while one of the teams was playing at home the other was playing somewhere out of town. Thus on the very day the Giants reached home the Yankees were starting out on their trip to other cities. They went away in the glory of victory. The Giants came home in the gloom of defeat. The change of sentiment was visible in the first home game that the Giants played. On the preceding day, at their last game, the Yankees had played before a crowd of twenty-five thousand. The first game of the Giants drew scarcely more than three thousand. Many of these were the holders of free season passes, others, like the reporters, had to be there, while the rest were made up of the chronic fans who followed the Giants through thick and thin. There was no enthusiasm, and even the fact that the Giants won did not dispel the funereal atmosphere. And then the Giants began to climb! At first the process did not attract much attention. The public was so thoroughly disheartened by the downfall of their favorites in the West, that they took it for granted that they were out of the running for the pennant. Of course it was assumed that they would finish in the first division--it was very seldom that a New York team could not be depended on to do that--and that by some kind of miracle it might be possible to finish second. But there was very little consolation in that. New York wanted a winner or nothing. If the Giants could not fly the championship flag at the Polo Grounds, nobody cared very much whether they came in second or eighth or anywhere between. The first team to visit the Polo Grounds was the Bostons. They had greatly improved their game since the beginning of the season, and were even thought to have a look-in for the flag. They chuckled to themselves at the thought that they would catch the Giants in the slump that had begun out West and press them still deeper in the direction of the cellar. At first they thought they might even make a clean sweep. They lost the first game, but only by reason of a muff of an easy fly that let in two unearned runs in the sixth. That of course disposed of the clean sweep idea, but still, three out of four would do. But when they lost the second game also, their jubilation began to subside. Now the best they could hope for was an even break. But again they lost, and the climax was put to their discomfiture when the Giants simply walked away with the fourth game by a score of 10 to 0. But even with this series of four in a row captured by the Giants, the public refused to enthuse. It might have been only a flash in the pan. It is true that the sporting writers were beginning to sit up and take notice. Most of their time hitherto had been spent in advising McRae through the columns of their paper how he might strengthen his team for next year. The present season of course was past praying for. Yet there was a distinct chirking up on the part of the scribes, although they carefully refrained from making any favorable predictions that afterward they might be sorry for. They would wait awhile and see. Besides, the Brooklyns were coming next, and they had usually found it easy to defeat the Giants. If the Giants could hold the men from over the big bridge to an even break, it might mean a great deal. The Brooklyns came, saw and--were conquered. Four times in succession they went down before superb pitching and heavy batting. Four times they called on their heavy sluggers and their best boxmen, but the Giants rode over them roughshod. The sporting writers sat up and rubbed their eyes. Was this the same team that had come home forlorn and bedraggled after their last trip? Had the Giants really come to life? Was the pennant still a possibility? By this time the public had begun to wake up. The stands at the Polo Grounds no longer looked like a desert. The crowds began to pack the subway cars on their way up to the grounds. Everywhere the question was beginning to be asked: "What do you think of the Giants? Have they still got a chance?" It was the Phillies' turn next, and they had also to bend the knee. The Giants took them into camp as easily as they had the Braves and the Dodgers. And to rub it in, two of the games were shutouts. Twelve games in a row, and the Giants tearing through the other teams like so many runaway horses! CHAPTER XXI THE WINNING STREAK The Giants were in for a winning streak, and New York City promptly went baseball mad! Now there was no question of filling the grounds. It was rather a question of getting there early enough to secure seats. The Polo Grounds could accommodate thirty-five thousand, and again and again that number was reached and exceeded. The great amphitheatre was a sea of eager faces. Fans stood in hundreds in the rear of the upper grandstands. The lower stand too was filled to overflowing, and the bleachers were packed. It was astonishing how many business men closed their rolltop desks with a bang on those summer afternoons. Young and old alike were wild to be at the games and see the Giants add one more to their rapidly mounting list of victories. Thirteen--fourteen--fifteen--sixteen! Were the Giants ever going to be stopped? If so, who was going to stop them? The Western teams were coming now and the St. Louis team had left their scalps in the Giant's wigwam. Chicago was next in line. Could they stop the Giants in their mad rush for the flag? They could not, although they tried desperately, and Brennan, their resourceful manager, used all the cunning and guile that his long experience had taught him. The Giants tamed the Cubs with a thoroughness that left nothing to be desired from a New York point of view. And now the string of victories had mounted to twenty. Old records were got out and furbished up. It was found that once before, when Markwith and Hughson were in their prime, the New Yorks had won twenty-six games in a row. Could they repeat? Could they beat their own record that had been hung up so long for other teams to aim at? That was the question that absorbed public interest, not only in New York, but in baseball circles all over the country. The reason for this phenomenal spurt of the Giants, it was recognized, could be found in two chief factors. One was the wonderful work being done by Joe both as a pitcher and a batter. The other was the marvelous advance that had been made by Jim as a twirler. Joe had never had such complete mastery of the ball as he was showing this season. Even the pitching he had done the previous year, in the World Series between the Giants and the Sox, paled in comparison with what he was doing now. His control was something almost magical. It was such a rarity for him to give a base on balls that when it happened it was specially noted by the sporting writers. He worked the corners of the plate to perfection. He mixed up his fast ones with slow teasers that made the opposing batsmen look ridiculous as they broke their backs reaching for them. His slants and twists and hops and curves had never been so baffling. It was fast getting to the point where the other teams were half beaten as soon as they saw Joe pick up his glove and go into the box. But it was not even his pitching, great as it was, that held the worshiping attention of the crowds. It was the home run record that he was piling up in such an amazing fashion that already he was rated by many the equal of the wonderful Kid Rose. That wonderful eye of his had learned to time the ball so accurately as it came up to the plate that the bat met it at precisely the hundredth part of a second when it did the most good. Then all his mighty arm and shoulder leaned on the ball and gave it wings. Almost every other game now saw a home run chalked up to his credit. In three games of the winning streak he had made two home runs in a single game. It was common talk that he was out to tie the record of Ed Delehanty, the one-time mighty slugger of the Phillies, who in the years of long ago had hung up a record of four homers in a game. He had not done it yet, but there was still time before the season closed. More still would have gone to his credit had not the opposing pitchers become so afraid of him that they would not let him hit the ball. Again and again when he came to the bat, the catcher would stand away off to the side and the pitcher would deliberately send over four balls, so wide that Joe could not possibly reach them without stepping out of the box. This was a mighty disappointment to the crowds, half of whom had come with no other object in view than to see Joe smash out a homer. They would jeer and taunt the pitcher for his cowardice in fearing to match his slants against Joe's bat, but the practice continued nevertheless. Even this, however, was not a total loss to the Giants. It put Joe on first anyway, and counted at least for as much as a single would have done. And Joe was so fleet of foot on the bases that McRae once said jokingly that he would have to have detectives on the field to keep him from stealing so many bags. Many a base on balls thus given to Joe out of fear for his mighty bat was eventually turned into a run that helped to win the game. One morning when Joe, with the rest of the Giant team, was going out on the field for practice, his eye caught sight of a long white streak of kalsomine that ran up the right field wall to the top, behind the bleachers. "What's the idea?" he asked, turning to Robbie, who was close beside him. "Don't you really know, you old fence-breaker?" asked Robbie, a smile breaking over his jovial face. "Blest if I do," answered Joe. "Well, I'll tell you," answered Robbie. "The fact is that you've got into such a habit of knocking the ball into the right field stands--mighty good habit, too, if you ask me--that the umpires have asked us to paint this line so that they can see whether the hit is fair or foul. The ordinary hit they can tell easy enough. But yours are so far out that they have to have especial help in judging them. It's the first time it's had to be done for any hitter in the history of the game. Some compliment, what?" But Joe's work, wonderful as it was, would not alone have started and maintained the Giants' winning streak. No one man, however great, can carry a whole team on his shoulders. The next most important element was the pitching that Jim was showing. It was only second in quality to that turned in by Joe himself. Jim was a natural ball player, and his close association and friendship with Joe had taught him all the fine points of the game. He had learned the weaknesses of opposing batters. He knew those who would bite at an outcurve and those to whom a fast high one was poison; those who would offer at the first ball and those who would try to wait him out; those who would crowd the plate and those who would flinch when he wound the ball around their necks. He had a splendid head on his shoulders and a world of power in his biceps; and those two things go far to make a winning combination. Another element of strength was the return of Hughson to the team and his ability to take his regular turn in the box. His arm still hurt him, and it was beginning to be evident that he would never again be the Hughson of old. But his skill and knowledge of the game and the batters was so great that it more than atoned for the weakness of his pitching arm. His control was as wonderful as ever, and he nursed his arm as much as possible. He did not attempt to do much striking out, as that would have been too severe a strain. More and more he let the batsmen hit the ball, and depended upon the eight men behind him to back him up. Often he would go through an inning this way and the three put outs would be made by the infield on grounders and the outfielders on flies. But once let a man get on first and the "Old Master" would tighten up and prevent scoring. By thus favoring his arm, he was able to turn in his share of the victories. Markwith also had a new lease of life, and was winging them over as in the days when he had been without question the best port side flinger in the League. In fact the pitching staff was at the height of its form and had never been going better. And the rest of the team, without exception, was playing great ball. There was not a cripple on the list. Willis and Iredell had been restored to their positions at third and short respectively, and were playing the best ball of their careers. With Larry at second and Burkett at first, they formed a stonewall infield that seldom let anything get away from them. They made hair-raising stops and dazzling double plays, gobbling up grounders on either side, spearing high liners that were ticketed for singles, and played like supermen. The outfielders had caught the spirit of enthusiasm that pervaded the team, and were making what seemed like impossible catches. Add to this that the team members were batting like fiends and running bases like so many ghosts, and the reason for the winning streak becomes apparent. The Giants were simply playing unbeatable ball. So the Cincinnatis found when the time came for their heads to drop into the basket. That series was sweet revenge for the Giants, who had not forgotten the beating the Reds had given them on their last swing around the circuit. Twenty-one--twenty-two--twenty-three--twenty-four. Two more games to tie their own previous record. Three more to beat it. Would they do it? Many shook their heads. On the mere law of averages, a break for the Giants was now due. The team had been under a fearful strain. Such phenomenal work could not last forever. Besides, the severest test was now at hand. The Pittsburghs were coming. The Smoky City boys had been playing great ball themselves. They had won nineteen games out of the last twenty-four, and the margin of seven games that they had had when the Giants began their streak still kept them in the lead by two games. They had boasted that they would break the Giants' streak as soon as they struck New York. The time had come to make good their boast. Would they do it? CHAPTER XXII STRIVING FOR MASTERY It was Jim's turn to go on the mound in the first game with the Pittsburghs, and in the practice work before the game he showed that he was keyed up for his work. For so comparatively young a pitcher, he might well have been a bit nervous at facing so redoubtable a team before the immense crowd that had gathered to see whether or not the Giants' winning streak was doomed to be broken. But there was no trace of it in his manner, and McRae, looking him over, concluded that there was no reason to change his selection. His confidence was justified. Jim that afternoon was at as high a point of pitching form as he had ever reached in his career. He pitched a masterly game and held the Pirate sluggers to four hits. His support was all that could be desired, and some of the stops and throws of his comrades bordered on the miraculous. The Giants came out at the big end of the score, their tally being three to the solitary run scored by their opponents. "Twenty-five!" chuckled Joe, as he slapped his friend on the back, when the Pirates had been turned back in their half of ninth. "Jim, you're a lulu! You had those fellows rolling over and playing dead." "I guess we had all the breaks," returned Jim, smiling modestly. "Nothing of the kind," disclaimed Joe. "If anything, they had whatever breaks there were. It was simply a case of dandy pitching. You had them buffaloed." "Only one more game to go before we tie our own record," said Jim. "Gee, Joe, I wish you were going to pitch to-morrow. We're just in sight of the Promised Land. That will be the most important game of all." "Oh, I don't know," replied Joe. "It will be something to tie the record, but I want to break it. Day after to-morrow will be the big day. That is, if we win to-morrow, and I think we shall. It's Markwith's turn to go in, and he's going fine. The Pittsburghs aren't any too good against left-handed pitchers, anyway." But whatever the alleged weakness of the Pirates against southpaws, they showed little respect for Markwith's offerings on the next day. They had on their batting clothes and clouted the ball lustily. Only phenomenal fielding on the part of the Giants kept the score down, and again and again Markwith was pulled out of a hole by some dazzling bit of play when a run seemed certain. Still he worried through until the first part of the eighth. At that time the score was five to four in favor of the visitors. The Giants had been batting freely, but not quite as hard as the Pirates. In the eighth, Markwith was plainly beginning to wobble in his control. He passed two men in quick succession. That was enough for McRae, and Joe, who had been warming up at the right of the grandstand, was sent into the box. The Pirates' scoring stopped then and there. Astley, who was at the bat, fanned on three successive strikes. Brown hit to the box and Joe made a lightning throw to Larry at second, who relayed it to first for a sparkling double play, putting out the side. The Giants' half of the eighth was scoreless. All the Pittsburghs had to do now was to hold them down for one more inning, and the winning streak would be broken. Joe made short work of the visitors in their last inning and the Giants came in for their final half. Willis was the first man up. He made a savage lunge at the first ball pitched, but caught it on the under side, and it went up directly over the plate. Jenkins the Pittsburgh catcher, did not have to move from his tracks to gather it in. Larry sent a fierce low liner to Baskerville at short, who made a magnificent catch, picking it off his shoe tops. Two out, and the crowd fairly groaned as the winning streak seemed at last about to be broken. All hopes were now pinned on Denton. All he could do, however, was to dribble a slow one to the box. It seemed a certain out, and nine times out of ten would have been. But the Pittsburgh pitcher, in running in on it, snatched it up so hurriedly that it fell out of his hand. He recovered it in an instant and shot it to first. But that fumble had been fatal, and Denton by a headlong slide reached first before the ball. A tremendous roar arose from the stands, and the people who had started to leave sat down suddenly and sat down hard. In the Giants' dugout, all was excitement and animation. McRae ran down to first to coach Denton. Robbie rushed over to Joe, who was next in turn and had already picked up his bat. "For the love of Pete, Joe," he begged, "paste the old apple. Show them again what you've been showing us all along. Kill the ball! Just once, Joe, just once! You can do it. One good crack, and you'll save the winning streak." "I'll do my best," was Joe's reply. Frantic adjurations of the same nature were showered on Joe as he took up his position at the plate. Then there was a great silence, as the crowd fairly held their breath. But the crafty Pittsburgh pitcher was to be reckoned with. He had no mind to see the game go glimmering just at the moment it seemed to be won. He signaled to his catcher and deliberately pitched two balls wide of the plate. It was evident that he was going to give Joe his base on balls and take a chance with Mylert, the next batter. But the best laid plans sometimes miscarry. The third ball he pitched did not go as wide of the plate as he had meant it should. Joe sized it up, saw that he could reach it, and swung for it with all his might. There was a crack like that of a rifle as the bat met the ball and sent it mounting ever higher and higher toward the right field wall. It seemed as though it were endowed with wings. On it went in a mighty curve and landed at last in the topmost row of the right field seats. There it was pocketed by a proud and happy fan, while Joe, sending in Denton ahead of him, jogged easily around the bases to the home plate. The game was won! The winning streak was saved! The Giants had tied their record, which had stood untouched for so many years! The scene in the stands and bleachers beggared description. Roar after roar went up, while the crazy spectators threw their straw hats into the air and scattered them by scores over the field. The Polo Grounds had been transformed into a madhouse, but differing from other insane asylums in that all the inmates were happy. All, that is, except the Pirates and their supporters, who thought unspeakable things as they saw the game in a twinkling torn from their grasp. Joe's only escape from his enthusiastic well-wishers lay in flight, and he made a bee line for the clubhouse. He got inside not a moment too soon. For a long time afterward a great crowd hung about the entrance, waiting for him to reappear, and it was only by slipping out of a back entrance that he eluded them. The old record had been tied. Could it be beaten? CHAPTER XXIII HOLDING THEM DOWN Baseball circles had rarely been more deeply stirred than by the issue of the game, by winning which the Giants had tied their record. It was not merely the winning, but the sensational way in which Baseball Joe's home run had turned the scales in the last minute and snatched victory from defeat that excited the fans. But now that the record was tied, would the Giants be able to hang up a new one? That was the question on every lip, the question whose discussion filled column after column of the sporting pages of the newspapers. All agreed that the Giants had been lucky to win. If it had not been for the error of the pitcher on Denton's slow dribble, they would have lost. But it was conceded that it was not luck that had secured that mighty home run that Joe had hammered out to the bleachers. That was ball playing. That was muscle. That was determination. Once again his cool head and quick eye and powerful arm had shown that the game was not over until the last man was out. It was Joe's turn to pitch, and it was upon that fact more than anything else that the vast crowd that stormed the Polo Grounds relied for annexing the twenty-seventh game. The Pittsburghs too were holding out their star pitcher, Hooper, for that critical game, and it was certain that they would put forth superhuman efforts to win. In more senses than one, the game was an important one. The last two victories of the Giants had wiped out the lead that the Pirates had had over them, and the two teams were now on even terms in games won and lost for the season, so that the Pirates had a double incentive to win. If they took the game they would not only prevent the Giants from breaking their own record for a winning streak, but would also once more stand at the head of the League. "It's up to you, Joe," McRae said, just before the bell rang for the game to begin. "How are you feeling? Are you tired at all from pitching those last two innings yesterday?" "Not a bit tired," replied Joe promptly. "That little work yesterday was just the practice I needed to get into form. I'm feeling as fine as silk." "You look it," said the manager admiringly, as his eye took in the strong, lithe figure, the bronzed face and clear eyes of his star pitcher. "Well go in now Joe and eat them up. Hooper will be in the box for them, and I'm not denying that he's some pitcher. But he never saw the day that you couldn't run rings around him. Go in and win." It was evident from the start that there would be no such free hitting that day as there had been the day before. Both boxmen were in superb form, and by the time the first inning for each side was over, the spectators had settled down to witness a pitcher's duel. Hooper was a spitball artist, and his moist slants kept the Giants guessing in the early part of the game. But while he depended chiefly on this form of delivery, he had other puzzlers in his assortment, and he mixed them up in a most deceptive manner. In the first three innings he had four strike-outs to his credit, and when the Giants did connect with the ball it went up into the air and into the hands of some waiting fielder. His control of the slippery sphere also was excellent, and he issued no passes. In the fourth inning, the Giants began to nibble at his offerings. Curry rapped one out to right for the first single of the game. Iredell was robbed of a hit by a great jumping catch of O'Connor, who speared the ball with his gloved hand. Burkett lined out a two-bagger that carried Curry easily to third, but in trying to stretch the hit, he was caught by Ralston's magnificent throw to the plate. Burkett in the meantime had made a dash for third, but thought better of it, and scrambled back to second just in time. The next man up went out from short to first and the inning ended without scoring. But the Giants had proved to themselves that Hooper could be hit, and it was with renewed confidence that they took their places in the field. Joe in the meantime was mowing his opponents down with the regularity of a machine. His mighty arm swung back and forth like a piston rod. He had never cared for the spitball, as he knew that sooner or later it destroyed a pitcher's effectiveness. But in his repertoire of curves and slants he had weapons far more deadly. His fast straight one whizzed over the plate like a bullet. He mixed these up with a slow, dipping curve that the Pirates endeavored in vain to solve. Only with the head of the Pittsburgh batting order did he at times resort to the fadeaway. That he kept in reserve for some moment when danger threatened. Twice in the first five innings he set down the side on strikes, and not a man reached first on balls. It was wonderful pitching, and again and again Joe was forced to doff his cap to the cheers of the crowd, as he came into the bench. In the sixth inning, the Giants got busy. Wheeler lashed out a whale of a three-bagger to left. Willis laid down a neat sacrifice, bringing Wheeler home for the first run of the game. Larry hit the ball on the seam for a single, but was caught a moment later in trying to purloin second. The next batter up went out on strikes and the inning ended with the Giants one run to the good. The seventh inning came and passed and not a hit had been made by the Pirates. Then it began to be realized that Joe was out for a no-hit game, and the crowd rooted for him madly. Joe himself was about the only cool man on the grounds. He measured every man that came to the plate and took his time about pitching to him. Man after man he fanned or made him hit feeble grounders to the infield. And that wonderful control of his forbade any passes. The Pirates did not dare to wait him out. It was a case of strike or be struck out, and so they struck at the ball, but usually struck only the empty air. That ball! Sometimes it was a wheedling, coaxing ball, that sauntered up to the plate as though just begging to be hit. Again it was a vanishing ball that grew smaller from the time it left Joe's hand until it became a mere pin point as it glinted over the rubber. Still again it was a savage ball that shot over the plate with a rush and a hiss that made the batter jump back. But always it was a deceptive ball, that slipped by, hopped by, loafed by, twisted by, dodged by, and the Pirate sluggers strained their backs as well as their tempers in trying to hit it. McRae and Robbie on the bench watched with fascination and delight the work of their king pitcher. "It's magic, I tell you, John, just magic!" blurted out Robbie, as another victim went out on strikes and threw down his bat in disgust. "It sure looks like it," grinned McRae. "He has those fellows jumping through the hoops all right. I'm free to say I never saw anything like it." "He's got the ball trained, I tell you," persisted Robbie, rubbing his hands in jubilation. "It's an educated ball. It does just what Joe tells it to." Almost uncontrollable excitement prevailed as the Pirates came in for their last inning. Their heaviest sluggers were coming to the bat, and now if ever was the time to do something. They figured that the strain must have told on Joe and that a crack was due. Their hope grew dimmer, however, when Ralston, after fouling off two, fanned on the third strike. But it revived again when Baskerville rolled an easy one to Larry, that the latter fumbled for a moment and then hurled to first a fraction of a second too late. There was a roar of glee from the Pirates, and they began to chatter in the hope of rattling the pitcher. Bemis, the next man up, came to the plate swinging three bats. He discarded two of them and glared at Joe. "Here's where you meet your finish," he boasted, as he brandished his bat. Joe merely smiled and put one over. Bemis drove it straight for the box. Joe leaped into the air, caught it in his ungloved hand and shot it like lightning to first, catching Baskerville before he could get back. It was as pretty a double play as had ever been made on the New York grounds! CHAPTER XXIV A CRUSHING BLOW The play had been so swift that the eye could scarcely follow the ball, and it was a few seconds before the majority of the spectators could grasp what had happened. Then a tremendous shout went up that rolled across the field in increasing volume as the crowds realized that they had seen what would probably never be seen again in a single game. They had seen the New York team break its own record for straight wins, and in addition they had witnessed that rarest of pitching exploits, a no-hit game. Not even a scratch hit had marred Joe's wonderful performance, nor had he given a single base on balls. It was a red-letter day for the Giants and for Joe, and the people who had been there would talk about that game for years. If any one should have been elated by the marvelous result of that day's work, it was Joe. He had never stood on a higher pinnacle, except perhaps when he had won the last game of the World Series the preceding year. He was more than ever a hero in the eyes of the baseball public of New York, and within five minutes after the game was over the wires had flashed the news to every city of the country. But despite his natural pride in his achievement and his pleasure in knowing that he had won this critical game for his team, it was a very subdued and worried Joe that hurried to the clubhouse after the game was over. There his mates gathered, in the seventh heaven of delight, and there was a general jubilee, in which McRae and Robson joined. "We did it, we did it!" cried Robbie, bouncing about like a rubber ball in his excitement. "We broke the record! Twenty-seven games in a row!" "Where do you get that 'we' stuff, you old porpoise," grinned McRae, poking him jovially in the ribs. "Seems to me that Joe had something to do with it. Put it there, Matson," he went on, extending his hand. "You pitched a game that will go down in baseball history and you saved our winning streak from going up in smoke." Joe put out his left hand, and McRae looked a little surprised. Then he glanced down at Joe's right hand, and a look of consternation swept over his face. "Great Scott!" he cried. "What's the matter with your hand? It's swelled to twice its usual size." [Illustration: "GREAT SCOTT!" HE CRIED. "WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOUR HAND?"] "It was that drive of Bemis', I guess," replied Joe. "When I nabbed it, I seemed to feel something crack in the hand. Perhaps, though, it's only strained. It will probably be all right by to-morrow." "To-morrow!" roared McRae, as all crowded around anxiously. "There'll be no waiting till to-morrow. That hand is worth a half million dollars to the New York club, to say nothing of its worth to yourself. Where's the trainer? Where's the doctor? Jump, some of you fellows, and get them here quick!" There was a general scurrying around, and in a few minutes both of those men were examining the injured hand with the greatest solicitude. They looked grave when they had finished. "It's hard to tell just what has happened until the swelling has been reduced," pronounced the doctor, as he busied himself with splints and lotions. "I'm afraid, though, that it's more than a sprain. When it swells as much as that it generally means that a bone has been broken." There was a general groan. "That means, does it, that he will be out of the game for the rest of the season?" asked McRae, in notes of despair. "Oh, I wouldn't say that," the doctor hastened to reassure him. "It may be only a trifling fracture, and in that case he will have to be out only for a short time. But for the next few weeks anyway, he isn't likely to do any more pitching." "Who's the best specialist in New York?" demanded McRae. The doctor named a surgeon of national reputation. "'Phone him to come at once," commanded McRae. "Or, better yet, Joe, you'd better come right with me now. My car's outside and I'll get you up there in fifteen minutes. Every minute counts now." Joe hurriedly finished dressing, and McRae bundled him into his automobile. It was a speedy machine, and it was to be feared that the traffic laws were not strictly observed as it made its way downtown. But the traffic policemen all knew McRae and Joe, and there was nothing to prevent their getting to their destination in record time. A telephone call from the clubhouse had already notified the eminent surgeon that the pair were coming, and he was waiting for them. Without a moment's delay, they were ushered into his inner office, where he stripped off the bandages from the hand and made a thorough examination. "There is a small dislocation," he said when he had finished. "But I think it will yield readily to treatment. It will not be a permanent injury, and in a little while the hand will be as good as ever." Both drew a sigh of immense relief. "A little while," repeated McRae. "Just what do you mean by that, Doctor? You know we're fighting for the pennant, and we're depending on this king pitcher of ours more than on any one else to win out. Every day he's out of the race weakens our chances." "I can't tell that definitely until to-morrow morning," the doctor replied. "But offhand I should say for two or three weeks at least." "Two or three weeks!" repeated McRae in tones of mingled dismay and relief. "In those two or three weeks we may lose the flag. But thank heaven it's no worse." After making an appointment for the next morning, McRae drove Joe to his hotel. "It's bad enough, Joe," he said to him in parting. "I don't know how we're going to spare you while we're in the thick of the fight. But when I think of what it would mean to the team if you were knocked out altogether, I've got no kick coming. We're ahead of the Pittsburghs now, anyway, thanks to your splendid work, and if we can just hold our own till you get back, we'll pull out all right yet." Joe found Jim waiting for him, full of anxiety and alarm. But his face lighted up when he learned that the injury was not a permanent one. "It would have been a mighty sight better to have lost the game to-day than to have bought it at such a price," he said. "But after all, nothing matters as long as your hand is safe. That hand is your fortune." "To-day was my unlucky day," remarked Joe ruefully, as he looked at his bandaged hand. "In one sense it was," replied Jim, "but in another it wasn't. To-day you hung up a record. You saved the Giants' winning streak and you pitched a no-hit game!" CHAPTER XXV LINING THEM OUT The pain in his injured hand was intense that night, and Joe paced the floor for hours before he was able to get to sleep. By morning, however, the hand had yielded to treatment, and the swelling had greatly decreased. At the earliest hour possible Joe, accompanied by Jim, was at the surgeon's office. The doctor's face expressed his satisfaction, as, after an examination, he rendered his verdict. "It isn't as bad as I feared," he said while he deftly rebandaged the injured member. "This dislocation is slight and you'll soon be as right as ever. But you've got to take good care of it. It will be some time before you can pitch." "But how about batting?" asked Joe anxiously. "That isn't a steady strain, as I'd only have to do it three or four times in the course of the game." "I don't know," replied the doctor with a smile. "I'm not familiar enough with the game to tell where the strain comes in that case. I can imagine, however, that it would be chiefly in the arm and shoulder. It's possible that you may be able to bat before you can pitch. But I can tell more about that later on, as I see how your hand mends. For the present, you'll have to go slow." The sporting writers had no reason to complain of the dullness of news for that day's issue. The papers were ringing with the stirring events of the day before. Columns of space were devoted to the story of the game, and there was unstinted praise of Joe for his wonderful exploit. But mingled with the jubilation was a strain of apprehension. The accident that had befallen the great pitcher was a subject of the keenest anxiety. It was recognized that a great blow had been struck at the Giants' hope for the pennant. To have the greatest twirler of the team put out of the game just in the hottest part of the fight was a disaster that might prove fatal. Pittsburgh stock took a decided upward bound in consequence. The effect on the Giants themselves, as far as their morale was concerned, was almost certain to be hurtful. The tremendous strain under which they had been, while compiling their twenty-seven consecutive wins, had brought them to a point where a sudden blow like this might make them go to pieces. As a matter of fact, that is just what did happen to them that very afternoon. The whole team was depressed and had a case of nerves. They played like a lot of schoolboys, booting the ball, slipping up on easy grounders and muffing flies that ordinarily they could have caught with ease. The Pittsburghs, on the other hand, played with redoubled skill and courage. Their hopes had been revived by the misfortune that had befallen their most dangerous opponent. Joe was personally popular with all the players of the League, and they were sorry that he was hurt. But that did not prevent them from taking advantage of the chance to make hay while the sun shone. The game developed into a farce after the third inning, and from that time on it was only a question of the size of the score. When the game ended, the Giant outfielders were leg-weary from chasing hits, and the visitors were equally tired from running bases. The Pittsburghs won by a score of 17 to 3, and the Giants' winning streak came to an end. But for once the team escaped a roasting from McRae. The team had done wonderful work, and any nine that wins twenty-seven games in succession has a right to lose the twenty-eighth. Besides the break was due, and the manager hoped that with this one bad game out of their systems the team would pull itself together and start another rally. For the next week or two, the race see-sawed between the two leading teams. By this time it had become generally recognized that the pennant lay between them. The other contestants had occasional spurts, when great playing for a short period would revive the waning hopes of their admirers, but they soon fell back again in the ruck. It was quite certain that the flag would fly either over Forbes Field or over the Polo Grounds. In the meantime, Joe's hand was mending rapidly. His superb physical condition helped him greatly, and the doctor was visibly surprised and gratified by the progress of his patient. But it was hard work for Joe to be laid off just at the time that his team needed him most. Still he believed in the proverb "the more haste the less speed," and he tried to be patient, even while he was "chafing at the bit." About ten days after the accident, the doctor delighted him by telling him that he need not come to see him any more. But he still ordered him to refrain from pitching. As to batting, he said cautiously that Joe could try that out a little at a time. If he found that after easy batting practice his hand did not hurt him, he might be permitted to bat in an actual game. Joe was quick to avail himself of the permission. Very cautiously he tried batting out fungo hits. While at first the hand felt a little sore and stiff, this soon passed off. Then Joe had Jim pitch him some easy ones in practice, and found that he could line them out without ill effects. Finally he let Jim put them over at full speed, and was delighted to find that he could lift them into the right field stands and not suffer much of a twinge. At last he was himself again, as far at least as batting was concerned. His recovery came just in time to be of immense benefit to the team. The men had slumped considerably in batting, though they still held up to their usual form in fielding. But fielding alone cannot win games. Defensive work is all very well, but combined with it must be the offensive work on the part of the batsmen. The best fielding in the world cannot put runs over the plate. Joe's return put new spirit into the team at once. The batting picked up noticeably, with Joe leading the way. At first he was a little cautious about putting his whole strength into his blow, and for a few days when he was used in emergencies as a pinch hitter, he gathered a crop of singles with an occasional double and triple. But with every successive day he let out a new link, and at length he put his whole strength into his swing. Home runs became again a common feature, and the Giants started in joyously on a new upward climb. The season was to end this year in the West, and by the time the Giants started on their last swing around the circuit, they had a lead of four games over the Pirates. It was not necessarily a winning lead, but it was very comforting just the same to have those four games as a margin. Still, the Pittsburghs were hanging on gamely, ready to forge to the front on the least sign of weakening shown by their competitors. It was one of the hottest races that had ever been seen in the National League, and there was a chance that it would not be decided until the last day of the season. "The last lap," remarked Jim, as the team started on its trip. "Here's where we win or lose." "Here's where we win," corrected Joe. CHAPTER XXVI THE TIRELESS FOE The Giants opened at Chicago, and the results were none too good. The Cubs, who just then were in the midst of a spurt, clawed and bit their way to victory in two games of the four, and the Giants were lucky to break even. As it was, the two games they won were annexed by the terrific batting of Joe, who was hitting like a demon. In the four games he made three home runs, and two of them were lined out when there were men on bases. All pitchers looked alike to him, and he played no favorites. The rest he had had from pitching had made him all the more effective as a batsman. His fame as a hitter had spread through all the cities of the League, and the Chicago grounds were filled to their capacity during the Giants' visit. Most of the spectators were as eager to see him hit one of his mammoth homers as they were to see the home team win. Cheers greeted him every time he came to the bat. He was the greatest drawing card that the Giants had or ever had had. Opinion was divided as to whether he or Kid Rose of the Yankees was the greatest hitter. Each had his partisans. Rose had been longer in the limelight, and those who had made up their minds that he was the greatest hitter that ever lived were reluctant to see their idol replaced by a newcomer. Many confidently predicted that Joe would not last, that his work was only a flash in the pan. Others declared that he did not have to bat against as good pitching in the National League as was shown in the American, and that therefore Rose's work was superior. But as Joe kept on, day in and day out, lacing out tremendous hits that landed in the bleachers and at times sailed over the fence, the doubters grew silent, or joined in the wild applause as Joe jogged around the bases and crossed the plate standing up. The keenest interest was manifested in the race that the Yankees were making to land the flag in the American League. If they should come out on top, the World Series would be held between New York teams, and Rose and Joe could be seen in action against each other. That would help to settle the question as to which had a right to wear the batting crown of the world. It would be a battle of giants, and it was certain that, if such a contest took place, there would be delegations to see it from all parts of the country. McRae was no longer content to use Joe simply as a pinch hitter. He wanted to take full advantage of his marvelous hitting, and so he put him in the regular line-up and played him every day. Wheeler was relegated to the bench and Joe took his place in the field. The manager also changed his batting order, putting Joe fourth in the cleanup position. And again and again his judgment was vindicated by the way Joe cleaned up with homers, sending his comrades in ahead of him. The day the third Chicago game was played was a very hot one, and Joe and Jim were tired and warm. Jim had pitched that day and won, after a gruelling contest, and Joe had varied his ordinary routine by knocking out two home runs instead of one. Joe was seated in his hotel room, writing a letter to Mabel. Jim had stepped down to the office to get some stationery, for he had the pleasant task on hand of writing to Clara. A knock came at the door, and in answer to his call to enter, a bellboy stepped into the room, bearing a pitcher and glasses. "Here's the lemonade you ordered, boss," he said, as he put his burden on a convenient stand. "Lemonade?" repeated Joe in some surprise. "I didn't order any." "Clerk sent me up with it, sir," said the bellboy respectfully. "Said it was for Mr. Matson, room four-seventeen. This is four-seventeen, isn't it?" he asked as he glanced at the number on the door, which he had left open. "This is four-seventeen, all right, and I'm Mr. Matson," Joe answered. "But I didn't order anything. I'll tell you how it is though," he added, as a thought struck him. "My friend who is sharing the room with me has just gone down to the lobby, and he's probably told the clerk to send it up. That's all right. Leave it there." "Shall I pour you out a glass, sir?" asked the boy, suiting the action to the word. "If you like," responded Joe carelessly, taking a quarter out of his pocket as a tip. The boy thanked him and withdrew, closing the door behind him. Joe finished the paragraph he was writing, and then picked up the glass. He took a sip of it and put it down. "Pretty bitter," he said to himself. "Not enough sugar. Still it's cooling, and I sure am warm." Again he lifted the glass to his lips, but just then Jim burst into the room. "Whom do you think I saw just now?" he demanded. "Give it up," replied Joe. "But whoever it was, you seem to be all excited about it. Who was it?" "Fleming!" answered Jim, as he plumped down into a chair. "Fleming!" repeated Joe with quickened interest. "What's that fellow doing here? I thought he hung out in New York." "That's what I want to know," replied Jim. "Wherever that fellow is, there's apt to be dirty work brewing. And the frightened look that came into his eyes when he saw me, and the way he hurried past me, made me uneasy. He acted as if he'd been up to something. I don't like the idea of a pal of Braxton being in the same hotel with us." "I don't care much for it myself," answered Joe. "Still, a hotel is open to anybody, and this is one of the most popular ones in the city. It isn't especially surprising that you should happen to run across him." "Not surprising perhaps, but unpleasant just the same," responded Jim. "It leaves a bad taste in my mouth." "Well," laughed Joe, "take the bad taste out with a glass of this lemonade you sent up. It isn't very good--it has a bad taste of its own--but it will cool you off." He raised his glass to his mouth as he spoke. But in an instant Jim was on his feet and knocked the glass from his hand. It fell on the floor and splintered in many pieces. Joe looked at him in open-eyed amazement, too astonished to speak. "Don't touch the stuff!" cried Jim. "What do you mean by saying I sent it up?" "Didn't you?" asked Joe. "The bellboy said he had been told to bring it to me, and as I hadn't ordered it, I jumped to the conclusion that you had." "Not I!" replied Jim. "But I can guess who did!" "Who?" "Fleming." The two friends looked fixedly at each other. "Do you mean," asked Joe, after a moment in which surprise and indignation struggled for the mastery, "that that lemonade was doped?" "Doped or poisoned, I'll bet my life," affirmed Jim. "Let's get to the bottom of this thing. Quick, old man! Perhaps Fleming is still somewhere in the hotel." "Not a chance," replied Joe, jumping to his feet. "If he's mixed up in this, he's getting away as fast as his legs or a car can carry him. But we'll go down and see what we can learn from the clerk." They went to the head clerk, whom they knew very well. He was an ardent fan, and his face lighted up as he saw the friends approaching. "Saw you play to-day, gentlemen," he said. "Those two home runs of yours were whales, Mr. Matson. And your pitching, Mr. Barclay, was all to the mustard." "Sorry to beat your Chicago boys, but we needed that game in our business," laughed Joe. "But what I want to see you about just now is a personal matter. Did you get an order from me or from my room to send up any lemonade?" The clerk looked surprised. "No," he replied. "I didn't get any such request. Wait a moment until I see the telephone operator." He consulted the girl at the telephone, and was back in a moment. "No message of any kind came from your room to-night," he announced. "But one of your bellboys brought it up," persisted Joe. "Which one of them was it?" asked the clerk, pointing to a group of them lounging about. "None of them," responded Joe, as he ran his eye over them. CHAPTER XXVII CHAMPIONS OF THE LEAGUE "There are three more of the bellboys doing various errands about the hotel," replied the clerk. "If you gentlemen will wait around they'll be back in a few minutes." "All right, we'll wait," said Joe. Before long, all the bellboys were back, and Joe had had a good look at the entire staff. Not one resembled the boy who had come to his room. "I can't understand it," mused the clerk, to whom the boys had been careful not to impart their suspicions. "It must have been sent in by somebody from the outside. It's certain that it wasn't sent up from here." "Oh, well," said Joe carelessly, "it doesn't matter. I just wanted to find out, so that I could thank the one who did it. Sorry to have troubled you." They strolled off indifferently and returned to their room. "'Thank' is good," said Jim, as soon as they were out of earshot. "I'll thank him all right," replied Joe grimly. "In fact I'll thank him so warmly that it will stagger him." "May I be there to see!" replied Jim gruffly. "I can figure out the whole thing now. Fleming had had that lemonade doped and it was meant to put you out of business. It was easy to find out what hotel you were stopping at, as that's been in all the papers. Then it was a simple thing to glance over the register and get the number of your room. He's either got a bellboy from some other hotel or dressed up somebody in a bellboy's uniform. He's probably bribed him well, and it's been all the easier because he didn't have to let on to the boy that there was anything crooked about it. Told him perhaps that he was just playing a little joke on a friend or something like that. There's the whole story." "I guess that's about right," agreed Joe. "Gee, Jim, it's mighty lucky that you knocked that glass out of my hand. I had noticed that it tasted rather bitter, but put that down to too little sugar." "Let's send some of the stuff to a chemist and have it analyzed," suggested Jim. "No," objected Joe, "that wouldn't do any good. The thing would be apt to get into the papers, and that's the very thing we mustn't let happen for the sake of the folks at home. We know enough about the stuff to be sure that it was doctored in some way. Everything about the incident tells of crookedness. Fleming was probably the master hand, although he may have simply been the tool of Braxton. Those fellows are running up a heavy account, and some day I hope we'll get the goods on them. We'll just dump the stuff out so that nobody else will be injured. Then we'll lay low but keep our eyes open. It's all that we can do." "Gee, that was one dandy homer, Joe," said the catcher some time later. "Best ever," added the first baseman. "Oh, I don't know," answered the young ball player modestly. "I think I have done better. But it was great to carry it along to eleven innings," he added, with a smile. "That tenth had me almost going," said the shortstop. "We came close to spilling the beans," and he shook his head seriously. "Well, 'all's well that ends well,' as Socrates said to General Grant," and Joe grinned. From Chicago the Giants jumped to St. Louis, where, despite the stiffest kind of resistance, they took three games out of four. They were not quite as successful in Cincinnati, where the best they could get was an even break. The Reds saw a chance to come in third, in which case they would have a share in the World Series money, and they were showing the best ball that they had played all season. The Giants had all they could do to nose them out in the last game, which went to eleven innings and was only won by a home run by Joe in the wind-up. Seven games out of twelve for a team on the road was not bad, but it would have been worse if the Pirates, in the meantime, had not also had a rocky road to travel. The Brooklyns had helped their friends across the bridge by taking the Pittsburghs into camp to the tune of three games out of four and the Bostons had broken even. With the Phillies, however, the Pirates had made a clean sweep of the four games. So when the Giants faced their most formidable foes, they still had the lead of four games with which they had begun their Western trip. This, of course, gave the Giants the edge on their rivals. The Pittsburghs would have to win the whole four games to draw up on even terms with the leaders. In that case a deciding game would be necessary to break the tie. On the other hand all the Giants had to do was to win one game of the four and they would have the championship cinched. And that they would do at least that seemed almost a certainty. But nothing is certain in baseball, as soon became evident. Perhaps it was overconfidence or a sense of already being on easy street that caused the Giants to lose the first game. That, however, could not be said of the second, when the Giants "played their heads off," Jim said, and yet could not win against the classy pitching and stonewall defense put up by the Smoky City team. Things were beginning to look serious for the Giants, and some of their confidence was vanishing. Still more serious did they become when the third game went into the Pirates' basket. Jim pitched in that game and twirled wonderful ball, but his support was ragged, and several Pirate blows that ought to have been outs were registered ultimately as runs. They were unearned runs, but they counted in the final score as much as though they had been due to the team's hitting. The Giants were long-faced and gloomy. McRae was clearly worried. If the next game were lost, the leaders would be tied, and the Pirates would still have a chance to win. It would be a bitter pill to swallow if the Giants lost the flag just when it had seemed that all was over except the shouting. Moreover, the manager was in a quandary. All his first string pitchers had been beaten. His best one in active service at the present time, Jim, had pitched that day and it would not do to ask him to go into the box again to-morrow. In his desperation he turned to Joe. "Joe," he said, "we're up against it unless you can help us out. How is your hand feeling? Would you dare to take a chance with it?" "I think it's all right now, or nearly so," replied Joe. "I've been trying it out in practice right along, and it seems to me it's about as good as ever. I was putting them over to Mylert yesterday, and he told me he couldn't see any difference between them and those I threw before I was hurt. The only thing I'm a little skittish about is my fadeaway. That gives me a little twinge when I try it. But I guess I can leave that out and still pull through." "That's good!" ejaculated McRae, with great relief. "Go in then, old boy, and show these pesky Pirates where they get off. We simply must win this game." There was a startled murmur among the spectators who thronged Forbes Field that afternoon when they saw Joe go into the box. They had been gloating over the supposition that McRae would have to use again one of the pitchers whom the Pirates had already beaten in that series, and the way their pets were going, they looked for a sure victory. Now they saw the man who had always baffled the Pittsburghs again take up the pitcher's burden, and their faces took on a look of apprehension. The Pirate players too shared in that apprehension. They had a profound respect for Joe's ability, and had always had a sinking of the heart when they saw him draw on his glove. Still, they comforted themselves with the hope that his long layoff had hurt his effectiveness, and they braced to give him the battle of his life. Joe himself felt a thrill of exultation when he stepped on the mound. That was his throne. There he had won the laurels that crowned him as the greatest pitcher of his League. Now he was back again, back to buoy up the spirit of his team, back to justify the confidence of his manager, back to uphold his fame, back to bring the championship of the National League once more to New York. He still carried in his pocket Mabel's glove, that he had come to regard as his mascot. He touched it now. Then he wound up for the first pitch and split the plate for a strike. It was an auspicious beginning of one of the greatest games he had ever pitched in his whole career. The Pirates simply did not have a chance. All through the game they were swinging wildly at a ball that seemed to be bewitched, a ball that dodged their bats and appeared to be laughing at them. Angered and bewildered, they tried every device to avoid impending defeat. They bunted, they put in pinch hitters, they called the umpire's attention to Joe's delivery in the hope of rattling him, they tried to get hit with the ball. Through it all, Joe kept on smiling and mowing them down. Only three men got to first. Not one got to second. Thirteen men went out on strikes. And then, to cap the climax, Joe sent a screaming homer into the right field bleachers, sending in two men ahead of him. The final score was 8 to 0. The Giants had won the championship of the National League. Now they were to battle for the championship of the world! CHAPTER XXVIII THE WORLD SERIES It was a happy team of Giants that left Pittsburgh that night on the sleeper for New York. The season's strain was over. The coveted flag was theirs. They had fought their way through many discouragements, had stood the gaff, and now they were at the top of their League, with none to contest their title as champions. "Some victory, eh, Joe?" remarked Jim to his chum. "Right, Jim," was the ready reply. To be sure a great battle loomed up ahead of them, but they welcomed that with eagerness. It meant thousands of dollars to every member of the team, win or lose. But they had no thought of losing. The return of their king pitcher to the box that afternoon, and the proof that he was in magnificent form, had filled them chock full of confidence. And they were doubly glad that the Yankees were to be their opponents. That had been settled three days before, when the American League season had closed with the Yankees just nosing out the Clevelands at the finish. It was settled that every game of the World Series would be played in New York. This meant that there would be no long, tiresome, overnight journeys between cities. But it meant more than that. It meant that the question would now be settled once for all as to which of the New York teams was the better. This had been a mooted question for a good many years past. Each team had its warm friends and admirers, who were ready to back it through thick and thin. The Giants, of course, had been established longer, and had gained a strong place in the affections of the metropolis. Their games, as a usual thing, drew many more spectators than those played by their rivals. But of late the acquisition of Kid Rose by the Yankees had drawn the greater attention to that team, and the Giants had been cast in the shade. They were not used to this and did not relish it. They knew the Yankees were a strong team, but at the same time they believed that they could take their measure if it ever came to a showdown. Now that showdown was at hand, and the Giants were glad of it. The public, too, were eager to have the question of supremacy settled. The metropolis was fairly seething with excitement over the series, and the hotels already were filling up with visitors from as far off as the Pacific Coast. Not only columns but whole pages of the newspapers were filled with comments and prophecies respecting the chances of the respective teams. More than anything else in the public mind was the coming duel between Kid Rose and Joe Matson as home run hitters. Which would make the longer hits? Which would make the more home runs? These were the questions that were on the lips of the fans wherever two or more of them met. And the sporting pages of the daily newspapers were full of it. The series this year was to consist of nine games if so many should be necessary. The team that first won five games would be the champions of the world. The members of the teams were to share in the money taken in at the first five games played, so that there would be no inducement to spin out the series. After certain percentages had been deducted sixty per cent was to go to the winners and forty per cent to the losers. The outlook was that each member of the winning team would get about five thousand dollars and each member of the losing team between three and four thousand, a difference great enough to make each player do his best, apart from his loyalty to his team. Reggie had come up from Goldsboro, bringing Mabel with him, a charge of which Joe promptly relieved him. She seemed to Joe more distractingly beautiful than ever, and his heart thumped as he realized that in less than a month she would be his own. That had been arranged in their correspondence. The wedding would take place in Mabel's home in Goldsboro, and after their honeymoon they were to go to Riverside, to witness the marriage of Jim and Clara. The latter had hoped to come on to see the World Series, but Mrs. Matson was not well enough to come along, and Clara did not want to leave her. So poor Jim had to exercise patience and not be too envious of the almost delirious happiness of Joe and Mabel at being together. A more exciting World Series than that which now began between the Giants and Yankees had never been known in the history of the game. Both teams were out for blood. Every man was on his toes, and the excited spectators were roused almost to madness by the almost miraculous stops and throws pulled off by the fielders. From the start it was evident that the nines were very evenly balanced, and that whichever finally won would in all probability do so by the narrowest kind of margin. Victory seesawed between the teams. Joe pitched the first game, and the Giants won by 3 to 1. The Yankees took the second by 5 to 2. Jim held them down in the third to two runs, while the Giants accumulated six. The Yankees made it "fifty-fifty" by galloping away with the fourth game in a free hitting contest, of which Markwith was the victim, the final score being 9 to 5. The Giants again assumed the lead by copping the fifth by 4 to 0, Joe decorating his opponents with a necklace of goose eggs. They repeated on the following day, and with only one more game needed to make the five, it looked as though they would be certain winners. But the Yankees were not yet through, and they came back strong on the two succeeding days and evened up the score. Each had won four games. The ninth and final game would determine which team was to be the champions of the world. In these contests, Joe had batted like a fiend. McRae had played him in every game, putting him in the outfield on the days that he was not scheduled to pitch. In the eight games, Joe had made six circuit clouts, in addition to four three-baggers, three two-base hits, and some singles. He was simply killing the ball. Kid Rose also had done sterling work, and had rapped out five homers, besides a number of hits for a lesser number of bags. But Baseball Joe so far had outclassed him, both in the number and the length of his hits. There was no stopping him. High or low, incurve or outcurve, they were all the same to him. That eagle eye of his located the course of the ball unerringly, and when the ash connected with the ball that ball was slated for a ride. There was no mistake about it. Joe had arrived. The batting crown was his. He had long since been recognized as the king of pitchers. Now he was hailed by acclamation as the greatest hitter in the game! CHAPTER XXIX THE GAME OF HIS LIFE For the ninth and deciding game, McRae had selected Joe to pitch. "I don't need to tell you, Joe, how much depends on this game," McRae said soberly, as the two came out of the clubhouse and walked across the field towards the grandstand, which was crowded to suffocation. "You know it as well as I do. I'm just counting on you, my boy. You've never failed me yet in a pinch. You won't fail me now." "Trust me, Mac," replied Joe. "I'll do my best to win out." Hudson, the manager of the Yankees, was also pinning his faith on the leader of his pitching staff, Phil Hays. He was a master of the underhand delivery, and had already captured for the Yankees the two games of the series in which he had pitched. In both games he had sorely puzzled the Giants, for there was no pitcher in the National League who used that delivery, and they had found it almost impossible to gauge it. He also had a crossfire, that he used at times with telling effect. He had not yet matched his pitching strength against Joe's, and the crowd was all agog with curiosity to see them battle against each other. Jim had been a little later than Joe in slipping into his uniform, and was still in the clubhouse, after his friend had gone out on the field, when Reggie came rushing in, panting and out of breath. "Where's Joe?" he asked, looking wildly around. "He's just gone out to practice," answered Jim. "Why, what's the matter, Reggie?" "I've got to get Joe," Reggie panted, making a dash for the door. But Jim caught his arm. "Look here, Reggie," he said, holding to him tightly. "Joe mustn't be upset. I can see that something's happened. Tell me what it is, and I'll see about letting Joe know." "It's M-Mabel!" answered Reggie, stammering in his excitement. "She's disappeared." "Disappeared!" echoed Jim, in bewilderment. "What do you mean?" "Just that," answered Reggie. "She went out this morning to call on a friend, but said she'd get back to go with me to the game. I got anxious when she didn't come, and called up her friend, who said she hadn't seen her. Just then a messenger boy brought me this," and he handed over a typewritten, unsigned note, which read: "Miss Varley is in safe hands. If Matson loses his game to-day she will be returned this evening. If he doesn't, it will cost $25,000 to get her back. Personal in papers to-morrow, signed T. Z., will give exact directions for carrying on further negotiations." "Now you see why I've got to see Joe right away," said Reggie in frenzied impatience, snatching the note from Jim's hands. "You mustn't!" ejaculated Jim, barring the way. "Don't you see that that's just what the rascals want you to do? You'd just be playing their game. They want to get Joe so frightened and upset that he can't pitch. It's the scheme of some gamblers who have bet on the Yanks to win. They want to make sure that they will win, and so they want to bribe or frighten Joe into losing. But probably if he did, they'd demand the ransom money just the same. We'll have to keep it from Joe until the game is over. Nothing will be lost by that. I'll give McRae a tip and he'll let me off. Then you and I will get busy and do all that we can for the next two hours. If we turn nothing up, we'll be back here when the game ends and tell Joe all about it. Wait here a minute till I see McRae, and then we'll get on the job." In five minutes he was back with the required permission, and as soon as he had got into his street clothes he hailed a taxicab, and he and Reggie jumped in and were off. When the bell rang for the game to begin, the Giants took the field, and Milton, the big center-fielder of the Yankees, came to the plate. Joe wound a high fast one about his neck, at which he refused to bite. The next one split the rubber, and Milton swung savagely at it and missed. The next was a called strike. On the following ball, he rolled an easy grounder to Burkett at first, who made the put out unassisted. The next man, Pender, Joe put out on strikes in jig time. Then the mighty Kid Rose strode to the bat. He grinned at Joe and Joe grinned back. They were both good fellows, and each thoroughly respected the other. There was no bitterness in their rivalry. "Now little ball, come to papa!" sang out Rose. "Here he comes!" laughed Joe. "Take a look at baby." The ball whizzed over the plate, and Rose missed it by an inch. The next he fouled off, as he did the following one. Then Joe tried a fadeaway, and Rose fell for it, swinging himself halfway round with the force of his blow. "You're out!" cried the umpire, and the Giant supporters in the stands broke out in cheers. It was not often that Rose struck out, and the feat was appreciated. In the Giants' half, Hays set them down in one, two, three order. Curry flied to Russell in right, Iredell went out by the strike route, while Burkett's grounder to Pender at short was whipped smartly down to first. The Yankees were easy victims in the second. Russell fanned, Walsh lifted a twisting foul, on which Mylert made a superb catch close to the Giants' dugout and Mullen hit a grounder between first and the box, which Joe captured and fielded to Burkett in plenty of time. Joe was first up in the Giants' half, and had to doff his cap in response to the cheers which greeted him as he came to the plate. Hays sized him up carefully and did not like his looks. The first ball he threw him was so wide that Banks, the catcher, had to reach far out to nab it with one hand. That might have been lack of control on Hays' part, but when a second followed, that came nowhere in the range of Joe's bat, the crowd jumped to the conclusion that he was deliberately trying to pass him, and a storm of protests rained down on the diamond. "You're a game sport--not!" "Let Baseball Joe hit the ball!" "Yellow streak!" "Matson took a chance with Rose. Why don't you take a chance with Matson?" "Where's your sand?" Whether Hays was stung by these jibes or not, the next ball curved over the plate and just above the knee. There was a ringing crack, and the ball sailed aloft in the direction of the bleachers with home run written all over it. There was no need of hurrying, and Joe simply trotted around the bases, while pandemonium reigned in the stands and bleachers. CHAPTER XXX CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD Wheeler went out on a fly to Milton, Willis fanned, and Larry closed the inning with a pop up to second. But the Giants had scored first blood, and in such a close game as this promised to be, that run stood out like a lighthouse. In the third, McCarthy fell victim to Joe's curves and went out on strikes. Banks was lucky and got to first on a grasser to Iredell that took a wicked bound just as the shortstop was all set to receive it and jumped into left. He was nipped a minute later, when Joe saw out of the corner of his eye that he was taking too long a lead off first and made a lightning throw to Burkett. Hays, after fouling off two, struck out on a mean drop, and the inning ended without damage. Hays put one over for Denton that the latter pickeled for a dandy grasser between third and short. Rose at left was slow in retrieving the ball, and Denton by fleet running and a hook slide reached the middle station. Here, however, he was caught napping. Then Hays braced and set the next two players down on strikes. It was a deft exhibition of "getting out of a hole," and deserved the generous applause that it received. In the Yankees' half of the fourth, Milton sent one to Willis at third that the latter stopped neatly but threw to first too wide, the ball almost missing Burkett's fingers as he reached for it. Pender knocked a grounder to Larry, but the latter hesitated a moment as to whether to make the play at first or second, and when he finally chose second, Milton had reached that bag, and both men were safe. Then Rose came to the bat, with the Yankee partisans shouting wildly for a homer. Joe fooled him twice, but Rose caught the third one and poled a hit to right. Wheeler and Denton both raced for it, and the latter by a herculean effort just managed to get under it. In the meantime, Milton had started forward, and Pender too was on his way. Quick as a flash, Denton straightened up and sent the ball on a line to first. Pender had turned and was running back, but was an easy out. Burkett shot the ball to Larry, putting out Milton, who was scrambling back to second. It was a superb triple play and the crowd went crazy. Iredell started the Giants' fourth with a liner to McCarthy, that settled comfortably in the third baseman's glove. Burkett lammed a single into right. Joe walloped a shrieking three-bagger between right and center, that brought Burkett galloping to the plate for the second run of the game. Wheeler was ordered to sacrifice, but his attempted bunt resulted in a little fly to Hays, and Joe was held on third. Hays turned on steam and struck Willis out. The fifth inning passed without scoring by either side. Both Joe and Hays were pitching magnificent ball, and the crowds cheered each in turn lustily. The first real hit that Joe yielded came in the sixth, when after McCarthy had struck out, Banks lined a beauty into right between first and second. It did no harm, however, for Joe tightened up immediately and made Hays and Milton hit at empty air. The Giants in their half went the Yankees one better in the matter of hits, and yet could not score. Curry sent a twister over second that Mullen could not get under. Iredell followed with a slow roller down the third base line, that McCarthy could not reach in time to field. A moment later, however, Curry was caught napping at second, and Burkett hit into a snappy double play, retiring the side. In the seventh, the Yankees broke the ice. Pender got a life, when his high fly to third was muffed by Willis. Kid Rose came to the bat. "Put it over, Joe, and see me lose it," he called. "I was robbed last time." "That's nothing, Kid," chaffed Joe. "You'll be killed this time." The first ball, which completely baffled the most dangerous slugger of the American League, seemed to bear out this prediction. On the second, however, Rose sent a neat hit to right that was good for two bases and brought Pender over the plate, amid the thunderous roars of the Yankee supporters. Russell tapped a little one in front of the plate, that Joe got in time to put him out at first, but not to head Rose off at third. Walsh went out on strikes. Mullen rolled one to Burkett, and Joe ran over to cover the bag, but Burkett's throw hit the dirt and Rose came over the plate, tying the score. McCarthy fanned, and the inning was over. One hit, sandwiched in with errors, had knocked the Giants' lead into a cocked hat and tied up the game. Not for long, however. Joe was the first man up, and came to the plate with blood in his eye. The first two offerings he let go by. The third was to his liking. There was an explosion like the crack of a gun and the ball started on its journey. That journey was destined to be talked about for years to come. It was the longest hit that ever had been made on the Polo Grounds. On it went over right field, over the bleachers and over the fence, clearing it at a height of fifty feet. In the wild roar that went up as Joe loped around the bases, even the Yankee supporters joined. It was an occasion that rose above partisanship, an outstanding event in the history of sport. The spectators cheered until they were hoarse, and it was a minute or two before play could be resumed. The rest of the inning was short and sweet. Wheeler, Willis and Larry went out in order, the first two on strikes and the latter on a grounder fielded by Mullen. The eighth was on the same snappy order. Joe was determined to maintain his advantage, and was invincible. Banks grounded to the box, and Joe tossed him out. Hays fanned for the second time and Milton followed suit. Hays, too, was going strong, and the Giant batsmen went down before him like a row of tenpins. Denton made three futile attempts and threw down his bat in disgust. Mylert cut three successive swaths in the atmosphere and went back to the bench, while Curry fouled out to Banks. In the ninth, the Yankees again sewed it up. Pender got to first, when Larry was slow in fielding his grounder. The mighty Rose came up amid frantic cheering. But Joe summoned all his cunning, and for the second time that day struck him out, while the crowd cheered his sportsmanship in not passing him to first. Russell popped up an infield fly that Willis and Iredell ran for but collided, the ball dropping between them. In the scramble that ensued, Pender reached third and Russell made second. Iredell was still a little shaken by the collision, and fumbled the easy grounder of Walsh that ought to have resulted in an out at the plate, Walsh reaching first in safety. In consequence Pender scored, and again the game was tied at 3 to 3. A single now would have brought in another run, but Joe by a quick throw caught Walsh asleep at first and struck out Mullen, thus ending the inning. With the frenzied adjurations of McRae and Robbie in their ears, the Giants came to the bat for the last half of the ninth. Iredell made a mighty effort, but came back to the bench after three fruitless swings at Hays' benders. Burkett sent up a towering skyscraper that was gathered in after a long run by Milton in center. On Joe now rested the Giants' hopes. Twice that day he had poled out homers, and once he had ripped out a three-bagger. Could he repeat? Hays was determined that he shouldn't have a chance. Amid the jeers and taunts of the crowd, he deliberately sent three balls wide of the plate. In attempting to do the same with the fourth, however, he sent it a trifle too close. Joe caught it on the end of his bat. How that ball traveled! Almost on a line it whistled through the air in the direction of the right field bleachers. On and on went that terrific, screeching liner straight into the crowd in the bleachers who scrambled frantically to get out of its path. Round the bases went Joe, amid shouts and yells that were deafening. Down on the home plate he came with both feet. The game was won, the series was over and the Giants were the champions of the world! Like a deer Joe made for the clubhouse, to escape the crowds that came swarming over the field. He reached it just as a man was being carried inside. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Any one hurt?" "Only a glancing blow," remarked the club doctor, who had been looking the man over. "He's dazed, but he'll come to his senses soon." Joe bent over to look at him and started back in surprise. "Why, I know that man!" he exclaimed. "His name's Fleming!" "It's Fleming all right," said Jim's voice beside him. "And he's got just what was coming to him." Joe looked up and saw Jim and Reggie. They were grave and worried, and Joe's sixth sense told him that something was wrong. "What's happened?" he asked in alarm. "And where is Mabel? What kept her from the game? Don't stand there dumb! Tell me, quick!" "Now, Joe----" began Jim soothingly, but was interrupted by the injured man who opened his eyes, looked wildly around and struggled to a sitting posture. His eyes dilated with fright when he saw Joe and Jim. "I didn't do it!" he half screamed. "I didn't kidnap her! It was Braxton. He----" Jim interposed. "Clear a space here," he commanded. "This is a private matter for Joe and me. Now, Fleming," he went on in short, menacing words that cut like a knife, "tell me this instant where Miss Varley is. You know. Tell me. Quick! Don't lie, or I'll tear your tongue out by the roots." Before the blazing fury in his eyes Fleming quailed. "She's at Inwood," he muttered. "She's safe enough. She's----" "Reggie," commanded Jim, "jump into the car and take the wheel. Joe, help me to get this man into the car. Don't talk. I'll explain as we go along. Doyle," he continued, turning to a police lieutenant who was a warm admirer of the boys and who happened to be standing near, "come along with us if you don't mind. It may be a case for you." "Sure thing," replied Doyle. "I'm with you." They half dragged, half carried, Fleming to the car, and Reggie put on speed. The lieutenant sat in front with him, and his uniform prevented any question on the part of the traffic policemen. Fleming, pale and apprehensive, was thrust into a corner of the tonneau, while Jim explained the situation to Joe, who was boiling with rage. The headlong speed at which Reggie drove soon brought them to the vicinity of Inwood, and following the faltering directions of Fleming, they drew up before a little house that was a block away from any of its neighbors. They tiptoed up the steps, Joe having his hand so tightly on Fleming's collar that his knuckles ground into his neck. "You know what you've got to do, Fleming," he whispered. "If you don't do it----" His grip tightened and his fist clenched. Trembling, Fleming opened the front door with his latchkey, and the party went softly through the hall. They stopped in front of a door from behind which a man was heard talking. "I'm sorry to have to incommode you, Miss Varley," he was saying in suave polished tones that the boys recognized at once as Braxton's. "But unfortunately it is necessary to the success of my plans. You can't complain that we haven't treated you with perfect respect outside of the little violence we had to use to get you into the car." There was no reply, but the party could hear the sound of sobbing. "Knock," whispered Joe, emphasizing the command by a twist of Fleming's collar. Fleming knocked. "Who's there?" came from within. "It's Fleming," was the weak answer. "Open up." The door opened and the party went in with a rush. There was a cry of joy from Mabel and a startled exclamation from Braxton. He looked toward the door, but the burly policeman had closed it and stood with his back against it. The next instant Joe had smashed Braxton straight between the eyes and the rascal measured his length on the floor. An instant more, and Mabel was in Joe's arms, sobbing her heart out against his breast. For a few moments the reunited ones were dead to the world around them. When at last they had come to their senses, Joe, with a final caress, relinquished Mabel to Reggie's care. "You'd better go out to the car, dearest," he said to her. "I'll be with you soon. I've got a little business to attend to here." The brother and sister went out, and Joe turned to the rest of the party. Braxton had been yanked to his feet by Jim and jammed down hard into a chair, where he sat glowering with rage and fear. Doyle stood guard over Fleming, who presented a miserable picture of abjectness. "Shall I take them in charge, Mr. Matson?" asked the police lieutenant. "You seem to have a clear case against them. They ought to get ten years at least." The fear in the rascals' faces deepened. "No," answered Joe thoughtfully. "I don't want any scandal and I don't believe I'll make a charge. At least, not yet. Jim, can you skirmish around and find pen and ink?" In a minute or two Jim had found them. "Now, you contemptible skunks," began Joe, "listen to me. I'm going to get a written confession from you of this whole business. Put down, Jim, that matter of the anonymous letter. Don't try to lie out of it, you scoundrel," he said, as Braxton started to protest. "Put down, too, that hiring of the auto bandits to cripple me." Here Braxton gave a violent start. "Put down that attempt to dope me in Chicago. That hits you on the raw, doesn't it, Fleming?" he added, as the latter cringed still lower in his seat. "We'll pass over the matter of hiring Bugs Hartley to do me up in St. Louis, for he may have done that on his own account. Now add this kidnaping incident and the record will be complete." Jim wrote rapidly and soon had the document ready. "Now we'll ask these gentlemen to sign," said Joe, with exaggerated politeness. "I won't sign," snarled Braxton, livid with rage. "Oh, you won't?" said Joe. "All right, Lieutenant----" "I'll sign," said Braxton hastily. Both he and Fleming signed, and Joe put the document carefully into his pocket. "Now," he said, "I have you rascals on the hip. Dare to make one other move against me as long as you live, and I'll have you clapped into jail so quickly it will make your heads swim. I'll put you where the dogs won't bite you." Both Braxton and Fleming rose to their feet. "Where are you going?" asked Joe, in apparent surprise. "You're through with us, aren't you?" growled Braxton. Joe laughed outright. "Oh, dear no," he said, as he rose to his feet. "There's just one little thing to attend to yet. I'm going to thrash you within an inch of your life." Braxton made a dash for the door, but Joe caught him a clip on the jaw that sent him staggering back into a corner. "Now Jim," said Joe, "suppose you take that little rat out," pointing to Fleming, "and drop him somewhere. He got his dose when the ball knocked him out in the bleachers, and that perhaps will be enough for him. Lieutenant," he went on, turning to Doyle, "you're a policeman, and might feel called on to stop any scene of violence. I feel it in my bones that there's going to be a little violence here--just a little. Would you mind stepping outside and seeing whether the car is all right?" "Sure," replied Doyle, with a grin and a wink. "Now, you cur," said Joe, as he turned to Braxton, "take off your coat. It's a long account I have to settle with you, and I'm going to give you the licking of your life." There was no way out, and Braxton took off his coat and closed in. He was a big man and fought with the desperation of a cornered rat. He got in one or two wild blows that did no damage. Joe smashed him right and left, knocked him down and lifted him to his feet to knock him down again, until Braxton, beaten to a finish, refused to get up, and lay in a heap in a corner, fairly sobbing with rage and pain and shame. "Just one little bit of news, Braxton," said Joe, as he turned to leave. "You've lost your bets. The Giants won!" He ran lightly down the steps and jumped into the car, where Mabel snuggled up to him. "What kept you so long, Joe?" she asked anxiously. "Just settling an account, honey," he replied, as he drew her closer. "It was a long one and took some time." "An account? What do you mean?" the girl asked, and then added suddenly: "Oh, Joe, you are all--all mussed up!" "Am I, dear? Well, if I am you ought to see the other fellow, that's all." "It was a--a fight?" she faltered. "Hardly that, Mabel. Braxton had it coming to him--and I gave it to him with interest. But let us forget it. It's over now, and all I want to think about is--you!" And he held her closer than ever. * * * * * A few weeks later the wedding march was played in Mabel's home, and she and Joe joined hands for life. Clara was bridesmaid and Jim was best man. Mr. and Mrs. Matson, the latter greatly improved in health, were present. It was a glorious occasion, and all of them, the bride and groom especially, were happy beyond words. "I'm quite a royal personage," said Mabel, as the happy pair, amid a shower of rice, started off on their honeymoon. "To think of poor little me marrying the king of pitchers and king of batters." "As Reggie would say, you're 'spoofing' me," he laughed. "At any rate, I'm luckier than most kings. I've picked a perfect queen." And Baseball Joe smiled broadly. And he had a right to smile, don't you think so? THE END THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES BY LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_ [Illustration] BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS _or The Rivals of Riverside_ Joe is an everyday country boy who loves to play baseball and particularly to pitch. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE _or Pitching for the Blue Banner_ Joe's great ambition was to go to boarding school and play on the school team. BASEBALL JOE AT YALE _or Pitching for the College Championship_ Joe goes to Yale University. In his second year he becomes a varsity pitcher and pitches in several big games. BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE _or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_ From Yale college to a baseball league of our Central States. BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE _or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles_ From the Central League Joe goes to the St. Louis Nationals. BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS _or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_ Joe was traded to the Giants and became their mainstay. BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES _or Pitching for the Championship_ What Joe did to win the series will thrill the most jaded reader. BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD _or Pitching on a Grand Tour_ The Giants and the All-Americans tour the world. BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING _or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record_ Joe becomes the greatest batter in the game. BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE _or Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy_ Throwing the game meant a fortune but also dishonor and it was a great honor to defeat it. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE MOTOR BOYS SERIES BY CLARENCE YOUNG _12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_ [Illustration] The Motor Boys _or Chums Through Thick and Thin_ The Motor Boys Overland _or A Long Trip for Fun and Fortune_ The Motor Boys In Mexico _or The Secret of The Buried City_ The Motor Boys Across the Plains _or The Hermit of Lost Lake_ The Motor Boys Afloat _or The Cruise of the Dartaway_ The Motor Boys on the Atlantic _or The Mystery of the Lighthouse_ The Motor Boys in Strange Waters _or Lost in a Floating Forest_ The Motor Boys on the Pacific _or The Young Derelict Hunters_ The Motor Boys in the Clouds _or A Trip for Fame and Fortune_ The Motor Boys Over the Rockies _or A Mystery of the Air_ The Motor Boys Over the Ocean _or A Marvelous Rescue in Mid-Air_ The Motor Boys on the Wing _or Seeking the Airship Treasure_ The Motor Boys After a Fortune _or The Hut on Snake Island_ The Motor Boys on the Border _or Sixty Nuggets of Gold_ The Motor Boys Under the Sea _or From Airship to Submarine_ The Motor Boys on Road and River _or Racing to Save a Life_ THE MOTOR BOYS SECOND SERIES BY CLARENCE YOUNG Ned, Bob and Jerry at Boxwood Hall _or The Motor Boys as Freshmen_ Ned, Bob and Jerry on a Ranch _or The Motor Boys Among the Cowboys_ Ned, Bob and Jerry in the Army _or The Motor Boys as Volunteers_ Ned, Bob and Jerry on the Firing Line _or The Motor Boys Fighting for Uncle Sam_ Ned, Bob and Jerry Bound for Home _or The Motor Boys on the Wrecked Troopship_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE GREAT MARVEL SERIES BY ROY ROCKWOOD _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Stories of adventures in strange places, with peculiar people and queer animals._ 1. THROUGH THE AIR TO THE NORTH POLE _or The Wonderful Cruise of the Electric Monarch_ The tale of a trip to the frozen North with a degree of reality that is most convincing. 2. UNDER THE OCEAN TO THE SOUTH POLE _or The Strange Cruise of the Submarine Wonder_ A marvelous trip from Maine to the South Pole, telling of adventures with the sea-monsters and savages. 3. FIVE THOUSAND MILES UNDERGROUND _or The Mystery of the Center of the Earth_ A cruise to the center of the earth through an immense hole found at an island in the ocean. 4. THROUGH SPACE TO MARS _or The Most Wonderful Trip on Record_ This book tells how the journey was made in a strange craft and what happened on Mars. 5. LOST ON THE MOON _or In Quest of the Field of Diamonds_ Strange adventures on the planet which is found to be a land of desolation and silence. 6. ON A TORN-AWAY WORLD _or Captives of the Great Earthquake_ After a tremendous convulsion of nature the adventurers find themselves captives on a vast "island in the air." _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE JACK RANGER SERIES BY CLARENCE YOUNG _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Lively stories of outdoor sports and adventure every boy will want to read._ 1. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL DAYS _or The Rivals of Washington Hall_ You will love Jack Ranger--you simply can't help it. He is bright and cheery, and earnest in all he does. 2. JACK RANGER'S WESTERN TRIP _or From Boarding School to Ranch and Range_ This volume takes the hero to the great West. Jack is anxious to clear up the mystery surrounding his father's disappearance. 3. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL VICTORIES _or Track, Gridiron and Diamond_ Jack gets back to Washington Hall and goes in for all sorts of school games. There are numerous contests on the athletic field. 4. JACK RANGER'S OCEAN CRUISE _or The Wreck of the Polly Ann_ How Jack was carried off to sea against his will makes a "yarn" no boy will want to miss. 5. JACK RANGER'S GUN CLUB _or From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail_ Jack organizes a gun club and with his chums goes in quest of big game. They have many adventures in the mountains. 6. JACK RANGER'S TREASURE BOX _or The Outing of the Schoolboy Yachtsmen_ Jack receives a box from his father and it is stolen. How he regains it makes an absorbing tale. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES BY LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Mr. Chadwick has played on the diamond and on the gridiron himself._ 1. THE RIVAL PITCHERS _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons, a "hayseed," makes good on the scrub team of Randall College. 2. A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK _A Story of College Football_ A football story, told in Mr. Chadwick's best style, that is bound to grip the reader from the start. 3. BATTING TO WIN _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons and his friends Phil and Sid are the leading players on Randall College team. There is a great game. 4. THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN _A Story of College Football_ After having to reorganize their team at the last moment, Randall makes a touchdown that won a big game. 5. FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL _A Story of College Athletics_ The winning of the hurdle race and long-distance run is extremely exciting. 6. THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS _A Story of College Water Sports_ Tom, Phil and Sid prove as good at aquatic sports as they are on track, gridiron and diamond. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE WEBSTER SERIES By FRANK V. WEBSTER [Illustration] Mr. Webster's style is very much like that of the boys' favorite author, the late lamented Horatio Alger, Jr., but his tales are thoroughly up-to-date. =Cloth. 12mo. Over 200 pages each. Illustrated. Stamped in various colors.= =Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid.= Only A Farm Boy _or Dan Hardy's Rise in Life_ The Boy From The Ranch _or Roy Bradner's City Experiences_ The Young Treasure Hunter _or Fred Stanley's Trip to Alaska_ The Boy Pilot of the Lakes _or Nat Morton's Perils_ Tom The Telephone Boy _or The Mystery of a Message_ Bob The Castaway _or The Wreck of the Eagle_ The Newsboy Partners _or Who Was Dick Box?_ Two Boy Gold Miners _or Lost in the Mountains_ The Young Firemen of Lakeville _or Herbert Dare's Pluck_ The Boys of Bellwood School _or Frank Jordan's Triumph_ Jack the Runaway _or On the Road with a Circus_ Bob Chester's Grit _or From Ranch to Riches_ Airship Andy _or The Luck of a Brave Boy_ High School Rivals _or Fred Markham's Struggles_ Darry The Life Saver _or The Heroes of the Coast_ Dick The Bank Boy _or A Missing Fortune_ Ben Hardy's Flying Machine _or Making a Record for Himself_ Harry Watson's High School Days _or The Rivals of Rivertown_ Comrades of the Saddle _or The Young Rough Riders of the Plains_ Tom Taylor at West Point _or The Old Army Officer's Secret_ The Boy Scouts of Lennox _or Hiking Over Big Bear Mountain_ The Boys of the Wireless _or a Stirring Rescue from the Deep_ Cowboy Dave _or The Round-up at Rolling River_ Jack of the Pony Express _or The Young Rider of the Mountain Trail_ The Boys of the Battleship _or For the Honor of Uncle Sam_ CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE TOM FAIRFIELD SERIES By ALLEN CHAPMAN Author of the "Fred Fenton Athletic Series," "The Boys of Pluck Series," and "The Darewell Chums Series." 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. Tom Fairfield is a typical American lad, full of life and energy, a boy who believes in doing things. To know Tom is to love him. [Illustration] TOM FAIRFIELD'S SCHOOLDAYS _or The Chums of Elmwood Hall_ Tells of how Tom started for school, of the mystery surrounding one of the Hall seniors, and of how the hero went to the rescue. The first book in a line that is bound to become decidedly popular. TOM FAIRFIELD AT SEA _or The Wreck of the Silver Star_ Tom's parents had gone to Australia and then been cast away somewhere in the Pacific. Tom set out to find them and was himself cast away. A thrilling picture of the perils of the deep. TOM FAIRFIELD IN CAMP _or The Secret of the Old Mill_ The boys decided to go camping, and located near an old mill. A wild man resided there and he made it decidedly lively for Tom and his chums. The secret of the old mill adds to the interest of the volume. TOM FAIRFIELD'S PLUCK AND LUCK _or Working to Clear His Name_ While Tom was back at school some of his enemies tried to get him into trouble. Something unusual occurred and Tom was suspected of a crime. How he set to work to clear his name is told in a manner to interest all young readers. TOM FAIRFIELD'S HUNTING TRIP _or Lost in the Wilderness_ Tom was only a schoolboy, but he loved to use a shotgun or a rifle. In this volume we meet him on a hunting trip full of outdoor life and good times around the camp-fire. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE SPEEDWELL BOYS SERIES By ROY ROCKWOOD Author of "The Dave Dashaway Series," "Great Marvel Series," etc. 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. All boys who love to be on the go will welcome the Speedwell boys. They are clean cut and loyal lads. [Illustration] THE SPEEDWELL BOYS ON MOTOR CYCLES _or The Mystery of a Great Conflagration_ The lads were poor, but they did a rich man a great service and he presented them with their motor cycles. What a great fire led to is exceedingly well told. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR RACING AUTO _or A Run for the Golden Cup_ A tale of automobiling and of intense rivalry on the road. There was an endurance run and the boys entered the contest. On the run they rounded up some men who were wanted by the law. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR POWER LAUNCH _or To the Rescue of the Castaways_ Here is an unusual story. There was a wreck, and the lads, in their power launch, set out to the rescue. A vivid picture of a great storm adds to the interest of the tale. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS IN A SUBMARINE _or The Lost Treasure of Rocky Cove_ An old sailor knows of a treasure lost under water because of a cliff falling into the sea. The boys get a chance to go out in a submarine and they make a hunt for the treasure. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR ICE RACER _or The Perils of a Great Blizzard_ The boys had an idea for a new sort of iceboat, to be run by combined wind and motor power. How they built the craft, and what fine times they had on board of it, is well related. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK * * * * * * Transcriber's note: --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected except as indicated below. --Archaic and variable spellings were preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --Inconsistencies in formatting and punctuation of individual advertisements have been retained. --A List of Illustrations has been provided for the convenience of the reader. 
52670	----	YOU KNOW ME AL RING W. LARDNER YOU KNOW ME AL _A Busher's Letters_ BY RING W. LARDNER [Illustration] NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY Copyright, 1916, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I A BUSHER'S LETTERS HOME 9 II THE BUSHER COMES BACK 45 III THE BUSHER'S HONEYMOON 83 IV A NEW BUSHER BREAKS IN 122 V THE BUSHER'S KID 166 VI THE BUSHER BEATS IT HENCE 208 YOU KNOW ME AL YOU KNOW ME AL CHAPTER I A BUSHER'S LETTERS HOME _Terre Haute, Indiana, September 6._ FRIEND AL: Well, Al old pal I suppose you seen in the paper where I been sold to the White Sox. Believe me Al it comes as a surprise to me and I bet it did to all you good old pals down home. You could of knocked me over with a feather when the old man come up to me and says Jack I've sold you to the Chicago Americans. I didn't have no idea that anything like that was coming off. For five minutes I was just dum and couldn't say a word. He says We aren't getting what you are worth but I want you to go up to that big league and show those birds that there is a Central League on the map. He says Go and pitch the ball you been pitching down here and there won't be nothing to it. He says All you need is the nerve and Walsh or no one else won't have nothing on you. So I says I would do the best I could and I thanked him for the treatment I got in Terre Haute. They always was good to me here and though I did more than my share I always felt that my work was appresiated. We are finishing second and I done most of it. I can't help but be proud of my first year's record in professional baseball and you know I am not boasting when I say that Al. Well Al it will seem funny to be up there in the big show when I never was really in a big city before. But I guess I seen enough of life not to be scared of the high buildings eh Al? I will just give them what I got and if they don't like it they can send me back to the old Central and I will be perfectly satisfied. I didn't know anybody was looking me over, but one of the boys told me that Jack Doyle the White Sox scout was down here looking at me when Grand Rapids was here. I beat them twice in that serious. You know Grand Rapids never had a chance with me when I was right. I shut them out in the first game and they got one run in the second on account of Flynn misjuging that fly ball. Anyway Doyle liked my work and he wired Comiskey to buy me. Comiskey come back with an offer and they excepted it. I don't know how much they got but anyway I am sold to the big league and believe me Al I will make good. Well Al I will be home in a few days and we will have some of the good old times. Regards to all the boys and tell them I am still their pal and not all swelled up over this big league business. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, December 14._ Old Pal: Well Al I have not got much to tell you. As you know Comiskey wrote me that if I was up in Chi this month to drop in and see him. So I got here Thursday morning and went to his office in the afternoon. His office is out to the ball park and believe me its some park and some office. I went in and asked for Comiskey and a young fellow says He is not here now but can I do anything for you? I told him who I am and says I had an engagement to see Comiskey. He says The boss is out of town hunting and did I have to see him personally? I says I wanted to see about signing a contract. He told me I could sign as well with him as Comiskey and he took me into another office. He says What salary did you think you ought to get? and I says I wouldn't think of playing ball in the big league for less than three thousand dollars per annum. He laughed and says You don't want much. You better stick round town till the boss comes back. So here I am and it is costing me a dollar a day to stay at the hotel on Cottage Grove Avenue and that don't include my meals. I generally eat at some of the cafes round the hotel but I had supper downtown last night and it cost me fifty-five cents. If Comiskey don't come back soon I won't have no more money left. Speaking of money I won't sign no contract unless I get the salary you and I talked of, three thousand dollars. You know what I was getting in Terre Haute, a hundred and fifty a month, and I know it's going to cost me a lot more to live here. I made inquiries round here and find I can get board and room for eight dollars a week but I will be out of town half the time and will have to pay for my room when I am away or look up a new one when I come back. Then I will have to buy cloths to wear on the road in places like New York. When Comiskey comes back I will name him three thousand dollars as my lowest figure and I guess he will come through when he sees I am in ernest. I heard that Walsh was getting twice as much as that. The papers says Comiskey will be back here sometime to-morrow. He has been hunting with the president of the league so he ought to feel pretty good. But I don't care how he feels. I am going to get a contract for three thousand and if he don't want to give it to me he can do the other thing. You know me Al. Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, December 16._ DEAR FRIEND AL: Well I will be home in a couple of days now but I wanted to write you and let you know how I come out with Comiskey. I signed my contract yesterday afternoon. He is a great old fellow Al and no wonder everybody likes him. He says Young man will you have a drink? But I was to smart and wouldn't take nothing. He says You was with Terre Haute? I says Yes I was. He says Doyle tells me you were pretty wild. I says Oh no I got good control. He says Well do you want to sign? I says Yes if I get my figure. He asks What is my figure and I says three thousand dollars per annum. He says Don't you want the office furniture too? Then he says I thought you was a young ball-player and I didn't know you wanted to buy my park. We kidded each other back and forth like that a while and then he says You better go out and get the air and come back when you feel better. I says I feel O.K. now and I want to sign a contract because I have got to get back to Bedford. Then he calls the secretary and tells him to make out my contract. He give it to me and it calls for two hundred and fifty a month. He says You know we always have a city serious here in the fall where a fellow picks up a good bunch of money. I hadn't thought of that so I signed up. My yearly salary will be fifteen hundred dollars besides what the city serious brings me. And that is only for the first year. I will demand three thousand or four thousand dollars next year. I would of started home on the evening train but I ordered a suit of cloths from a tailor over on Cottage Grove and it won't be done till to-morrow. It's going to cost me twenty bucks but it ought to last a long time. Regards to Frank and the bunch. Your Pal, JACK. _Paso Robles, California, March 2._ OLD PAL AL: Well Al we been in this little berg now a couple of days and its bright and warm all the time just like June. Seems funny to have it so warm this early in March but I guess this California climate is all they said about it and then some. It would take me a week to tell you about our trip out here. We came on a Special Train De Lukes and it was some train. Every place we stopped there was crowds down to the station to see us go through and all the people looked me over like I was a actor or something. I guess my hight and shoulders attracted their attention. Well Al we finally got to Oakland which is across part of the ocean from Frisco. We will be back there later on for practice games. We stayed in Oakland a few hours and then took a train for here. It was another night in a sleeper and believe me I was tired of sleepers before we got here. I have road one night at a time but this was four straight nights. You know Al I am not built right for a sleeping car birth. The hotel here is a great big place and got good eats. We got in at breakfast time and I made a B line for the dining room. Kid Gleason who is a kind of asst. manager to Callahan come in and sat down with me. He says Leave something for the rest of the boys because they will be just as hungry as you. He says Ain't you afraid you will cut your throat with that knife. He says There ain't no extra charge for using the forks. He says You shouldn't ought to eat so much because you're overweight now. I says You may think I am fat, but it's all solid bone and muscle. He says Yes I suppose it's all solid bone from the neck up. I guess he thought I would get sore but I will let them kid me now because they will take off their hats to me when they see me work. Manager Callahan called us all to his room after breakfast and give us a lecture. He says there would be no work for us the first day but that we must all take a long walk over the hills. He also says we must not take the training trip as a joke. Then the colored trainer give us our suits and I went to my room and tried mine on. I ain't a bad looking guy in the White Sox uniform Al. I will have my picture taken and send you boys some. My roommate is Allen a lefthander from the Coast League. He don't look nothing like a pitcher but you can't never tell about them dam left handers. Well I didn't go on the long walk because I was tired out. Walsh stayed at the hotel too and when he seen me he says Why didn't you go with the bunch? I says I was too tired. He says Well when Callahan comes back you better keep out of sight or tell him you are sick. I says I don't care nothing for Callahan. He says No but Callahan is crazy about you. He says You better obey orders and you will git along better. I guess Walsh thinks I am some rube. When the bunch come back Callahan never said a word to me but Gleason come up and says Where was you? I told him I was too tired to go walking. He says Well I will borrow a wheelbarrow some place and push you round. He says Do you sit down when you pitch? I let him kid me because he has not saw my stuff yet. Next morning half the bunch mostly vetrans went to the ball park which isn't no better than the one we got at home. Most of them was vetrans as I say but I was in the bunch. That makes things look pretty good for me don't it Al? We tossed the ball round and hit fungos and run round and then Callahan asks Scott and Russell and I to warm up easy and pitch a few to the batters. It was warm and I felt pretty good so I warmed up pretty good. Scott pitched to them first and kept laying them right over with nothing on them. I don't believe a man gets any batting practice that way. So I went in and after I lobbed a few over I cut loose my fast one. Lord was to bat and he ducked out of the way and then throwed his bat to the bench. Callahan says What's the matter Harry? Lord says I forgot to pay up my life insurance. He says I ain't ready for Walter Johnson's July stuff. Well Al I will make them think I am Walter Johnson before I get through with them. But Callahan come out to me and says What are you trying to do kill somebody? He says Save your smoke because you're going to need it later on. He says Go easy with the boys at first or I won't have no batters. But he was laughing and I guess he was pleased to see the stuff I had. There is a dance in the hotel to-night and I am up in my room writing this in my underwear while I get my suit pressed. I got it all mussed up coming out here. I don't know what shoes to wear. I asked Gleason and he says Wear your baseball shoes and if any of the girls gets fresh with you spike them. I guess he was kidding me. Write and tell me all the news about home. Yours truly, JACK. _Paso Robles, California, March 7._ FRIEND AL: I showed them something out there to-day Al. We had a game between two teams. One team was made up of most of the regulars and the other was made up of recruts. I pitched three innings for the recruts and shut the old birds out. I held them to one hit and that was a ground ball that the recrut shortstop Johnson ought to of ate up. I struck Collins out and he is one of the best batters in the bunch. I used my fast ball most of the while but showed them a few spitters and they missed them a foot. I guess I must of got Walsh's goat with my spitter because him and I walked back to the hotel together and he talked like he was kind of jealous. He says You will have to learn to cover up your spitter. He says I could stand a mile away and tell when you was going to throw it. He says Some of these days I will learn you how to cover it up. I guess Al I know how to cover it up all right without Walsh learning me. I always sit at the same table in the dining room along with Gleason and Collins and Bodie and Fournier and Allen the young lefthander I told you about. I feel sorry for him because he never says a word. To-night at supper Bodie says How did I look to-day Kid? Gleason says Just like you always do in the spring. You looked like a cow. Gleason seems to have the whole bunch scared of him and they let him say anything he wants to. I let him kid me to but I ain't scared of him. Collins then says to me You got some fast ball there boy. I says I was not as fast to-day as I am when I am right. He says Well then I don't want to hit against you when you are right. Then Gleason says to Collins Cut that stuff out. Then he says to me Don't believe what he tells you boy. If the pitchers in this league weren't no faster than you I would still be playing ball and I would be the best hitter in the country. After supper Gleason went out on the porch with me. He says Boy you have got a little stuff but you have got a lot to learn. He says You field your position like a wash woman and you don't hold the runners up. He says When Chase was on second base to-day he got such a lead on you that the little catcher couldn't of shot him out at third with a rifle. I says They all thought I fielded my position all right in the Central League. He says Well if you think you do it all right you better go back to the Central League where you are appresiated. I says You can't send me back there because you could not get waivers. He says Who would claim you? I says St. Louis and Boston and New York. You know Al what Smith told me this winter. Gleason says Well if you're not willing to learn St. Louis and Boston and New York can have you and the first time you pitch against us we will steal fifty bases. Then he quit kidding and asked me to go to the field with him early to-morrow morning and he would learn me some things. I don't think he can learn me nothing but I promised I would go with him. There is a little blonde kid in the hotel here who took a shine to me at the dance the other night but I am going to leave the skirts alone. She is real society and a swell dresser and she wants my picture. Regards to all the boys. Your friend, JACK. P.S. The boys thought they would be smart to-night and put something over on me. A boy brought me a telegram and I opened it and it said You are sold to Jackson in the Cotton States League. For just a minute they had me going but then I happened to think that Jackson is in Michigan and there's no Cotton States League round there. _Paso Robles, California, March 9._ DEAR FRIEND AL: You have no doubt read the good news in the papers before this reaches you. I have been picked to go to Frisco with the first team. We play practice games up there about two weeks while the second club plays in Los Angeles. Poor Allen had to go with the second club. There's two other recrut pitchers with our part of the team but my name was first on the list so it looks like I had made good. I knowed they would like my stuff when they seen it. We leave here to-night. You got the first team's address so you will know where to send my mail. Callahan goes with us and Gleason goes with the second club. Him and I have got to be pretty good pals and I wish he was going with us even if he don't let me eat like I want to. He told me this morning to remember all he had learned me and to keep working hard. He didn't learn me nothing I didn't know before but I let him think so. The little blonde don't like to see me leave here. She lives in Detroit and I may see her when I go there. She wants me to write but I guess I better not give her no encouragement. Well Al I will write you a long letter from Frisco. Yours truly, JACK. _Oakland, California, March 19._ DEAR OLD PAL: They have gave me plenty of work here all right. I have pitched four times but have not went over five innings yet. I worked against Oakland two times and against Frisco two times and only three runs have been scored off me. They should only ought to of had one but Bodie misjuged a easy fly ball in Frisco and Weaver made a wild peg in Oakland that let in a run. I am not using much but my fast ball but I have got a world of speed and they can't foul me when I am right. I whiffed eight men in five innings in Frisco yesterday and could of did better than that if I had of cut loose. Manager Callahan is a funny guy and I don't understand him sometimes. I can't figure out if he is kidding or in ernest. We road back to Oakland on the ferry together after yesterday's game and he says Don't you never throw a slow ball? I says I don't need no slow ball with my spitter and my fast one. He says No of course you don't need it but if I was you I would get one of the boys to learn it to me. He says And you better watch the way the boys fields their positions and holds up the runners. He says To see you work a man might think they had a rule in the Central League forbidding a pitcher from leaving the box or looking toward first base. I told him the Central didn't have no rule like that. He says And I noticed you taking your wind up when What's His Name was on second base there to-day. I says Yes I got more stuff when I wind up. He says Of course you have but if you wind up like that with Cobb on base he will steal your watch and chain. I says Maybe Cobb can't get on base when I work against him. He says That's right and maybe San Francisco Bay is made of grapejuice. Then he walks away from me. He give one of the youngsters a awful bawling out for something he done in the game at supper last night. If he ever talks to me like he done to him I will take a punch at him. You know me Al. I come over to Frisco last night with some of the boys and we took in the sights. Frisco is some live town Al. We went all through China Town and the Barbers' Coast. Seen lots of swell dames but they was all painted up. They have beer out here that they call steam beer. I had a few glasses of it and it made me logey. A glass of that Terre Haute beer would go pretty good right now. We leave here for Los Angeles in a few days and I will write you from there. This is some country Al and I would love to play ball round here. Your Pal, JACK. P.S.--I got a letter from the little blonde and I suppose I got to answer it. _Los Angeles, California, March 26._ FRIEND AL: Only four more days of sunny California and then we start back East. We got exhibition games in Yuma and El Paso, Texas, and Oklahoma City and then we stop over in St. Joe, Missouri, for three days before we go home. You know Al we open the season in Cleveland and we won't be in Chi no more than just passing through. We don't play there till April eighteenth and I guess I will work in that serious all right against Detroit. Then I will be glad to have you and the boys come up and watch me as you suggested in your last letter. I got another letter from the little blonde. She has went back to Detroit but she give me her address and telephone number and believe me Al I am going to look her up when we get there the twenty-ninth of April. She is a stenographer and was out here with her uncle and aunt. I had a run in with Kelly last night and it looked like I would have to take a wallop at him but the other boys seperated us. He is a bush outfielder from the New England League. We was playing poker. You know the boys plays poker a good deal but this was the first time I got in. I was having pretty good luck and was about four bucks to the good and I was thinking of quitting because I was tired and sleepy. Then Kelly opened the pot for fifty cents and I stayed. I had three sevens. No one else stayed. Kelly stood pat and I drawed two cards. And I catched my fourth seven. He bet fifty cents but I felt pretty safe even if he did have a pat hand. So I called him. I took the money and told them I was through. Lord and some of the boys laughed but Kelly got nasty and begun to pan me for quitting and for the way I played. I says Well I won the pot didn't I? He says Yes and he called me something. I says I got a notion to take a punch at you. He says Oh you have have you? And I come back at him. I says Yes I have have I? I would of busted his jaw if they hadn't stopped me. You know me Al. I worked here two times once against Los Angeles and once against Venice. I went the full nine innings both times and Venice beat me four to two. I could of beat them easy with any kind of support. I walked a couple of guys in the forth and Chase drops a throw and Collins lets a fly ball get away from him. At that I would of shut them out if I had wanted to cut loose. After the game Callahan says You didn't look so good in there to-day. I says I didn't cut loose. He says Well you been working pretty near three weeks now and you ought to be in shape to cut loose. I says Oh I am in shape all right. He says Well don't work no harder than you have to or you might get hurt and then the league would blow up. I don't know if he was kidding me or not but I guess he thinks pretty well of me because he works me lots oftener than Walsh or Scott or Benz. I will try to write you from Yuma, Texas, but we don't stay there only a day and I may not have time for a long letter. Yours truly, JACK. _Yuma, Arizona, April 1._ DEAR OLD AL: Just a line to let you know we are on our way back East. This place is in Arizona and it sure is sandy. They haven't got no regular ball club here and we play a pick-up team this afternoon. Callahan told me I would have to work. He says I am using you because we want to get through early and I know you can beat them quick. That is the first time he has said anything like that and I guess he is wiseing up that I got the goods. We was talking about the Athaletics this morning and Callahan says None of you fellows pitch right to Baker. I was talking to Lord and Scott afterward and I say to Scott How do you pitch to Baker? He says I use my fadeaway. I says How do you throw it? He says Just like you throw a fast ball to anybody else. I says Why do you call it a fadeaway then? He says Because when I throw it to Baker it fades away over the fence. This place is full of Indians and I wish you could see them Al. They don't look nothing like the Indians we seen in that show last summer. Your old pal, JACK. _Oklahoma City, April 4._ FRIEND AL: Coming out of Amarillo last night I and Lord and Weaver was sitting at a table in the dining car with a old lady. None of us were talking to her but she looked me over pretty careful and seemed to kind of like my looks. Finally she says Are you boys with some football club? Lord nor Weaver didn't say nothing so I thought it was up to me and I says No mam this is the Chicago White Sox Ball Club. She says I knew you were athaletes. I says Yes I guess you could spot us for athaletes. She says Yes indeed and specially you. You certainly look healthy. I says You ought to see me stripped. I didn't see nothing funny about that but I thought Lord and Weaver would die laughing. Lord had to get up and leave the table and he told everybody what I said. All the boys wanted me to play poker on the way here but I told them I didn't feel good. I know enough to quit when I am ahead Al. Callahan and I sat down to breakfast all alone this morning. He says Boy why don't you get to work? I says What do you mean? Ain't I working? He says You ain't improving none. You have got the stuff to make a good pitcher but you don't go after bunts and you don't cover first base and you don't watch the baserunners. He made me kind of sore talking that way and I says Oh I guess I can get along all right. He says Well I am going to put it up to you. I am going to start you over in St. Joe day after to-morrow and I want you to show me something. I want you to cut loose with all you've got and I want you to get round the infield a little and show them you aren't tied in that box. I says Oh I can field my position if I want to. He says Well you better want to or I will have to ship you back to the sticks. Then he got up and left. He didn't scare me none Al. They won't ship me to no sticks after the way I showed on this trip and even if they did they couldn't get no waivers on me. Some of the boys have begun to call me Four Sevens but it don't bother me none. Yours truly, JACK. _St. Joe, Missouri, April 7._ FRIEND AL: It rained yesterday so I worked to-day instead and St. Joe done well to get three hits. They couldn't of scored if we had played all week. I give a couple of passes but I catched a guy flatfooted off of first base and I come up with a couple of bunts and throwed guys out. When the game was over Callahan says That's the way I like to see you work. You looked better to-day than you looked on the whole trip. Just once you wound up with a man on but otherwise you was all O.K. So I guess my job is cinched Al and I won't have to go to New York or St. Louis. I would rather be in Chi anyway because it is near home. I wouldn't care though if they traded me to Detroit. I hear from Violet right along and she says she can't hardly wait till I come to Detroit. She says she is strong for the Tigers but she will pull for me when I work against them. She is nuts over me and I guess she has saw lots of guys to. I sent her a stickpin from Oklahoma City but I can't spend no more dough on her till after our first payday the fifteenth of the month. I had thirty bucks on me when I left home and I only got about ten left including the five spot I won in the poker game. I have to tip the waiters about thirty cents a day and I seen about twenty picture shows on the coast besides getting my cloths pressed a couple of times. We leave here to-morrow night and arrive in Chi the next morning. The second club joins us there and then that night we go to Cleveland to open up. I asked one of the reporters if he knowed who was going to pitch the opening game and he says it would be Scott or Walsh but I guess he don't know much about it. These reporters travel all round the country with the team all season and send in telegrams about the game every night. I ain't seen no Chi papers so I don't know what they been saying about me. But I should worry eh Al? Some of them are pretty nice fellows and some of them got the swell head. They hang round with the old fellows and play poker most of the time. Will write you from Cleveland. You will see in the paper if I pitch the opening game. Your old pal, JACK. _Cleveland, Ohio, April 10._ OLD FRIEND AL: Well Al we are all set to open the season this afternoon. I have just ate breakfast and I am sitting in the lobby of the hotel. I eat at a little lunch counter about a block from here and I saved seventy cents on breakfast. You see Al they give us a dollar a meal and if we don't want to spend that much all right. Our rooms at the hotel are paid for. The Cleveland papers says Walsh or Scott will work for us this afternoon. I asked Callahan if there was any chance of me getting into the first game and he says I hope not. I don't know what he meant but he may surprise these reporters and let me pitch. I will beat them Al. Lajoie and Jackson is supposed to be great batters but the bigger they are the harder they fall. The second team joined us yesterday in Chi and we practiced a little. Poor Allen was left in Chi last night with four others of the recrut pitchers. Looks pretty good for me eh Al? I only seen Gleason for a few minutes on the train last night. He says, Well you ain't took off much weight. You're hog fat. I says Oh I ain't fat. I didn't need to take off no weight. He says One good thing about it the club don't have to engage no birth for you because you spend all your time in the dining car. We kidded along like that a while and then the trainer rubbed my arm and I went to bed. Well Al I just got time to have my suit pressed before noon. Yours truly, JACK. _Cleveland, Ohio, April 11._ FRIEND AL: Well Al I suppose you know by this time that I did not pitch and that we got licked. Scott was in there and he didn't have nothing. When they had us beat four to one in the eight inning Callahan told me to go out and warm up and he put a batter in for Scott in our ninth. But Cleveland didn't have to play their ninth so I got no chance to work. But it looks like he means to start me in one of the games here. We got three more to play. Maybe I will pitch this afternoon. I got a postcard from Violet. She says Beat them Naps. I will give them a battle Al if I get a chance. Glad to hear you boys have fixed it up to come to Chi during the Detroit serious. I will ask Callahan when he is going to pitch me and let you know. Thanks Al for the papers. Your friend, JACK. _St. Louis, Missouri, April 15._ FRIEND AL: Well Al I guess I showed them. I only worked one inning but I guess them Browns is glad I wasn't in there no longer than that. They had us beat seven to one in the sixth and Callahan pulls Benz out. I honestly felt sorry for him but he didn't have nothing, not a thing. They was hitting him so hard I thought they would score a hundred runs. A righthander name Bumgardner was pitching for them and he didn't look to have nothing either but we ain't got much of a batting team Al. I could hit better than some of them regulars. Anyway Callahan called Benz to the bench and sent for me. I was down in the corner warming up with Kuhn. I wasn't warmed up good but you know I got the nerve Al and I run right out there like I meant business. There was a man on second and nobody out when I come in. I didn't know who was up there but I found out afterward it was Shotten. He's the center-fielder. I was cold and I walked him. Then I got warmed up good and I made Johnston look like a boob. I give him three fast balls and he let two of them go by and missed the other one. I would of handed him a spitter but Schalk kept signing for fast ones and he knows more about them batters than me. Anyway I whiffed Johnston. Then up come Williams and I tried to make him hit at a couple of bad ones. I was in the hole with two balls and nothing and come right across the heart with my fast one. I wish you could of saw the hop on it. Williams hit it right straight up and Lord was camped under it. Then up come Pratt the best hitter on their club. You know what I done to him don't you Al? I give him one spitter and another he didn't strike at that was a ball. Then I come back with two fast ones and Mister Pratt was a dead baby. And you notice they didn't steal no bases neither. In our half of the seventh inning Weaver and Schalk got on and I was going up there with a stick when Callahan calls me back and sends Easterly up. I don't know what kind of managing you call that. I hit good on the training trip and he must of knew they had no chance to score off me in the innings they had left while they were liable to murder his other pitchers. I come back to the bench pretty hot and I says You're making a mistake. He says If Comiskey had wanted you to manage this team he would of hired you. Then Easterly pops out and I says Now I guess you're sorry you didn't let me hit. That sent him right up in the air and he bawled me awful. Honest Al I would of cracked him right in the jaw if we hadn't been right out where everybody could of saw us. Well he sent Cicotte in to finish and they didn't score no more and we didn't neither. I road down in the car with Gleason. He says Boy you shouldn't ought to talk like that to Cal. Some day he will lose his temper and bust you one. I says He won't never bust me. I says He didn't have no right to talk like that to me. Gleason says I suppose you think he's going to laugh and smile when we lost four out of the first five games. He says Wait till to-night and then go up to him and let him know you are sorry you sassed him. I says I didn't sass him and I ain't sorry. So after supper I seen Callahan sitting in the lobby and I went over and sit down by him. I says When are you going to let me work? He says I wouldn't never let you work only my pitchers are all shot to pieces. Then I told him about you boys coming up from Bedford to watch me during the Detroit serious and he says Well I will start you in the second game against Detroit. He says But I wouldn't if I had any pitchers. He says A girl could get out there and pitch better than some of them have been doing. So you see Al I am going to pitch on the nineteenth. I hope you guys can be up there and I will show you something. I know I can beat them Tigers and I will have to do it even if they are Violet's team. I notice that New York and Boston got trimmed to-day so I suppose they wish Comiskey would ask for waivers on me. No chance Al. Your old pal, JACK. P.S.--We play eleven games in Chi and then go to Detroit. So I will see the little girl on the twenty-ninth. Oh you Violet. _Chicago, Illinois, April 19._ DEAR OLD PAL: Well Al it's just as well you couldn't come. They beat me and I am writing you this so as you will know the truth about the game and not get a bum steer from what you read in the papers. I had a sore arm when I was warming up and Callahan should never ought to of sent me in there. And Schalk kept signing for my fast ball and I kept giving it to him because I thought he ought to know something about the batters. Weaver and Lord and all of them kept kicking them round the infield and Collins and Bodie couldn't catch nothing. Callahan ought never to of left me in there when he seen how sore my arm was. Why, I couldn't of threw hard enough to break a pain of glass my arm was so sore. They sure did run wild on the bases. Cobb stole four and Bush and Crawford and Veach about two apiece. Schalk didn't even make a peg half the time. I guess he was trying to throw me down. The score was sixteen to two when Callahan finally took me out in the eighth and I don't know how many more they got. I kept telling him to take me out when I seen how bad I was but he wouldn't do it. They started bunting in the fifth and Lord and Chase just stood there and didn't give me no help at all. I was all O.K. till I had the first two men out in the first inning. Then Crawford come up. I wanted to give him a spitter but Schalk signs me for the fast one and I give it to him. The ball didn't hop much and Crawford happened to catch it just right. At that Collins ought to of catched the ball. Crawford made three bases and up come Cobb. It was the first time I ever seen him. He hollered at me right off the reel. He says You better walk me you busher. I says I will walk you back to the bench. Schalk signs for a spitter and I gives it to him and Cobb misses it. Then instead of signing for another one Schalk asks for a fast one and I shook my head no but he signed for it again and yells Put something on it. So I throwed a fast one and Cobb hits it right over second base. I don't know what Weaver was doing but he never made a move for the ball. Crawford scored and Cobb was on first base. First thing I knowed he had stole second while I held the ball. Callahan yells Wake up out there and I says Why don't your catcher tell me when they are going to steal. Schalk says Get in there and pitch and shut your mouth. Then I got mad and walked Veach and Moriarty but before I walked Moriarty Cobb and Veach pulled a double steal on Schalk. Gainor lifts a fly and Lord drops it and two more come in. Then Stanage walks and I whiffs their pitcher. I come in to the bench and Callahan says Are your friends from Bedford up here? I was pretty sore and I says Why don't you get a catcher? He says We don't need no catcher when you're pitching because you can't get nothing past their bats. Then he says You better leave your uniform in here when you go out next inning or Cobb will steal it off your back. I says My arm is sore. He says Use your other one and you'll do just as good. Gleason says Who do you want to warm up? Callahan says Nobody. He says Cobb is going to lead the league in batting and basestealing anyway so we might as well give him a good start. I was mad enough to punch his jaw but the boys winked at me not to do nothing. Well I got some support in the next inning and nobody got on. Between innings I says Well I guess I look better now don't I? Callahan says Yes but you wouldn't look so good if Collins hadn't jumped up on the fence and catched that one off Crawford. That's all the encouragement I got Al. Cobb come up again to start the third and when Schalk signs me for a fast one I shakes my head. Then Schalk says All right pitch anything you want to. I pitched a spitter and Cobb bunts it right at me. I would of threw him out a block but I stubbed my toe in a rough place and fell down. This is the roughest ground I ever seen Al. Veach bunts and for a wonder Lord throws him out. Cobb goes to second and honest Al I forgot all about him being there and first thing I knowed he had stole third. Then Moriarty hits a fly ball to Bodie and Cobb scores though Bodie ought to of threw him out twenty feet. They batted all round in the forth inning and scored four or five more. Crawford got the luckiest three-base hit I ever see. He popped one way up in the air and the wind blowed it against the fence. The wind is something fierce here Al. At that Collins ought to of got under it. I was looking at the bench all the time expecting Callahan to call me in but he kept hollering Go on and pitch. Your friends wants to see you pitch. Well Al I don't know how they got the rest of their runs but they had more luck than any team I ever seen. And all the time Jennings was on the coaching line yelling like a Indian. Some day Al I'm going to punch his jaw. After Veach had hit one in the eight Callahan calls me to the bench and says You're through for the day. I says It's about time you found out my arm was sore. He says I ain't worrying about your arm but I'm afraid some of our outfielders will run their legs off and some of them poor infielders will get killed. He says The reporters just sent me a message saying they had run out of paper. Then he says I wish some of the other clubs had pitchers like you so we could hit once in a while. He says Go in the clubhouse and get your arm rubbed off. That's the only way I can get Jennings sore he says. Well Al that's about all there was to it. It will take two or three stamps to send this but I want you to know the truth about it. The way my arm was I ought never to of went in there. Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, April 25._ FRIEND AL: Just a line to let you know I am still on earth. My arm feels pretty good again and I guess maybe I will work at Detroit. Violet writes that she can't hardly wait to see me. Looks like I got a regular girl now Al. We go up there the twenty-ninth and maybe I won't be glad to see her. I hope she will be out to the game the day I pitch. I will pitch the way I want to next time and them Tigers won't have such a picnic. I suppose you seen what the Chicago reporters said about that game. I will punch a couple of their jaws when I see them. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, April 29._ DEAR OLD AL: Well Al it's all over. The club went to Detroit last night and I didn't go along. Callahan told me to report to Comiskey this morning and I went up to the office at ten o'clock. He give me my pay to date and broke the news. I am sold to Frisco. I asked him how they got waivers on me and he says Oh there was no trouble about that because they all heard how you tamed the Tigers. Then he patted me on the back and says Go out there and work hard boy and maybe you'll get another chance some day. I was kind of choked up so I walked out of the office. I ain't had no fair deal Al and I ain't going to no Frisco. I will quit the game first and take that job Charley offered me at the billiard hall. I expect to be in Bedford in a couple of days. I have got to pack up first and settle with my landlady about my room here which I engaged for all season thinking I would be treated square. I am going to rest and lay round home a while and try to forget this rotten game. Tell the boys about it Al and tell them I never would of got let out if I hadn't worked with a sore arm. I feel sorry for that little girl up in Detroit Al. She expected me there to-day. Your old pal, JACK. P.S. I suppose you seen where that lucky lefthander Allen shut out Cleveland with two hits yesterday. The lucky stiff. CHAPTER II THE BUSHER COMES BACK. _San Francisco, California, May 13._ FRIEND AL: I suppose you and the rest of the boys in Bedford will be supprised to learn that I am out here, because I remember telling you when I was sold to San Francisco by the White Sox that not under no circumstances would I report here. I was pretty mad when Comiskey give me my release, because I didn't think I had been given a fair show by Callahan. I don't think so yet Al and I never will but Bill Sullivan the old White Sox catcher talked to me and told me not to pull no boner by refuseing to go where they sent me. He says You're only hurting yourself. He says You must remember that this was your first time up in the big show and very few men no matter how much stuff they got can expect to make good right off the reel. He says All you need is experience and pitching out in the Coast League will be just the thing for you. So I went in and asked Comiskey for my transportation and he says That's right Boy go out there and work hard and maybe I will want you back. I told him I hoped so but I don't hope nothing of the kind Al. I am going to see if I can't get Detroit to buy me, because I would rather live in Detroit than anywheres else. The little girl who got stuck on me this spring lives there. I guess I told you about her Al. Her name is Violet and she is some queen. And then if I got with the Tigers I wouldn't never have to pitch against Cobb and Crawford, though I believe I could show both of them up if I was right. They ain't got much of a ball club here and hardly any good pitchers outside of me. But I don't care. I will win some games if they give me any support and I will get back in the big league and show them birds something. You know me, Al. Your pal, JACK. _Los Angeles, California, May 20._ AL: Well old pal I don't suppose you can find much news of this league in the papers at home so you may not know that I have been standing this league on their heads. I pitched against Oakland up home and shut them out with two hits. I made them look like suckers Al. They hadn't never saw no speed like mine and they was scared to death the minute I cut loose. I could of pitched the last six innings with my foot and trimmed them they was so scared. Well we come down here for a serious and I worked the second game. They got four hits and one run, and I just give them the one run. Their shortstop Johnson was on the training trip with the White Sox and of course I knowed him pretty well. So I eased up in the last inning and let him hit one. If I had of wanted to let myself out he couldn't of hit me with a board. So I am going along good and Howard our manager says he is going to use me regular. He's a pretty nice manager and not a bit sarkastic like some of them big leaguers. I am fielding my position good and watching the baserunners to. Thank goodness Al they ain't no Cobbs in this league and a man ain't scared of haveing his uniform stole off his back. But listen Al I don't want to be bought by Detroit no more. It is all off between Violet and I. She wasn't the sort of girl I suspected. She is just like them all Al. No heart. I wrote her a letter from Chicago telling her I was sold to San Francisco and she wrote back a postcard saying something about not haveing no time to waste on bushers. What do you know about that Al? Calling me a busher. I will show them. She wasn't no good Al and I figure I am well rid of her. Good riddance is rubbish as they say. I will let you know how I get along and if I hear anything about being sold or drafted. Yours truly, JACK. _San Francisco, California, July 20._ FRIEND AL: You will forgive me for not writeing to you oftener when you hear the news I got for you. Old pal I am engaged to be married. Her name is Hazel Carney and she is some queen, Al--a great big stropping girl that must weigh one hundred and sixty lbs. She is out to every game and she got stuck on me from watching me work. Then she writes a note to me and makes a date and I meet her down on Market Street one night. We go to a nickel show together and have some time. Since then we been together pretty near every evening except when I was away on the road. Night before last she asked me if I was married and I tells her No and she says a big handsome man like I ought not to have no trouble finding a wife. I tells her I ain't never looked for one and she says Well you wouldn't have to look very far. I asked her if she was married and she said No but she wouldn't mind it. She likes her beer pretty well and her and I had several and I guess I was feeling pretty good. Anyway I guess I asked her if she wouldn't marry me and she says it was O.K. I ain't a bit sorry Al because she is some doll and will make them all sit up back home. She wanted to get married right away but I said No wait till the season is over and maybe I will have more dough. She asked me what I was getting and I told her two hundred dollars a month. She says she didn't think I was getting enough and I don't neither but I will get the money when I get up in the big show again. Anyway we are going to get married this fall and then I will bring her home and show her to you. She wants to live in Chi or New York but I guess she will like Bedford O.K. when she gets acquainted. I have made good here all right Al. Up to a week ago Sunday I had won eleven straight. I have lost a couple since then, but one day I wasn't feeling good and the other time they kicked it away behind me. I had a run in with Howard after Portland had beat me. He says Keep on running round with that skirt and you won't never win another game. He says Go to bed nights and keep in shape or I will take your money. I told him to mind his own business and then he walked away from me. I guess he was scared I was going to smash him. No manager ain't going to bluff me Al. So I went to bed early last night and didn't keep my date with the kid. She was pretty sore about it but business before plesure Al. Don't tell the boys nothing about me being engaged. I want to surprise them. Your pal, JACK. _Sacramento, California, August 16._ FRIEND AL: Well Al I got the supprise of my life last night. Howard called me up after I got to my room and tells me I am going back to the White Sox. Come to find out, when they sold me out here they kept a option on me and yesterday they exercised it. He told me I would have to report at once. So I packed up as quick as I could and then went down to say good-by to the kid. She was all broke up and wanted to go along with me but I told her I didn't have enough dough to get married. She said she would come anyway and we could get married in Chi but I told her she better wait. She cried all over my sleeve. She sure is gone on me Al and I couldn't help feeling sorry for her but I promised to send for her in October and then everything will be all O.K. She asked me how much I was going to get in the big league and I told her I would get a lot more money than out here because I wouldn't play if I didn't. You know me Al. I come over here to Sacramento with the club this morning and I am leaveing to-night for Chi. I will get there next Tuesday and I guess Callahan will work me right away because he must of seen his mistake in letting me go by now. I will show them Al. I looked up the skedule and I seen where we play in Detroit the fifth and sixth of September. I hope they will let me pitch there Al. Violet goes to the games and I will make her sorry she give me that kind of treatment. And I will make them Tigers sorry they kidded me last spring. I ain't afraid of Cobb or none of them now, Al. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago_, _Illinois, August 27._ AL: Well old pal I guess I busted in right. Did you notice what I done to them Athaletics, the best ball club in the country? I bet Violet wishes she hadn't called me no busher. I got here last Tuesday and set up in the stand and watched the game that afternoon. Washington was playing here and Johnson pitched. I was anxious to watch him because I had heard so much about him. Honest Al he ain't as fast as me. He shut them out, but they never was much of a hitting club. I went to the clubhouse after the game and shook hands with the bunch. Kid Gleason the assistant manager seemed pretty glad to see me and he says Well have you learned something? I says Yes I guess I have. He says Did you see the game this afternoon? I says I had and he asked me what I thought of Johnson. I says I don't think so much of him. He says Well I guess you ain't learned nothing then. He says What was the matter with Johnson's work? I says He ain't got nothing but a fast ball. Then he says Yes and Rockefeller ain't got nothing but a hundred million bucks. Well I asked Callahan if he was going to give me a chance to work and he says he was. But I sat on the bench a couple of days and he didn't ask me to do nothing. Finally I asked him why not and he says I am saving you to work against a good club, the Athaletics. Well the Athaletics come and I guess you know by this time what I done to them. And I had to work against Bender at that but I ain't afraid of none of them now Al. Baker didn't hit one hard all afternoon and I didn't have no trouble with Collins neither. I let them down with five blows all though the papers give them seven. Them reporters here don't no more about scoreing than some old woman. They give Barry a hit on a fly ball that Bodie ought to of eat up, only he stumbled or something and they handed Oldring a two base hit on a ball that Weaver had to duck to get out of the way from. But I don't care nothing about reporters. I beat them Athaletics and beat them good, five to one. Gleason slapped me on the back after the game and says Well you learned something after all. Rub some arnicky on your head to keep the swelling down and you may be a real pitcher yet. I says I ain't got no swell head. He says No. If I hated myself like you do I would be a moveing picture actor. Well I asked Callahan would he let me pitch up to Detroit and he says Sure. He says Do you want to get revenge on them? I says, Yes I did. He says Well you have certainly got some comeing. He says I never seen no man get worse treatment than them Tigers give you last spring. I says Well they won't do it this time because I will know how to pitch to them. He says How are you going to pitch to Cobb? I says I am going to feed him on my slow one. He says Well Cobb had ought to make a good meal off of that. Then we quit jokeing and he says You have improved a hole lot and I am going to work you right along regular and if you can stand the gaff I may be able to use you in the city serious. You know Al the White Sox plays a city serious every fall with the Cubs and the players makes quite a lot of money. The winners gets about eight hundred dollars a peace and the losers about five hundred. We will be the winners if I have anything to say about it. I am tickled to death at the chance of working in Detroit and I can't hardly wait till we get there. Watch my smoke Al. Your pal, JACK. P.S. I am going over to Allen's flat to play cards a while to-night. Allen is the lefthander that was on the training trip with us. He ain't got a thing, Al, and I don't see how he gets by. He is married and his wife's sister is visiting them. She wants to meet me but it won't do her much good. I seen her out to the game to-day and she ain't much for looks. _Detroit, Mich., September 6._ FRIEND AL: I got a hole lot to write but I ain't got much time because we are going over to Cleveland on the boat at ten P.M. I made them Tigers like it Al just like I said I would. And what do you think, Al, Violet called me up after the game and wanted to see me but I will tell you about the game first. They got one hit off of me and Cobb made it a scratch single that he beat out. If he hadn't of been so dam fast I would of had a no hit game. At that Weaver could of threw him out if he had of started after the ball in time. Crawford didn't get nothing like a hit and I whiffed him once. I give two walks both of them to Bush but he is such a little guy that you can't pitch to him. When I was warming up before the game Callahan was standing beside me and pretty soon Jennings come over. Jennings says You ain't going to pitch that bird are you? And Callahan said Yes he was. Then Jennings says I wish you wouldn't because my boys is all tired out and can't run the bases. Callahan says They won't get no chance to-day. No, says Jennings I suppose not. I suppose he will walk them all and they won't have to run. Callahan says He won't give no bases on balls, he says. But you better tell your gang that he is liable to bean them and they better stay away from the plate. Jennings says He won't never hurt my boys by beaning them. Then I cut in. Nor you neither, I says. Callahan laughs at that so I guess I must of pulled a pretty good one. Jennings didn't have no comeback so he walks away. Then Cobb come over and asked if I was going to work. Callahan told him Yes. Cobb says How many innings? Callahan says All the way. Then Cobb says Be a good fellow Cal and take him out early. I am lame and can't run. I butts in then and said Don't worry, Cobb. You won't have to run because we have got a catcher who can hold them third strikes. Callahan laughed again and says to me You sure did learn something out on that Coast. Well I walked Bush right off the real and they all begun to holler on the Detroit bench There he goes again. Vitt come up and Jennings yells Leave your bat in the bag Osker. He can't get them over. But I got them over for that bird all O.K. and he pops out trying to bunt. And then I whiffed Crawford. He starts off with a foul that had me scared for a minute because it was pretty close to the foul line and it went clear out of the park. But he missed a spitter a foot and then I supprised them Al. I give him a slow ball and I honestly had to laugh to see him lunge for it. I bet he must of strained himself. He throwed his bat way like he was mad and I guess he was. Cobb came pranceing up like he always does and yells Give me that slow one Boy. So I says All right. But I fooled him. Instead of giveing him a slow one like I said I was going I handed him a spitter. He hit it all right but it was a line drive right in Chase's hands. He says Pretty lucky Boy but I will get you next time. I come right back at him. I says Yes you will. Well Al I had them going like that all through. About the sixth inning Callahan yells from the bench to Jennings What do you think of him now? And Jennings didn't say nothing. What could he of said? Cobb makes their one hit in the eighth. He never would of made it if Schalk had of let me throw him spitters instead of fast ones. At that Weaver ought to of threw him out. Anyway they didn't score and we made a monkey out of Dubuque, or whatever his name is. Well Al I got back to the hotel and snuck down the street a ways and had a couple of beers before supper. So I come to the supper table late and Walsh tells me they had been several phone calls for me. I go down to the desk and they tell me to call up a certain number. So I called up and they charged me a nickel for it. A girl's voice answers the phone and I says Was they some one there that wanted to talk to Jack Keefe? She says You bet they is. She says Don't you know me, Jack? This is Violet. Well, you could of knocked me down with a peace of bread. I says What do you want? She says Why I want to see you. I says Well you can't see me. She says Why what's the matter, Jack? What have I did that you should be sore at me? I says I guess you know all right. You called me a busher. She says Why I didn't do nothing of the kind. I says Yes you did on that postcard. She says I didn't write you no postcard. Then we argued along for a while and she swore up and down that she didn't write me no postcard or call me no busher. I says Well then why didn't you write me a letter when I was in Frisco? She says she had lost my address. Well Al I don't know if she was telling me the truth or not but may be she didn't write that postcard after all. She was crying over the telephone so I says Well it is too late for I and you to get together because I am engaged to be married. Then she screamed and I hang up the receiver. She must of called back two or three times because they was calling my name round the hotel but I wouldn't go near the phone. You know me Al. Well when I hang up and went back to finish my supper the dining room was locked. So I had to go out and buy myself a sandwich. They soaked me fifteen cents for a sandwich and a cup of coffee so with the nickel for the phone I am out twenty cents altogether for nothing. But then I would of had to tip the waiter in the hotel a dime. Well Al I must close and catch the boat. I expect a letter from Hazel in Cleveland and maybe Violet will write to me too. She is stuck on me all right Al. I can see that. And I don't believe she could of wrote that postcard after all. Yours truly, JACK. _Boston, Massachusetts, September 12._ OLD PAL: Well Al I got a letter from Hazel in Cleveland and she is comeing to Chi in October for the city serious. She asked me to send her a hundred dollars for her fare and to buy some cloths with. I sent her thirty dollars for the fare and told her she could wait till she got to Chi to buy her cloths. She said she would give me the money back as soon as she seen me but she is a little short now because one of her girl friends borrowed fifty off of her. I guess she must be pretty soft-hearted Al. I hope you and Bertha can come up for the wedding because I would like to have you stand up with me. I all so got a letter from Violet and they was blots all over it like she had been crying. She swore she did not write that postcard and said she would die if I didn't believe her. She wants to know who the lucky girl is who I am engaged to be married to. I believe her Al when she says she did not write that postcard but it is too late now. I will let you know the date of my wedding as soon as I find out. I guess you seen what I done in Cleveland and here. Allen was going awful bad in Cleveland and I relieved him in the eighth when we had a lead of two runs. I put them out in one-two-three order in the eighth but had hard work in the ninth due to rotten support. I walked Johnston and Chapman and Turner sacrificed them ahead. Jackson come up then and I had two strikes on him. I could of whiffed him but Schalk makes me give him a fast one when I wanted to give him a slow one. He hit it to Berger and Johnston ought to of been threw out at the plate but Berger fumbles and then has to make the play at first base. He got Jackson all O.K. but they was only one run behind then and Chapman was on third base. Lajoie was up next and Callahan sends out word for me to walk him. I thought that was rotten manageing because Lajoie or no one else can hit me when I want to cut loose. So after I give him two bad balls I tried to slip over a strike on him but the lucky stiff hit it on a line to Weaver. Anyway the game was over and I felt pretty good. But Callahan don't appresiate good work Al. He give me a call in the clubhouse and said if I ever disobeyed his orders again he would suspend me without no pay and lick me too. Honest Al it was all I could do to keep from wrapping his jaw but Gleason winks at me not to do nothing. I worked the second game here and give them three hits two of which was bunts that Lord ought to of eat up. I got better support in Frisco than I been getting here Al. But I don't care. The Boston bunch couldn't of hit me with a shovvel and we beat them two to nothing. I worked against Wood at that. They call him Smoky Joe and they say he has got a lot of speed. Boston is some town, Al, and I wish you and Bertha could come here sometime. I went down to the wharf this morning and seen them unload the fish. They must of been a million of them but I didn't have time to count them. Every one of them was five or six times as big as a blue gill. Violet asked me what would be my address in New York City so I am dropping her a postcard to let her know all though I don't know what good it will do her. I certainly won't start no correspondents with her now that I am engaged to be married. Yours truly, JACK. _New York, New York, September 16._ FRIEND AL: I opened the serious here and beat them easy but I know you must of saw about it in the Chi papers. At that they don't give me no fair show in the Chi papers. One of the boys bought one here and I seen in it where I was lucky to win that game in Cleveland. If I knowed which one of them reporters wrote that I would punch his jaw. Al I told you Boston was some town but this is the real one. I never seen nothing like it and I been going some since we got here. I walked down Broadway the Main Street last night and I run into a couple of the ball players and they took me to what they call the Garden but it ain't like the gardens at home because this one is indoors. We sat down to a table and had several drinks. Pretty soon one of the boys asked me if I was broke and I says No, why? He says You better get some lubricateing oil and loosen up. I don't know what he meant but pretty soon when we had had a lot of drinks the waiter brings a check and hands it to me. It was for one dollar. I says Oh I ain't paying for all of them. The waiter says This is just for that last drink. I thought the other boys would make a holler but they didn't say nothing. So I give him a dollar bill and even then he didn't act satisfied so I asked him what he was waiting for and he said Oh nothing, kind of sassy. I was going to bust him but the boys give me the sign to shut up and not to say nothing. I excused myself pretty soon because I wanted to get some air. I give my check for my hat to a boy and he brought my hat and I started going and he says Haven't you forgot something? I guess he must of thought I was wearing a overcoat. Then I went down the Main Street again and some man stopped me and asked me did I want to go to the show. He said he had a ticket. I asked him what show and he said the Follies. I never heard of it but I told him I would go if he had a ticket to spare. He says I will spare you this one for three dollars. I says You must take me for some boob. He says No I wouldn't insult no boob. So I walks on but if he had of insulted me I would of busted him. I went back to the hotel then and run into Kid Gleason. He asked me to take a walk with him so out I go again. We went to the corner and he bought me a beer. He don't drink nothing but pop himself. The two drinks was only ten cents so I says This is the place for me. He says Where have you been? and I told him about paying one dollar for three drinks. He says I see I will have to take charge of you. Don't go round with them ball players no more. When you want to go out and see the sights come to me and I will stear you. So to-night he is going to stear me. I will write to you from Philadelphia. Your pal, JACK. _Philadelphia, Pa., September 19._ FRIEND AL: They won't be no game here to-day because it is raining. We all been loafing round the hotel all day and I am glad of it because I got all tired out over in New York City. I and Kid Gleason went round together the last couple of nights over there and he wouldn't let me spend no money. I seen a lot of girls that I would of liked to of got acquainted with but he wouldn't even let me answer them when they spoke to me. We run in to a couple of peaches last night and they had us spotted too. One of them says I'll bet you're a couple of ball players. But Kid says You lose your bet. I am a bellhop and the big rube with me is nothing but a pitcher. One of them says What are you trying to do kid somebody? He says Go home and get some soap and remove your disguise from your face. I didn't think he ought to talk like that to them and I called him about it and said maybe they was lonesome and it wouldn't hurt none if we treated them to a soda or something. But he says Lonesome. If I don't get you away from here they will steal everything you got. They won't even leave you your fast ball. So we left them and he took me to a picture show. It was some California pictures and they made me think of Hazel so when I got back to the hotel I sent her three postcards. Gleason made me go to my room at ten o'clock both nights but I was pretty tired anyway because he had walked me all over town. I guess we must of saw twenty shows. He says I would take you to the grand opera only it would be throwing money away because we can hear Ed Walsh for nothing. Walsh has got some voice Al a loud high tenor. To-morrow is Sunday and we have a double header Monday on account of the rain to-day. I thought sure I would get another chance to beat the Athaletics and I asked Callahan if he was going to pitch me here but he said he thought he would save me to work against Johnson in Washington. So you see Al he must figure I am about the best he has got. I'll beat him Al if they get a couple of runs behind me. Yours truly, JACK. P.S. They was a letter here from Violet and it pretty near made me feel like crying. I wish they was two of me so both them girls could be happy. _Washington, D.C., September 22._ DEAR OLD AL: Well Al here I am in the capital of the old United States. We got in last night and I been walking round town all morning. But I didn't tire myself out because I am going to pitch against Johnson this afternoon. This is the prettiest town I ever seen but I believe they is more colored people here than they is in Evansville or Chi. I seen the White House and the Monumunt. They say that Bill Sullivan and Gabby St. once catched a baseball that was threw off of the top of the Monumunt but I bet they couldn't catch it if I throwed it. I was in to breakfast this morning with Gleason and Bodie and Weaver and Fournier. Gleason says I'm supprised that you ain't sick in bed to-day. I says Why? He says Most of our pitchers gets sick when Cal tells them they are going to work against Johnson. He says Here's these other fellows all feeling pretty sick this morning and they ain't even pitchers. All they have to do is hit against him but it looks like as if Cal would have to send substitutes in for them. Bodie is complaining of a sore arm which he must of strained drawing to two card flushes. Fournier and Weaver have strained their legs doing the tango dance. Nothing could cure them except to hear that big Walter had got throwed out of his machine and wouldn't be able to pitch against us in this serious. I says I feel O.K. and I ain't afraid to pitch against Johnson and I ain't afraid to hit against him neither. Then Weaver says Have you ever saw him work? Yes, I says, I seen him in Chi. Then Weaver says Well if you have saw him work and ain't afraid to hit against him I'll bet you would go down to Wall Street and holler Hurrah for Roosevelt. I says No I wouldn't do that but I ain't afraid of no pitcher and what is more if you get me a couple of runs I'll beat him. Then Fournier says Oh we will get you a couple of runs all right. He says That's just as easy as catching whales with a angleworm. Well Al I must close and go in and get some lunch. My arm feels great and they will have to go some to beat me Johnson or no Johnson. Your pal, JACK. _Washington, D.C., September 22._ FRIEND AL: Well I guess you know by this time that they didn't get no two runs for me, only one, but I beat him just the same. I beat him one to nothing and Callahan was so pleased that he give me a ticket to the theater. I just got back from there and it is pretty late and I already have wrote you one letter to-day but I am going to sit up and tell you about it. It was cloudy before the game started and when I was warming up I made the remark to Callahan that the dark day ought to make my speed good. He says Yes and of course it will handicap Johnson. While Washington was takeing their practice their two coachers Schaefer and Altrock got out on the infield and cut up and I pretty near busted laughing at them. They certainly is funny Al. Callahan asked me what was I laughing at and I told him and he says That's the first time I ever seen a pitcher laugh when he was going to work against Johnson. He says Griffith is a pretty good fellow to give us something to laugh at before he shoots that guy at us. I warmed up good and told Schalk not to ask me for my spitter much because my fast one looked faster than I ever seen it. He says it won't make much difference what you pitch to-day. I says Oh, yes, it will because Callahan thinks enough of me to work me against Johnson and I want to show him he didn't make no mistake. Then Gleason says No he didn't make no mistake. Wasteing Cicotte or Scotty would of been a mistake in this game. Well, Johnson whiffs Weaver and Chase and makes Lord pop out in the first inning. I walked their first guy but I didn't give Milan nothing to bunt and finally he flied out. And then I whiffed the next two. On the bench Callahan says That's the way, boy. Keep that up and we got a chance. Johnson had fanned four of us when I come up with two out in the third inning and he whiffed me to. I fouled one though that if I had ever got a good hold of I would of knocked out of the park. In the first seven innings we didn't have a hit off of him. They had got five or six lucky ones off of me and I had walked two or three, but I cut loose with all I had when they was men on and they couldn't do nothing with me. The only reason I walked so many was because my fast one was jumping so. Honest Al it was so fast that Evans the umpire couldn't see it half the time and he called a lot of balls that was right over the heart. Well I come up in the eighth with two out and the score still nothing and nothing. I had whiffed the second time as well as the first but it was account of Evans missing one on me. The eighth started with Shanks muffing a fly ball off of Bodie. It was way out by the fence so he got two bases on it and he went to third while they was throwing Berger out. Then Schalk whiffed. Callahan says Go up and try to meet one Jack. It might as well be you as anybody else. But your old pal didn't whiff this time Al. He gets two strikes on me with fast ones and then I passed up two bad ones. I took my healthy at the next one and slapped it over first base. I guess I could of made two bases on it but I didn't want to tire myself out. Anyway Bodie scored and I had them beat. And my hit was the only one we got off of him so I guess he is a pretty good pitcher after all Al. They filled up the bases on me with one out in the ninth but it was pretty dark then and I made McBride and their catcher look like suckers with my speed. I felt so good after the game that I drunk one of them pink cocktails. I don't know what their name is. And then I sent a postcard to poor little Violet. I don't care nothing about her but it don't hurt me none to try and cheer her up once in a while. We leave here Thursday night for home and they had ought to be two or three letters there for me from Hazel because I haven't heard from her lately. She must of lost my road addresses. Your pal, JACK. P.S. I forgot to tell you what Callahan said after the game. He said I was a real pitcher now and he is going to use me in the city serious. If he does Al we will beat them Cubs sure. _Chicago, Illinois, September 27._ FRIEND AL: They wasn't no letter here at all from Hazel and I guess she must of been sick. Or maybe she didn't think it was worth while writeing as long as she is comeing next week. I want to ask you to do me a favor Al and that is to see if you can find me a house down there. I will want to move in with Mrs. Keefe, don't that sound funny Al? sometime in the week of October twelfth. Old man Cutting's house or that yellow house across from you would be O.K. I would rather have the yellow one so as to be near you. Find out how much rent they want Al and if it is not no more than twelve dollars a month get it for me. We will buy our furniture here in Chi when Hazel comes. We have a couple of days off now Al and then we play St. Louis two games here. Then Detroit comes to finish the season the third and fourth of October. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 3._ DEAR OLD AL: Thanks Al for getting the house. The one-year lease is O.K. You and Bertha and me and Hazel can have all sorts of good times together. I guess the walk needs repairs but I can fix that up when I come. We can stay at the hotel when we first get there. I wish you could of came up for the city serious Al but anyway I want you and Bertha to be sure and come up for our wedding. I will let you know the date as soon as Hazel gets here. The serious starts Tuesday and this town is wild over it. The Cubs finished second in their league and we was fifth in ours but that don't scare me none. We would of finished right on top if I had of been here all season. Callahan pitched one of the bushers against Detroit this afternoon and they beat him bad. Callahan is saveing up Scott and Allen and Russell and Cicotte and I for the big show. Walsh isn't in no shape and neither is Benz. It looks like I would have a good deal to do because most of them others can't work no more than once in four days and Allen ain't no good at all. We have a day to rest after to-morrow's game with the Tigers and then we go at them Cubs. Your pal, JACK. P.S. I have got it figured that Hazel is fixing to surprise me by dropping in on me because I haven't heard nothing yet. _Chicago, Illinois, October 7._ FRIEND AL: Well Al you know by this time that they beat me to-day and tied up the serious. But I have still got plenty of time Al and I will get them before it is over. My arm wasn't feeling good Al and my fast ball didn't hop like it had ought to. But it was the rotten support I got that beat me. That lucky stiff Zimmerman was the only guy that got a real hit off of me and he must of shut his eyes and throwed his bat because the ball he hit was a foot over his head. And if they hadn't been makeing all them errors behind me they wouldn't of been nobody on bases when Zimmerman got that lucky scratch. The serious now stands one and one Al and it is a cinch we will beat them even if they are a bunch of lucky stiffs. They has been great big crowds at both games and it looks like as if we should ought to get over eight hundred dollars a peace if we win and we will win sure because I will beat them three straight if necessary. But Al I have got bigger news than that for you and I am the happyest man in the world. I told you I had not heard from Hazel for a long time. To-night when I got back to my room they was a letter waiting for me from her. Al she is married. Maybe you don't know why that makes me happy but I will tell you. She is married to Kid Levy the middle weight. I guess my thirty dollars is gone because in her letter she called me a cheap skate and she inclosed one one-cent stamp and two twos and said she was paying me for the glass of beer I once bought her. I bought her more than that Al but I won't make no holler. She all so said not for me to never come near her or her husband would bust my jaw. I ain't afraid of him or no one else Al but they ain't no danger of me ever bothering them. She was no good and I was sorry the minute I agreed to marry her. But I was going to tell you why I am happy or maybe you can guess. Now I can make Violet my wife and she's got Hazel beat forty ways. She ain't nowheres near as big as Hazel but she's classier Al and she will make me a good wife. She ain't never asked me for no money. I wrote her a letter the minute I got the good news and told her to come on over here at once at my expense. We will be married right after the serious is over and I want you and Bertha to be sure and stand up with us. I will wire you at my own expence the exact date. It all seems like a dream now about Violet and I haveing our misunderstanding Al and I don't see how I ever could of accused her of sending me that postcard. You and Bertha will be just as crazy about her as I am when you see her Al. Just think Al I will be married inside of a week and to the only girl I ever could of been happy with instead of the woman I never really cared for except as a passing fancy. My happyness would be complete Al if I had not of let that woman steal thirty dollars off of me. Your happy pal, JACK. P.S. Hazel probibly would of insisted on us takeing a trip to Niagara falls or somewheres but I know Violet will be perfectly satisfied if I take her right down to Bedford. Oh you little yellow house. _Chicago, Illinois, October 9._ FRIEND AL: Well Al we have got them beat three games to one now and will wind up the serious to-morrow sure. Callahan sent me in to save poor Allen yesterday and I stopped them dead. But I don't care now Al. I have lost all interest in the game and I don't care if Callahan pitches me to-morrow or not. My heart is just about broke Al and I wouldn't be able to do myself justice feeling the way I do. I have lost Violet Al and just when I was figureing on being the happyest man in the world. We will get the big money but it won't do me no good. They can keep my share because I won't have no little girl to spend it on. Her answer to my letter was waiting for me at home to-night. She is engaged to be married to Joe Hill the big lefthander Jennings got from Providence. Honest Al I don't see how he gets by. He ain't got no more curve ball than a rabbit and his fast one floats up there like a big balloon. He beat us the last game of the regular season here but it was because Callahan had a lot of bushers in the game. I wish I had knew then that he was stealing my girl and I would of made Callahan pitch me against him. And when he come up to bat I would of beaned him. But I don't suppose you could hurt him by hitting him in the head. The big stiff. Their wedding ain't going to come off till next summer and by that time he will be pitching in the Southwestern Texas League for about fifty dollars a month. Violet wrote that she wished me all the luck and happyness in the world but it is too late for me to be happy Al and I don't care what kind of luck I have now. Al you will have to get rid of that lease for me. Fix it up the best way you can. Tell the old man I have changed my plans. I don't know just yet what I will do but maybe I will go to Australia with Mike Donlin's team. If I do I won't care if the boat goes down or not. I don't believe I will even come back to Bedford this winter. It would drive me wild to go past that little house every day and think how happy I might of been. Maybe I will pitch to-morrow Al and if I do the serious will be over to-morrow night. I can beat them Cubs if I get any kind of decent support. But I don't care now Al. Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 12._ AL: Your letter received. If the old man won't call it off I guess I will have to try and rent the house to some one else. Do you know of any couple that wants one Al? It looks like I would have to come down there myself and fix things up someway. He is just mean enough to stick me with the house on my hands when I won't have no use for it. They beat us the day before yesterday as you probibly know and it rained yesterday and to-day. The papers says it will be all O.K. to-morrow and Callahan tells me I am going to work. The Cub pitchers was all shot to peaces and the bad weather is just nuts for them because it will give Cheney a good rest. But I will beat him Al if they don't kick it away behind me. I must close because I promised Allen the little lefthander that I would come over to his flat and play cards a while to-night and I must wash up and change my collar. Allen's wife's sister is visiting them again and I would give anything not to have to go over there. I am through with girls and don't want nothing to do with them. I guess it is maybe a good thing it rained to-day because I dreamt about Violet last night and went out and got a couple of high balls before breakfast this morning. I hadn't never drank nothing before breakfast before and it made me kind of sick. But I am all O.K. now. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 13._ DEAR OLD AL: The serious is all over Al. We are the champions and I done it. I may be home the day after to-morrow or I may not come for a couple of days. I want to see Comiskey before I leave and fix up about my contract for next year. I won't sign for no less than five thousand and if he hands me a contract for less than that I will leave the White Sox flat on their back. I have got over fourteen hundred dollars now Al with the city serious money which was $814.30 and I don't have to worry. Them reporters will have to give me a square deal this time Al. I had everything and the Cubs done well to score a run. I whiffed Zimmerman three times. Some of the boys say he ain't no hitter but he is a hitter and a good one Al only he could not touch the stuff I got. The umps give them their run because in the fourth inning I had Leach flatfooted off of second base and Weaver tagged him O.K. but the umps wouldn't call it. Then Schulte the lucky stiff happened to get a hold of one and pulled it past first base. I guess Chase must of been asleep. Anyway they scored but I don't care because we piled up six runs on Cheney and I drove in one of them myself with one of the prettiest singles you ever see. It was a spitter and I hit it like a shot. If I had hit it square it would of went out of the park. Comiskey ought to feel pretty good about me winning and I guess he will give me a contract for anything I want. He will have to or I will go to the Federal League. We are all invited to a show to-night and I am going with Allen and his wife and her sister Florence. She is O.K. Al and I guess she thinks the same about me. She must because she was out to the game to-day and seen me hand it to them. She maybe ain't as pretty as Violet and Hazel but as they say beauty isn't only so deep. Well Al tell the boys I will be with them soon. I have gave up the idea of going to Australia because I would have to buy a evening full-dress suit and they tell me they cost pretty near fifty dollars. Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 14._ FRIEND AL: Never mind about that lease. I want the house after all Al and I have got the supprise of your life for you. When I come home to Bedford I will bring my wife with me. I and Florence fixed things all up after the show last night and we are going to be married to-morrow morning. I am a busy man to-day Al because I have got to get the license and look round for furniture. And I have also got to buy some new cloths but they are haveing a sale on Cottage Grove Avenue at Clark's store and I know one of the clerks there. I am the happyest man in the world Al. You and Bertha and I and Florence will have all kinds of good times together this winter because I know Bertha and Florence will like each other. Florence looks something like Bertha at that. I am glad I didn't get tied up with Violet or Hazel even if they was a little bit prettier than Florence. Florence knows a lot about baseball for a girl and you would be supprised to hear her talk. She says I am the best pitcher in the league and she has saw them all. She all so says I am the best looking ball player she ever seen but you know how girls will kid a guy Al. You will like her O.K. I fell for her the first time I seen her. Your old pal, JACK. P.S. I signed up for next year. Comiskey slapped me on the back when I went in to see him and told me I would be a star next year if I took good care of myself. I guess I am a star without waiting for next year Al. My contract calls for twenty-eight hundred a year which is a thousand more than I was getting. And it is pretty near a cinch that I will be in on the World Serious money next season. P.S. I certainly am relieved about that lease. It would of been fierce to of had that place on my hands all winter and not getting any use out of it. Everything is all O.K. now. Oh you little yellow house. CHAPTER III THE BUSHER'S HONEYMOON _Chicago, Illinois, October 17._ FRIEND AL: Well Al it looks as if I would not be writeing so much to you now that I am a married man. Yes Al I and Florrie was married the day before yesterday just like I told you we was going to be and Al I am the happyest man in the world though I have spent $30 in the last 3 days incluseive. You was wise Al to get married in Bedford where not nothing is nearly half so dear. My expenses was as follows: License $ 2.00 Preist 3.50 Haircut and shave .35 Shine .05 Carfair .45 New suit 14.50 Show tickets 3.00 Flowers .50 Candy .30 Hotel 4.50 Tobacco both kinds .25 You see Al it costs a hole lot of money to get married here. The sum of what I have wrote down is $29.40 but as I told you I have spent $30 and I do not know what I have did with that other $0.60. My new brother-in-law Allen told me I should ought to give the preist $5 and I thought it should be about $2 the same as the license so I split the difference and give him $3.50. I never seen him before and probily won't never see him again so why should I give him anything at all when it is his business to marry couples? But I like to do the right thing. You know me Al. I thought we would be in Bedford by this time but Florrie wants to say here a few more days because she says she wants to be with her sister. Allen and his wife is thinking about takeing a flat for the winter instead of going down to Waco Texas where they live. I don't see no sense in that when it costs so much to live here but it is none of my business if they want to throw their money away. But I am glad I got a wife with some sense though she kicked because I did not get no room with a bath which would cost me $2 a day instead of $1.50. I says I guess the clubhouse is still open yet and if I want a bath I can go over there and take the shower. She says Yes and I suppose I can go and jump in the lake. But she would not do that Al because the lake here is cold at this time of the year. When I told you about my expenses I did not include in it the meals because we would be eating them if I was getting married or not getting married only I have to pay for six meals a day now instead of three and I didn't used to eat no lunch in the playing season except once in a while when I knowed I was not going to work that afternoon. I had a meal ticket which had not quite ran out over to a resturunt on Indiana Ave and we eat there for the first day except at night when I took Allen and his wife to the show with us and then he took us to a chop suye resturunt. I guess you have not never had no chop suye Al and I am here to tell you you have not missed nothing but when Allen was going to buy the supper what could I say? I could not say nothing. Well yesterday and to-day we been eating at a resturunt on Cottage Grove Ave near the hotel and at the resturunt on Indiana that I had the meal ticket at only I do not like to buy no new meal ticket when I am not going to be round here no more than a few days. Well Al I guess the meals has cost me all together about $1.50 and I have eat very little myself. Florrie always wants desert ice cream or something and that runs up into money faster than regular stuff like stake and ham and eggs. Well Al Florrie says it is time for me to keep my promise and take her to the moveing pictures which is $0.20 more because the one she likes round here costs a dime apeace. So I must close for this time and will see you soon. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 22_. AL: Just a note Al to tell you why I have not yet came to Bedford yet where I expected I would be long before this time. Allen and his wife have took a furnished flat for the winter and Allen's wife wants Florrie to stay here untill they get settled. Meentime it is costing me a hole lot of money at the hotel and for meals besides I am paying $10 a month rent for the house you got for me and what good am I getting out of it? But Florrie wants to help her sister and what can I say? Though I did make her promise she would not stay no longer than next Saturday at least. So I guess Al we will be home on the evening train Saturday and then may be I can save some money. I know Al that you and Bertha will like Florrie when you get acquainted with her spesially Bertha though Florrie dresses pretty swell and spends a hole lot of time fusing with her face and her hair. She says to me to-night Who are you writeing to and I told her Al Blanchard who I have told you about a good many times. She says I bet you are writeing to some girl and acted like as though she was kind of jealous. So I thought I would tease her a little and I says I don't know no girls except you and Violet and Hazel. Who is Violet and Hazel? she says. I kind of laughed and says Oh I guess I better not tell you and then she says I guess you will tell me. That made me kind of mad because no girl can't tell me what to do. She says Are you going to tell me? and I says No. Then she says If you don't tell me I will go over to Marie's that is her sister Allen's wife and stay all night. I says Go on and she went downstairs but I guess she probily went to get a soda because she has some money of her own that I give her. This was about two hours ago and she is probily down in the hotel lobby now trying to scare me by makeing me believe she has went to her sister's. But she can't fool me Al and I am now going out to mail this letter and get a beer. I won't never tell her about Violet and Hazel if she is going to act like that. Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 24._ FRIEND AL: I guess I told you Al that we would be home Saturday evening. I have changed my mind. Allen and his wife has a spair bedroom and wants us to come there and stay a week or two. It won't cost nothing except they will probily want to go out to the moveing pictures nights and we will probily have to go along with them and I am a man Al that wants to pay his share and not be cheap. I and Florrie had our first quarrle the other night. I guess I told you the start of it but I don't remember. I made some crack about Violet and Hazel just to tease Florrie and she wanted to know who they was and I would not tell her. So she gets sore and goes over to Marie's to stay all night. I was just kidding Al and was willing to tell her about them two poor girls whatever she wanted to know except that I don't like to brag about girls being stuck on me. So I goes over to Marie's after her and tells her all about them except that I turned them down cold at the last minute to marry her because I did not want her to get all swelled up. She made me sware that I did not never care nothing about them and that was easy because it was the truth. So she come back to the hotel with me just like I knowed she would when I ordered her to. They must not be no mistake about who is the boss in my house. Some men lets their wife run all over them but I am not that kind. You know me Al. I must get busy and pack my suitcase if I am going to move over to Allen's. I sent three collars and a shirt to the laundrey this morning so even if we go over there to-night I will have to take another trip back this way in a day or two. I won't mind Al because they sell my kind of beer down to the corner and I never seen it sold nowheres else in Chi. You know the kind it is, eh Al? I wish I was lifting a few with you to-night. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 28._ DEAR OLD AL: Florrie and Marie has went downtown shopping because Florrie thinks she has got to have a new dress though she has got two changes of cloths now and I don't know what she can do with another one. I hope she don't find none to suit her though it would not hurt none if she got something for next spring at a reduckshon. I guess she must think I am Charles A. Comiskey or somebody. Allen has went to a colledge football game. One of the reporters give him a pass. I don't see nothing in football except a lot of scrapping between little slobs that I could lick the whole bunch of them so I did not care to go. The reporter is one of the guys that travled round with our club all summer. He called up and said he hadn't only the one pass but he was not hurting my feelings none because I would not go to no rotten football game if they payed me. The flat across the hall from this here one is for rent furnished. They want $40 a month for it and I guess they think they must be lots of suckers running round loose. Marie was talking about it and says Why don't you and Florrie take it and then we can be right together all winter long and have some big times? Florrie says It would be all right with me. What about it Jack? I says What do you think I am? I don't have to live in no high price flat when I got a home in Bedford where they ain't no people trying to hold everybody up all the time. So they did not say no more about it when they seen I was in ernest. Nobody cannot tell me where I am going to live sister-in-law or no sister-in-law. If I was to rent the rotten old flat I would be paying $50 a month rent includeing the house down in Bedford. Fine chance Al. Well Al I am lonesome and thirsty so more later. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, November 2._ FRIEND AL: Well Al I got some big news for you. I am not comeing to Bedford this winter after all except to make a visit which I guess will be round Xmas. I changed my mind about that flat across the hall from the Allens and decided to take it after all. The people who was in it and owns the furniture says they would let us have it till the 1 of May if we would pay $42.50 a month which is only $2.50 a month more than they would of let us have it for for a short time. So you see we got a bargain because it is all furnished and everything and we won't have to blow no money on furniture besides the club goes to California the middle of Febuery so Florrie would not have no place to stay while I am away. The Allens only subleased their flat from some other people till the 2 of Febuery and when I and Allen goes West Marie can come over and stay with Florrie so you see it is best all round. If we should of boughten furniture it would cost us in the neighborhood of $100 even without no piano and they is a piano in this here flat which makes it nice because Florrie plays pretty good with one hand and we can have lots of good times at home without it costing us nothing except just the bear liveing expenses. I consider myself lucky to of found out about this before it was too late and somebody else had of gotten the tip. Now Al old pal I want to ask a great favor of you Al. I all ready have payed one month rent $10 on the house in Bedford and I want you to see the old man and see if he won't call off that lease. Why should I be paying $10 a month rent down there and $42.50 up here when the house down there is not no good to me because I am liveing up here all winter? See Al? Tell him I will gladly give him another month rent to call off the lease but don't tell him that if you don't have to. I want to be fare with him. If you will do this favor for me, Al, I won't never forget it. Give my kindest to Bertha and tell her I am sorry I and Florrie won't see her right away but you see how it is Al. Yours, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, November 30._ FRIEND AL: I have not wrote for a long time have I Al but I have been very busy. They was not enough furniture in the flat and we have been buying some more. They was enough for some people maybe but I and Florrie is the kind that won't have nothing but the best. The furniture them people had in the liveing room was oak but they had a bookcase bilt in in the flat that was mohoggeny and Florrie would not stand for no joke combination like that so she moved the oak chairs and table in to the spair bedroom and we went downtown to buy some mohoggeny. But it costs too much Al and we was feeling pretty bad about it when we seen some Sir Cashion walnut that was prettier even than the mohoggeny and not near so expensive. It is not no real Sir Cashion walnut but it is just as good and we got it reasonable. Then we got some mission chairs for the dining room because the old ones was just straw and was no good and we got a big lether couch for $9 that somebody can sleep on if we get to much company. I hope you and Bertha can come up for the holidays and see how comfertible we are fixed. That is all the new furniture we have boughten but Florrie set her heart on some old Rose drapes and a red table lamp that is the biggest you ever seen Al and I did not have the heart to say no. The hole thing cost me in the neighborhood of $110 which is very little for what we got and then it will always be ourn even when we move away from this flat though we will have to leave the furniture that belongs to the other people but their part of it is not no good anyway. I guess I told you Al how much money I had when the season ended. It was $1400 all told includeing the city serious money. Well Al I got in the neighborhood of $800 left because I give $200 to Florrie to send down to Texas to her other sister who had a bad egg for a husband that managed a club in the Texas Oklahoma League and this was the money she had to pay to get the divorce. I am glad Al that I was lucky enough to marry happy and get a good girl for my wife that has got some sense and besides if I have got $800 left I should not worry as they say. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, December 7._ DEAR OLD AL: No I was in ernest Al when I says that I wanted you and Bertha to come up here for the holidays. I know I told you that I might come to Bedford for the holidays but that is all off. I have gave up the idea of comeing to Bedford for the holidays and I want you to be sure and come up here for the holidays and I will show you a good time. I would love to have Bertha come to and she can come if she wants to only Florrie don't know if she would have a good time or not and thinks maybe she would rather stay in Bedford and you come alone. But be sure and have Bertha come if she wants to come but maybe she would not injoy it. You know best Al. I don't think the old man give me no square deal on that lease but if he wants to stick me all right. I am grateful to you Al for trying to fix it up but maybe you could of did better if you had of went at it in a different way. I am not finding no fault with my old pal though. Don't think that. When I have a pal I am the man to stick to him threw thick and thin. If the old man is going to hold me to that lease I guess I will have to stand it and I guess I won't starv to death for no $10 a month because I am going to get $2800 next year besides the city serious money and maybe we will get into the World Serious too. I know we will if Callahan will pitch me every 3d day like I wanted him to last season. But if you had of approached the old man in a different way maybe you could of fixed it up. I wish you would try it again Al if it is not no trouble. We had Allen and his wife here for thanksgiveing dinner and the dinner cost me better than $5. I thought we had enough to eat to last a week but about six o'clock at night Florrie and Marie said they was hungry and we went downtown and had dinner all over again and I payed for it and it cost me $5 more. Allen was all ready to pay for it when Florrie said No this day's treat is on us so I had to pay for it but I don't see why she did not wait and let me do the talking. I was going to pay for it any way. Be sure and come and visit us for the holidays Al and of coarse if Bertha wants to come bring her along. We will be glad to see you both. I won't never go back on a friend and pal. You know me Al. Your old pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, December 20._ FRIEND AL: I don't see what can be the matter with Bertha because you know Al we would not care how she dressed and would not make no kick if she come up here in a night gown. She did not have no license to say we was to swell for her because we did not never think of nothing like that. I wish you would talk to her again Al and tell her she need not get sore on me and that both her and you is welcome at my house any time I ask you to come. See if you can't make her change her mind Al because I feel like as if she must of took offense at something I may of wrote you. I am sorry you and her are not comeing but I suppose you know best. Only we was getting all ready for you and Florrie said only the other day that she wished the holidays was over but that was before she knowed you was not comeing. I hope you can come Al. Well Al I guess there is not no use talking to the old man no more. You have did the best you could but I wish I could of came down there and talked to him. I will pay him his rotten old $10 a month and the next time I come to Bedford and meet him on the street I will bust his jaw. I know he is a old man Al but I don't like to see nobody get the best of me and I am sorry I ever asked him to let me off. Some of them old skinflints has no heart Al but why should I fight with a old man over chicken feed like $10? Florrie says a star pitcher like I should not ought never to scrap about little things and I guess she is right Al so I will pay the old man his $10 a month if I have to. Florrie says she is jealous of me writeing to you so much and she says she would like to meet this great old pal of mine. I would like to have her meet you to Al and I would like to have you change your mind and come and visit us and I am sorry you can't come Al. Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, December 27._ OLD PAL: I guess all these lefthanders is alike though I thought this Allen had some sense. I thought he was different from the most and was not no rummy but they are all alike Al and they are all lucky that somebody don't hit them over the head with a ax and kill them but I guess at that you could not hurt no lefthanders by hitting them over the head. We was all down on State St. the day before Xmas and the girls was all tired out and ready to go home but Allen says No I guess we better stick down a while because now the crowds is out and it will be fun to watch them. So we walked up and down State St. about a hour longer and finally we come in front of a big jewlry store window and in it was a swell dimond ring that was marked $100. It was a ladies' ring so Marie says to Allen Why don't you buy that for me? And Allen says Do you really want it? And she says she did. So we tells the girls to wait and we goes over to a salloon where Allen has got a friend and gets a check cashed and we come back and he bought the ring. Then Florrie looks like as though she was getting all ready to cry and I asked her what was the matter and she says I had not boughten her no ring not even when we was engaged. So I and Allen goes back to the salloon and I gets a check cashed and we come back and bought another ring but I did not think the ring Allen had boughten was worth no $100 so I gets one for $75. Now Al you know I am not makeing no kick on spending a little money for a present for my own wife but I had allready boughten her a rist watch for $15 and a rist watch was just what she had wanted. I was willing to give her the ring if she had not of wanted the rist watch more than the ring but when I give her the ring I kept the rist watch and did not tell her nothing about it. Well I come downtown alone the day after Xmas and they would not take the rist watch back in the store where I got it. So I am going to give it to her for a New Year's present and I guess that will make Allen feel like a dirty doose. But I guess you cannot hurt no lefthander's feelings at that. They are all alike. But Allen has not got nothing but a dinky curve ball and a fast ball that looks like my slow one. If Comiskey was not good hearted he would of sold him long ago. I sent you and Bertha a cut glass dish Al which was the best I could get for the money and it was pretty high pricet at that. We was glad to get the pretty pincushions from you and Bertha and Florrie says to tell you that we are well supplied with pincushions now because the ones you sent makes a even half dozen. Thanks Al for remembering us and thank Bertha too though I guess you paid for them. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, Januery 3._ OLD PAL: Al I been pretty sick ever since New Year's eve. We had a table at 1 of the swell resturunts downtown and I never seen so much wine drank in my life. I would rather of had beer but they would not sell us none so I found out that they was a certain kind that you can get for $1 a bottle and it is just as good as the kind that has got all them fancy names but this lefthander starts ordering some other kind about 11 oclock and it was $5 a bottle and the girls both says they liked it better. I could not see a hole lot of difference myself and I would of gave $0.20 for a big stine of my kind of beer. You know me Al. Well Al you know they is not nobody that can drink more than your old pal and I was all O.K. at one oclock but I seen the girls was getting kind of sleepy so I says we better go home. Then Marie says Oh, shut up and don't be no quiter. I says You better shut up yourself and not be telling me to shut up, and she says What will you do if I don't shut up? And I says I would bust her in the jaw. But you know Al I would not think of busting no girl. Then Florrie says You better not start nothing because you had to much to drink or you would not be talking about busting girls in the jaw. Then I says I don't care if it is a girl I bust or a lefthander. I did not mean nothing at all Al but Marie says I had insulted Allen and he gets up and slaps my face. Well Al I am not going to stand that from nobody not even if he is my brother-in-law and a lefthander that has not got enough speed to brake a pain of glass. So I give him a good beating and the waiters butts in and puts us all out for fighting and I and Florrie comes home in a taxi and Allen and his wife don't get in till about 5 oclock so I guess she must of had to of took him to a doctor to get fixed up. I been in bed ever since till just this morning kind of sick to my stumach. I guess I must of eat something that did not agree with me. Allen come over after breakfast this morning and asked me was I all right so I guess he is not sore over the beating I give him or else he wants to make friends because he has saw that I am a bad guy to monkey with. Florrie tells me a little while ago that she paid the hole bill at the resturunt with my money because Allen was broke so you see what kind of a cheap skate he is Al and some day I am going to bust his jaw. She won't tell me how much the bill was and I won't ask her to no more because we had a good time outside of the fight and what do I care if we spent a little money? Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, Januery 20._ FRIEND AL: Allen and his wife have gave up the flat across the hall from us and come over to live with us because we got a spair bedroom and why should they not have the bennifit of it? But it is pretty hard for the girls to have to cook and do the work when they is four of us so I have a hired girl who does it all for $7 a week. It is great stuff Al because now we can go round as we please and don't have to wait for no dishes to be washed or nothing. We generally almost always has dinner downtown in the evening so it is pretty soft for the girl too. She don't generally have no more than one meal to get because we generally run round downtown till late and don't get up till about noon. That sounds funny don't it Al, when I used to get up at 5 every morning down home. Well Al I can tell you something else that may sound funny and that is that I lost my taste for beer. I don't seem to care for it no more and I found I can stand allmost as many drinks of other stuff as I could of beer. I guess Al they is not nobody ever lived can drink more and stand up better under it than me. I make the girls and Allen quit every night. I only got just time to write you this short note because Florrie and Marie is giving a big party to-night and I and Allen have got to beat it out of the house and stay out of the way till they get things ready. It is Marie's berthday and she says she is 22 but say Al if she is 22 Kid Gleason is 30. Well Al the girls says we must blow so I will run out and mail this letter. Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, Januery 31._ AL: Allen is going to take Marie with him on the training trip to California and of course Florrie has been at me to take her along. I told her postivly that she can't go. I can't afford no stunt like that but still I am up against it to know what to do with her while we are on the trip because Marie won't be here to stay with her. I don't like to leave her here all alone but they is nothing to it Al I can't afford to take her along. She says I don't see why you can't take me if Allen takes Marie. And I says That stuff is all O.K. for Allen because him and Marie has been grafting off of us all winter. And then she gets mad and tells me I should not ought to say her sister was no grafter. I did not mean nothing like that Al but you don't never know when a woman is going to take offense. If our furniture was down in Bedford everything would be all O.K. because I could leave her there and I would feel all O.K. because I would know that you and Bertha would see that she was getting along O.K. But they would not be no sense in sending her down to a house that has not no furniture in it. I wish I knowed somewheres where she could visit Al. I would be willing to pay her bord even. Well Al enough for this time. Your old pal, JACK. CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, FEBUERY 4. FRIEND AL: You are a real old pal Al and I certainly am greatful to you for the invatation. I have not told Florrie about it yet but I am sure she will be tickled to death and it is certainly kind of you old pal. I did not never dream of nothing like that. I note what you say Al about not excepting no bord but I think it would be better and I would feel better if you would take something say about $2 a week. I know Bertha will like Florrie and that they will get along O.K. together because Florrie can learn her how to make her cloths look good and fix her hair and fix up her face. I feel like as if you had took a big load off of me Al and I won't never forget it. If you don't think I should pay no bord for Florrie all right. Suit yourself about that old pal. We are leaveing here the 20 of Febuery and if you don't mind I will bring Florrie down to you about the 18. I would like to see the old bunch again and spesially you and Bertha. Yours, JACK. P.S. We will only be away till April 14 and that is just a nice visit. I wish we did not have no flat on our hands. _Chicago, Illinois, Febuery 9._ OLD PAL: I want to thank you for asking Florrie to come down there and visit you Al but I find she can't get away. I did not know she had no engagements but she says she may go down to her folks in Texas and she don't want to say that she will come to visit you when it is so indefanate. So thank you just the same Al and thank Bertha too. Florrie is still at me to take her along to California but honest Al I can't do it. I am right down to my last $50 and I have not payed no rent for this month. I owe the hired girl 2 weeks' salery and both I and Florrie needs some new cloths. Florrie has just came in since I started writeing this letter and we have been talking some more about California and she says maybe if I would ask Comiskey he would take her along as the club's guest. I had not never thought of that Al and maybe he would because he is a pretty good scout and I guess I will go and see him about it. The league has its skedule meeting here to-morrow and may be I can see him down to the hotel where they meet at. I am so worried Al that I can't write no more but I will tell you how I come out with Comiskey. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, Febuery 11._ FRIEND AL: I am up against it right Al and I don't know where I am going to head in at. I went down to the hotel where the league was holding its skedule meeting at and I seen Comiskey and got some money off of the club but I owe all the money I got off of them and I am still wondering what to do about Florrie. Comiskey was busy in the meeting when I went down there and they was not no chance to see him for a while so I and Allen and some of the boys hung round and had a few drinks and fanned. This here Joe Hill the busher that Detroit has got that Violet is hooked up to was round the hotel. I don't know what for but I felt like busting his jaw only the boys told me I had better not do nothing because I might kill him and any way he probily won't be in the league much longer. Well finally Comiskey got threw the meeting and I seen him and he says Hello young man what can I do for you? And I says I would like to get $100 advance money. He says Have you been takeing care of yourself down in Bedford? And I told him I had been liveing here all winter and it did not seem to make no hit with him though I don't see what business it is of hisn where I live. So I says I had been takeing good care of myself. And I have Al. You know that. So he says I should come to the ball park the next day which is to-day and he would have the secretary take care of me but I says I could not wait and so he give me $100 out of his pocket and says he would have it charged against my salery. I was just going to brace him about the California trip when he got away and went back to the meeting. Well Al I hung round with the bunch waiting for him to get threw again and we had some more drinks and finally Comiskey was threw again and I braced him in the lobby and asked him if it was all right to take my wife along to California. He says Sure they would be glad to have her along. And then I says Would the club pay her fair? He says I guess you must of spent that $100 buying some nerve. He says Have you not got no sisters that would like to go along to? He says Does your wife insist on the drawing room or will she take a lower birth? He says Is my special train good enough for her? Then he turns away from me and I guess some of the boys must of heard the stuff he pulled because they was laughing when he went away but I did not see nothing to laugh at. But I guess he ment that I would have to pay her fair if she goes along and that is out of the question Al. I am up against it and I don't know where I am going to head in at. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, Febuery 12._ DEAR OLD AL: I guess everything will be all O.K. now at least I am hopeing it will. When I told Florrie about how I come out with Comiskey she bawled her head off and I thought for a while I was going to have to call a doctor or something but pretty soon she cut it out and we sat there a while without saying nothing. Then she says If you could get your salery razed a couple of hundred dollars a year would you borrow the money ahead somewheres and take me along to California? I says Yes I would if I could get a couple hundred dollars more salery but how could I do that when I had signed a contract for $2800 last fall allready? She says Don't you think you are worth more than $2800? And I says Yes of coarse I was worth more than $2800. She says Well if you will go and talk the right way to Comiskey I believe he will give you $3000 but you must be sure you go at it the right way and don't go and ball it all up. Well we argude about it a while because I don't want to hold nobody up Al but finally I says I would. It would not be holding nobody up anyway because I am worth $3000 to the club if I am worth a nichol. The papers is all saying that the club has got a good chance to win the pennant this year and talking about the pitching staff and I guess they would not be no pitching staff much if it was not for I and one or two others--about one other I guess. So it looks like as if everything will be all O.K. now Al. I am going to the office over to the park to see him the first thing in the morning and I am pretty sure that I will get what I am after because if I do not he will see that I am going to quit and then he will see what he is up against and not let me get away. I will let you know how I come out. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, Febuery 14._ FRIEND AL: Al old pal I have got a big supprise for you. I am going to the Federal League. I had a run in with Comiskey yesterday and I guess I told him a thing or 2. I guess he would of been glad to sign me at my own figure before I got threw but I was so mad I would not give him no chance to offer me another contract. I got out to the park at 9 oclock yesterday morning and it was a hour before he showed up and then he kept me waiting another hour so I was pretty sore when I finally went in to see him. He says Well young man what can I do for you? I says I come to see about my contract. He says Do you want to sign up for next year all ready? I says No I am talking about this year. He says I thought I and you talked business last fall. And I says Yes but now I think I am worth more money and I want to sign a contract for $3000. He says If you behave yourself and work good this year I will see that you are took care of. But I says That won't do because I have got to be sure I am going to get $3000. Then he says I am not sure you are going to get anything. I says What do you mean? And he says I have gave you a very fare contract and if you don't want to live up to it that is your own business. So I give him a awful call Al and told him I would jump to the Federal League. He says Oh, I would not do that if I was you. They are haveing a hard enough time as it is. So I says something back to him and he did not say nothing to me and I beat it out of the office. I have not told Florrie about the Federal League business yet as I am going to give her a big supprise. I bet they will take her along with me on the training trip and pay her fair but even if they don't I should not worry because I will make them give me a contract for $4000 a year and then I can afford to take her with me on all the trips. I will go down and see Tinker to-morrow morning and I will write you to-morrow night Al how much salery they are going to give me. But I won't sign for no less than $4000. You know me Al. Yours, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, Febuery 15._ OLD PAL: It is pretty near midnight Al but I been to bed a couple of times and I can't get no sleep. I am worried to death Al and I don't know where I am going to head in at. Maybe I will go out and buy a gun Al and end it all and I guess it would be better for everybody. But I cannot do that Al because I have not got the money to buy a gun with. I went down to see Tinker about signing up with the Federal League and he was busy in the office when I come in. Pretty soon Buck Perry the pitcher that was with Boston last year come out and seen me and as Tinker was still busy we went out and had a drink together. Buck shows me a contract for $5000 a year and Tinker had allso gave him a $500 bonus. So pretty soon I went up to the office and pretty soon Tinker seen me and called me into his private office and asked what did I want. I says I was ready to jump for $4000 and a bonus. He says I thought you was signed up with the White Sox. I says Yes I was but I was not satisfied. He says That does not make no difference to me if you are satisfied or not. You ought to of came to me before you signed a contract. I says I did not know enough but I know better now. He says Well it is to late now. We cannot have nothing to do with you because you have went and signed a contract with the White Sox. I argude with him a while and asked him to come out and have a drink so we could talk it over but he said he was busy so they was nothing for me to do but blow. So I am not going to the Federal League Al and I will not go with the White Sox because I have got a raw deal. Comiskey will be sorry for what he done when his team starts the season and is up against it for good pitchers and then he will probily be willing to give me anything I ask for but that don't do me no good now Al. I am way in debt and no chance to get no money from nobody. I wish I had of stayed with Terre Haute Al and never saw this league. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, Febuery 17._ FRIEND AL: Al don't never let nobody tell you that these here lefthanders is right. This Allen my own brother-in-law who married sisters has been grafting and spongeing on me all winter Al. Look what he done to me now Al. You know how hard I been up against it for money and I know he has got plenty of it because I seen it on him. Well Al I was scared to tell Florrie I was cleaned out and so I went to Allen yesterday and says I had to have $100 right away because I owed the rent and owed the hired girl's salery and could not even pay no grocery bill. And he says No he could not let me have none because he has got to save all his money to take his wife on the trip to California. And here he has been liveing on me all winter and maybe I could of took my wife to California if I had not of spent all my money takeing care of this no good lefthander and his wife. And Al honest he has not got a thing and ought not to be in the league. He gets by with a dinky curve ball and has not got no more smoke than a rabbit or something. Well Al I felt like busting him in the jaw but then I thought No I might kill him and then I would have Marie and Florrie both to take care of and God knows one of them is enough besides paying his funeral expenses. So I walked away from him without takeing a crack at him and went into the other room where Florrie and Marie was at. I says to Marie I says Marie I wish you would go in the other room a minute because I want to talk to Florrie. So Marie beats it into the other room and then I tells Florrie all about what Comiskey and the Federal League done to me. She bawled something awful and then she says I was no good and she wished she had not never married me. I says I wisht it too and then she says Do you mean that and starts to cry. I told her I was sorry I says that because they is not no use fusing with girls Al specially when they is your wife. She says No California trip for me and then she says What are you going to do? And I says I did not know. She says Well if I was a man I would do something. So then I got mad and I says I will do something. So I went down to the corner salloon and started in to get good and drunk but I could not do it Al because I did not have the money. Well old pal I am going to ask you a big favor and it is this I want you to send me $100 Al for just a few days till I can get on my feet. I do not know when I can pay it back Al but I guess you know the money is good and I know you have got it. Who would not have it when they live in Bedford? And besides I let you take $20 in June 4 years ago Al and you give it back but I would not have said nothing to you if you had of kept it. Let me hear from you right away old pal. Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, Febuery 19._ AL: I am certainly greatful to you Al for the $100 which come just a little while ago. I will pay the rent with it and part of the grocery bill and I guess the hired girl will have to wait a while for hern but she is sure to get it because I don't never forget my debts. I have changed my mind about the White Sox and I am going to go on the trip and take Florrie along because I don't think it would not be right to leave her here alone in Chi when her sister and all of us is going. I am going over to the ball park and up in the office pretty soon to see about it. I will tell Comiskey I changed my mind and he will be glad to get me back because the club has not got no chance to finish nowheres without me. But I won't go on no trip or give the club my services without them giveing me some more advance money so as I can take Florrie along with me because Al I would not go without her. Maybe Comiskey will make my salery $3000 like I wanted him to when he sees I am willing to be a good fellow and go along with him and when he knows that the Federal League would of gladly gave me $4000 if I had not of signed no contract with the White Sox. I think I will ask him for $200 advance money Al and if I get it may be I can send part of your $100 back to you but I know you cannot be in no hurry Al though you says you wanted it back as soon as possible. You could not be very hard up Al because it don't cost near so much to live in Bedford as it does up here. Anyway I will let you know how I come out with Comiskey and I will write you as soon as I get out to Paso Robles if I don't get no time to write you before I leave. Your pal, JACK. P.S. I have took good care of myself all winter Al and I guess I ought to have a great season. P.S. Florrie is tickled to death about going along and her and I will have some time together out there on the Coast if I can get some money somewheres. _Chicago, Illinois, Febuery 21._ FRIEND AL: I have not got the heart to write this letter to you Al. I am up here in my $42.50 a month flat and the club has went to California and Florrie has went too. I am flat broke Al and all I am asking you is to send me enough money to pay my fair to Bedford and they and all their leagues can go to hell Al. I was out to the ball park early yesterday morning and some of the boys was there all ready fanning and kidding each other. They tried to kid me to when I come in but I guess I give them as good as they give me. I was not in no mind for kidding Al because I was there on business and I wanted to see Comiskey and get it done with. Well the secretary come in finally and I went up to him and says I wanted to see Comiskey right away. He says The boss was busy and what did I want to see him about and I says I wanted to get some advance money because I was going to take my wife on the trip. He says This would be a fine time to be telling us about it even if you was going on the trip. And I says What do you mean? And he says You are not going on no trip with us because we have got wavers on you and you are sold to Milwaukee. Honest Al I thought he was kidding at first and I was waiting for him to laugh but he did not laugh and finally I says What do you mean? And he says Cannot you understand no English? You are sold to Milwaukee. Then I says I want to see the boss. He says It won't do you no good to see the boss and he is to busy to see you. I says I want to get some money. And he says You cannot get no money from this club and all you get is your fair to Milwaukee. I says I am not going to no Milwaukee anyway and he says I should not worry about that. Suit yourself. Well Al I told some of the boys about it and they was pretty sore and says I ought to bust the secretary in the jaw and I was going to do it when I thought No I better not because he is a little guy and I might kill him. I looked all over for Kid Gleason but he was not nowheres round and they told me he would not get into town till late in the afternoon. If I could of saw him Al he would of fixed me all up. I asked 3 or 4 of the boys for some money but they says they was all broke. But I have not told you the worst of it yet Al. When I come back to the flat Allen and Marie and Florrie was busy packing up and they asked me how I come out. I told them and Allen just stood there stareing like a big rummy but Marie and Florrie both begin to cry and I almost felt like as if I would like to cry to only I am not no baby Al. Well Al I told Florrie she might just is well quit packing and make up her mind that she was not going nowheres till I got money enough to go to Bedford where I belong. She kept right on crying and it got so I could not stand it no more so I went out to get a drink because I still had just about a dollar left yet. It was about 2 oclock when I left the flat and pretty near 5 when I come back because I had ran in to some fans that knowed who I was and would not let me get away and besides I did not want to see no more of Allen and Marie till they was out of the house and on their way. But when I come in Al they was nobody there. They was not nothing there except the furniture and a few of my things scattered round. I sit down for a few minutes because I guess I must of had to much to drink but finally I seen a note on the table addressed to me and I seen it was Florrie's writeing. I do not remember just what was there in the note Al because I tore it up the minute I read it but it was something about I could not support no wife and Allen had gave her enough money to go back to Texas and she was going on the 6 oclock train and it would not do me no good to try and stop her. Well Al they was not no danger of me trying to stop her. She was not no good Al and I wisht I had not of never saw either she or her sister or my brother-in-law. For a minute I thought I would follow Allen and his wife down to the deepo where the special train was to pull out of and wait till I see him and punch his jaw but I seen that would not get me nothing. So here I am all alone Al and I will have to stay here till you send me the money to come home. You better send me $25 because I have got a few little debts I should ought to pay before I leave town. I am not going to Milwaukee Al because I did not get no decent deal and nobody cannot make no sucker out of me. Please hurry up with the $25 Al old friend because I am sick and tired of Chi and want to get back there with my old pal. Yours, JACK. P.S. Al I wish I had of took poor little Violet when she was so stuck on me. CHAPTER IV A NEW BUSHER BREAKS IN _Chicago, Illinois, March 2._ FRIEND AL: Al that peace in the paper was all O.K. and the right dope just like you said. I seen president Johnson the president of the league to-day and he told me the peace in the papers was the right dope and Comiskey did not have no right to sell me to Milwaukee because the Detroit Club had never gave no wavers on me. He says the Detroit Club was late in fileing their claim and Comiskey must of tooken it for granted that they was going to wave but president Johnson was pretty sore about it at that and says Comiskey did not have no right to sell me till he was positive that they was not no team that wanted me. It will probily cost Comiskey some money for acting like he done and not paying no attention to the rules and I would not be supprised if president Johnson had him throwed out of the league. Well I asked president Johnson should I report at once to the Detroit Club down south and he says No you better wait till you hear from Comiskey and I says What has Comiskey got to do with it now? And he says Comiskey will own you till he sells you to Detroit or somewheres else. So I will have to go out to the ball park to-morrow and see is they any mail for me there because I probily will get a letter from Comiskey telling me I am sold to Detroit. If I had of thought at the time I would of knew that Detroit never would give no wavers on me after the way I showed Cobb and Crawford up last fall and I might of knew too that Detroit is in the market for good pitchers because they got a rotten pitching staff but they won't have no rotten staff when I get with them. If necessary I will pitch every other day for Jennings and if I do we will win the pennant sure because Detroit has got a club that can get 2 or 3 runs every day and all as I need to win most of my games is 1 run. I can't hardly wait till Jennings works me against the White Sox and what I will do to them will be a plenty. It don't take no pitching to beat them anyway and when they get up against a pitcher like I they might as well leave their bats in the bag for all the good their bats will do them. I guess Cobb and Crawford will be glad to have me on the Detroit Club because then they won't never have to hit against me except in practice and I won't pitch my best in practice because they will be teammates of mine and I don't never like to show none of my teammates up. At that though I don't suppose Jennings will let me do much pitching in practice because when he gets a hold of a good pitcher he won't want me to take no chances of throwing my arm away in practice. Al just think how funny it will be to have me pitching for the Tigers in the same town where Violet lives and pitching on the same club with her husband. It will not be so funny for Violet and her husband though because when she has a chance to see me work regular she will find out what a mistake she made takeing that lefthander instead of a man that has got some future and soon will be makeing 5 or $6000 a year because I won't sign with Detroit for no less than $5000 at most. Of coarse I could of had her if I had of wanted to but still and all it will make her feel pretty sick to see me winning games for Detroit while her husband is batting fungos and getting splinters in his unie from slideing up and down the bench. As for her husband the first time he opens his clam to me I will haul off and bust him one in the jaw but I guess he will know more than to start trouble with a man of my size and who is going to be one of their stars while he is just holding down a job because they feel sorry for him. I wish he could of got the girl I married instead of the one he got and I bet she would of drove him crazy. But I guess you can't drive a lefthander crazyer than he is to begin with. I have not heard nothing from Florrie Al and I don't want to hear nothing. I and her is better apart and I wish she would sew me for a bill of divorce so she could not go round claiming she is my wife and disgraceing my name. If she would consent to sew me for a bill of divorce I would gladly pay all the expenses and settle with her for any sum of money she wants say about $75.00 or $100.00 and they is no reason I should give her a nichol after the way her and her sister Marie and her brother-in-law Allen grafted off of me. Probily I could sew her for a bill of divorce but they tell me it costs money to sew and if you just lay low and let the other side do the sewing it don't cost you a nichol. It is pretty late Al and I have got to get up early to-morrow and go to the ball park and see is they any mail for me. I will let you know what I hear old pal. Your old pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, March 4._ AL: I am up against it again. I went out to the ball park office yesterday and they was nobody there except John somebody who is asst secretary and all the rest of them is out on the Coast with the team. Maybe this here John was trying to kid me but this is what he told me. First I says Is they a letter here for me? And he says No. And I says I was expecting word from Comiskey that I should join the Detroit Club and he says What makes you think you are going to Detroit? I says Comiskey asked wavers on me and Detroit did not give no wavers. He says Well that is not no sign that you are going to Detroit. If Comiskey can't get you out of the league he will probily keep you himself and it is a cinch he is not going to give no pitcher to Detroit no matter how rotten he is. I says What do you mean? And he says You just stick round town till you hear from Comiskey and I guess you will hear pretty soon because he is comeing back from the Coast next Saturday. I says Well the only thing he can tell me is to report to Detroit because I won't never pitch again for the White Sox. Then John gets fresh and says I suppose you will quit the game and live on your saveings and then I blowed out of the office because I was scared I would loose my temper and break something. So you see Al what I am up against. I won't never pitch for the White Sox again and I want to get with the Detroit Club but how can I if Comiskey won't let me go? All I can do is stick round till next Saturday and then I will see Comiskey and I guess when I tell him what I think of him he will be glad to let me go to Detroit or anywheres else. I will have something on him this time because I know that he did not pay no attention to the rules when he told me I was sold to Milwaukee and if he tries to slip something over on me I will tell president Johnson of the league all about it and then you will see where Comiskey heads in at. Al old pal that $25.00 you give me at the station the other day is all shot to peaces and I must ask you to let me have $25.00 more which will make $75.00 all together includeing the $25.00 you sent me before I come home. I hate to ask you this favor old pal but I know you have got the money. If I am sold to Detroit I will get some advance money and pay up all my dedts incluseive. If he don't let me go to Detroit I will make him come across with part of my salery for this year even if I don't pitch for him because I signed a contract and was ready to do my end of it and would of if he had not of been nasty and tried to slip something over on me. If he refuses to come across I will hire a attorney at law and he will get it all. So Al you see you have got a cinch on getting back what you lone me but I guess you know that Al without all this talk because you have been my old pal for a good many years and I have allways treated you square and tried to make you feel that I and you was equals and that my success was not going to make me forget my old friends. Wherever I pitch this year I will insist on a salery of 5 or $6000 a year. So you see on my first pay day I will have enough to pay you up and settle the rest of my dedts but I am not going to pay no more rent for this rotten flat because they tell me if a man don't pay no rent for a while they will put him out. Let them put me out. I should not worry but will go and rent my old room that I had before I met Florrie and got into all this trouble. The sooner you can send me that $35.00 the better and then I will owe you $85.00 incluseive and I will write and let you know how I come out with Comiskey. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, March 12._ FRIEND AL: I got another big supprise for you and this is it I am going to pitch for the White Sox after all. If Comiskey was not a old man I guess I would of lost my temper and beat him up but I am glad now that I kept my temper and did not loose it because I forced him to make a lot of consessions and now it looks like as though I would have a big year both pitching and money. He got back to town yesterday morning and showed up to his office in the afternoon and I was there waiting for him. He would not see me for a while but finally I acted like as though I was getting tired of waiting and I guess the secretary got scared that I would beat it out of the office and leave them all in the lerch. Anyway he went in and spoke to Comiskey and then come out and says the boss was ready to see me. When I went into the office where he was at he says Well young man what can I do for you? And I says I want you to give me my release so as I can join the Detroit Club down South and get in shape. Then he says What makes you think you are going to join the Detroit Club? Because we need you here. I says Then why did you try to sell me to Milwaukee? But you could not because you could not get no wavers. Then he says I thought I was doing you a favor by sending you to Milwaukee because they make a lot of beer up there. I says What do you mean? He says You been keeping in shape all this winter by trying to drink this town dry and besides that you tried to hold me up for more money when you allready had signed a contract allready and so I was going to send you to Milwaukee and learn you something and besides you tried to go with the Federal League but they would not take you because they was scared to. I don't know where he found out all that stuff at Al and besides he was wrong when he says I was drinking to much because they is not nobody that can drink more than me and not be effected. But I did not say nothing because I was scared I would forget myself and call him some name and he is a old man. Yes I did say something. I says Well I guess you found out that you could not get me out of the league and then he says Don't never think I could not get you out of the league. If you think I can't send you to Milwaukee I will prove it to you that I can. I says You can't because Detroit won't give no wavers on me. He says Detroit will give wavers on you quick enough if I ask them. Then he says Now you can take your choice you can stay here and pitch for me at the salery you signed up for and you can cut out the monkey business and drink water when you are thirsty or else you can go up to Milwaukee and drownd yourself in one of them brewrys. Which shall it be? I says How can you keep me or send me to Milwaukee when Detroit has allready claimed my services? He says Detroit has claimed a lot of things and they have even claimed the pennant but that is not no sign they will win it. He says And besides you would not want to pitch for Detroit because then you would not never have no chance to pitch against Cobb and show him up. Well Al when he says that I knowed he appresiated what a pitcher I am even if he did try to sell me to Milwaukee or he would not of made that remark about the way I can show Cobb and Crawford up. So I says Well if you need me that bad I will pitch for you but I must have a new contract. He says Oh I guess we can fix that up O.K. and he steps out in the next room a while and then he comes back with a new contract. And what do you think it was Al? It was a contract for 3 years so you see I am sure of my job here for 3 years and everything is all O.K. The contract calls for the same salery a year for 3 years that I was going to get before for only 1 year which is $2800.00 a year and then I will get in on the city serious money too and the Detroit Club don't have no city serious and have no chance to get into the World's Serious with the rotten pitching staff they got. So you see Al he fixed me up good and that shows that he must think a hole lot of me or he would of sent me to Detroit or maybe to Milwaukee but I don't see how he could of did that without no wavers. Well Al I allmost forgot to tell you that he has gave me a ticket to Los Angeles where the 2d team are practicing at now but where the 1st team will be at in about a week. I am leaveing to-night and I guess before I go I will go down to president Johnson and tell him that I am fixed up all O.K. and have not got no kick comeing so that president Johnson will not fine Comiskey for not paying no attention to the rules or get him fired out of the league because I guess Comiskey must be all O.K. and good hearted after all. I won't pay no attention to what he says about me drinking this town dry because he is all wrong in regards to that. He must of been jokeing I guess because nobody but some boob would think he could drink this town dry but at that I guess I can hold more than anybody and not be effected. But I guess I will cut it out for a while at that because I don't want to get them sore at me after the contract they give me. I will write to you from Los Angeles Al and let you know what the boys says when they see me and I will bet that they will be tickled to death. The rent man was round to-day but I seen him comeing and he did not find me. I am going to leave the furniture that belongs in the flat in the flat and allso the furniture I bought which don't amount to much because it was not no real Sir Cashion walnut and besides I don't want nothing round me to remind me of Florrie because the sooner her and I forget each other the better. Tell the boys about my good luck Al but it is not no luck neither because it was comeing to me. Yours truly, JACK. _Los Angeles, California, March 16._ AL: Here I am back with the White Sox again and it seems to good to be true because just like I told you they are all tickled to death to see me. Kid Gleason is here in charge of the 2d team and when he seen me come into the hotel he jumped up and hit me in the stumach but he acts like that whenever he feels good so I could not get sore at him though he had no right to hit me in the stumach. If he had of did it in ernest I would of walloped him in the jaw. He says Well if here ain't the old lady killer. He ment Al that I am strong with the girls but I am all threw with them now but he don't know nothing about the troubles I had. He says Are you in shape? And I told him Yes I am. He says Yes you look in shape like a barrel. I says They is not no fat on me and if I am a little bit bigger than last year it is because my mussels is bigger. He says Yes your stumach mussels is emense and you must of gave them plenty of exercise. Wait till Bodie sees you and he will want to stick round you all the time because you make him look like a broom straw or something. I let him kid me along because what is the use of getting mad at him? And besides he is all O.K. even if he is a little rough. I says to him A little work will fix me up all O.K. and he says You bet you are going to get some work because I am going to see to it myself. I says You will have to hurry because you will be going up to Frisco in a few days and I am going to stay here and join the 1st club. Then he says You are not going to do no such a thing. You are going right along with me. I knowed he was kidding me then because Callahan would not never leave me with the 2d team no more after what I done for him last year and besides most of the stars generally allways goes with the 1st team on the training trip. Well I seen all the rest of the boys that is here with the 2d team and they all acted like as if they was glad to see me and why should not they be when they know that me being here with the White Sox and not with Detroit means that Callahan won't have to do no worrying about his pitching staff? But they is four or 5 young recrut pitchers with the team here and I bet they is not so glad to see me because what chance have they got? If I was Comiskey and Callahan I would not spend no money on new pitchers because with me and 1 or 2 of the other boys we got the best pitching staff in the league. And instead of spending the money for new pitching recruts I would put it all in a lump and buy Ty Cobb or Sam Crawford off of Detroit or somebody else who can hit and Cobb and Crawford is both real hitters Al even if I did make them look like suckers. Who wouldn't? Well Al to-morrow A.M. I am going out and work a little and in the P.M. I will watch the game between we and the Venice Club but I won't pitch none because Gleason would not dare take no chances of me hurting my arm. I will write to you in a few days from here because no matter what Gleason says I am going to stick here with the 1st team because I know Callahan will want me along with him for a attraction. Your pal, JACK. _San Francisco, California, March 20._ FRIEND AL: Well Al here I am back in old Frisco with the 2d team but I will tell you how it happened Al. Yesterday Gleason told me to pack up and get ready to leave Los Angeles with him and I says No I am going to stick here and wait for the 1st team and then he says I guess I must of overlooked something in the papers because I did not see nothing about you being appointed manager of the club. I says No I am not manager but Callahan is manager and he will want to keep me with him. He says I got a wire from Callahan telling me to keep you with my club but of coarse if you know what Callahan wants better than he knows it himself why then go ahead and stay here or go jump in the Pacific Ocean. Then he says I know why you don't want to go with me and I says Why? And he says Because you know I will make you work and won't let you eat everything on the bill of fair includeing the name of the hotel at which we are stopping at. That made me sore and I was just going to call him when he says Did not you marry Mrs. Allen's sister? And I says Yes but that is not none of your business. Then he says Well I don't want to butt into your business but I heard you and your wife had some kind of a argument and she beat it. I says Yes she give me a rotten deal. He says Well then I don't see where it is going to be very pleasant for you traveling round with the 1st club because Allen and his wife is both with that club and what do you want to be mixed up with them for? I says I am not scared of Allen or his wife or no other old hen. So here I am Al with the 2d team but it is only for a while till Callahan gets sick of some of them pitchers he has got and sends for me so as he can see some real pitching. And besides I am glad to be here in Frisco where I made so many friends when I was pitching here for a short time till Callahan heard about my work and called me back to the big show where I belong at and nowheres else. Yours truly, JACK. _San Francisco, California, March 25._ OLD PAL: Al I got a supprise for you. Who do you think I seen last night? Nobody but Hazel. Her name now is Hazel Levy because you know Al she married Kid Levy the middle-weight and I wish he was champion of the world Al because then it would not take me more than about a minute to be champion of the world myself. I have not got nothing against him though because he married her and if he had not of I probily would of married her myself but at that she could not of treated me no worse than Florrie. Well they was setting at a table in the cafe where her and I use to go pretty near every night. She spotted me when I first come in and sends a waiter over to ask me to come and have a drink with them. I went over because they was no use being nasty and let bygones be bygones. She interduced me to her husband and he asked me what was I drinking. Then she butts in and says Oh you must let Mr. Keefe buy the drinks because it hurts his feelings to have somebody else buy the drinks. Then Levy says Oh he is one of these here spendrifts is he? and she says Yes he don't care no more about a nichol than his right eye does. I says I guess you have got no holler comeing on the way I spend my money. I don't steal no money anyway. She says What do you mean? and I says I guess you know what I mean. How about that $30.00 that you borrowed off of me and never give it back? Then her husband cuts in and says You cut that line of talk out or I will bust you. I says Yes you will. And he says Yes I will. Well Al what was the use of me starting trouble with him when he has got enough trouble right to home and besides as I say I have not got nothing against him. So I got up and blowed away from the table and I bet he was relieved when he seen I was not going to start nothing. I beat it out of there a while afterward because I was not drinking nothing and I don't have no fun setting round a place and lapping up ginger ail or something. And besides the music was rotten. Al I am certainly glad I throwed Hazel over because she has grew to be as big as a horse and is all painted up. I don't care nothing about them big dolls no more or about no other kind neither. I am off of them all. They can all of them die and I should not worry. Well Al I done my first pitching of the year this P.M. and I guess I showed them that I was in just as good a shape as some of them birds that has been working a month. I worked 4 innings against my old team the San Francisco Club and I give them nothing but fast ones but they sure was fast ones and you could hear them zip. Charlie O'Leary was trying to get out of the way of one of them and it hit his bat and went over first base for a base hit but at that Fournier would of eat it up if it had of been Chase playing first base instead of Fournier. That was the only hit they got off of me and they ought to of been ashamed to of tooken that one. But Gleason don't appresiate my work and him and I allmost come to blows at supper. I was pretty hungry and I ordered some stake and some eggs and some pie and some ice cream and some coffee and a glass of milk but Gleason would not let me have the pie or the milk and would not let me eat more than 1/2 the stake. And it is a wonder I did not bust him and tell him to mind his own business. I says What right have you got to tell me what to eat? And he says You don't need nobody to tell you what to eat you need somebody to keep you from floundering yourself. I says Why can't I eat what I want to when I have worked good? He says Who told you you worked good and I says I did not need nobody to tell me. I know I worked good because they could not do nothing with me. He says Well it is a good thing for you that they did not start bunting because if you had of went to stoop over and pick up the ball you would of busted wide open. I says Why? and he says because you are hog fat and if you don't let up on the stable and fancy groceries we will have to pay 2 fairs to get you back to Chi. I don't remember now what I says to him but I says something you can bet on that. You know me Al. I wish Al that Callahan would hurry up and order me to join the 1st team. If he don't Al I believe Gleason will starve me to death. A little slob like him don't realize that a big man like I needs good food and plenty of it. Your pal, JACK. _Salt Lake City, Utah, April 1._ AL: Well Al we are on our way East and I am still with the 2d team and I don't understand why Callahan don't order me to join the 1st team but maybe it is because he knows that I am all right and have got the stuff and he wants to keep them other guys round where he can see if they have got anything. The recrut pitchers that is along with our club have not got nothing and the scout that reckommended them must of been full of hops or something. It is not no common thing for a club to pick up a man that has got the stuff to make him a star up here and the White Sox was pretty lucky to land me but I don't understand why they throw their money away on new pitchers when none of them is no good and besides who would want a better pitching staff than we got right now without no raw recruts and bushers. I worked in Oakland the day before yesterday but he only let me go the 1st 4 innings. I bet them Oakland birds was glad when he took me out. When I was in that league I use to just throw my glove in the box and them Oakland birds was licked and honest Al some of them turned white when they seen I was going to pitch the other day. I felt kind of sorry for them and I did not give them all I had so they got 5 or 6 hits and scored a couple of runs. I was not feeling very good at that and besides we got some awful excuses for a ball player on this club and the support they give me was the rottenest I ever seen gave anybody. But some of them won't be in this league more than about 10 minutes more so I should not fret as they say. We play here this afternoon and I don't believe I will work because the team they got here is not worth wasteing nobody on. They must be a lot of boobs in this town Al because they tell me that some of them has got 1/2 a dozen wives or so. And what a man wants with 1 wife is a misery to me let alone a 1/2 dozen. I will probily work against Denver because they got a good club and was champions of the Western League last year. I will make them think they are champions of the Epworth League or something. Yours truly, JACK. _Des Moines, Iowa, April 10._ FRIEND AL: We got here this A.M. and this is our last stop and we will be in old Chi to-morrow to open the season. The 1st team gets home to-day and I would be there with them if Callahan was a real manager who knowed something about manageing because if I am going to open the season I should ought to have 1 day of rest at home so I would have all my strenth to open the season. The Cleveland Club will be there to open against us and Callahan must know that I have got them licked any time I start against them. As soon as my name is announced to pitch the Cleveland Club is licked or any other club when I am right and they don't kick the game away behind me. Gleason told me on the train last night that I was going to pitch here to-day but I bet by this time he has got orders from Callahan to let me rest and to not give me no more work because suppose even if I did not start the game to-morrow I probily will have to finish it. Gleason has been sticking round me like as if I had a million bucks or something. I can't even sit down and smoke a cigar but what he is there to knock the ashes off of it. He is O.K. and good-hearted if he is a little rough and keeps hitting me in the stumach but I wish he would leave me alone sometimes espesially at meals. He was in to breakfast with me this A.M. and after I got threw I snuck off down the street and got something to eat. That is not right because it costs me money when I have to go away from the hotel and eat and what right has he got to try and help me order my meals? Because he don't know what I want and what my stumach wants. My stumach don't want to have him punching it all the time but he keeps on doing it. So that shows he don't know what is good for me. But is a old man Al otherwise I would not stand for the stuff he pulls. The 1st thing I am going to do when we get to Chi is I am going to a resturunt somewheres and get a good meal where Gleason or no one else can't get at me. I know allready what I am going to eat and that is a big stake and a apple pie and that is not all. Well Al watch the papers and you will see what I done to that Cleveland Club and I hope Lajoie and Jackson is both in good shape because I don't want to pick on no cripples. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, April 16._ OLD PAL: Yesterday was the 1st pay day old pal and I know I promised to pay you what I owe you and it is $75.00 because when I asked you for $35.00 before I went West you only sent me $25.00 which makes the hole sum $75.00. Well Al I can't pay you now because the pay we drawed was only for 4 days and did not amount to nothing and I had to buy a meal ticket and fix up about my room rent. And then they is another thing Al which I will tell you about. I come into the clubhouse the day the season opened and the 1st guy I seen was Allen. I was going up to bust him but he come up and held his hand out and what was they for me to do but shake hands with him if he is going to be yellow like that? He says Well Jack I am glad they did not send you to Milwaukee and I bet you will have a big year. I says Yes I will have a big year O.K. if you don't sick another 1 of your sister-in-laws on to me. He says Oh don't let they be no hard feelings about that. You know it was not no fault of mine and I bet if you was to write to Florrie everything could be fixed up O.K. I says I don't want to write to no Florrie but I will get a attorney at law to write to her. He says You don't even know where she is at and I says I don't care where she is at. Where is she? He says She is down to her home in Waco, Texas, and if I was you I would write to her myself and not let no attorney at law write to her because that would get her mad and besides what do you want a attorney at law to write to her about? I says I am going to sew her for a bill of divorce. Then he says On what grounds? and I says Dessertion. He says You better not do no such thing or she will sew you for a bill of divorce for none support and then you will look like a cheap guy. I says I don't care what I look like. So you see Al I had to send Florrie $10.00 or maybe she would be mean enough to sew me for a bill of divorce on the ground of none support and that would make me look bad. Well Al, Allen told me his wife wanted to talk to me and try and fix things up between I and Florrie but I give him to understand that I would not stand for no meeting with his wife and he says Well suit yourself about that but they is no reason you and I should quarrel. You see Al he don't want no mix-up with me because he knows he could not get nothing but the worst of it. I will be friends with him but I won't have nothing to do with Marie because if it had not of been for she and Florrie I would have money in the bank besides not being in no danger of getting sewed for none support. I guess you must of read about Joe Benz getting married and I guess he must of got a good wife and 1 that don't bother him all the time because he pitched the opening game and shut Cleveland out with 2 hits. He was pretty good Al, better than I ever seen him and they was a couple of times when his fast ball was pretty near as fast as mine. I have not worked yet Al and I asked Callahan to-day what was the matter and he says I was waiting for you to get in shape. I says I am in shape now and I notice that when I was pitching in practice this A.M. they did not hit nothing out of the infield. He says That was because you are so spread out that they could not get nothing past you. He says The way you are now you cover more ground than the grand stand. I says Is that so? And he walked away. We go out on a trip to Cleveland and Detroit and St. Louis in a few days and maybe I will take my regular turn then because the other pitchers has been getting away lucky because most of the hitters has not got their batting eye as yet but wait till they begin hitting and then it will take a man like I to stop them. The 1st of May is our next pay day Al and then I will have enough money so as I can send you the $75.00. Your pal, JACK. _Detroit, Michigan, April 28._ FRIEND AL: What do you think of a rotten manager that bawls me out and fines me $50.00 for loosing a 1 to 0 game in 10 innings when it was my 1st start this season? And no wonder I was a little wild in the 10th when I had not had no chance to work and get control. I got a good notion to quit this rotten club and jump to the Federals where a man gets some kind of treatment. Callahan says I throwed the game away on purpose but I did not do no such a thing Al because when I throwed that ball at Joe Hill's head I forgot that the bases was full and besides if Gleason had not of starved me to death the ball that hit him in the head would of killed him. And how could a man go to 1st base and the winning run be forced in if he was dead which he should ought to of been the lucky left handed stiff if I had of had my full strenth to put on my fast one instead of being 1/2 starved to death and weak. But I guess I better tell you how it come off. The papers will get it all wrong like they generally allways does. Callahan asked me this A.M. if I thought I was hard enough to work and I was tickled to death, because I seen he was going to give me a chance. I told him Sure I was in good shape and if them Tigers scored a run off me he could keep me setting on the bench the rest of the summer. So he says All right I am going to start you and if you go good maybe Gleason will let you eat some supper. Well Al when I begin warming up I happened to look up in the grand stand and who do you think I seen? Nobody but Violet. She smiled when she seen me but I bet she felt more like crying. Well I smiled back at her because she probily would of broke down and made a seen or something if I had not of. They was not nobody warming up for Detroit when I begin warming up but pretty soon I looked over to their bench and Joe Hill Violet's husband was warming up. I says to myself Well here is where I show that bird up if they got nerve enough to start him against me but probily Jennings don't want to waste no real pitcher on this game which he knows we got cinched and we would of had it cinched Al if they had of got a couple of runs or even 1 run for me. Well, Jennings come passed our bench just like he allways does and tried to pull some of his funny stuff. He says Hello are you still in the league? I says Yes but I come pretty near not being. I came pretty near being with Detroit. I wish you could of heard Gleason and Callahan laugh when I pulled that one on him. He says something back but it was not no hot comeback like mine. Well Al if I had of had any work and my regular control I guess I would of pitched a 0 hit game because the only time they could touch me was when I had to ease up to get them over. Cobb was out of the game and they told me he was sick but I guess the truth is that he knowed I was going to pitch. Crawford got a couple of lucky scratch hits off of me because I got in the hole to him and had to let up. But the way that lucky left handed Hill got by was something awful and if I was as lucky as him I would quit pitching and shoot craps or something. Our club can't hit nothing anyway. But batting against this bird was just like hitting fungos. His curve ball broke about 1/2 a inch and you could of wrote your name and address on his fast one while it was comeing up there. He had good control but who would not when they put nothing on the ball? Well Al we could not get started against the lucky stiff and they could not do nothing with me even if my suport was rotten and I give a couple or 3 or 4 bases on balls but when they was men waiting to score I zipped them threw there so as they could not see them let alone hit them. Every time I come to the bench between innings I looked up to where Violet was setting and give her a smile and she smiled back and once I seen her clapping her hands at me after I had made Moriarty pop up in the pinch. Well we come along to the 10th inning, 0 and 0, and all of a sudden we got after him. Bodie hits one and Schalk gets 2 strikes and 2 balls and then singles. Callahan tells Alcock to bunt and he does it but Hill sprawls all over himself like the big boob he is and the bases is full with nobody down. Well Gleason and Callahan argude about should they send somebody up for me or let me go up there and I says Let me go up there because I can murder this bird and Callahan says Well they is nobody out so go up and take a wallop. Honest Al if this guy had of had anything at all I would of hit 1 out of the park, but he did not have even a glove. And how can a man hit pitching which is not no pitching at all but just slopping them up? When I went up there I hollered to him and says Stick 1 over here now you yellow stiff. And he says Yes I can stick them over allright and that is where I got something on you. Well Al I hit a foul off of him that would of been a fare ball and broke up the game if the wind had not of been against it. Then I swung and missed a curve that I don't see how I missed it. The next 1 was a yard outside and this Evans calls it a strike. He has had it in for me ever since last year when he tried to get funny with me and I says something back to him that stung him. So he calls this 3d strike on me and I felt like murdering him. But what is the use? I throwed down my bat and come back to the bench and I was glad Callahan and Gleason was out on the coaching line or they probily would of said something to me and I would of cut loose and beat them up. Well Al Weaver and Blackburne looked like a couple of rums up there and we don't score where we ought to of had 3 or 4 runs with any kind of hitting. I would of been all O.K. in spite of that peace of rotten luck if this big Hill had of walked to the bench and not said nothing like a real pitcher. But what does he do but wait out there till I start for the box and I says Get on to the bench you lucky stiff or do you want me to hand you something? He says I don't want nothing more of yourn. I allready got your girl and your goat. Well Al what do you think of a man that would say a thing like that? And nobody but a left hander could of. If I had of had a gun I would of killed him deader than a doornail or something. He starts for the bench and I hollered at him Wait till you get up to that plate and then I am going to bean you. Honest Al I was so mad I could not see the plate or nothing. I don't even know who it was come up to bat 1st but whoever it was I hit him in the arm and he walks to first base. The next guy bunts and Chase tries to pull off 1 of them plays of hisn instead of playing safe and he don't get nobody. Well I kept getting madder and madder and I walks Stanage who if I had of been myself would not foul me. Callahan has Scotty warming up and Gleason runs out from the bench and tells me I am threw but Callahan says Wait a minute he is going to let Hill hit and this big stiff ought to be able to get him out of the way and that will give Scotty a chance to get warm. Gleason says You better not take a chance because the big busher is hogwild, and they kept argueing till I got sick of listening to them and I went back to the box and got ready to pitch. But when I seen this Hill up there I forgot all about the ball game and I cut loose at his bean. Well Al my control was all O.K. this time and I catched him square on the fourhead and he dropped like as if he had been shot. But pretty soon he gets up and gives me the laugh and runs to first base. I did not know the game was over till Weaver come up and pulled me off the field. But if I had not of been 1/2 starved to death and weak so as I could not put all my stuff on the ball you can bet that Hill never would of ran to first base and Violet would of been a widow and probily a lot better off than she is now. At that I never should ought to of tried to kill a lefthander by hitting him in the head. Well Al they jumped all over me in the clubhouse and I had to hold myself back or I would of gave somebody the beating of their life. Callahan tells me I am fined $50.00 and suspended without no pay. I asked him What for and he says They would not be no use in telling you because you have not got no brains. I says Yes I have to got some brains and he says Yes but they is in your stumach. And then he says I wish we had of sent you to Milwaukee and I come back at him. I says I wish you had of. Well Al I guess they is no chance of getting square treatment on this club and you won't be supprised if you hear of me jumping to the Federals where a man is treated like a man and not like no white slave. Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, May 2._ AL: I have got to disappoint you again Al. When I got up to get my pay yesterday they held out $150.00 on me. $50.00 of it is what I was fined for loosing a 1 to 0 10-inning game in Detroit when I was so weak that I should ought never to of been sent in there and the $100.00 is the advance money that I drawed last winter and which I had forgot all about and the club would of forgot about it to if they was not so tight fisted. So you see all I get for 2 weeks' pay is about $80.00 and I sent $25.00 to Florrie so she can't come no none support business on me. I am still suspended Al and not drawing no pay now and I got a notion to hire a attorney at law and force them to pay my salery or else jump to the Federals where a man gets good treatment. Allen is still after me to come over to his flat some night and see his wife and let her talk to me about Florrie but what do I want to talk about Florrie for or talk about nothing to a nut left hander's wife? The Detroit Club is here and Cobb is playing because he knows I am suspended but I wish Callahan would call it off and let me work against them and I would certainly love to work against this Joe Hill again and I bet they would be a different story this time because I been getting something to eat since we been home and I got back most of my strenth. Your old pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, May 5._ FRIEND AL: Well Al if you been reading the papers you will know before this letter is received what I done. Before the Detroit Club come here Joe Hill had win 4 strate but he has not win no 5 strate or won't neither Al because I put a crimp in his winning streek just like I knowed I would do if I got a chance when I was feeling good and had all my strenth. Callahan asked me yesterday A.M. if I thought I had enough rest and I says Sure because I did not need no rest in the 1st place. Well, he says, I thought maybe if I layed you off a few days you would do some thinking and if you done some thinking once in a while you would be a better pitcher. Well anyway I worked and I wish you could of saw them Tigers trying to hit me Cobb and Crawford incluseive. The 1st time Cobb come up Weaver catched a lucky line drive off of him and the next time I eased up a little and Collins run back and took a fly ball off of the fence. But the other times he come up he looked like a sucker except when he come up in the 8th and then he beat out a bunt but allmost anybody is liable to do that once in a while. Crawford got a scratch hit between Chase and Blackburne in the 2d inning and in the 4th he was gave a three-base hit by this Evans who should ought to be writeing for the papers instead of trying to umpire. The ball was 2 feet foul and I bet Crawford will tell you the same thing if you ask him. But what I done to this Hill was awful. I give him my curve twice when he was up there in the 3d and he missed it a foot. Then I come with my fast ball right past his nose and I bet if he had not of ducked it would of drove that big horn of hisn clear up in the press box where them rotten reporters sits and smokes their hops. Then when he was looking for another fast one I slopped up my slow one and he is still swinging at it yet. But the best of it was that I practally won my own game. Bodie and Schalk was on when I come up in the 5th and Hill hollers to me and says I guess this is where I shoot one of them bean balls. I says Go ahead and shoot and if you hit me in the head and I ever find it out I will write and tell your wife what happened to you. You see what I was getting at Al. I was insinuateing that if he beaned me with his fast one I would not never know nothing about it if somebody did not tell me because his fast one is not fast enough to hurt nobody even if it should hit them in the head. So I says to him Go ahead and shoot and if you hit me in the head and I ever find it out I will write and tell your wife what happened to you. See, Al? Of coarse you could not hire me to write to Violet but I did not mean that part of it in ernest. Well sure enough he shot at my bean and I ducked out of the way though if it had of hit me it could not of did no more than tickle. He takes 2 more shots and misses me and then Jennings hollers from the bench What are you doing pitching or trying to win a cigar? So then Hill sees what a monkey he is makeing out of himself and tries to get one over, but I have him 3 balls and nothing and what I done to that groover was a plenty. She went over Bush's head like a bullet and got between Cobb and Veach and goes clear to the fence. Bodie and Schalk scores and I would of scored to if anybody else besides Cobb had of been chaseing the ball. I got 2 bases and Weaver scores me with another wallop. Say, I wish I could of heard what they said to that baby on the bench. Callahan was tickled to death and he says Maybe I will give you back that $50.00 if you keep that stuff up. I guess I will get that $50.00 back next pay day and if I do Al I will pay you the hole $75.00. Well Al I beat them 5 to 4 and with good support I would of held them to 1 run but what do I care as long as I beat them? I wish though that Violet could of been there and saw it. Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, May 29._ OLD PAL: Well Al I have not wrote to you for a long while but it is not because I have forgot you and to show I have not forgot you I am incloseing the $75.00 which I owe you. It is a money order Al and you can get it cashed by takeing it to Joe Higgins at the P.O. Since I wrote to you Al I been East with the club and I guess you know what I done in the East. The Athaletics did not have no right to win that 1 game off of me and I will get them when they come here the week after next. I beat Boston and just as good as beat New York twice because I beat them 1 game all alone and then saved the other for Eddie Cicotte in the 9th inning and shut out the Washington Club and would of did the same thing if Johnson had of been working against me instead of this left handed stiff Boehling. Speaking of left handers Allen has been going rotten and I would not be supprised if they sent him to Milwaukee or Frisco or somewheres. But I got bigger news than that for you Al. Florrie is back and we are liveing together in the spair room at Allen's flat so I hope they don't send him to Milwaukee or nowheres else because it is not costing us nothing for room rent and this is no more than right after the way the Allens grafted off of us all last winter. I bet you will be supprised to know that I and Florrie has made it up and they is a secret about it Al which I can't tell you now but maybe next month I will tell you and then you will be more supprised than ever. It is about I and Florrie and somebody else. But that is all I can tell you now. We got in this A.M. Al and when I got to my room they was a slip of paper there telling me to call up a phone number so I called it up and it was Allen's flat and Marie answered the phone. And when I reckonized her voice I was going to hang up the phone but she says Wait a minute somebody wants to talk with you. And then Florrie come to the phone and I was going to hang up the phone again when she pulled this secret on me that I was telling you about. So it is all fixed up between us Al and I wish I could tell you the secret but that will come later. I have tooken my baggage over to Allen's and I am there now writeing to you while Florrie is asleep. And after a while I am going out and mail this letter and get a glass of beer because I think I have got 1 comeing now on account of this secret. Florrie says she is sorry for the way she treated me and she cried when she seen me. So what is the use of me being nasty Al? And let bygones be bygones. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, June 16._ FRIEND AL: Al I beat the Athaletics 2 to 1 to-day but I am writeing to you to give you the supprise of your life. Old pal I got a baby and he is a boy and we are going to name him Allen which Florrie thinks is after his uncle and aunt Allen but which is after you old pal. And she can call him Allen but I will call him Al because I don't never go back on my old pals. The baby was born over to the hospital and it is going to cost me a bunch of money but I should not worry. This is the secret I was going to tell you Al and I am the happyest man in the world and I bet you are most as tickled to death to hear about it as I am. The baby was born just about the time I was makeing McInnis look like a sucker in the pinch but they did not tell me nothing about it till after the game and then they give me a phone messige in the clubhouse. I went right over there and everything was all O.K. Little Al is a homely little skate but I guess all babys is homely and don't have no looks till they get older and maybe he will look like Florrie or I then I won't have no kick comeing. Be sure and tell Bertha the good news and tell her everything has came out all right except that the rent man is still after me about that flat I had last winter. And I am still paying the old man $10.00 a month for that house you got for me and which has not never done me no good. But I should not worry about money when I got a real family. Do you get that Al, a real family? Well Al I am to happy to do no more writeing to-night but I wanted you to be the 1st to get the news and I would of sent you a telegram only I did not want to scare you. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, July 2._ OLD PAL: Well old pal I just come back from St. Louis this A.M. and found things in pretty fare shape. Florrie and the baby is out to Allen's and we will stay there till I can find another place. The Dr. was out to look at the baby this A.M. and the baby was waveing his arm round in the air. And Florrie asked was they something the matter with him that he kept waveing his arm. And the Dr. says No he was just getting his exercise. Well Al I noticed that he never waved his right arm but kept waveing his left arm and I asked the Dr. why was that. Then the Dr. says I guess he must be left handed. That made me sore and I says I guess you doctors don't know it all. And then I turned round and beat it out of the room. Well Al it would be just my luck to have him left handed and Florrie should ought to of knew better than to name him after Allen. I am going to hire another Dr. and see what he has to say because they must be some way of fixing babys so as they won't be left handed. And if nessary I will cut his left arm off of him. Of coarse I would not do that Al. But how would I feel if a boy of mine turned out like Allen and Joe Hill and some of them other nuts? We have a game with St. Louis to-morrow and a double header on the 4th of July. I guess probily Callahan will work me in one of the 4th of July games on account of the holiday crowd. Your pal, JACK. P.S. Maybe I should ought to leave the kid left handed so as he can have some of their luck. The lucky stiffs. CHAPTER V THE BUSHER'S KID _Chicago, Illinois, July 31._ FRIEND AL: Well Al what do you think of little Al now? But I guess I better tell you first what he done. Maybe you won't believe what I am telling you but did you ever catch me telling you a lie? I guess you know you did not Al. Well we got back from the East this A.M. and I don't have to tell you we had a rotten trip and if it had not of been for me beating Boston once and the Athaletics two times we would of been ashamed to come home. I guess these here other pitchers thought we was haveing a vacation and when they go up in the office to-morrow to get there checks they should ought to be arrested if they take them. I would not go nowheres near Comiskey if I had not of did better than them others but I can go and get my pay and feel all O.K. about it because I done something to ern it. Me loseing that game in Washington was a crime and Callahan says so himself. This here Weaver throwed it away for me and I would not be surprised if he done it from spitework because him and Scott is pals and probily he did not want to see me winning all them games when Scott was getting knocked out of the box. And no wonder when he has not got no stuff. I wish I knowed for sure that Weaver was throwing me down and if I knowed for sure I would put him in a hospital or somewheres. But I was going to tell you what the kid done Al. So here goes. We are still liveing at Allen's and his wife. So I and him come home together from the train. Well Florrie and Marie was both up and the baby was up too--that is he was not up but he was woke up. I beat it right into the room where he was at and Florrie come in with me. I says Hello Al and what do you suppose he done. Well Al he did not say Hello pa or nothing like that because he is not only one month old. But he smiled at me just like as if he was glad to see me and I guess maybe he was at that. I was tickled to death and I says to Florrie Did you see that. And she says See what. I says The baby smiled at me. Then she says They is something the matter with his stumach. I says I suppose because a baby smiles that is a sign they is something the matter with his stumach and if he had the toothacke he would laugh. She says You think your smart but I am telling you that he was not smileing at all but he was makeing a face because they is something the matter with his stumach. I says I guess I know the difference if somebody is smileing or makeing a face. And she says I guess you don't know nothing about babys because you never had none before. I says How many have you had. And then she got sore and beat it out of the room. I did not care because I wanted to be in there alone with him and see would he smile at me again. And sure enough Al he did. Then I called Allen in and when the baby seen him he begin to cry. So you see I was right and Florrie was wrong. It don't take a man no time at all to get wise to these babys and it don't take them long to know if a man is there father or there uncle. When he begin to cry I chased Allen out of the room and called Florrie because she should ought to know by this time how to make him stop crying. But she was still sore and she says Let him cry or if you know so much about babys make him stop yourself. I says Maybe he is sick. And she says I was just telling you that he had a pane in his stumach or he would not of made that face that you said was smileing at you. I says Do you think we should ought to call the doctor but she says No if you call the doctor every time he has the stumach acke you might just as well tell him he should bring his trunk along and stay here. She says All babys have collect and they is not no use fusing about it but come and get your breakfast. Well Al I did not injoy my breakfast because the baby was crying all the time and I knowed he probily wanted I should come in and visit with him. So I just eat the prunes and drunk a little coffee and did not wait for the rest of it and sure enough when I went back in our room and started talking to him he started smileing again and pretty soon he went to sleep so you see Al he was smileing and not makeing no face and that was a hole lot of bunk about him haveing the collect. But I don't suppose I should ought to find fault with Florrie for not knowing no better because she has not never had no babys before but still and all I should think she should ought to of learned something about them by this time or ask somebody. Well Al little Al is woke up again and is crying and I just about got time to fix him up and get him asleep again and then I will have to go to the ball park because we got a poseponed game to play with Detroit and Callahan will probily want me to work though I pitched the next to the last game in New York and would of gave them a good beating except for Schalk dropping that ball at the plate but I got it on these Detroit babys and when my name is announced to pitch they feel like forfiting the game. I won't try for no strike out record because I want them to hit the first ball and get the game over with quick so as I can get back here and take care of little Al. Your pal, JACK. P.S. Babys is great stuff Al and if I was you I would not wait no longer but would hurry up and adopt 1 somewheres. _Chicago, Illinois, August 15._ OLD PAL: What do you think Al. Kid Gleason is comeing over to the flat and look at the baby the day after to-morrow when we don't have no game skeduled but we have to practice in the A.M. because we been going so rotten. I had a hard time makeing him promise to come but he is comeing and I bet he will be glad he come when he has came. I says to him in the clubhouse Do you want to see a real baby? And he says You're real enough for me Boy. I says No I am talking about babys. He says Oh I thought you was talking about ice cream soda or something. I says No I want you to come over to the flat to-morrow and take a look at my kid and tell me what you think of him. He says I can tell you what I think of him without takeing no look at him. I think he is out of luck. I says What do you mean out of luck. But he just laughed and would not say no more. I asked him again would he come over to the flat and look at the baby and he says he had troubles enough without that and kidded along for a while but finally he seen I was in ernest and then he says he would come if I would keep the missus out of the room while he was there because he says if she seen him she would probily be sorry she married me. He was just jokeing and I did not take no excepshun to his remarks because Florrie could not never fall for him after seeing me because he is not no big stropping man like I am but a little runt and look at how old he is. But I am glad he is comeing because he will think more of me when he sees what a fine baby I got though he thinks a hole lot of me now because look what I done for the club and where would they be at if I had jumped to the Federal like I once thought I would. I will tell you what he says about little Al and I bet he will say he never seen no prettyer baby but even if he don't say nothing at all I will know he is kidding. The Boston Club comes here to-morrow and plays 4 days includeing the day after to-morrow when they is not no game. So on account of the off day maybe I will work twice against them and if I do they will wish the grounds had of burned down. Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, August 17._ AL: Well old pal what did I tell you about what I would do to that Boston Club? And now Al I have beat every club in the league this year because yesterday was the first time I beat the Boston Club this year but now I have beat all of them and most of them severel times. This should ought to of gave me a record of 16 wins and 0 defeats because the only games I lost was throwed away behind me but instead of that my record is 10 games win and 6 defeats and that don't include the games I finished up and helped the other boys win which is about 6 more alltogether but what do I care about my record Al? because I am not the kind of man that is allways thinking about there record and playing for there record while I am satisfied if I give the club the best I got and if I win all O.K. And if I lose who's fault is it. Not mine Al. I asked Callahan would he let me work against the Boston Club again before they go away and he says I guess I will have to because you are going better than anybody else on the club. So you see Al he is beginning to appresiate my work and from now on I will pitch in my regular turn and a hole lot offtener then that and probily Comiskey will see the stuff I am made from and will raise my salery next year even if he has got me signed for 3 years and for the same salery I am getting now. But all that is not what I was going to tell you Al and what I was going to tell you was about Gleason comeing to see the baby and what he thought about him. I sent Florrie and Marie downtown and says I would take care of little Al and they was glad to go because Florrie says she should ought to buy some new shoes though I don't see what she wants of no new shoes when she is going to be tied up in the flat for a long time yet on account of the baby and nobody cares if she wears shoes in the flat or goes round in her bear feet. But I was glad to get rid of the both of them for a while because little Al acts better when they is not no women round and you can't blame him. The baby was woke up when Gleason come in and I and him went right in the room where he was laying. Gleason takes a look at him and says Well that is a mighty fine baby and you must of boughten him. I says What do you mean? And he says I don't believe he is your own baby because he looks humaner than most babys. And I says Why should not he look human. And he says Why should he. Then he goes to work and picks the baby right up and I was a-scared he would drop him because even I have not never picked him up though I am his father and would be a-scared of hurting him. I says Here, don't pick him up and he says Why not? He says Are you going to leave him on that there bed the rest of his life? I says No but you don't know how to handle him. He says I have handled a hole lot bigger babys than him or else Callahan would not keep me. Then he starts patting the baby's head and I says Here, don't do that because he has got a soft spot in his head and you might hit it. He says I thought he was your baby and I says Well he is my baby and he says Well then they can't be no soft spot in his head. Then he lays little Al down because he seen I was in ernest and as soon as he lays him down the baby begins to cry. Then Gleason says See he don't want me to lay him down and I says Maybe he has got a pane in his stumach and he says I would not be supprised because he just took a good look at his father. But little Al did not act like as if he had a pane in his stumach and he kept sticking his finger in his mouth and crying. And Gleason says He acts like as if he had a toothacke. I says How could he have a toothacke when he has not got no teeth? He says That is easy. I have saw a lot of pitchers complane that there arm was sore when they did not have no arm. Then he asked me what was the baby's name and I told him Allen but that he was not named after my brother-in-law Allen. And Gleason says I should hope not. I should hope you would have better sense then to name him after a left hander. So you see Al he don't like them no better then I do even if he does jolly Allen and Russell along and make them think they can pitch. Pretty soon he says What are you going to make out of him, a ball player? I says Yes I am going to make a hitter out of him so as he can join the White Sox and then maybe they will get a couple of runs once in a while. He says If I was you I would let him pitch and then you won't have to give him no educasion. Besides, he says, he looks now like he would divellop into a grate spitter. Well I happened to look out of the window and seen Florrie and Marie comeing acrost Indiana Avenue and I told Gleason about it. And you ought to of seen him run. I asked him what was his hurry and he says it was in his contract that he was not to talk to no women but I knowed he was kidding because I allready seen him talking to severel of the players' wifes when they was on trips with us and they acted like as if they thought he was a regular comeedion though they really is not nothing funny about what he says only it is easy to make women laugh when they have not got no grouch on about something. Well Al I am glad Gleason has saw the baby and maybe he will fix it with Callahan so as I won't have to go to morning practice every A.M. because I should ought to be home takeing care of little Al when Florrie is washing the dishs or helping Marie round the house. And besides why should I wear myself all out in practice because I don't need to practice pitching and I could hit as well as the rest of the men on our club if I never seen no practice. After we get threw with Boston, Washington comes here and then we go to St. Louis and Cleveland and then come home and then go East again. And after that we are pretty near threw except the city serious. Callahan is not going to work me no more after I beat Boston again till it is this here Johnson's turn to pitch for Washington. And I hope it is not his turn to work the 1st game of the serious because then I would not have no rest between the last game against Boston and the 1st game against Washington. But rest or no rest I will work against this here Johnson and show him up for giveing me that trimming in Washington, the lucky stiff. I wish I had a team like the Athaletics behind me and I would loose about 1 game every 6 years and then they would have to get all the best of it from these rotten umpires. Your pal, JACK. _New York, New York, September 16._ FRIEND AL: Al it is not no fun running round the country no more and I wish this dam trip was over so as I could go home and see how little Al is getting along because Florrie has not wrote since we was in Philly which was the first stop on this trip. I am a-scared they is something the matter with the little fellow or else she would of wrote but then if they was something the matter with him she would of sent me a telegram or something and let me know. So I guess they can't be nothing the matter with him. Still and all I don't see why she has not wrote when she knows or should ought to know that I would be worrying about the baby. If I don't get no letter to-morrow I am going to send her a telegram and ask her what is the matter with him because I am positive she would of wrote if they was not something the matter with him. The boys has been trying to get me to go out nights and see a show or something but I have not got no heart to go to shows. And besides Callahan has not gave us no pass to no show on this trip. I guess probily he is sore on account of the rotten way the club has been going but still he should ought not to be sore on me because I have win 3 out of my last 4 games and would of win the other if he had not of started me against them with only 1 day's rest and the Athaletics at that, who a man should ought not to pitch against if he don't feel good. I asked Allen if he had heard from Marie and he says Yes he did but she did not say nothing about little Al except that he was keeping her awake nights balling. So maybe Al if little Al is balling they is something wrong with him. I am going to send Florrie a telegram to-morrow--that is if I don't get no letter. If they is something the matter with him I will ask Callahan to send me home and he won't want to do it neither because who else has he got that is a regular winner. But if little Al is sick and Callahan won't let me go home I will go home anyway. You know me Al. Yours truly, JACK. _Boston, Massachusetts, September 24._ AL: I bet if Florrie was a man she would be a left hander. What do you think she done now Al? I sent her a telegram from New York when I did not get no letter from her and she did not pay no atension to the telegram. Then when we got up here I sent her another telegram and it was not more then five minutes after I sent the 2d telegram till I got a letter from her. And it said the baby was all O.K. but she had been so busy takeing care of him that she had not had no time to write. Well when I got the letter I chased out to see if I could catch the boy who had took my telegram but he had went allready so I was spending $.60 for nothing. Then what does Florrie do but send me a telegram after she got my second telegram and tell me that little Al is all O.K., which I knowed all about then because I had just got her letter. And she sent her telegram c. o. d. and I had to pay for it at this end because she had not paid for it and that was $.60 more but I bet if I had of knew what was in the telegram before I read it I would of told the boy to keep it and would not of gave him no $.60 but how did I know if little Al might not of tooken sick after Florrie had wrote the letter? I am going to write and ask her if she is trying to send us both to the Poor House or somewheres with her telegrams. I don't care nothing about the $.60 but I like to see a woman use a little judgement though I guess that is impossable. It is my turn to work to-day and to-night we start West but we have got to stop off at Cleveland on the way. I have got a nosion to ask Callahan to let me go right on threw to Chi if I win to-day and not stop off at no Cleveland but I guess they would not be no use because I have got that Cleveland Club licked the minute I put on my glove. So probily Callahan will want me with him though it don't make no difference if we win or lose now because we have not got no chance for the pennant. One man can't win no pennant Al I don't care who he is. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 2._ FRIEND AL: Well old pal I am all threw till the city serious and it is all fixed up that I am going to open the serious and pitch 3 of the games if nessary. The club has went to Detroit to wind up the season and Callahan did not take me along but left me here with a couple other pitchers and Billy Sullivan and told me all as I would have to do was go over to the park the next 3 days and warm up a little so as to keep in shape. But I don't need to be in no shape to beat them Cubs Al. But it is a good thing Al that Allen was tooken on the trip to Detroit or I guess I would of killed him. He has not been going good and he has been acting and talking nasty to everybody because he can't win no games. Well the 1st night we was home after the trip little Al was haveing a bad night and was balling pretty hard and they could not nobody in the flat get no sleep. Florrie says he was haveing the collect and I says Why should he have the collect all the time when he did not drink nothing but milk? She says she guessed the milk did not agree with him and upsetted his stumach. I says Well he must take after his mother if his stumach gets upsetted every time he takes a drink because if he took after his father he could drink a hole lot and not never be effected. She says You should ought to remember he has only got a little stumach and not a great big resservoire. I says Well if the milk don't agree with him why don't you give him something else? She says Yes I suppose I should ought to give him weeny worst or something. Allen must of heard us talking because he hollered something and I did not hear what it was so I told him to say it over and he says Give the little X-eyed brat poison and we would all be better off. I says You better take poison yourself because maybe a rotten pitcher like you could get by in the league where you're going when you die. Then I says Besides I would rather my baby was X-eyed then to have him left handed. He says It is better for him that he is X-eyed or else he might get a good look at you and then he would shoot himself. I says Is that so? and he shut up. Little Al is not no more X-eyed than you or I are Al and that was what made me sore because what right did Allen have to talk like that when he knowed he was lying? Well the next morning Allen nor I did not speak to each other and I seen he was sorry for the way he had talked and I was willing to fix things up because what is the use of staying sore at a man that don't know no better. But all of a sudden he says When are you going to pay me what you owe me? I says What do you mean? And he says You been liveing here all summer and I been paying all the bills. I says Did not you and Marie ask us to come here and stay with you and it would not cost us nothing. He says Yes but we did not mean it was a life sentence. You are getting more money than me and you don't never spend a nichol. All I have to do is pay the rent and buy your food and it would take a millionare or something to feed you. Then he says I would not make no holler about you grafting off of me if that brat would shut up nights and give somebody a chance to sleep. I says You should ought to get all the sleep you need on the bench. Besides, I says, who done the grafting all last winter and without no invatation? If he had of said another word I was going to bust him but just then Marie come in and he shut up. The more I thought about what he said and him a rotten left hander that should ought to be hussling freiht the more madder I got and if he had of opened his head to me the last day or 2 before he went to Detroit I guess I would of finished him. But Marie stuck pretty close to the both of us when we was together and I guess she knowed they was something in the air and did not want to see her husband get the worst of it though if he was my husband and I was a woman I would push him under a st. car. But Al I won't even stand for him saying that I am grafting off of him and I and Florrie will get away from here and get a flat of our own as soon as the city serious is over. I would like to bring her and the kid down to Bedford for the winter but she wont listen to that. I allmost forgot Al to tell you to be sure and thank Bertha for the little dress she made for little Al. I don't know if it will fit him or not because Florrie has not yet tried it on him yet and she says she is going to use it for a dishrag but I guess she is just kidding. I suppose you seen where Callahan took me out of that game down to Cleveland but it was not because I was not going good Al but it was because Callahan seen he was makeing a mistake wasteing me on that bunch who allmost any pitcher could beat. They beat us that game at that but only by one run and it was not no fault of mine because I was tooken out before they got the run that give them the game. Your old pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 4._ FRIEND AL: Well Al the club winds up the season at Detroit to-morrow and the serious starts the day after to-morrow and I will be in there giveing them a battle. I wish I did not have nobody but the Cubs to pitch against all season and you bet I would have a record that would make Johnson and Mathewson and some of them other swell heads look like a dirty doose. I and Florrie and Marie has been haveing a argument about how could Florrie go and see the city serious games when they is not nobody here that can take care of the baby because Marie wants to go and see the games to even though they is not no more chance of Callahan starting Allen than a rabbit or something. Florrie and Marie says I should ought to hire a nurse to take care of little Al and Florrie got pretty sore when I told her nothing doing because in the first place I can't afford to pay no nurse a salery and in the second place I would not trust no nurse to take care of the baby because how do I know the nurse is not nothing but a grafter or a dope fiend maybe and should ought not to be left with the baby? Of coarse Florrie wants to see me pitch and a man can't blame her for that but I won't leave my baby with no nurse Al and Florrie will have to stay home and I will tell her what I done when I get there. I might of gave my consent to haveing a nurse at that if it had not of been for the baby getting so sick last night when I was takeing care of him while Florrie and Marie and Allen was out to a show and if I had not of been home they is no telling what would of happened. It is a cinch that none of them bonehead nurses would of knew what to do. Allen must of been out of his head because right after supper he says he would take the 2 girls to a show. I says All right go on and I will take care of the baby. Then Florrie says Do you think you can take care of him all O.K.? And I says Have not I tooken care of him before allready? Well, she says, I will leave him with you only don't run in to him every time he cries. I says Why not? And she says Because it is good for him to cry. I says You have not got no heart or you would not talk that way. They all give me the laugh but I let them get away with it because I am not picking no fights with girls and why should I bust this Allen when he don't know no better and has not got no baby himself. And I did not want to do nothing that would stop him takeing the girls to a show because it is time he spent a peace of money on somebody. Well they all went out and I went in on the bed and played with the baby. I wish you could of saw him Al because he is old enough now to do stunts and he smiled up at me and waved his arms and legs round and made a noise like as if he was trying to say Pa. I did not think Florrie had gave him enough covers so I rapped him up in some more and took a blanket off of the big bed and stuck it round him so as he could not kick his feet out and catch cold. I thought once or twice he was going off to sleep but all of a sudden he begin to cry and I seen they was something wrong with him. I gave him some hot water but that made him cry again and I thought maybe he was to cold yet so I took another blanket off of Allen's bed and wrapped that round him but he kept on crying and trying to kick inside the blankets. And I seen then that he must have collect or something. So pretty soon I went to the phone and called up our regular Dr. and it took him pretty near a hour to get there and the baby balling all the time. And when he come he says they was nothing the matter except that the baby was to hot and told me to take all them blankets off of him and then soaked me 2 dollars. I had a nosion to bust his jaw. Well pretty soon he beat it and then little Al begin crying again and kept getting worse and worse so finally I got a-scared and run down to the corner where another Dr. is at and I brung him up to see what was the matter but he said he could not see nothing the matter but he did not charge me a cent so I thought he was not no robber like our regular doctor even if he was just as much of a boob. The baby did not cry none while he was there but the minute he had went he started crying and balling again and I seen they was not no use of fooling no longer so I looked around the house and found the medicine the doctor left for Allen when he had a stumach acke once and I give the baby a little of it in a spoon but I guess he did not like the taste because he hollered like a Indian and finally I could not stand it no longer so I called that second Dr. back again and this time he seen that the baby was sick and asked me what I had gave it and I told him some stumach medicine and he says I was a fool and should ought not to of gave the baby nothing. But while he was talking the baby stopped crying and went off to sleep so you see what I done for him was the right thing to do and them doctors was both off of there nut. This second Dr. soaked me 2 dollars the 2d time though he had not did no more than when he was there the 1st time and charged me nothing but they is all a bunch of robbers Al and I would just as leave trust a policeman. Right after the baby went to sleep Florrie and Marie and Allen come home and I told Florrie what had came off but instead of giveing me credit she says If you want to kill him why don't you take a ax? Then Allen butts in and says Why don't you take a ball and throw it at him? Then I got sore and I says Well if I did hit him with a ball I would kill him while if you was to throw that fast ball of yours at him and hit him in the head he would think the musketoes was biteing him and brush them off. But at that, I says, you could not hit him with a ball except you was aiming at something else. I guess they was no comeback to that so him and Marie went to there room. Allen should ought to know better than to try and get the best of me by this time and I would shut up anyway if I was him after getting sent home from Detroit with some of the rest of them when he only worked 3 innings up there and they had to take him out or play the rest of the game by electrick lights. I wish you could be here for the serious Al but you would have to stay at a hotel because we have not got no spair room and it would cost you a hole lot of money. But you can watch the papers and you will see what I done. Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 6._ DEAR OLD PAL: Probily before you get this letter you will of saw by the paper that we was licked in the first game and that I was tooken out but the papers don't know what really come off so I am going to tell you and you can see for yourself if it was my fault. I did not never have no more stuff in my life then when I was warming up and I seen the Cubs looking over to our bench and shakeing there heads like they knowed they did not have no chance. O'Day was going to start Cheney who is there best bet and had him warming up but when he seen the smoke I had when I and Schalk was warming up he changed his mind because what was the use of useing his best pitcher when I had all that stuff and it was a cinch that no club in the world could score a run off of me when I had all that stuff? So he told a couple others to warm up to and when my name was announced to pitch Cheney went and set on the bench and this here lefthander Pierce was announced for them. Well Al you will see by the paper where I sent there 1st 3 batters back to the bench to get a drink of water and all 3 of them good hitters Leach and Good and this here Saier that hits a hole lot of home runs but would not never hit one off of me if I was O.K. Well we scored a couple in our half and the boys on the bench all says Now you got enough to win easy because they won't never score none off of you. And they was right to because what chance did they have if this thing that I am going to tell you about had not of happened? We goes along seven innings and only 2 of there men had got to 1st base one of them on a bad peg of Weaver's and the other one I walked because this blind Evans don't know a ball from a strike. We had not did no more scoreing off of Pierce not because he had no stuff but because our club could not take a ball in there hands and hit it out of the infield. Well Al I did not tell you that before I come out to the park I kissed little Al and Florrie good by and Marie says she was going to stay home to and keep Florrie Co. and they was not no reason for Marie to come to the game anyway because they was not a chance in the world for Allen to do nothing but hit fungos. Well while I was doing all this here swell pitching and makeing them Cubs look like a lot of rummys I was thinking about little Al and Florrie and how glad they would be when I come home and told them what I done though of coarse little Al is not only a little over 3 months of age and how could he appresiate what I done? But Florrie would. Well Al when I come in to the bench after there 1/2 of the 7th I happened to look up to the press box to see if the reporters had gave Schulte a hit on that one Weaver throwed away and who do you think I seen in a box right alongside of the press box? It was Florrie and Marie and both of them claping there hands and hollering with the rest of the bugs. Well old pal I was never so supprised in my life and it just took all the heart out of me. What was they doing there and what had they did with the baby? How did I know that little Al was not sick or maybe dead and balling his head off and nobody round to hear him? I tried to catch Florrie's eyes but she would not look at me. I hollered her name and the bugs looked at me like as if I was crazy and I was to Al. Well I seen they was not no use of standing out there in front of the stand so I come into the bench and Allen was setting there and I says Did you know your wife and Florrie was up there in the stand? He says No and I says What are they doing here? And he says What would they be doing here--mending there stockings? I felt like busting him and I guess he seen I was mad because he got up off of the bench and beat it down to the corner of the field where some of the others was getting warmed up though why should they have anybody warming up when I was going so good? Well Al I made up my mind that ball game or no ball game I was not going to have little Al left alone no longer and I seen they was not no use of sending word to Florrie to go home because they was a big crowd and it would take maybe 15 or 20 minutes for somebody to get up to where she was at. So I says to Callahan You have got to take me out. He says What is the matter? Is your arm gone? I says No my arm is not gone but my baby is sick and home all alone. He says Where is your wife? And I says She is setting up there in the stand. Then he says How do you know your baby is sick? And I says I don't know if he is sick or not but he is left home all alone. He says Why don't you send your wife home? And I says I could not get word to her in time. He says Well you have only got two innings to go and the way your going the game will be over in 10 minutes. I says Yes and before 10 minutes is up my baby might die and are you going to take me out or not? He says Get in there and pitch you yellow dog and if you don't I will take your share of the serious money away from you. By this time our part of the inning was over and I had to go out there and pitch some more because he would not take me out and he has not got no heart Al. Well Al how could I pitch when I kept thinking maybe the baby was dying right now and maybe if I was home I could do something? And instead of paying attension to what I was doing I was thinking about little Al and looking up there to where Florrie and Marie was setting and before I knowed what come off they had the bases full and Callahan took me out. Well Al I run to the clubhouse and changed my cloths and beat it for home and I did not even hear what Callahan and Gleason says to me when I went by them but I found out after the game that Scott went in and finished up and they batted him pretty hard and we was licked 3 and 2. When I got home the baby was crying but he was not all alone after all Al because they was a little girl about 14 years of age there watching him and Florrie had hired her to take care of him so as her and Marie could go and see the game. But just think Al of leaveing little Al with a girl 14 years of age that did not never have no babys of her own! And what did she know about takeing care of him? Nothing Al. You should ought to of heard me ball Florrie out when she got home and I bet she cried pretty near enough to flood the basemunt. We had it hot and heavy and the Allens butted in but I soon showed them where they was at and made them shut there mouth. I had a good nosion to go out and get a hole lot of drinks and was just going to put on my hat when the doorbell rung and there was Kid Gleason. I thought he would be sore and probily try to ball me out and I was not going to stand for nothing but instead of balling me out he come and shook hands with me and interduced himself to Florrie and asked how was little Al. Well we all set down and Gleason says the club was depending on me to win the serious because I was in the best shape of all the pitchers. And besides the Cubs could not never hit me when I was right and he was telling the truth to. So he asked me if I would stand for the club hireing a train nurse to stay with the baby the rest of the serious so as Florrie could go and see her husband win the serious but I says No I would not stand for that and Florrie's place was with the baby. So Gleason and Florrie goes out in the other room and talks a while and I guess he was persuadeing her to stay home because pretty soon they come back in the room and says it was all fixed up and I would not have to worry about little Al the rest of the serious but could give the club the best I got. Gleason just left here a little while ago and I won't work to-morrow Al but I will work the day after and you will see what I can do when I don't have nothing to worry me. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 8._ OLD PAL: Well old pal we got them 2 games to one now and the serious is sure to be over in three more days because I can pitch 2 games in that time if nessary. I shut them out to-day and they should ought not to of had four hits but should ought to of had only 2 but Bodie don't cover no ground and 2 fly balls that he should ought to of eat up fell safe. But I beat them anyway and Benz beat them yesterday but why should he not beat them when the club made 6 runs for him? All they made for me was three but all I needed was one because they could not hit me with a shuvvel. When I come to the bench after the 5th inning they was a note there for me from the boy that answers the phone at the ball park and it says that somebody just called up from the flat and says the baby was asleep and getting along fine. So I felt good Al and I was better then ever in the 6th. When I got home Florrie and Marie was both there and asked me how did the game come out because I beat Allen home and I told them all about what I done and I bet Florrie was proud of me but I supose Marie is a little jellus because how could she help it when Callahan is depending on me to win the serious and her husband is wearing out the wood on the bench? But why should she be sore when it is me that is winning the serious for them? And if it was not for me Allen and all the rest of them would get about $500.00 apeace instead of the winners' share which is about $750.00 apeace. Cicotte is going to work to-morrow and if he is lucky maybe he can get away with the game and that will leave me to finish up the day after to-morrow but if nessary I can go in to-morrow when they get to hitting Cicotte and stop them and then come back the following day and beat them again. Where would this club be at Al if I had of jumped to the Federal? Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 11._ FRIEND AL: We done it again Al and I guess the Cubs won't never want to play us again not so long as I am with the club. Before you get this letter you will know what we done and who done it but probily you could of guessed that Al without seeing no paper. I got 2 more of them phone messiges about the baby dureing the game and I guess that was what made me so good because I knowed then that Florrie was takeing care of him but I could not help feeling sorry for Florrie because she is a bug herself and it must of been pretty hard for her to stay away from the game espesially when she knowed I was going to pitch and she has been pretty good to sacrifice her own plesure for little Al. Cicotte was knocked out of the box the day before yesterday and then they give this here Faber a good beating but I wish you could of saw what they done to Allen when Callahan sent him in after the game was gone allready. Honest Al if he had not of been my brother in law I would of felt like laughing at him because it looked like as if they would have to call the fire department to put the side out. They had Bodie and Collins hollering for help and with there tongue hanging out from running back to the fence. Anyway the serious is all over and I won't have nothing to do but stay home and play with little Al but I don't know yet where my home is going to be at because it is a cinch I won't stay with Allen no longer. He has not came home since the game and I suppose he is out somewheres lapping up some beer and spending some of the winner's share of the money which he would not of had no chance to get in on if it had not of been for me. I will write and let you know my plans for the winter and I wish Florrie would agree to come to Bedford but nothing doing Al and after her staying home and takeing care of the baby instead of watching me pitch I can't be too hard on her but must leave her have her own way about something. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 13._ AL: I am all threw with Florrie Al and I bet when you hear about it you won't say it was not no fault of mine but no man liveing who is any kind of a man would act different from how I am acting if he had of been decieved like I been. Al Florrie and Marie was out to all them games and was not home takeing care of the baby at all and it is not her fault that little Al is not dead and that he was not killed by the nurse they hired to take care of him while they went to the games when I thought they was home takeing care of the baby. And all them phone messiges was just fakes and maybe the baby was sick all the time I was winning them games and balling his head off instead of being asleep like they said he was. Allen did not never come home at all the night before last and when he come in yesterday he was a sight and I says to him Where have you been? And he says I have been down to the Y.M.C.A. but that is not none of your business. I says Yes you look like as if you had been to the Y.M.C.A. and I know where you have been and you have been out lushing beer. And he says Suppose I have and what are you going to do about it? And I says Nothing but you should ought to be ashamed of yourself and leaveing Marie here while you was out lapping up beer. Then he says Did you not leave Florrie home while you was getting away with them games, you lucky stiff? And I says Yes but Florrie had to stay home and take care of the baby but Marie don't never have to stay home because where is your baby? You have not got no baby. He says I would not want no X-eyed baby like yourn. Then he says So you think Florrie stayed to home and took care of the baby do you? And I says What do you mean? And he says You better ask her. So when Florrie come in and heard us talking she busted out crying and then I found out what they put over on me. It is a wonder Al that I did not take some of that cheap furniture them Allens got and bust it over there heads, Allen and Florrie. This is what they done Al. The club give Florrie $50.00 to stay home and take care of the baby and she said she would and she was to call up every so often and tell me the baby was all O.K. But this here Marie told her she was a sucker so she hired a nurse for part of the $50.00 and then her and Marie went to the games and beat it out quick after the games was over and come home in a taxicab and chased the nurse out before I got home. Well Al when I found out what they done I grabbed my hat and goes out and got some drinks and I was so mad I did not know where I was at or what come off and I did not get home till this A.M. And they was all asleep and I been asleep all day and when I woke up Marie and Allen was out but Florrie and I have not spoke to each other and I won't never speak to her again. But I know now what I am going to do Al and I am going to take little Al and beat it out of here and she can sew me for a bill of divorce and I should not worry because I will have little Al and I will see that he is tooken care of because I guess I can hire a nurse as well as they can and I will pick out a train nurse that knows something. Maybe I and him and the nurse will come to Bedford Al but I don't know yet and I will write and tell you as soon as I make up my mind. Did you ever hear of a man getting a rottener deal Al? And after what I done in the serious too. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 17._ OLD PAL: I and Florrie has made it up Al but we are threw with Marie and Allen and I and Florrie and the baby is staying at a hotel here on Cottage Grove Avenue the same hotel we was at when we got married only of coarse they was only the 2 of us then. And now Al I want to ask you a favor and that is for you to go and see old man Cutting and tell him I want to ree-new the lease on that house for another year because I and Florrie has decided to spend the winter in Bedford and she will want to stay there and take care of little Al while I am away on trips next summer and not stay in no high-price flat up here. And may be you and Bertha can help her round the house when I am not there. I will tell you how we come to fix things up Al and you will see that I made her apollojize to me and after this she will do what I tell her to and won't never try to put nothing over. We was eating breakfast--I and Florrie and Marie. Allen was still asleep yet because I guess he must of had a bad night and he was snoreing so as you could hear him in the next st. I was not saying nothing to nobody but pretty soon Florrie says to Marie I don't think you and Allen should ought to kick on the baby crying when Allen's snoreing makes more noise than a hole wagonlode of babys. And Marie got sore and says I guess a man has got a right to snore in his own house and you and Jack has been grafting off of us long enough. Then Florrie says What did Allen do to help win the serious and get that $750.00? Nothing but set on the bench except when they was makeing him look like a sucker the 1 inning he pitched. The trouble with you and Allen is you are jellous of what Jack has did and you know he will be a star up here in the big league when Allen is tending bar which is what he should ought to be doing because then he could get stewed for nothing. Marie says Take your brat and get out of the house. And Florrie says Don't you worry because we would not stay here no longer if you hired us. So Florrie went in her room and I followed her in and she says Let's pack up and get out. Then I says Yes but we won't go nowheres together after what you done to me but you can go where you dam please and I and little Al will go to Bedford. Then she says You can't take the baby because he is mine and if you was to take him I would have you arrested for kidnaping. Besides, she says, what would you feed him and who would take care of him? I says I would find somebody to take care of him and I would get him food from a resturunt. She says He can't eat nothing but milk and I says Well he has the collect all the time when he is eating milk and he would not be no worse off if he was eating watermelon. Well, she says, if you take him I will have you arrested and sew you for a bill of divorce for dessertion. Then she says Jack you should not ought to find no fault with me for going to them games because when a woman has a husband that can pitch like you can do you think she wants to stay home and not see her husband pitch when a lot of other women is cheering him and makeing her feel proud because she is his wife? Well Al as I said right along it was pretty hard on Florrie to have to stay home and I could not hardly blame her for wanting to be out there where she could see what I done so what was the use of argueing? So I told her I would think it over and then I went out and I went and seen a attorney at law and asked him could I take little Al away and he says No I did not have no right to take him away from his mother and besides it would probily kill him to be tooken away from her and then he soaked me $10.00 the robber. Then I went back and told Florrie I would give her another chance and then her and I packed up and took little Al in a taxicab over to this hotel. We are threw with the Allens Al and let me know right away if I can get that lease for another year because Florrie has gave up and will go to Bedford or anywheres else with me now. Yours truly, JACK. _Chicago, Illinois, October 20._ FRIEND AL: Old pal I won't never forget your kindnus and this is to tell you that I and Florrie except your kind invatation to come and stay with you till we can find a house and I guess you won't regret it none because Florrie will livun things up for Bertha and Bertha will be crazy about the baby because you should ought to see how cute he is now Al and not yet four months old. But I bet he will be talking before we know it. We are comeing on the train that leaves here at noon Saturday Al and the train leaves here about 12 o'clock and I don't know what time it gets to Bedford but it leaves here at noon so we shall be there probily in time for supper. I wish you would ask Ben Smith will he have a hack down to the deepo to meet us but I won't pay no more than $.25 and I should think he should ought to be glad to take us from the deepo to your house for nothing. Your pal, JACK. P.S. The train we are comeing on leaves here at noon Al and will probily get us there in time for a late supper and I wonder if Bertha would have spair ribs and crout for supper. You know me Al. CHAPTER VI THE BUSHER BEATS IT HENCE _Chicago, Ill., Oct. 18._ FRIEND AL: I guess may be you will begin to think I dont never do what I am going to do and that I change my mind a hole lot because I wrote and told you that I and Florrie and little Al would be in Bedford to-day and here we are in Chi yet on the day when I told you we would get to Bedford and I bet Bertha and you and the rest of the boys will be dissapointed but Al I dont feel like as if I should ought to leave the White Sox in a hole and that is why I am here yet and I will tell you how it come off but in the 1st place I want to tell you that it wont make a diffrence of more then 5 or 6 or may be 7 days at least and we will be down there and see you and Bertha and the rest of the boys just as soon as the N.Y. giants and the White Sox leaves here and starts a round the world. All so I remember I told you to fix it up so as a hack would be down to the deepo to meet us to-night and you wont get this letter in time to tell them not to send no hack so I supose the hack will be there but may be they will be some body else that gets off of the train that will want the hack and then every thing will be all O.K. but if they is not nobody else that wants the hack I will pay them 1/2 of what they was going to charge me if I had of came and road in the hack though I dont have to pay them nothing because I am not going to ride in the hack but I want to do the right thing and besides I will want a hack at the deepo when I do come so they will get a peace of money out of me any way so I dont see where they got no kick comeing even if I dont give them a nichol now. I will tell you why I am still here and you will see where I am trying to do the right thing. You knowed of coarse that the White Sox and the N. Y. giants was going to make a trip a round the world and they been after me for a long time to go a long with them but I says No I would not leave Florrie and the kid because that would not be fare and besides I would be paying rent and grocerys for them some wheres and me not getting nothing out of it and besides I would probily be spending a hole lot of money on the trip because though the clubs pays all of our regular expences they would be a hole lot of times when I felt like blowing my self and buying some thing to send home to the Mrs and to good old friends of mine like you and Bertha so I turned them down and Callahan acted like he was sore at me but I dont care nothing for that because I got other people to think a bout and not Callahan and besides if I was to go a long the fans in the towns where we play at would want to see me work and I would have to do a hole lot of pitching which I would not be getting nothing for it and it would not count in no standing because the games is to be just for fun and what good would it do me and besides Florrie says I was not under no circumstance to go and of coarse I would go if I wanted to go no matter what ever she says but all and all I turned them down and says I would stay here all winter or rather I would not stay here but in Bedford. Then Callahan says All right but you know before we start on the trip the giants and us is going to play a game right here in Chi next Sunday and after what you done in the city serious the fans would be sore if they did not get no more chance to look at you so will you stay and pitch part of the game here and I says I would think it over and I come home to the hotel where we are staying at and asked Florrie did she care if we did not go to Bedford for an other week and she says No she did not care if we dont go for 6 years so I called Callahan up and says I would stay and he says Thats the boy and now the fans will have an other treat so you see Al he appresiates what I done and wants to give the fans fare treatment because this town is nuts over me after what I done to them Cubs but I could do it just the same to the Athaletics or any body else if it would of been them in stead of the Cubs. May be we will leave here the A.M. after the game that is Monday and I will let you know so as you can order an other hack and tell Bertha I hope she did not go to no extra trouble a bout getting ready for us and did not order no spair ribs and crout but you can eat them up if she all ready got them and may be she can order some more for us when we come but tell her it dont make no diffrence and not to go to no trouble because most anything she has is O.K. for I and Florrie accept of coarse we would not want to make no meal off of sardeens or something. Well Al I bet them N.Y. giants will wish I would of went home before they come for this here exibishun game because my arm feels grate and I will show them where they would be at if they had to play ball in our league all the time though I supose they is some pitchers in our league that they would hit good against them if they can hit at all but not me. You will see in the papers how I come out and I will write and tell you a bout it. Your pal, JACK. _Chicago, Ill., Oct. 25._ OLD PAL: I have not only got a little time but I have got some news for you and I knowed you would want to hear all a bout it so I am writeing this letter and then I am going to catch the train. I would be saying good by to little Al instead of writeing this letter only Florrie wont let me wake him up and he is a sleep but may be by the time I get this letter wrote he will be a wake again and I can say good by to him. I am going with the White Sox and giants as far as San Francisco or may be Van Coover where they take the boat at but I am not going a round the world with them but only just out to the coast to help them out because they is a couple of men going to join them out there and untill them men join them they will be short of men and they got a hole lot of exibishun games to play before they get out there so I am going to help them out. It all come off in the club house after the game to-day and I will tell you how it come off but 1st I want to tell you a bout the game and honest Al them giants is the luckyest team in the world and it is not no wonder they keep wining the penant in that league because a club that has got there luck could win ball games with out sending no team on the field at all but staying down to the hotel. They was a big crowd out to the park so Callahan says to me I did not know if I was going to pitch you or not but the crowd is out here to see you so I will have to let you work so I warmed up but I knowed the minute I throwed the 1st ball warming up that I was not right and I says to Callahan I did not feel good but he says You wont need to feel good to beat this bunch because they heard a hole lot a bout you and you would have them beat if you just throwed your glove out there in the box. So I went in and tried to pitch but my arm was so lame it pretty near killed me every ball I throwed and I bet if I was some other pitchers they would not never of tried to work with my arm so sore but I am not like some of them yellow dogs and quit because I would not dissapoint the crowd or throw Callahan down when he wanted me to pitch and was depending on me. You know me Al. So I went in there but I did not have nothing and if them giants could of hit at all in stead of like a lot of girls they would of knock down the fence because I was not my self. At that they should not ought to of had only the 1 run off of me if Weaver and them had not of begin kicking the ball a round like it was a foot ball or something. Well Al what with dropping fly balls and booting them a round and this in that the giants was gave 5 runs in the 1st 3 innings and they should ought to of had just the 1 run or may be not that and that ball Merkle hit in to the seats I was trying to waist it and a man that is a good hitter would not never of hit at it and if I was right this here Merkle could not foul me in 9 years. When I was comeing into the bench after the 3th inning this here smart alex Mcgraw come passed me from the 3 base coaching line and he says Are you going on the trip and I says No I am not going on no trip and he says That is to bad because if you was going we would win a hole lot of games and I give him a hot come back and he did not say nothing so I went in to the bench and Callahan says Them giants is not such rotten hitters is they and I says No they hit pretty good when a man has got a sore arm against them and he says Why did not you tell me your arm was sore and I says I did not want to dissapoint no crowd that come out here to see me and he says Well I guess you need not pitch no more because if I left you in there the crowd might begin to get tired of watching you a bout 10 oclock to-night and I says What do you mean and he did not say nothing more so I set there a while and then went to the club house. Well Al after the game Callahan come in to the club house and I was still in there yet talking to the trainer and getting my arm rubbed and Callahan says Are you getting your arm in shape for next year and I says No but it give me so much pane I could not stand it and he says I bet if you was feeling good you could make them giants look like a sucker and I says You know I could make them look like a sucker and he says Well why dont you come a long with us and you will get an other chance at them when you feel good and I says I would like to get an other crack at them but I could not go a way on no trip and leave the Mrs and the baby and then he says he would not ask me to make the hole trip a round the world but he wisht I would go out to the coast with them because they was hard up for pitchers and he says Mathewson of the giants was not only going as far as the coast so if the giants had there star pitcher that far the White Sox should ought to have theren and then some of the other boys coaxed me would I go so finely I says I would think it over and I went home and seen Florrie and she says How long would it be for and I says a bout 3 or 4 weeks and she says If you dont go will we start for Bedford right a way and I says Yes and then she says All right go a head and go but if they was any thing should happen to the baby while I was gone what would they do if I was not a round to tell them what to do and I says Call a Dr. in but dont call no Dr. if you dont have to and besides you should ought to know by this time what to do for the baby when he got sick and she says Of coarse I know a little but not as much as you do because you know it all. Then I says No I dont know it all but I will tell you some things before I go and you should not ought to have no trouble so we fixed it up and her and little Al is to stay here in the hotel untill I come back which will be a bout the 20 of Nov. and then we will come down home and tell Bertha not to get to in patient and we will get there some time. It is going to cost me $6.00 a week at the hotel for a room for she and the baby besides there meals but the babys meals dont cost nothing yet and Florrie should not ought to be very hungry because we been liveing good and besides she will get all she can eat when we come to Bedford and it wont cost me nothing for meals on the trip out to the coast because Comiskey and Mcgraw pays for that. I have not even had no time to look up where we play at but we stop off at a hole lot of places on the way and I will get a chance to make them giants look like a sucker before I get threw and Mcgraw wont be so sorry I am not going to make the hole trip. You will see by the papers what I done to them before we get threw and I will write as soon as we stop some wheres long enough so as I can write and now I am going to say good by to little Al if he is a wake or not a wake and wake him up and say good by to him because even if he is not only 5 months old he is old enough to think a hole lot of me and why not. I all so got to say good by to Florrie and fix it up with the hotel clerk a bout she and the baby staying here a while and catch the train. You will hear from me soon old pal. Your pal, JACK. _St. Joe, Miss., Oct. 29._ FRIEND AL: Well Al we are on our way to the coast and they is quite a party of us though it is not no real White Sox and giants at all but some players from off of both clubs and then some others that is from other clubs a round the 2 leagues to fill up. We got Speaker from the Boston club and Crawford from the Detroit club and if we had them with us all the time Al I would not never loose a game because one or the other of them 2 is good for a couple of runs every game and that is all I need to win my games is a couple of runs or only 1 run and I would win all my games and would not never loose a game. I did not pitch to-day and I guess the giants was glad of it because no matter what Mcgraw says he must of saw from watching me Sunday that I was a real pitcher though my arm was so sore I could not hardly raze it over my sholder so no wonder I did not have no stuff but at that I could of beat his gang with out no stuff if I had of had some kind of decent suport. I will pitch against them may be to-morrow or may be some day soon and my arm is all O.K. again now so I will show them up and make them wish Callahan had of left me to home. Some of the men has brung there wife a long and besides that there is some other men and there wife that is not no ball players but are going a long for the trip and some more will join the party out the coast before they get a bord the boat but of coarse I and Mathewson will drop out of the party then because why should I or him go a round the world and throw our arms out pitching games that dont count in no standing and that we dont get no money for pitching them out side of just our bare expences. The people in the towns we played at so far has all wanted to shake hands with Mathewson and I so I guess they know who is the real pitchers on these here 2 clubs no matter what them reporters says and the stars is all ways the men that the people wants to shake there hands with and make friends with them but Al this here Mathewson pitched to-day and honest Al I dont see how he gets by and either the batters in the National league dont know nothing a bout hitting or else he is such a old man that they feel sorry for him and may be when he was a bout 10 years younger then he is may be then he had some thing and was a pretty fare pitcher but all as he does now is stick the 1st ball right over with 0 on it and pray that they dont hit it out of the park. If a pitcher like he can get by in the National league and fool them batters they is not nothing I would like better then to pitch in the National league and I bet I would not get scored on in 2 to 3 years. I heard a hole lot a bout this here fade a way that he is suposed to pitch and it is a ball that is throwed out between 2 fingers and falls in at a right hand batter and they is not no body cant hit it but if he throwed 1 of them things to-day he done it while I was a sleep and they was not no time when I was not wide a wake and looking right at him and after the game was over I says to him Where is that there fade a way I heard so much a bout and he says O I did not have to use none of my regular stuff against your club and I says Well you would have to use all you got if I was working against you and he says Yes if you worked like you done Sunday I would have to do some pitching or they would not never finish the game. Then I says a bout me haveing a sore arm Sunday and he says I wisht I had a sore arm like yourn and a little sence with it and was your age and I would not never loose a game so you see Al he has heard a bout me and is jellus because he has not got my stuff but they cant every body expect to have the stuff that I got or 1/2 as much stuff. This smart alex Mcgraw was trying to kid me to-day and says Why did not I make friends with Mathewson and let him learn me some thing a bout pitching and I says Mathewson could not learn me nothing and he says I guess thats right and I guess they is not nobody could learn you nothing a bout nothing and if you was to stay in the league 20 years probily you would not be no better then you are now so you see he had to add mit that I am good Al even if he has not saw me work when my arm was O.K. Mcgraw says to me to-night he says I wisht you was going all the way and I says Yes you do. I says Your club would look like a sucker after I had worked against them a few times and he says May be thats right to because they would not know how to hit against a regular pitcher after that. Then he says But I dont care nothing a bout that but I wisht you was going to make the hole trip so as we could have a good time. He says We got Steve Evans and Dutch Schaefer going a long and they is both of them funny but I like to be a round with boys that is funny and dont know nothing a bout it. I says Well I would go a long only for my wife and baby and he says Yes it would be pretty tough on your wife to have you a way that long but still and all think how glad she would be to see you when you come back again and besides them dolls acrost the ocean will be pretty sore at I and Callahan if we tell them we left you to home. I says Do you supose the people over there has heard a bout me and he says Sure because they have wrote a lot of letters asking me to be sure and bring you and Mathewson a long. Then he says I guess Mathewson is not going so if you was to go and him left here to home they would not be nothing to it. You could have things all your own way and probily could marry the Queen of europe if you was not all ready married. He was giveing me the strate dope this time Al because he did not crack a smile and I wisht I could go a long but it would not be fare to Florrie but still and all did not she leave me and beat it for Texas last winter and why should not I do the same thing to her only I am not that kind of a man. You know me Al. We play in Kansas city to-morrow and may be I will work there because it is a big town and I have got to close now and write to Florrie. Your old pal, JACK. _Abilene, Texas, Nov. 4._ AL: Well Al I guess you know by this time that I have worked against them 2 times since I wrote to you last time and I beat them both times and Mcgraw knows now what kind of a pitcher I am and I will tell you how I know because after the game yesterday he road down to the place we dressed at a long with me and all the way in the automobile he was after me to say I would go all the way a round the world and finely it come out that he wants I should go a long and pitch for his club and not pitch for the White Sox. He says his club is up against it for pitchers because Mathewson is not going and all they got left is a man named Hern that is a young man and not got no experiense and Wiltse that is a left hander. So he says I have talked it over with Callahan and he says if I could get you to go a long it was all O.K. with him and you could pitch for us only I must not work you to hard because he is depending on you to win the penant for him next year. I says Did not none of the other White Sox make no holler because may be they might have to bat against me and he says Yes Crawford and Speaker says they would not make the trip if you was a long and pitching against them but Callahan showed them where it would be good for them next year because if they hit against you all winter the pitchers they hit against next year will look easy to them. He was crazy to have me go a long on the hole trip but of coarse Al they is not no chance of me going on acct. of Florrie and little Al but you see Mcgraw has cut out his trying to kid me and is treating me now like a man should ought to be treated that has did what I done. They was not no game here to-day on acct. of it raining and the people here was sore because they did not see no game but they all come a round to look at us and says they must have some speechs from the most prommerent men in the party so I and Comiskey and Mcgraw and Callahan and Mathewson and Ted Sullivan that I guess is putting up the money for the trip made speechs and they clapped there hands harder when I was makeing my speech then when any 1 of the others was makeing there speech. You did not know I was a speech maker did you Al and I did not know it neither untill to-day but I guess they is not nothing I can do if I make up my mind and 1 of the boys says that I done just as well as Dummy Taylor could of. I have not heard nothing from Florrie but I guess may be she is to busy takeing care of little Al to write no letters and I am not worring none because she give me her word she would let me know was they some thing the matter. Yours truly, JACK. _San Dago, Cal., Nov. 9._ FRIEND AL: Al some times I wisht I was not married at all and if it was not for Florrie and little Al I would go a round the world on this here trip and I guess the boys in Bedford would not be jellus if I was to go a round the world and see every thing they is to be saw and some of the boys down home has not never been no futher a way then Terre Haute and I dont mean you Al but some of the other boys. But of coarse Al when a man has got a wife and a baby they is not no chance for him to go a way on 1 of these here trips and leave them a lone so they is not no use I should even think a bout it but I cant help thinking a bout it because the boys keeps after me all the time to go. Callahan was talking a bout it to me to-day and he says he knowed that if I was to pitch for the giants on the trip his club would not have no chance of wining the most of the games on the trip but still and all he wisht I would go a long because he was a scared the people over in Rome and Paris and Africa and them other countrys would be awful sore if the 2 clubs come over there with out bringing none of there star pitchers along. He says We got Speaker and Crawford and Doyle and Thorp and some of them other real stars in all the positions accept pitcher and it will make us look bad if you and Mathewson dont neither 1 of you come a long. I says What is the matter with Scott and Benz and this here left hander Wiltse and he says They is not nothing the matter with none of them accept they is not no real stars like you and Mathewson and if we cant show them forreners 1 of you 2 we will feel like as if we was cheating them. I says You would not want me to pitch my best against your club would you and he says O no I would not want you to pitch your best or get your self all wore out for next year but I would want you to let up enough so as we could make a run oncet in a while so the games would not be to 1 sided. I says Well they is not no use talking a bout it because I could not leave my wife and baby and he says Why dont you write and ask your wife and tell her how it is and can you go. I says No because she would make a big holler and besides of coarse I would go any way if I wanted to go with out no I yes or no from her only I am not the kind of a man that runs off and leaves his family and besides they is not nobody to leave her with because her and her sister Allens wife has had a quarrle. Then Callahan says Where is Allen at now is he still in Chi. I says I dont know where is he at and I dont care where he is at because I am threw with him. Then Callahan says I asked him would he go on the trip before the season was over but he says he could not and if I knowed where was he I would wire a telegram to him and ask him again. I says What would you want him a long for and he says Because Mcgraw is shy of pitchers and I says I would try and help him find 1. I says Well you should ought not to have no trouble finding a man like Allen to go along because his wife probily would be glad to get rid of him. Then Callahan says Well I wisht you would get a hold of where Allen is at and let me know so as I can wire him a telegram. Well Al I know where Allen is at all O.K. but I am not going to give his adress to Callahan because Mcgraw has treated me all O.K. and why should I wish a man like Allen on to him and besides I am not going to give Allen no chance to go a round the world or no wheres else after the way he acted a bout I and Florrie haveing a room in his flat and asking me to pay for it when he give me a invatation to come there and stay. Well Al it is to late now to cry in the sour milk but I wisht I had not never saw Florrie untill next year and then I and her could get married just like we done last year only I dont know would I do it again or not but I guess I would on acct. of little Al. Your pal, JACK. _San Francisco, Cal., Nov. 14._ OLD PAL: Well old pal what do you know a bout me being back here in San Francisco where I give the fans such a treat 2 years ago and then I was not nothing but a busher and now I am with a team that is going a round the world and are crazy to have me go a long only I cant because of my wife and baby. Callahan wired a telegram to the reporters here from Los Angeles telling them I would pitch here and I guess they is going to be 20 or 25000 out to the park and I will give them the best I got. But what do you think Florrie has did Al. Her and the Allens has made it up there quarrle and is friends again and Marie told Florrie to write and tell me she was sorry we had that there argument and let by gones be by gones. Well Al it is all O.K. with me because I cant help not feeling sorry for Allen because I dont beleive he will be in the league next year and I feel sorry for Marie to because it must be pretty tough on her to see how well her sister done and what a misstake she made when she went and fell for a left hander that could not fool a blind man with his curve ball and if he was to hit a man in the head with his fast ball they would think there nose iched. In Florries letter she says she thinks us and the Allens could find an other flat like the 1 we had last winter and all live in it to gether in stead of going to Bedford but I have wrote to her before I started writeing this letter all ready and told her that her and I is going to Bedford and the Allens can go where they feel like and they can go and stay on a boat on Michigan lake all winter if they want to but I and Florrie is comeing to Bedford. Down to the bottom of her letter she says Allen wants to know if Callahan or Mcgraw is shy of pitchers and may be he would change his mind and go a long on the trip. Well Al I did not ask either Callahan nor Mcgraw nothing a bout it because I knowed they was looking for a star and not for no left hander that could not brake a pane of glass with his fast 1 so I wrote and told Florrie to tell Allen they was all filled up and would not have no room for no more men. It is pretty near time to go out to the ball park and I wisht you could be here Al and hear them San Francisco fans go crazy when they hear my name anounced to pitch. I bet they wish they had of had me here this last year. Yours truly, JACK. _Medford, Organ, Nov. 16._ FRIEND AL: Well Al you know by this time that I did not pitch the hole game in San Francisco but I was not tooken out because they was hitting me Al but because my arm went back on me all of a sudden and it was the change in the clime it that done it to me and they could not hire me to try and pitch another game in San Francisco. They was the biggest crowd there that I ever seen in San Francisco and I guess they must of been 40000 people there and I wisht you could of heard them yell when my name was anounced to pitch. But Al I would not never of went in there but for the crowd. My arm felt like a wet rag or some thing and I knowed I would not have nothing and besides the people was packed in a round the field and they had to have ground rules so when a man hit a pop fly it went in to the crowd some wheres and was a 2 bagger and all them giants could do against me was pop my fast ball up in the air and then the wind took a hold of it and dropped it in to the crowd the lucky stiffs. Doyle hit 3 of them pop ups in to the crowd so when you see them 3 2 base hits oposit his name in the score you will know they was not no real 2 base hits and the infielders would of catched them had it not of been for the wind. This here Doyle takes a awful wallop at a ball but if I was right and he swang at a ball the way he done in San Francisco the catcher would all ready be throwing me back the ball a bout the time this here Doyle was swinging at it. I can make him look like a sucker and I done it both in Kansas city and Bonham and if he will get up there and bat against me when I feel good and when they is not no wind blowing I will bet him a $25.00 suit of cloths that he cant foul 1 off of me. Well when Callahan seen how bad my arm was he says I guess I should ought to take you out and not run no chance of you getting killed in there and so I quit and Faber went in to finnish it up because it dont make no diffrence if he hurts his arm or dont. But I guess Mcgraw knowed my arm was sore to because he did not try and kid me like he done that day in Chi because he has saw enough of me since then to know I can make his club look rotten when I am O.K. and my arm is good. On the train that night he come up and says to me Well Jack we catched you off your strid to-day or you would of gave us a beating and then he says What your arm needs is more work and you should ought to make the hole trip with us and then you would be in fine shape for next year but I says You cant get me to make no trip so you might is well not do no more talking a bout it and then he says Well I am sorry and the girls over to Paris will be sorry to but I guess he was just jokeing a bout the last part of it. Well Al we go to 1 more town in Organ and then to Washington but of coarse it is not the same Washington we play at in the summer but this is the state Washington and have not got no big league club and the boys gets there boat in 4 more days and I will quit them and then I will come strate back to Chi and from there to Bedford. Your pal, JACK. _Portland, Organ, Nov. 17._ FRIEND AL: I have just wrote a long letter to Florrie but I feel like as if I should ought to write to you because I wont have no more chance for a long while that is I wont have no more chance to male a letter because I will be on the pacific Ocean and un less we should run passed a boat that was comeing the other way they would not be no chance of getting no letter maled. Old pal I am going to make the hole trip clear a round the world and back and so I wont see you this winter after all but when I do see you Al I will have a lot to tell you a bout my trip and besides I will write you a letter a bout it from every place we head in at. I guess you will be surprised a bout me changeing my mind and makeing the hole trip but they was not no way for me to get out of it and I will tell you how it all come off. While we was still in that there Medford yesterday Mcgraw and Callahan come up to me and says was they not no chance of me changeing my mind a bout makeing the hole trip. I says No they was not. Then Callahan says Well I dont know what we are going to do then and I says Why and he says Comiskey just got a letter from president Wilson the President of the united states and in the letter president Wilson says he had got an other letter from the king of Japan who says that they would not stand for the White Sox and giants comeing to Japan un less they brought all there stars a long and president Wilson says they would have to take there stars a long because he was a scared if they did not take there stars a long Japan would get mad at the united states and start a war and then where would we be at. So Comiskey wired a telegram to president Wilson and says Mathewson could not make the trip because he was so old but would everything be all O.K. if I was to go a long and president Wilson wired a telegram back and says Yes he had been talking to the priest from Japan and he says Yes it would be all O.K. I asked them would they show me the letter from president Wilson because I thought may be they might be kiding me and they says they could not show me no letter because when Comiskey got the letter he got so mad that he tore it up. Well Al I finely says I did not want to brake up there trip but I knowed Florrie would not stand for letting me go so Callahan says All right I will wire a telegram to a friend of mine in Chi and have him get a hold of Allen and send him out here and we will take him a long and I says It is to late for Allen to get here in time and Mcgraw says No they was a train that only took 2 days from Chi to where ever it was the boat is going to sale from because the train come a round threw canada and it was down hill all the way. Then I says Well if you will wire a telegram to my wife and fix things up with her I will go a long with you but if she is going to make a holler it is all off. So we all 3 went to the telegram office to gether and we wired Florrie a telegram that must of cost $2.00 but Callahan and Mcgraw payed for it out of there own pocket and then we waited a round a long time and the anser come back and the anser was longer than the telegram we wired and it says it would not make no diffrence to her but she did not know if the baby would make a holler but he was hollering most of the time any way so that would not make no diffrence but if she let me go it was on condishon that her and the Allens could get a flat to gether and stay in Chi all winter and not go to no Bedford and hire a nurse to take care of the baby and if I would send her a check for the money I had in the bank so as she could put it in her name and draw it out when she need it. Well I says at 1st I would not stand for nothing like that but Callahan and Mcgraw showed me where I was makeing a mistake not going when I could see all them diffrent countrys and tell Florrie all a bout the trip when I come back and then in a year or 2 when the baby was a little older I could make an other trip and take little Al and Florrie a long so I finely says O.K. I would go and we wires still an other telegram to Florrie and told her O.K. and then I set down and wrote her a check for 1/2 the money I got in the bank and I got $500.00 all together there so I wrote the check for 1/2 of that or $250.00 and maled it to her and if she cant get a long on that she would be a awfull spendrift because I am not only going to be a way untill March. You should ought to of heard the boys cheer when Callahan tells them I am going to make the hole trip but when he tells them I am going to pitch for the giants and not for the White Sox I bet Crawford and Speaker and them wisht I was going to stay to home but it is just like Callahan says if they bat against me all winter the pitchers they bat against next season will look easy to them and you wont be supprised Al if Crawford and Speaker hits a bout 500 next year and if they hit good you will know why it is. Steve Evans asked me was I all fixed up with cloths and I says No but I was going out and buy some cloths includeing a full dress suit of evening cloths and he says You dont need no full dress suit of evening cloths because you look funny enough with out them. This Evans is a great kidder Al and no body never gets sore at the stuff he pulls some thing like Kid Gleason. I wisht Kid Gleason was going on the trip Al but I will tell him all a bout it when I come back. Well Al old pal I wisht you was going a long to and I bet we could have the time of our life but I will write to you right a long Al and I will send Bertha some post cards from the diffrent places we head in at. I will try and write you a letter on the boat and male it as soon as we get to the 1st station which is either Japan or Yokohama I forgot which. Good by Al and say good by to Bertha for me and tell her how sorry I and Florrie is that we cant come to Bedford this winter but we will spend all the rest of the winters there and her and Florrie will have a plenty of time to get acquainted. Good by old pal. Your pal, JACK. _Seattle, Wash., Nov. 18._ AL: Well Al it is all off and I am not going on no trip a round the world and back and I been looking for Callahan or Mcgraw for the last 1/2 hour to tell them I have changed my mind and am not going to make no trip because it would not be fare to Florrie and besides that I think I should ought to stay home and take care of little Al and not leave him to be tooken care of by no train nurse because how do I know what would she do to him and I am not going to tell Florrie nothing a bout it but I am going to take the train to-morrow night right back to Chi and supprise her when I get there and I bet both her and little Al will be tickled to death to see me. I supose Mcgraw and Callahan will be sore at me for a while but when I tell them I want to do the right thing and not give my famly no raw deal I guess they will see where I am right. We was to play 2 games here and was to play 1 of them in Tacoma and the other here but it rained and so we did not play neither 1 and the people was pretty mad a bout it because I was announced to pitch and they figured probily this would be there only chance to see me in axion and they made a awful holler but Comiskey says No they would not be no game because the field neither here or in Tacoma was in no shape for a game and he would not take no chance of me pitching and may be slipping in the mud and straneing myself and then where would the White Sox be at next season. So we been laying a round all the P.M. and I and Dutch Schaefer had a long talk to gether while some of the rest of the boys was out buying some cloths to take on the trip and Al I bought a full dress suit of evening cloths at Portland yesterday and now I owe Callahan the money for them and am not going on no trip so probily I wont never get to ware them and it is just $45.00 throwed a way but I would rather throw $45.00 a way then go on a trip a round the world and leave my famly all winter. Well Al I and Schaefer was talking to gether and he says Well may be this is the last time we will ever see the good old US and I says What do you mean and he says People that gos acrost the pacific Ocean most generally all ways has there ship recked and then they is not no more never heard from them. Then he asked me was I a good swimmer and I says Yes I had swam a good deal in the river and he says Yes you have swam in the river but that is not nothing like swimming in the pacific Ocean because when you swim in the pacific Ocean you cant move your feet because if you move your feet the sharks comes up to the top of the water and bites at them and even if they did not bite your feet clean off there bite is poison and gives you the hiderofobeya and when you get that you start barking like a dog and the water runs in to your mouth and chokes you to death. Then he says Of coarse if you can swim with out useing your feet you are all O.K. but they is very few can do that and especially in the pacific Ocean because they got to keep useing there hands all the time to scare the sord fish a way so when you dont dare use your feet and your hands is busy you got nothing left to swim with but your stumach mussles. Then he says You should ought to get a long all O.K. because your stumach mussles should ought to be strong from the exercise they get so I guess they is not no danger from a man like you but men like Wiltse and Mike Donlin that is not hog fat like you has not got no chance. Then he says Of coarse they have been times when the boats got acrost all O.K. and only a few lives lost but it dont offten happen and the time the old Minneapolis club made the trip the boat went down and the only thing that was saved was the catchers protector that was full of air and could not do nothing else but flote. Then he says May be you would flote to if you did not say nothing for a few days. I asked him how far would a man got to swim if some thing went wrong with the boat and he says O not far because they is a hole lot of ilands a long the way that a man could swim to but it would not do a man no good to swim to these here ilands because they dont have nothing to eat on them and a man would probily starve to death un less he happened to swim to the sandwich ilands. Then he says But by the time you been out on the pacific Ocean a few months you wont care if you get any thing to eat or not. I says Why not and he says the pacific Ocean is so ruff that not nothing can set still not even the stuff you eat. I asked him how long did it take to make the trip acrost if they was not no ship reck and he says they should ought to get acrost a long in febuery if the weather was good. I says Well if we dont get there until febuery we wont have no time to train for next season and he says You wont need to do no training because this trip will take all the weight off of you and every thing else you got. Then he says But you should not ought to be scared of getting sea sick because they is 1 way you can get a way from it and that is to not eat nothing at all while you are on the boat and they tell me you dont eat hardly nothing any way so you wont miss it. Then he says Of coarse if we should have good luck and not get in to no ship reck and not get shot by 1 of them war ships we will have a grate time when we get acrost because all the girls in europe and them places is nuts over ball players and especially stars. I asked what did he mean saying we might get shot by 1 of them war ships and he says we would have to pass by Swittserland and the Swittserland war ships was all the time shooting all over the ocean and of coarse they was not trying to hit no body but they was as wild as most of them left handers and how could you tell what was they going to do next. Well Al after I got threw talking to Schaefer I run in to Jack Sheridan the umpire and I says I did not think I would go on no trip and I told him some of the things Schaefer was telling me and Sheridan says Schaefer was kidding me and they was not no danger at all and of coarse Al I did not believe 1/2 of what Schaefer was telling me and that has not got nothing to do with me changeing my mind but I don't think it is not hardly fare for me to go a way on a trip like that and leave Florrie and the baby and suppose some of them things really did happen like Schaefer said though of coarse he was kidding me but if 1 of them was to happen they would not be no body left to take care of Florrie and little Al and I got a $1000.00 insurence policy but how do I know after I am dead if the insurence co. comes acrost and gives my famly the money. Well Al I will male this letter and then try again and find Mcgraw and Callahan and then I will look up a time table and see what train can I get to Chi. I dont know yet when I will be in Bedford and may be Florrie has hired a flat all ready but the Allens can live in it by them self and if Allen says any thing a bout I paying for 1/2 of the rent I will bust his jaw. Your pal, JACK. _Victoria, Can., Nov. 19._ DEAR OLD AL: Well old pal the boat gos to-night I am going a long and I would not be takeing no time to write this letter only I wrote to you yesterday and says I was not going and you probily would be expecting to see me blow in to Bedford in a few days and besides Al I got a hole lot of things to ask you to do for me if any thing happens and I want to tell you how it come a bout that I changed my mind and am going on the trip. I am glad now that I did not write Florrie no letter yesterday and tell her I was not going because now I would have to write her an other letter and tell her I was going and she would be expecting to see me the day after she got the 1st letter and in stead of seeing me she would get this 2nd. letter and not me at all. I have all ready wrote her a good by letter to-day though and while I was writeing it Al I all most broke down and cried and espesially when I thought a bout leaveing little Al so long and may be when I see him again he wont be no baby no more or may be some thing will of happened to him or that train nurse did some thing to him or may be I wont never see him again no more because it is pretty near a cinch that some thing will either happen to I or him. I would give all most any thing I got Al to be back in Chi with little Al and Florrie and I wisht she had not of never wired that telegram telling me I could make the trip and if some thing happens to me think how she will feel when ever she thinks a bout wireing me that telegram and she will feel all most like as if she was a murder. Well Al after I had wrote you that letter yesterday I found Callahan and Mcgraw and I tell them I have changed my mind and am not going on no trip. Callahan says Whats the matter and I says I dont think it would be fare to my wife and baby and Callahan says Your wife says it would be all O.K. because I seen the telegram my self. I says Yes but she dont know how dangerus the trip is and he says Whos been kiding you and I says They has not no body been kiding me. I says Dutch Schaefer told me a hole lot of stuff but I did not believe none of it and that has not got nothing to do with it. I says I am not a scared of nothing but supose some thing should happen and then where would my wife and my baby be at. Then Callahan says Schaefer has been giveing you a lot of hot air and they is not no more danger on this trip then they is in bed. You been in a hole lot more danger when you was pitching some of them days when you had a sore arm and you would be takeing more chances of getting killed in Chi by 1 of them taxi cabs or the dog catcher then on the Ocean. This here boat we are going on is the Umpires of Japan and it has went acrost the Ocean a million times with out nothing happening and they could not nothing happen to a boat that the N.Y. giants was rideing on because they is to lucky. Then I says Well I have made up my mind to not go on no trip and he says All right then I guess we might is well call the trip off and I says Why and he says You know what president Wilson says a bout Japan and they wont stand for us comeing over there with out you a long and then Mcgraw says Yes it looks like as if the trip was off because we dont want to take no chance of starting no war between Japan and the united states. Then Callahan says You will be in fine with Comiskey if he has to call the trip off because you are a scared of getting hit by a fish. Well Al we talked and argude for a hour or a hour and 1/2 and some of the rest of the boys come a round and took Callahan and Mcgraw side and finely Callahan says it looked like as if they would have to posepone the trip a few days un till he could get a hold of Allen or some body and get them to take my place so finely I says I would go because I would not want to brake up no trip after they had made all there plans and some of the players wifes was all ready to go and would be dissapointed if they was not no trip. So Mcgraw and Callahan says Thats the way to talk and so I am going Al and we are leaveing to-night and may be this is the last letter you will ever get from me but if they does not nothing happen Al I will write to you a lot of letters and tell you all a bout the trip but you must not be looking for no more letters for a while untill we get to Japan where I can male a letter and may be its likely as not we wont never get to Japan. Here is the things I want to ask you to try and do Al and I am not asking you to do nothing if we get threw the trip all right but if some thing happens and I should be drowned here is what I am asking you to do for me and that is to see that the insurence co. dont skin Florrie out of that $1000.00 policy and see that she all so gets that other $250.00 out of the bank and find her some place down in Bedford to live if she is willing to live down there because she can live there a hole lot cheaper then she can live in Chi and besides I know Bertha would treat her right and help her out all she could. All so Al I want you and Bertha to help take care of little Al untill he grows up big enough to take care of him self and if he looks like as if he was going to be left handed dont let him Al but make him use his right hand for every thing. Well Al they is 1 good thing and that is if I get drowned Florrie wont have to buy no lot in no cemetary and hire no herse. Well Al old pal you all ways been a good friend of mine and I all ways tried to be a good friend of yourn and if they was ever any thing I done to you that was not O.K. remember by gones is by gones. I want you to all ways think of me as your best old pal. Good by old pal. Your old pal, JACK. P.S. Al if they should not nothing happen and if we was to get acrost the Ocean all O.K. I am going to ask Mcgraw to let me work the 1st game against the White Sox in Japan because I should certainly ought to be right after giveing my arm a rest and not doing nothing at all on the trip acrost and I bet if Mcgraw lets me work Crawford and Speaker will wisht the boat had of sank. You know me Al. Transcribers Note: Original spelling and grammar has been retained. G.M. 
41847	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 41847-h.htm or 41847-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/41847/41847-h/41847-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/41847/41847-h.zip) Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). [Illustration: JOE STEADIED HIMSELF, AND SMILED AT HIS OPPONENT.] BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE Or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher by LESTER CHADWICK Author of "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars," "Baseball Joe at Yale," "The Rival Pitchers," "The Eight-Oared Victors," etc. Illustrated [Illustration] New York Cupples & Leon Company * * * * * =BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK= =THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES= =12mo. Cloth. Illustrated= BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS Or The Rivals of Riverside BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE Or Pitching for the Blue Banner BASEBALL JOE AT YALE Or Pitching for the College Championship BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE Or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher (_Other Volumes in Preparation_) =THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES= =12mo. Cloth. Illustrated= THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK A Story of College Football BATTING TO WIN A Story of College Baseball THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN A Story of College Football THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS A Story of College Water Sports (_Other Volumes in Preparation_) =CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York= * * * * * Copyright, 1914, by Cupples & Leon Company =Baseball Joe in the Central League= Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I DANGER 1 II OFF FOR THE SOUTH 13 III AN ACCUSATION 23 IV IN TRAINING 30 V THE CLASH 41 VI A STRAIGHT THROW 50 VII THE GIRL 58 VIII A PARTING 67 IX THE FIRST LEAGUE GAME 74 X BITTERNESS 84 XI OLD POP CONSOLES 92 XII THE QUEER VALISE 98 XIII MABEL 105 XIV BAD NEWS 113 XV JOE'S PLUCK 120 XVI A SLIM CHANCE 128 XVII OLD POP AGAIN 136 XVIII IN DESPAIR 144 XIX A NEW HOLD 153 XX JOE'S TRIUMPH 161 XXI A DANGER SIGNAL 168 XXII VICTORY 176 XXIII THE TRAMP AGAIN 185 XXIV ON THE TRACK 191 XXV REGGIE'S AUTO 198 XXVI THE TRAMP RENDEZVOUS 206 XXVII THE SLOW WATCH 212 XXVIII THE RACE 220 XXIX A DIAMOND BATTLE 228 XXX THE PENNANT 237 BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE CHAPTER I DANGER "Why, here's Joe!" "So soon? I didn't expect him until night." The girl who had uttered the first exclamation, and her mother whose surprise was manifested in the second, hurried to the door of the cottage, up the gravel walk to which a tall, athletic youth was then striding, swinging a heavy valise as though he enjoyed the weight of it. "Hello, Mother!" he called gaily. "How are you, Sis?" and a moment later Joe Matson was alternating his marks of affection between his mother and sister. "Well, it's good to be home again!" he went on, looking into the two faces which showed the pleasure felt in the presence of the lad. "Mighty good to be home again!" "And we're glad to have him; aren't we, Mother?" "Yes, Clara, of course," and Mrs. Matson spoke with a hesitation that her son could not help noticing. "Of course we just love to have you home Joe----" "There, now, Mother, I know what you're going to say!" he interrupted with good-natured raillery. "You rather wish I'd stuck on there at Yale, turning into a fossil, or something like that, and----" "Oh, Joe! Of course I didn't want you to turn into a fossil," objected his mother, in shocked tones. "But I did hope that you might----" "Become a sky-pilot! Is that it, Momsey?" and he put his arm about her slender waist. "Joe Matson! What a way to talk about a minister!" she cried. "The idea!" "Well, Mother, I meant no disrespect. A sky-pilot is an ancient and honorable calling, but not for me. So here I am. Yale will have to worry along without yours truly, and I guess she'll make out fairly well. But how is everything? Seen any of the fellows lately? How's father? How's the business?" The last two questions seemed to open a painful subject, for mother and daughter looked at one another as though each one was saying: "You tell him!" Joe Matson sensed that something disagreeable was in the air. "What is it?" he demanded, turning from his mother to his sister. "What has happened?" It was not Joe's way to shrink from danger, or from a disagreeable duty. And part of his success as a baseball pitcher was due to this very fact. Now he was aware that something had gone amiss since his last visit home, and he wanted to know what it was. He put his arms on his mother's shoulders--frail little shoulders they were, too--yet they had borne many heavy burdens of which Joe knew nothing. What mother's shoulders have not? The lad looked into her eyes--eyes that held a hint of pain. His own were clear and bright--they snapped with life and youthful vigor. "What is it, Momsey?" he asked softly. "Don't be afraid to tell me. Has anything happened to dad?" "Oh, no, it isn't anything like that, Joe," said Clara quickly. "We didn't write to you about it for fear you'd worry and lose that last big game with Princeton. It's only that----" "Your father has lost some money!" interrupted Mrs. Matson, wishing to have the disagreeable truth out at once. "Oh, if that's all, we can soon fix that!" cried Joe, gaily, as though it was the easiest thing in the world. "Just wait until I begin drawing my salary as pitcher for the Pittston team in the Central League, and then you'll be on Easy Street." "Oh, but it's a great deal of money, Joe!" spoke Clara in rather awed tones. "Well, you haven't heard what my salary is to be." "You mustn't make it so serious, Clara," interposed Mrs. Matson. "Your father hasn't exactly lost the money, Joe. But he has made a number of investments that seem likely to turn out badly, and there's a chance that he'll have to lose, just as some others will." "Oh, well, if there's a chance, what's the use of worrying until you have to?" asked Joe, boy-like. "The chances are pretty good--or, rather, pretty bad--that the money will go," said Mrs. Matson with a sigh. "Oh, dear! Isn't it too bad, after all his hard work!" "There, there, Mother!" exclaimed the lad, soothingly. "Let's talk about something pleasant. I'll go down to the works soon, and see dad. Just now I'm as hungry as a--well, as a ball player after he's won out in the world's series. Got anything to eat in the house?" "Of course!" exclaimed Clara, with a laugh, "though whether it will suit your high and mightiness, after what you have been used to at college, I can't say." "Oh, I'm not fussy, Sis! Trot out a broiled lobster or two, half a roast chicken, some oysters, a little salad and a cup of coffee and I'll try and make that do until the regular meal is ready!" They laughed at his infectious good-humor, and a look of relief showed on Mrs. Matson's face. But it did not altogether remove the shadow of concern that had been there since Joe wrote of his decision to leave Yale to take up the life of a professional baseball player. It had been a sore blow to his mother, who had hopes of seeing him enter the ministry, or at least one of the professions. And with all his light-heartedness, Joe realized the shattered hopes. But, for the life of him, he could not keep on at college--a place entirely unsuited to him. But of that more later. Seated at the dining-room table, the three were soon deep in a rather disjointed conversation. Joe's sister and mother waited on him as only a mother and sister can serve a returned son and brother. Between bites, as it were, Joe asked all sorts of questions, chiefly about his father's business troubles. Neither Mrs. Matson nor her daughter could give a very clear account of what had happened, or was in danger of happening, and the young pitcher, whose recent victory in the college championship games had made him quite famous, remarked: "I'll have to go down and see dad myself, and give him the benefit of my advice. I suppose he's at the Harvester Works?" "Yes," answered Mrs. Matson. "He is there early and late. He is working on another patent, and he says if it's successful he won't mind about the bad investments. But he hasn't had much luck, so far." "I'll have to take him out to a ball game, and get the cobwebs out of his head," said Joe, with a laugh. "It's a bad thing to get in a rut. Just a little more bread, Sis." "And so you have really left Yale?" asked his mother, almost hoping something might have occurred to change her son's mind. "You are not going back, Joe?" "No, I've quit, Mother, sold off what belongings I didn't want to keep, and here I am." "And when are you going to begin pitching for that professional team?" asked Clara, coming in with the bread. "I can't exactly say. I've got to go meet Mr. Gregory, the manager and the largest stockholder in the club. So far I've only dealt with Mr. James Mack, his assistant and scout. He picked me up and made a contract with me." "Perhaps it won't go through," ventured Mrs. Matson, half-hopefully. "Oh, I guess it will," answered Joe, easily. "Anyhow, I've got an advance payment, and I can hold them to their terms. I expect I'll be sent South to the training camp, where the rest of the players are. The season opens soon, and then we'll be traveling all over the circuit--mostly in the Middle West." "Then we won't see much of you, Joe," and his sister spoke regretfully. "Well, I'll have to be pretty much on the jump, Sis. But I'll get home whenever I can. And if ever you get near where the Pittston club is playing--that's my team, you know--" and Joe pretended to swell up with pride--"why, just take a run in, and I'll get you box seats." "I'm afraid I don't care much for baseball," sighed Mrs. Matson. "I do!" cried Clara with enthusiasm. "Oh, we've had some dandy games here this Spring, Joe, though the best games are yet to come. The Silver Stars are doing fine!" "Are they really?" Joe asked. "And since they lost my invaluable services as a twirler? How thoughtless of them, Sis!" Clara laughed. "Well, they miss you a lot," she pouted, "and often speak of you. Maybe, if you're going to be home a few days, you could pitch a game for them." "I wouldn't dare do it, Clara." "Why not, I'd like to know," and her eyes showed her surprise. "Because I'm a professional now, and I can't play in amateur contests--that is, it wouldn't be regular." "Oh, I guess no one here would mind, Joe. Will you have some of these canned peaches?" "Just a nibble, Sis--just a nibble. I've made out pretty well. You can make as good bread as ever, Momsey!" "I'm glad you like it, Joe. Your father thinks there's nothing like home-made bread." "That's where dad shows his good judgment. Quite discriminating on dad's part, I'm sure. Yes, indeed!" "Oh, Joe, you're so--so different!" said Clara, looking at her brother sharply. "In what way, Sis?" "Oh, I don't know," she said, slowly. "I suppose it's--the college influence." "Well, a fellow can't live at Yale, even for a short time, without absorbing something different from the usual life. It's an education in itself just to go there if you never opened a book. It's a different world." "And I wish you had stayed there!" burst out Mrs. Matson, with sudden energy. "Oh, I don't like you to be a professional ball player! It's no profession at all!" "Well, call it a business then, if you like," said Joe good-naturedly. "Say it isn't a profession, though it is called one. As a business proposition, Mother, it's one of the biggest in the world to-day. The players make more money than lots of professional men, and they don't have to work half so hard--not that I mind that." "Joe Matson! Do you mean to tell me a ball player--even one who tosses the ball for the other man to hit at--does he make more than--than a _minister_?" demanded his mother. "I should say so, Mother! Why, there are very few ministers who make as much as even an ordinary player in a minor league. And as for the major leaguers--why, they could equal half a dozen preachers. Mind, I'm not talking against the ministry, or any of the learned professions. I only wish I had the brains and ability to enter one. "But I haven't, and there's no use pretending I have. And, though I do say it myself, there's no use spoiling a good pitcher to make a poor minister. I'm sorry, Mother, that I couldn't keep on at Yale--sorry on your account, not on mine. But I just couldn't." "How--how much do you suppose you'll get a year for pitching in this Central League?" asked Mrs. Matson, hesitatingly. "Well, they're going to start me on fifteen hundred dollars a year," said Joe rather proudly, "and of course I can work up from that." "Fifteen hundred dollars!" cried Mrs. Matson. "Why, that's more than a hundred dollars a month!" "A good deal more, when you figure that I don't have to do anything in the Winter months, Mother." "Fifteen hundred dollars!" murmured Clara. "Why, that's more than father earned when he got married, Mother. I've heard you say so--lots of times." "Yes, Clara. But then fifteen hundred dollars went further in those days than it does now. But, Joe, I didn't think you'd get so much as that." "There's my contract, Mother," and he pulled it from his pocket with a flourish. "Well, of course, Joe--Oh! I _did_ want you to be a minister, or a lawyer, or a doctor; but since you feel you can't--well, perhaps it's all for the best, Joe," and she sighed softly. "Maybe it's for the best." "You'll see that it will be, Mother. And now I'm going down street and see some of the boys. I suppose Tom Davis is around somewhere. Then I'll stroll in on dad. I want to have a talk with him." "Shall I unpack your valise?" asked Clara. "Yes. I guess I'll be home for a few days before starting in at the training camp. I'll be back to supper, anyhow," and, with a laugh he went out and down the main street of Riverside, where the Matsons made their home. As Baseball Joe walked along the thoroughfare he was greeted by many acquaintances--old and young. They were all glad to see him, for the fame of the pitcher who had won the victory for Yale was shared, in a measure, by his home town. In the case of baseball players, at least, they are not "prophets without honor save in their own country." Joe inquired for his old chum, Tom Davis, but no one seemed to have noticed him that day, and, making up his mind he would locate him later, the young pitcher turned his footsteps in the direction of the Royal Harvester Works, where his father was employed. To reach the plant Joe had to cross the railroad, and in doing this he noticed a man staggering along the tracks. The man was not a prepossessing specimen. His clothes were ragged and dirty--in short "tramp" was written all over him. "And he acts as though he were drugged, or had taken too much whiskey," said Joe. "Too bad! Maybe he's had a lot of trouble. You can't always tell. "But I'm sure of one thing, and that is he'd better get off the track. He doesn't seem able to take care of himself. "Look out there!" cried the young pitcher, with sudden energy. "Look out for that freight, old man! You're walking right into danger!" A train of freight cars was backing down the rails, right upon the man who was staggering along, unheeding. The engineer blew his whistle shrilly--insistently; but still the ragged man did not get off the track. Joe sprinted at his best pace, and in an instant had grasped the man by the arm. The tramp looked up with bleary, blood-shot eyes--uncomprehending--almost unseeing. "Wha--wha's matter?" he asked, thickly. "Matter--matter enough when you get sense enough to realize it!" said Joe sharply, as he pulled him to one side, and only just in time, for a second later the freight train thundered past at hardly slackened speed in spite of the fact that the brakes had been clapped on. The man staggered at Joe's sudden energy, and would have toppled over against a switch had not the young pitcher held him. CHAPTER II OFF FOR THE SOUTH Sweeping past, in the cab of the locomotive, the engineer leaned out and shook his fist at the tramp. "You ought to be locked up!" he yelled, with savage energy. Then, lest he might not seem to appreciate Joe's action in saving the man's life and preventing a lot of trouble for the railroad authorities, the engineer added: "Much obliged to you, young fellow. You saved us a bad mess. Better turn that hobo over to one of the yard detectives. He'll take care of him, all right." "No, I'll get him off the tracks and start him home, if I can," answered Joe, but it is doubtful if the engineer heard. "You had a close call, old man," went on Joe, as he helped the tramp to stand upright. "Better get off the railroad. Where do you want to go?" "Hey?" "I ask you where you want to go. I'll give you a hand, if it isn't too far. It's dangerous here--for a man in your--condition." "Uh! Don't make no difference where I go, I reckon," replied the man, thickly. "No difference at all. I'm down and out, an' one place's good's nuther. Down--an'--out!" "Oh, well, maybe you can come back," said Joe, as cheerfully as he could. "Don't give up." "Come back! Huh! Guess you don't know the game. Fellers like me never come back. Say, bo, you've got quite an arm on you," he said admiringly, as he noted the ease with which the young pitcher helped him over the tracks. The unfortunate man could hardly help himself. "You've got an arm--all right." "Oh, nothing much. Just from pitching. I expect." "Pitching!" The man straightened up as though a lash had struck him. "Pitching, did you say? In--er--in what league?" "Not in any league yet, though I've signed with the Central." "The Central? Huh! A bush league." "I left the Yale 'varsity to go with them," said Joe, a little nettled at the tone of the man whose life he had just saved. "Oh--you pitched for Yale?" There was more deference shown now. "Yes, and we beat Princeton." "You did? An' you pitched? Say, young feller, put her there! Put her--there!" The man held out an unsteady hand, which Joe, more to quiet him than for any other reason, clasped firmly. "An' you beat Princeton! Good for you! Put her there! I--er--I read about that. I can read--I got a good education. But I--er--Oh, I'm a fool, that's what I am. A fool! An' to think that I once--Oh, what's the use--what's the use?" The energy faded away from his voice, and he ended in a half sob. With bowed head he allowed Joe to lead him across the tracks. A number of railroad men who had seen the rescue looked at the pair, but once the tramp was off the line, and out of immediate danger, they lost interest. "Can I help you--do you want to go anywhere in particular?" asked Joe, kindly. "What's the use of goin' anywhere in particular?" was the demand. "I've got nowhere to go. One place is as good as another when you're down--and out. Out! Ha! Yes, out! He's out--out at first--last--out all the time! Out!" "Oh, quit!" exclaimed Joe, sharply, for the man was fast losing his nerve, and was almost sobbing. "That's right, young feller--that's right!" came the quick retort. "I do need pullin' up. Much obliged to you. I--I guess I can take care of myself now." "Have you any--do you need any--money?" hesitated Joe. "No--no, thank you. I've got some. Not much, but enough until I can get--straightened out. I'm much obliged to you." He walked straighter now, and more upright. "Be careful to keep off the tracks," warned Joe. "I--I will. Don't worry. Much obliged," and the man walked off into the woods that adjoined the railroad. "Poor old chap," mused the young pitcher, as he resumed his way to his father's shop. And while I have just a few moments I will take advantage of them to make my new readers better acquainted with Joe, and his achievements, as detailed in the former books of this series. The first volume is entitled "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars," and tells how Joe began his career as a pitcher. The Silver Stars were made up of ball-loving lads in Riverside, a New England town where Joe lived with his parents and his sister Clara. Mr. Matson was an inventor of farming machinery, and had perfected a device that brought him in substantial returns. Joe, Tom Davis, and a number of other lads formed a team that was to represent Riverside. Their bitterest rivals were the Resolutes of Rocky Ford, a neighboring town, and many hot battles of the diamond were fought. Joe rapidly developed as a pitcher, and it was due to his efforts that his team made such an excellent showing. In the second book, entitled, "Baseball Joe on the School Nine," I related what happened when our hero went to Excelsior Hall, a boarding institution just outside of Cedarhurst. Joe did not find it so easy, there, to make a showing as a pitcher. There was more competition to begin with, and he had rivals and enemies. But he did not give up, and, in spite of many difficulties, he finally occupied the mound when the annual struggle for the Blue Banner took place. And what a game that was! Joe spent several terms at Excelsior Hall, and then, more in deference to his mother's wishes than because he wanted to, he went to Yale. For an account of what happened there I refer my readers to the third book of the series, called "Baseball Joe at Yale." Joe had an uphill climb at the big university. Mingled with the hard work, the hopes deferred and the jealousies, were, however, good times a-plenty. That is one reason why Joe did not want to leave it. But he had an ambition to become a professional ball player, and he felt that he was not fitted for a college life. So when "Jimmie" Mack, assistant manager of the Pittston team of the Central League, who was out "scouting" for new and promising players, saw Joe's pitching battle against Princeton, he made the young collegian an offer which Joe did not feel like refusing. He closed his college career abruptly, and when this story opens we find him coming back from New Haven to Riverside. In a day or so he expected to join the recruits at the training camp of the Pittston nine, which was at Montville, North Carolina. As Joe kept on, after his rescue of the tramp, his thoughts were busy over many subjects. Chief among them was wonder as to how he would succeed in his new career. "And then I've got to learn how dad's affairs are," mused Joe. "I may have to pitch in and help him." Mr. Matson came from his private office in the Harvester Works, and greeted Joe warmly. "We didn't expect you home quite so soon," he said, as he clasped his son's hand. "No, I found out, after I wrote, that I was coming home, that I could get an earlier train that would save me nearly a day, so I took it. But, Dad, what's this I hear about your financial troubles?" "Oh, never mind about them, Joe," was the evasive answer. "But I want to mind, Dad. I want to help you." Mr. Matson went into details, with which I will not tire the reader. Sufficient to say that the inventor had invested some capital in certain stocks and bonds the value of which now seemed uncertain. "And if I have to lose it--I have to, I suppose," concluded Joe's father, resignedly. "Now, my boy, tell me about yourself--and--baseball," and he smiled, for he knew Joe's hobby. Father and son talked at some length, and then, as Mr. Matson had about finished work for the day, the two set out for home together. On the way Joe met his old chum, Tom Davis, and they went over again the many good times in which they had taken part. Joe liked his home--he liked his home town, and his old chums, but still he wished to get into the new life that had called him. He was not sorry, therefore, when, a few days later he received a telegram from Mr. Mack, telling him to report at once at Montville. "Oh, Joe!" exclaimed his mother. "Do you really have to go so soon?" "I'm afraid so, Momsey," he answered. "You see the league season will soon open and I want to begin at the beginning. This is my life work, and I can't lose any time." "Pitching ball a life work!" sighed Mrs. Matson. "Oh, Joe! if it was only preaching--or something like that." "Let the boy alone, Mother," said Mr. Matson, with a good-humored twinkle in his eye. "We can't all be ministers, and I'd rather have a world series winner in my family than a poor lawyer or doctor. He'll do more good in society, too. Good luck to you, Joe." But Joe was not to get away to the South as quietly as he hoped. He was importuned by his old baseball chums to pitch an exhibition game for them, but he did not think it wise, under the circumstances, so declined. But they wanted to do him honor, and, learning through Tom Davis--who, I may say in passing, got the secret from Clara--when Joe's train was to leave, many of the old members of the Silver Stars gathered to wish their hero Godspeed. "What's the matter with Baseball Joe?" was the cry outside the station, whither Joe had gone with his sister and mother, his father having bidden him good-bye earlier. "What's the matter with Joe Matson?" "_He's--all--right!_" came the staccato reply. Again the demand: "Who's all right?" "_Baseball Joe!_" "Why--what--what does it mean?" asked Mrs. Matson in bewilderment as she sat near her son in the station, and heard the cries. "Oh, it's just the boys," said Joe, easily. "They're giving Joe a send-off," explained Clara. Quite a crowd gathered as the members of the amateur nine cheered Joe again and again. Many other boys joined in, and the scene about the railroad depot was one of excitement. "What's going on?" asked a stranger. "Joe Matson's going off," was the answer. "Who's Joe Matson?" "Don't you know?" The lad looked at the man in half-contempt. "Why, he pitched a winning game for Yale against Princeton, and now he's going to the Pittstons of the Central League." "Oh, I see. Hum. Is that he?" and the man pointed to the figure of our hero, surrounded by his friends. "That's him! Say, I wish he was me!" and the lad looked enviously at Joe. "I--I never knew baseball was so--so popular," said Mrs. Matson to Clara, as the shouting and cheers grew, while Joe resisted an attempt on the part of the lads to carry him on their shoulders. "I guess it's as much Joe as it is the game," answered Clara, proudly. "Three cheers for Joe!" were called for, and given with a will. Again came the question as to who was all right, and the usual answer followed. Joe was shaking hands with two lads at once, and trying to respond to a dozen requests for letters, or passes to the league games. Then came the whistle of the train, more hurried good-byes, a last kiss for his mother and sister--final cheers--shouts--calls for good wishes--and Joe was on his way to the Southern baseball camp. CHAPTER III AN ACCUSATION "Whew!" exclaimed Joe, as he sank into a car seat and placed his valise beside him. "Some doings--those!" Several passengers looked at him, smiling and appreciative. They had seen and heard the parting ovation tendered to our hero, and they understood what it meant. Joe waved his hand out of the window as the train sped on, and then settled back to collect his thoughts which, truth to tell, were running riot. Pulling from his pocket some books on baseball, one of which contained statistics regarding the Central League, Joe began poring over them. He wanted to learn all he could about the organization with which he had cast his fortunes. And a few words of explanation concerning the Central League may not be unappreciated by my readers. In the first place let me be perfectly frank, and state that the Central League was not one of the big ones. I have not masqueraded a major league under that title. Some day I hope to tell you some stories concerning one of the larger leagues, but not in this volume. And in the second place Joe realized that he was not going to astonish the world by his performances in this small league. He knew it was but a "bush league," in a sense, yet he had read enough of it to know that it was composed of clean-cut clubs and players, and that it bore a good reputation. Many a major league player had graduated from this same Central, and Joe--well, to put it modestly--had great hopes. The Central League was of the Middle West. It played its eight clubs over a circuit composed of eight well-known cities, which for the purposes of this story I have seen fit to designate as follows: Clevefield, Pittston (to which club Joe had been signed), Delamont, Washburg, Buffington, Loston, Manhattan and Newkirk. Perhaps, as the story progresses, you may recognize, more or less successfully, certain players and certain localities. With that I have nothing to do. The train sped on, stopping at various stations, but Joe took little interest in the passing scenery, or in what took place in his coach. He was busy over his baseball "dope," by which I mean the statistics regarding players, their averages, and so forth. "And my name will soon be among 'em!" exulted Joe. As the train was pulling out of a small station, Joe looked out of the window, and, to his surprise, saw, sitting on a baggage truck, the same tramp he had saved from the freight train some days before. "Hum!" mused Joe. "If he's beating his way on the railroad he hasn't gotten very far," for this was not many miles from Riverside. "I guess he's a sure-enough hobo, all right. Too bad!" Others beside Joe seemed to have noticed the tramp, who, however, had not looked at our hero. One of two men in the seat back of Joe spoke, and said: "I say, Reynolds, see that tramp sitting there?" "You mean the one on the truck?" "Yes. Do you recognize him?" "Recognize him? I should say not. I'm not in the habit of----" "Easy, old man. Would you be surprised if I told you that many times you've taken your hat off to that same tramp, and cheered him until you were hoarse?" "Get out!" "It's a fact." "Who is he?" "I don't know who he is now--not much, to judge by his looks; but that's old Pop Dutton, who, in his day, was one of the best pitchers Boston ever owned. He was a wonder!" "Is that Pop Dutton?" "That's the wreck of him!" "How have the mighty fallen," was the whispered comment. "Poor old Pop! Indeed, many a time I have taken my hat off to him! He sure was a wonder. What caused his downfall?" "Bad companions--that and--drink." "Too bad!" Joe felt an irresistible impulse to turn around and speak to the two men. But he refrained, perhaps wisely. "And to think that I saved his life!" mused Joe. "No wonder he talked as he did. Pop Dutton! Why, I've often read of him. He pitched many a no-hit no-run game. And now look at him!" As the train pulled out Joe saw the wreck of what had once been a fine man stagger across the platform. A railroad man had driven him from the truck. Joe's heart was sore. He realized that in baseball there were many temptations, and he knew that many a fine young fellow had succumbed to them. But he felt himself strong enough to resist. If Joe expected to make the trip South with speed and comfort he was soon to realize that it was not to be. Late that afternoon the train came to an unexpected stop, and on the passengers inquiring what was the trouble, the conductor informed them that, because of a wreck ahead, they would be delayed at a little country station for several hours. There were expostulations, sharp remarks and various sorts of suggestions offered by the passengers, all of whom seemed to be in a hurry. Joe, himself, regretted the delay, but he did not see how it could be avoided. "The company ought to be sued!" declared a young man whose rather "loud" clothes proclaimed him for an up-to-date follower of "fashion." He had with him a valise of peculiar make--rather conspicuous--and it looked to be of foreign manufacture. In fact, everything about him was rather striking. "I ought to be in New York now," this young chap went on, as though everyone in the train was interested in his fortunes and misfortunes. "This delay is uncalled for! I shall start suit against this railroad. It's always having wrecks. Can't we go on, my good man?" he asked the conductor, sharply. "Not unless you go on ahead and shove the wreck out of the way," was the sharp answer. "I shall report you!" said the youth, loftily. "Do! It won't be the first time I've been reported--my good fellow!" The youth flushed and, taking his valise, left the car to enter the small railway station. Several other passengers, including Joe, did the same, for the car was hot and stuffy. Joe took a seat near one where the modish young man set down his queer valise. Some of the other passengers, after leaving their baggage inside, went out on the platform to stroll about. Joe noted that the young man had gone to the telegraph office to send a message. Our hero having nothing else to do, proceeded to look over more of his baseball information. He was deep in a study of batting averages when he was aware that someone stood in front of him. It was the young man, who had his valise open, and on his face was a puzzled expression, mingled with one of anger. "I say now! I say!" exclaimed the young chap. "This won't do! It won't do at all, you know!" and he looked sharply at Joe. "Are you speaking to me?" asked the young pitcher. "If you are I don't know what it is that won't do--and I don't care." "It won't do at all, you know!" went on the young man, speaking with what he probably intended to be an English accent. "It won't do!" "What won't?" asked Joe sharply. "Why, taking things out of my valise, you know. There's a gold watch and some jewelry missing--my sister's jewelry. It won't do!" "Do you mean to say that I had anything to do with taking jewelry out of your valise?" asked Joe hotly. "Why--er--you were sitting next to it. I went to send a wire--when I come back my stuff is missing, and----" "Look here!" cried the young pitcher in anger. "Do you mean to accuse me?" and he jumped to his feet and faced the young man. "Do you?" "Why--er--yes, I think I do," was the answer. "You were next my bag, you know, and--well, my stuff is gone. It won't do. It won't do at all, you know!" CHAPTER IV IN TRAINING For a moment Joe stood glaring at the modish young man who had accused him. The latter returned the look steadily. There were superciliousness, contempt and an abiding sense of his own superiority in the look, and Joe resented these too-well displayed feelings fully as much as he did the accusation. Then a calmer mood came over the young pitcher; he recalled the training at Yale--the training that had come when he had been in troublesome situations--and Joe laughed. It was that laugh which formed a safety-valve for him. "I don't see what there is to laugh at," sneered the young man. "My valise has been opened, and my watch and some jewelry taken." "Well, what have I got to do with it?" demanded Joe hotly. "I'm not a detective or a police officer!" Joe glanced from the youth to the bag in question. It was a peculiar satchel, made of some odd leather, and evidently constructed for heavy use. It was such a bag as Joe had never seen before. It was open now, and there could be noticed in it a confused mass of clothes, collars, shirts of gaudy pattern and scarfs of even gaudier hues. The young pitcher also noticed that the bag bore on one end the initials "R. V." while below them was the name of the city where young "R. V." lived--Goldsboro, N. C. "Suffering cats!" thought Joe, as he noted that. "He lives in Goldsboro. Montville is just outside that. I hope I don't meet this nuisance when I'm at the training camp." "I did not assume that you were an officer," answered the young man, who, for the present, must be known only as "R. V." "But you were the only one near my valise, which was opened when I went to send that wire. Now it's up to you----" "Hold on!" cried Joe, trying not to let his rather quick temper get the better of him. "Nothing is 'up to me,' as you call it. I didn't touch your valise. I didn't even know I sat near it until you called my attention to it. And if it was opened, and something taken out, I beg to assure you that I had nothing to do with it. That's all!" "But if you didn't take it; who did?" asked "R. V." in some bewilderment. "How should I know?" retorted Joe, coolly. "And I'd advise you to be more careful after this, in making accusations." He spoke rather loudly--in fact so did "R. V.," and it was but natural that several of the delayed passengers should gather outside the station, attracted by the voices. Some of them looked in through the opened windows and doors, and, seeing nothing more than what seemed to be an ordinary dispute, strolled on. "But this won't do," insisted "R. V.," which expression seemed to be a favorite with him. "This won't do at all, you know, my good fellow. My watch is gone, and my sister's jewelry. It won't do----" "Well, I have nothing to do with it," declared Joe, "and I don't want to hear any more about it. This ends it--see!" "Oh, but I say! You were nearest to my valise, and----" "What's the trouble?" interrupted the ticket agent, coming from his little office. "What's the row here?" "My valise!" exclaimed "R. V." angrily. "It's been opened, and----" "He thinks I did it just because I sat near it!" broke in Joe, determined to get in his word first. "It's absurd! I never touched his baggage." The agent looked at the modish youth. "Is that the only reason you accuse him--because he sat near your satchel?" he asked. "Why--er--yes, to be sure. Isn't that reason enough?" "It wouldn't be for me, young man. I don't see that you can do anything about it. You say he took something of yours, and he says he didn't. That's six of one and a half-dozen of the other. You ought to have your satchel locked if you carry valuables in it." "It was locked, but I opened it and forgot to lock it again." "That's up to you then," and the agent's sympathies seemed to be with Joe. "Well, but it won't do, you know. It won't do at all!" protested "R. V.," this time pleadingly. "I must have my things back!" "Then you had better go to the police," broke in the agent. "If you like, though I've never done such a thing before, I'll submit to a search," said Joe, the red blood mantling to his cheeks as he thought of the needless indignity. "I can refer to several well-known persons who will vouch for me, but if you feel----" "All aboard!" suddenly called the conductor of the stalled train, coming into the depot. "We just got word that we can proceed. If we can reach the next junction before the fast mail, we can go ahead of her and get around the wreck. Lively now! All aboard!" There was a scramble in which Joe and "R. V." took a part. All of the passengers were anxious to proceed, and if haste meant that they could avoid further delay they were willing to hasten. The engineer whistled impatiently, and men and women scrambled into the coaches they had left. "R. V." caught up his peculiar bag and without another look at Joe, got aboard. For a moment the young pitcher had an idea of insisting on having the unpleasant matter settled, but he, too, wanted to go on. At any rate no one he knew or cared about had heard the unjust accusation made, and if he insisted on vindication, by means of a personal search, it might lead to unpleasant complications. "Even if he saw that I didn't have his truck on me that wouldn't prove anything to him--he'd say it 'wouldn't do,'" thought Joe. "He's altogether too positive." And so, leaving the matter of the missing articles unsettled, Joe sprinted for the train. Joe saw his accuser enter the rear coach, while the young ball player took his place in the second coach, where he had been before. "If he wants to take up this matter again he knows I'm aboard," mused Joe, as the train pulled out of the way-station. But the matter was not reopened, and when the junction was reached our hero saw "R. V." hurrying off to make other connections. As he turned away, however, he favored Joe with a look that was not altogether pleasant. The remainder of our hero's trip to Montville was uneventful, save that it was rather monotonous, and, the further South he went the worse the railroad service became, until he found that he was going to be nearly half a day late. But he was not expected at any special time, and he knew that he had done the best possible. Arriving in Montville, which he found to be a typical small Southern town, Joe put up at the hotel where he had been told by "Jimmie" Mack to take quarters. "Are any of the Pittston players around--is Mr. Gregory here?" asked Joe of the clerk, after registering. It was shortly after two o'clock. "They're all out practicing, I believe," was the answer. "Mr. Gregory was here a while ago, but I reckon as how he-all went out to the field, too. Are you a member of the nine, sir?" The clerk really said "suh," but the peculiarities of Southern talk are too well known to need imitating. "Well, I suppose I am, but I've only just joined," answered Joe, with a smile. "I'm one of the new pitchers." "Glad to know you. We enjoy having you ball players here. It sort of livens things up. I believe your team is going to cross bats with our home team Saturday." "That's good!" exclaimed Joe, who was just "aching" to get into a game again. He ate a light luncheon and then, inquiring his way, went out to the ball field. He was rather disappointed at first. It was not as good as the one where the Silver Stars played--not as well laid out or kept up, and the grandstand was only about half as large. "But of course it's only a practice field," reasoned Joe, as he looked about for a sight of "Jimmie" Mack, whom alone he knew. "The home field at Pittston will probably be all right. Still, I've got to remember that I'm not playing in a major league. This will do for a start." He looked over the men with whom he was to associate and play ball for the next year or so--perhaps longer. The members of the team were throwing and catching--some were batting flies, and laying down grounders for others to catch or pick up. One or two were practicing "fungo" batting. Up near the grandstand a couple of pitchers were "warming-up," while the catchers were receiving the balls in their big mitts. Several small and worshipping boys were on hand, as always is the case, gathering up the discarded bats, running after passed balls and bringing water to their heroes. "Well, I'm here, anyhow," thought Joe. "Now to see what sort of a stab I can make at professional ball." No one seemed to notice the advent of the young pitcher on the field, and if he expected to receive an ovation, such as was accorded to him when he left home, Joe was grievously disappointed. But I do not believe Joe Matson looked for anything of the sort. In fact I know he did not, for Joe was a sensible lad. He realized that however good a college player he might be he was now entering the ranks of men who made their living at ball playing. And there is a great deal of difference between doing a thing for fun, and doing it to get your bread and butter--a heap of difference. Joe stood on the edge of the diamond looking at the players. They seemed to be a clean-cut set of young fellows. One or two looked to be veterans at the game, and here and there Joe could pick out one whose hair was turning the least little bit gray. He wondered if they had slid down the scale, and, finding their powers waning, had gotten out of the big leagues to take it a little easier in one of the "bush" variety. "But it's baseball--it's a start--it's just what I want!" thought Joe, as he drew a deep breath, the odors of crushed green grass, the dry dust and the whiff of leather mingling under the hot rays of the Southern sun. "It's baseball, and that's enough!" exulted Joe. "Well, I see you got here!" exclaimed a voice behind him, and Joe turned to see "Jimmie" Mack, in uniform, holding out a welcoming hand. "Yes," said Joe with a smile. "I'm a little late, but--I'm here." "If the trains arrive on time down here everybody worries," went on Jimmie. "They think something is going to happen. Did you bring a uniform?" Joe indicated his valise, into which he had hastily stuffed, at the hotel, one of his old suits. "Well, slip it on--take any dressing room that's vacant there," and Jimmie motioned to the grandstand. "Then come out and I'll have you meet the boys. We're only doing light practice as yet, but we'll soon have to hump ourselves, for the season will shortly open." "Is Mr. Gregory here?" asked Joe, feeling that he ought to meet the manager of the team. "He'll be here before the day is over. Oh, Harrison!" he called to a passing player, "come over and meet Joe Matson, one of our new pitchers. Harrison tries to play centre," explained the assistant manager with a smile. "Quit your kiddin'!" exclaimed the centre fielder as he shook hands with Joe. "Glad to meet you, son. You mustn't mind Jimmie," he went on. "Ever played before?" "Not professionally." "That's what I meant." "Joe's the boy who pitched Yale to the championship this year," explained Jimmie Mack. "Oh, ho! Yes, I heard about that. Well, hope you like it here. I'm going out in the field. See you there," and Harrison passed on. Joe lost no time in changing into his playing togs. The dressing rooms in the Montville grandstand were only apologies compared with what Joe was used to. But he knew that this was only a training camp, and that they would not be here long. He walked out on the field, feeling a little nervous and rather lonesome--"like a cat in a strange garret," as he wrote home to his folks. But Joe's school and college training stood him in good stead, and when he had been introduced to most of the players, who welcomed him warmly, he felt more at home. Then he went out in the field, and began catching flies with the others. "But I wish they'd put me at pitching," mused Joe. "That's what I want to do." He was to learn that to make haste slowly is a motto more or less followed by professional ball players. There would be time enough to put on speed before the season closed. CHAPTER V THE CLASH "That's the way! Line 'em out, now!" "Put some speed into that!" "Look out for a high one!" "Oh, get farther back! I'm going to knock the cover off this time!" These were only a few of the cries and calls that echoed over the ball field at Montville. The occasion was the daily practice of the Pittston nine, and orders had come from the manager and trainer to start in on more lively work. It was Joe's third day with the professionals. He had made the acquaintance of all the players, but as yet had neither admitted, nor been admitted to, a real friendship with any of them. It was too early. Joe held back because he was naturally a bit diffident. Then, too, most of the men were older than he, and with one exception they had been in the professional ranks for several seasons. That one exception was Charlie Hall, who played short. He, like Joe, had been taken that Spring from the amateur ranks. Hall had played on a Western college team, and had been picked out by one of the ever-present professional scouts. With Charlie, Joe felt more at home than with any of the others and yet he felt that soon he would have good friends among the older men. On their part they did not become friendly with Joe at once simply for the reason that they wanted to "size him up," or "get his number," as Jimmie Mack put it in speaking of the matter. "But they'll cotton to you after a bit, Joe," said the assistant manager, "and you'll like them, too. Don't get discouraged." "I won't," was the answer. There was one man on the team, though, with whom Joe felt that he would never be on friendly terms, and this was Jake Collin, one of the pitchers--the chief pitcher and mainstay of the nine on the mound, from what Joe picked up by hearing the other men talk. And Collin himself was not at all modest about his ability. That he had ability Joe was ready to concede. And Collin wanted everyone else to know it, too. He was always talking about his record, and his batting average, which, to do him credit, was good. Collin was not much older than Joe, but a rather fast life and hard living counted for more than years. Joe heard whispers that Collin could not last much longer. Perhaps it was a realization of this that made Collin rather resent the arrival of our hero on the Pittston nine. For he gave Joe but a cold greeting, and, as he moved off to practice, the young pitcher could hear him saying something about "college dudes thinking they can play professional ball." Joe's faced flushed, but he said nothing. It was something that called more for deeds than words. "Everybody lively now! I want some snappy work!" called Jimmie Mack as the practice progressed. "If we're going to play the Montville team Saturday we want to snow them under. A win by a few runs won't be the thing at all, and, let me tell you, those boys can play ball. "So step lively, everybody. Run bases as if you meant to get back home some time this week. Slug the ball until the cover comes off. And you, Collin, get a little more speed on your delivery. Is your arm sore?" "Arm sore? I guess not! I'm all right!" and the man's eyes snapped angrily. "Well, then, show it. Let's see what you've got up your sleeve, anyhow. Here comes Gregory now--he'll catch a few for you, and then we'll do some batting." The manager, whom Joe had met and liked, came out to join in the practice. He nodded to our hero, and then took Collin off to one side, to give him some instructions. Joe under the direction of Jimmie Mack was allowed to do some pitching now. With Terry Hanson the left fielder, to back him up, Joe began throwing in the balls on a space in front of the grandstand. Joe noticed that Collin regarded him sharply in the intervals of his own practice, but he was prepared for a little professional jealousy, and knew how to take it. He had seen it manifested often enough at school and college, though there the spirit of the university was paramount to personal triumph--every player was willing to sacrifice himself that the team might win. And, in a large measure, of course, this is so in professional baseball. But human nature is human nature, whether one is playing for money or for glory, and in perhaps no other sport where money counts for as much as it does in baseball, will you find more of the spirit of the school than in the ranks of the diamond professionals. "Take it easy, Joe; take it easy," advised Terry, with a good-natured smile, as the lad stung in the balls. "You've got speed, and I'm willing to admit it without having you split my mitt. But save yourself for a game. You're not trying to pitch anyone out now, you know, and there's no one looking at you." "I guess I forgot this was just practice," admitted Joe with a laugh. "I'll throw in some easy ones." He did, and saw an admiring look on Terry's face. "They seem to have the punch--that's a nice little drop you've got. But don't work it too much. Vary your delivery." From time to time as the practice proceeded Terry gave Joe good advice. Occasionally this would be supplemented by something Mack or Gregory would say and Joe took it all in, resolving to profit by it. The practice came to an end, and the players were advised by their trainer, Mike McGuire, to take walks in the country round-about. "It'll be good for your legs and wind," was the comment. Joe enjoyed this almost as much as the work on the field, for the country was new to him and a source of constant delight. He went out with some of the men, and again would stroll off by himself. Saturday, the day when the first practice game was to be played, found Joe a bit nervous. He wondered whether he would get a chance to pitch. So too, for that matter, did Tom Tooley, the south-paw moundman, who was nearer Joe's age than was Collin. "Who's going to be the battery?" was heard on all sides as the Pittston players went to the grounds. "The old man hasn't given it out yet," was the reply of Jimmie Mack. The "old man" was always the manager, and the term conveyed no hint of disrespect. The Montville team, a semi-professional one, was a good bit like the Silver Stars, Joe thought, when he saw the members run out on the diamond for practice. Still they looked to be a "husky lot," as he admitted, and he was glad of it, for he wanted to see what he and his team-mates could do against a good aggregation. "Play ball! Play ball!" called the umpire, as he dusted off the home plate. There was quite a crowd present, and when Gregory handed over his batting list the umpire made the announcement: "Batteries--for Pittston, Collin and Gregory. For Montville, Smith and Jennings." "Um. He's going to pitch Collin," murmured Tooley in Joe's ear. "That means we warm the bench." Joe was a little disappointed, but he tried not to show it. This first game was neither better nor worse than many others. Naturally the playing was ragged under the circumstances. The Pittstons had everything to lose by being beaten and not much to gain if they won the game. On the other hand the home nine had much to gain in case they should win. So they took rather desperate chances. Pittston was first at bat, and succeeded in getting two runs over. Then came a slump, and in quick succession three men went down, two being struck out. The Montville pitcher was a professional who had been in a big league, but who had drifted to a minor, and finally landed in the semi-pro ranks. But he had some good "heaves" left. Collin walked to the mound with a rather bored air of superiority. There was a little whispered conference between him and the catcher-manager, and the second half of the first inning began. Collin did well, and though hit twice for singles, not a run came in, and the home team was credited with a zero on the score-board. "Oh, I guess we can play some!" cried one of the professionals. "What are you crowing over?" demanded Jimmie Mack. "If we win this I suppose you fellows will want medals! Why this is nothing but a kid bunch we're up against." "Don't let 'em fool you, though," advised the manager, who overheard the talk. And then, to the surprise and dismay of all, the home team proceeded to "do things" to the professionals. They began making runs, and succeeded in stopping the winning streak of the Pittstons. The detailed play would not interest you, and, for that matter it was a thing the Pittstons did not like to recall afterward. There was a bad slump, and when the seventh inning arrived Gregory called: "Matson, you bat for Collin." Joe felt the blood rush to his face. "Does that mean I'm going to be taken out of the box?" asked the chief pitcher, stalking angrily over to the manager. "It means just that, son. I can't afford to lose this game, and we sure will the way you're feedin' 'em in to 'em. I guess you drew it a little too fine the last few days. You need a rest." "But--I--er--I----" protested Collin. "That'll do," said Gregory, sharply. "Joe Matson will pitch. It's a chance, but I've got to take it." "What's the matter with Tooley?" demanded Collin. "What do you want to go shove this raw college jake in ahead of us for? Say!" "Go to the bench!" ordered the manager. "I know what I'm doing, Collin!" The pitcher seemed about to say something, and the look he gave Joe was far from friendly. Then, realizing that he was under the manager's orders, he stalked to the bench. "You won't do this again, if I can prevent it!" snapped Collin at Joe, as he passed him. "I'll run you out of the league, if you try to come it over me!" Only a few players heard him, and one or two whispered to him to quiet down, but he glared at Joe, who felt far from comfortable. But he was to have his chance to pitch at last. CHAPTER VI A STRAIGHT THROW Joe had hopes of making a safe hit when he came up, but pitchers are proverbially bad batsmen and our hero was no exception. I wish I could say that he "slammed one out for a home run, and came in amid wild applause," but truth compels me to state that Joe only knocked a little pop fly which dropped neatly into the hands of the second baseman, and Joe went back to the bench. "Never mind," consoled Jimmie Mack, "you're not here to bat--we count on you to pitch, though of course if you can hit the ball do it--every time. But don't get nervous." "I'm not," answered Joe. And, to do him justice, his nerves were in excellent shape. He had not played on the school and Yale nines for nothing, and he had faced many a crisis fully as acute as the present one. Then, too, the action of Collin must have had its effect. It was not pleasant for Joe to feel that he had won the enmity of the chief pitcher of the nine. But our hero resolved to do his best and let other matters take care of themselves. Whether it was the advent of Joe into the game, or because matters would have turned out that way anyhow, was not disclosed, but Pittston seemed to brace up, and that inning added three runs to their score, which put them on even terms with the home team--the members of which were playing phenomenal ball. "And now we've got to go in and beat them!" exclaimed Manager Gregory, as his men took the field. "Joe, I want to see what you can do." Enough to make any young pitcher nervous; was it not? Yet Joe kept his nerves in check--no easy matter--and walked to the box with all the ease he could muster. He fingered the ball for a moment, rubbed a little dirt on it--not that the spheroid needed it, but it gave him a chance to look at Gregory and catch his signal for a fast out. He nodded comprehendingly, having mastered the signals, and wound up for his first delivery. "Ball one!" howled the umpire. Joe was a little nettled. He was sure it had gone cleanly over the plate, curving out just as he intended it should, and yet it was called a ball. But he concealed his chagrin, and caught the horsehide which Gregory threw back to him--the catcher hesitating just the least bit, and with a look at the umpire which said much. Again came the signal for a fast out. Joe nodded. Once more the young pitcher threw and this time, though the batter swung desperately at it, not having moved his stick before, there came from the umpire the welcome cry of: "Strike--one!" Joe was beginning to make good. I shall not weary you with a full account of the game. I have other, and more interesting contests to tell of as we proceed. Sufficient to say that while Joe did not "set the river afire," he did strike out three men that inning, after a two-bagger had been made. But Joe "tightened up," just in time to prevent a run coming in, and the score was still a tie when the last man was out. In the next inning Pittston managed, by hard work, and a close decision on the part of the umpire, to add another run to their score. This put them one ahead, and the struggle now was to hold their opponents hitless. It devolved upon Joe to accomplish this. And he did it. Perhaps it was no great feat, as baseball history goes, but it meant much to him--a raw recruit in his first professional league, "bush" though it was. Joe made good, and when he struck out the last man (one of the best hitters, too, by the way) there was an enthusiastic scene on that little ball field. "Good, Joe! Good!" cried Jimmie Mack, and even the rather staid Mr. Gregory condescended to smile and say: "I thought you could do it!" Collin, suffering from his turn-down, sulked on the bench, and growled: "I'll show that young upstart! He can't come here and walk over me." "He didn't walk over you--he pitched over you," said George Lee, the second baseman. "He pitched good ball." "Bah! Just a fluke! If I hadn't strained my arm yesterday I'd have made this home team look like a sick cat!" "Post-mortems are out of style," said Lee. "Be a sport! It's all in the game!" "Um!" growled Collin, surlily. The team played the game all over again at the hotel that night. Of course it was not much of a victory, close as it was, but it showed of what stuff the players were made, and it gave many, who were ignorant of Joe's abilities, an insight into what he could do. "Well, what do you think of my find?" asked Jimmie Mack of his chief that night. "All right, Jimmie! All right! I think we'll make a ball-player of him yet." "So do I. And the blessed part of it is that he hasn't got a swelled head from his college work. That's the saving grace of it. Yes, I think Joe is due to arrive soon." If Joe had heard this perhaps he would have resented it somewhat. Surely, after having supplanted a veteran pitcher, even though of no great ability, and won his first professional game, Joe might have been excused for patting himself on the back, and feeling proud. And he did, too, in a sense. But perhaps it was just as well he did not hear himself discussed. Anyhow, he was up in his room writing home. The next day was Sunday, and in the afternoon Joe went for a long walk. He asked several of the men to go with him, but they all made good-enough excuses, so Joe set off by himself. It was a beautiful day, a little too warm, but then that was to be expected in the South, and Joe was dressed for it. As he walked along a country road he came to a parting of the ways; a weather-beaten sign-post informed him that one highway led to North Ford, while the other would take him to Goldsboro. "Goldsboro; eh?" mused Joe. "That's where that 'R. V.' fellow lives, who thought I robbed his valise. I wonder if I'll ever meet him? I've a good notion to take a chance, and walk over that way. I can ask him if he found his stuff. Maybe it's risky, but I'm going to do it." He set off at a swinging pace to limber up his muscles, thinking of many things, and wondering, if, after all, he was going to like professional baseball. Certainly he had started in as well as could be expected, save for the enmity of Collin. Joe got out into the open country and breathed deeply of the sweet air. The road swept along in a gentle curve, on one side being deep woods, while on the other was a rather steep descent to the valley below. In places the road approached close to the edge of a steep cliff. As the young pitcher strode along he heard behind him the clatter of hoofs. It was a galloping horse, and the rattle of wheels told that the animal was drawing a carriage. "Someone's in a hurry," mused Joe. "Going for a doctor, maybe." A moment later he saw what he knew might at any moment become a tragedy. A spirited horse, attached to a light carriage, dashed around a bend in the road, coming straight for Joe. And in the carriage was a young girl, whose fear-blanched face told that she realized her danger. A broken, dangling rein showed that she had tried in vain to stop the runaway. Joe formed a sudden resolve. He knew something of horses, and had more than once stopped a frightened animal. He ran forward, intending to cut across the path of this one, and grasp the bridle. But as the horse headed for him, and caught sight of the youth, it swerved to one side, and dashed across an intervening field, straight for the steep cliff. "Look out!" cried Joe, as if that meant anything. The girl screamed, and seemed about to jump. "I've got to stop that horse!" gasped Joe, and he broke into a run. Then the uselessness of this came to him and he stopped. At his feet were several large, round and smooth stones. Hardly knowing why he picked up one, just as the horse turned sideways to him. "If I could only hit him on the head, and stun him so that he'd stop before he gets to the cliff!" thought Joe. "If I don't he'll go over sure as fate!" The next instant he threw. Straight and true went the stone, and struck the horse hard on the head. The animal reared, then staggered. It tried to keep on, but the blow had been a disabling one. It tried to keep on its legs but they crumpled under the beast, and the next moment it went down in a heap, almost on the verge of the steep descent. The carriage swerved and ran partly up on the prostrate animal, while the shock of the sudden stop threw the girl out on the soft grass, where she lay in a crumpled heap. Joe sprinted forward. "I hope I did the right thing, after all," he panted. "I hope she isn't killed!" CHAPTER VII THE GIRL Joe Matson bent over the unconscious girl, and, even in the excitement of the moment, out of breath as he was from his fast run, he could not but note how pretty she was. Though now her cheeks that must usually be pink with the flush of health, were pale. She lay in a heap on the grass, at the side of the overturned carriage, from which the horse had partly freed itself. The animal was now showing signs of recovering from the stunning blow of the stone. "I've got to get her away from here," decided Joe. "If that brute starts kicking around he may hurt her. I've got to pick her up and carry her. She doesn't look able to walk." In his sturdy arms he picked up the unconscious girl, and carried her some distance off, placing her on a grassy bank. "Let's see--what do you do when a girl faints?" mused Joe, scratching his head in puzzled fashion. "Water--that's it--you have to sprinkle her face with water." He looked about for some sign of a brook or spring, and, listening, his ear caught a musical trickle off to one side. "Must be a stream over there," he decided. He glanced again at the girl before leaving her. She gave no sign of returning consciousness, and one hand, Joe noticed when he carried her, hung limp, as though the wrist was broken. "And she's lucky to get off with that," decided the young pitcher. "I hope I did the right thing by stopping the horse that way. She sure would have gone over the cliff if I hadn't." The horse, from which had gone all desire to run farther, now struggled to its feet, and shook itself once or twice to adjust the harness. It was partly loose from it, and, with a plunge or two, soon wholly freed itself. "Run away again if you want to now," exclaimed Joe, shaking his fist at the brute. "You can't hurt anyone but yourself, anyhow. Jump over the cliff if you like!" But the horse did not seem to care for any such performance now, and, after shaking himself again, began nibbling the grass as though nothing had happened. "All right," went on Joe, talking to the horse for companionship, since the neighborhood seemed deserted. "Stay there, old fellow. I may need you to get to a doctor, or to some house. She may be badly hurt." For want of something better Joe used the top of his cap in which to carry the water which he found in a clear-running brook, not far from where he had placed the girl. The sprinkling of the first few drops of the cold liquid on her face caused her to open her eyes. Consciousness came back quickly, and, with a start, she gazed up at Joe uncomprehendingly. "You're all right," he said, reassuringly. "That is, I hope so. Do you think you are hurt anywhere? Shall I get a doctor? Where do you live?" Afterward he realized that his hurried questions had given her little chance to speak, but he meant to make her feel that she would be taken care of. "What--what happened?" she faltered. "Your horse ran away," Joe explained, with a smile. "He's over there now; not hurt, fortunately." "Oh, I remember now! Something frightened Prince and he bolted. He never did it before. Oh, I was so frightened. I tried--tried to stop him, but could not. The rein broke." The girl sat up now, Joe's arm about her, supporting her, for she was much in need of assistance, being weak and trembling. "Then he bolted into a field," she resumed, "and he was headed for a cliff. Oh, how I tried to stop him! But he wouldn't. Then--then something--something happened!" She looked wonderingly at Joe. "Yes, I'm afraid _I_ happened it," he said with a smile. "I saw that your horse might go over the cliff, so I threw a stone, and hit him on the head. It stunned him, he fell, and threw you out." "I remember up to that point," she said with a faint smile. "I saw Prince go down, and I thought we were going over the cliff. Oh, what an escape!" "And yet not altogether an escape," remarked Joe. "Your arm seems hurt." She glanced down in some surprise at her right wrist, as though noticing it for the first time. Then, as she moved it ever so slightly, a cry of pain escaped her lips. "It--it's broken!" she faltered. Joe took it tenderly in his hand. "Only sprained, I think," he said, gravely. "It needs attention at once, though; I must get you a doctor. Can you walk?" "I think so." She struggled to her feet with his help, the red blood now surging into her pale cheeks, and making her, Joe thought, more beautiful than ever. "Be careful!" he exclaimed, as she swayed. His arm was about her, so she did not fall. "I--I guess I'm weaker than I thought," she murmured. "But it isn't because I'm injured--except my wrist. I think it must be the shock. Why, there's Prince!" she added, as she saw the grazing horse. "He isn't hurt!" "No, I only stunned him with the stone I threw," said Joe. "Oh, and so you threw a stone at him, and stopped him?" She seemed in somewhat of a daze. "Yes." "What a splendid thrower you must be!" There was admiration in her tones. "It's from playing ball," explained Joe, modestly. "I'm a pitcher on the Pittston nine. We're training over at Montville." "Oh," she murmured, understandingly. "If I could get you some water to drink, it would make you feel better," said Joe. "Then I might patch up the broken harness and get you home. Do you live around here?" "Yes, just outside of Goldsboro. Perhaps you could make a leaf answer for a cup," she suggested. "I believe I would like a little water. It would do me good." She moistened her dry lips with her tongue as Joe hastened back to the little brook. He managed to curl an oak leaf into a rude but clean cup, and brought back a little water. The girl sipped it gratefully, and the effect was apparent at once. She was able to stand alone. "Now to see if I can get that horse of yours hitched to the carriage," spoke the young pitcher, "that is, if the carriage isn't broken." "It's awfully kind of you, Mr.----" she paused suggestively. "I'm Joe Matson, formerly of Yale," was our hero's answer, and, somehow, he felt not a little proud of that "Yale." After all, his university training, incomplete though it had been, was not to be despised. "Oh, a Yale man!" her eyes were beginning to sparkle now. "But I gave it up to enter professional baseball," the young pitcher went on. "It's my first attempt. If you do not feel able to get into the carriage--provided it's in running shape--perhaps I could take you to some house near here and send word to your folks," he suggested. "Oh, I think I can ride--provided, as you say, the carriage is in shape to use," she answered, quickly. "I am Miss Varley. It's awfully good of you to take so much trouble." "Not at all," protested Joe. He noticed a shadow of pain pass over her face, and she clasped her sprained wrist in her left hand. "That must hurt a lot, Miss Varley," spoke Joe with warm sympathy. "I know what a sprain is. I've had many a one. Let me wrap a cold, wet rag around it. That will do until you can get to a doctor and have him reduce it." Not waiting for permission Joe hurried back to the brook, and dipped his handkerchief in the cold water. This he bound tightly around the already swelling wrist, tying it skillfully, for he knew something about first aid work--one needed to when one played ball for a living. "That's better," she said, with a sigh of relief. "It's ever so much better. Oh, I don't know what would have happened if you had not been here!" "Probably someone else would have done as well," laughed Joe. "Now about that carriage." Prince looked up as the youth approached, and Joe saw a big bruise on the animal's head. "Too bad, old fellow, that I had to do that," spoke Joe, for he loved animals. "No other way, though. I had to stop you." A look showed him that the horse was not otherwise injured by the runaway, and another look showed him that it would be impossible to use the carriage. One of the wheels was broken. "Here's a pickle!" cried Joe. "A whole bottle of 'em, for that matter. I can't get her home that way, and she can't very well walk. I can't carry her, either. I guess the only thing to do is to get her to the nearest house, and then go for help--or 'phone, if they have a wire. I'm in for the day's adventure, I guess, but I can't leave her." Not that he wanted to, for the more he was in the girl's presence, the more often he looked into her brown eyes, the more Joe felt that he was caring very much for Miss Varley. "Come, Matson!" he chided himself, "don't be an idiot!" "Well?" she questioned, as he came back to her. "The carriage is broken," he told her. "Do you think you could walk to the nearest house?" "Oh, I'm sure of it," she replied, and now she smiled, showing two rows of white, even teeth. "I'm feeling ever so much better. But perhaps I am keeping you," and she hung back. "Not at all. I'm glad to be able to help you. I suppose I had better tie your horse." "Perhaps." As Joe turned back to the grazing animal there was the sound of a motor car out in the road. He and the girl turned quickly, the same thought in both their minds. Then a look of pleased surprise came over Miss Varley's face. "Reggie! Reggie!" she called, waving her uninjured hand at a young man in the car. "Reggie, Prince bolted with me! Come over here!" The machine was stopped with a screeching of brakes, and the young fellow leaped out. "Why, Mabel!" he cried, as he came sprinting across the field. "Are you hurt? What happened? Dad got anxious about you being gone so long, and I said I'd look you up in my car. Are you hurt, Mabel?" Joe made a mental note that of all names he liked best that of Mabel--especially when the owner had brown eyes. "Only a sprained wrist, Reggie. This gentleman hit Prince with a stone and saved me from going over the cliff." "Oh, he did!" By this time the youth from the auto was beside Joe and the girl. The two young men faced each other. Joe gave a gasp of surprise that was echoed by the other, for the youth confronting our hero was none other than he who had accused Joe of robbing that odd valise. CHAPTER VIII A PARTING "Why--er--that is--I'm awfully obliged to you, of course, for saving my sister," spoke the newcomer--his name must be Reggie Varley, Joe rightly decided. "Very much obliged, old man, and--er----" He paused, evidently quite embarrassed. "You two act as though you had met before," said Miss Varley, with a smile. "Have you?" "Once," spoke Joe, drily. "I did not know your brother's name then." He did not add that he was glad to find that he was Mabel's brother, and not a more distant relation. "How strange that you two should have met," went on Mabel Varley. "Yes," returned Joe, "and it was under rather strange circumstances. It was while I was on my way down here to join the ball team, and your brother thought----" "Ahem!" exclaimed Reggie, with a meaning look at Joe. "I--er--you'd better get in here with me, Mabel, and let me get you home. Perhaps this gentleman----" "His name is Joe Matson," spoke the girl, quickly. "Perhaps Mr. Matson will come home with--us," went on Reggie. Obviously it was an effort to extend this invitation, but he could do no less under the circumstances. Joe felt this and said quickly: "No, thank you, not this time." "Oh, but I want papa and mamma to meet you!" exclaimed Mabel, impulsively. "They'll want to thank you. Just think, Reggie, he saved my life. Prince was headed for the cliff, and he stopped him." There were tears in her eyes as she gazed at Joe. "It was awfully good and clever of you, old man," said Reggie, rather affectedly, yet it was but his way. "I'm sure I appreciate it very much. And we'd like--my sister and I--we'd like awfully to have you come on and take lunch with us. I can put the horse up somewhere around here, I dare say, and we can go on in my car." "The carriage is broken Reggie," Mabel informed him. "Too bad. I'll send Jake for it later. Will you come?" He seemed to wish to ignore, or at least postpone, the matter of the valise and his accusation. Perhaps he felt how unjust it had been. Joe realized Reggie's position. "No, thank you," spoke the young pitcher. "I must be getting back to my hotel. I was just out for a walk. Some other time, perhaps. If you like, I'll try and put the horse in some near-by barn for you, and I'll drop you a card, saying where it is." "Will you really, old man?" asked Reggie, eagerly. "It will be awfully decent of you, after--well, I'd appreciate it very much. Then I could get my sister home, and to a doctor." "Which I think would be a wise thing to do," remarked Joe. "Her wrist seems quite badly sprained. I'll attend to the horse. So now I'll say good-bye." He turned away. He and Reggie had not shaken hands. In spite of the service Joe had rendered he could not help feeling that young Varley harbored some resentment against him. "And if it's her jewelry that is missing, with his watch, and he tells her that he suspects me--I wonder how she'll feel afterward?" mused Joe. "I wonder?" Mabel held out her uninjured hand, and Joe took it eagerly. The warm, soft pressure lingered for some little time afterward in his hardened palm--a palm roughened by baseball play. "Good-bye," she said, softly. "I can't thank you enough--now. You must come and get the rest--later." "I will," he said, eagerly. "Here is my card--it has our address," spoke Reggie holding out a small, white square. "I trust you will come--soon." "I shall try," said Joe, with a peculiar look at his accuser. "And I'll drop you a card about the horse." Reggie helped his sister into the auto, and they drove off, Mabel waving a good-bye to Joe. The latter stood for a minute in the field, looking at the disappearing auto. Then he murmured, probably to the horse, for there was no other sign of life in sight: "Well, you've gone and done it, Matson! You've gone and done it!" But Joe did not admit, even to himself, what he had gone and done. Prince seemed tractable enough after his recent escapade, and made no objection to Joe leading him out to the road. The young pitcher soon came to a farmhouse, where, when he had explained matters, the man readily agreed to stable the animal until it should be called for. And, as Joe Matson trudged back to the hotel he said, more than once to himself: "You've gone and done it, old man! You've gone and done it!" And a little later, as Joe thought of the look on Reggie's face when he recognized the youth he had accused, our hero chuckled inwardly. "He didn't know what to do," mused Joe. "I sure had him buffaloed, as the boys say." Joe was welcomed by his fellow players on his return to the hotel. It was nearly meal time, but before going down to the dining room Joe wrote a short note giving the name of the farmer where he had left the horse. "Let's see now," mused our hero. "To whom shall I send it--to him--or--her." When he dropped the letter in the mail box the envelope bore the superscription--"Miss Mabel Varley." Practice was resumed Monday morning, and Joe could note that there was a tightening up all along the line. The orders from the manager and his assistant came sharper and quicker. "I want you boys to get right on edge!" exclaimed Gregory. "We'll play our opening game in Pittston in two weeks now. We'll cross bats with Clevefield, last season's pennant winners, and we want to down them. I'm getting tired of being in the ruck. I want to be on top of the heap." Joe, from his study of the baseball "dope," knew that Pittston had not made a very creditable showing the last season. The practice was sharp and snappy, and there was a general improvement all along the line. Joe was given several try-outs in the next few days, and while he received no extravagant praise he knew that his work pleased. Jake Collin still held his enmity against Joe, and perhaps it was but natural. Wet grounds, a day or so later, prevented practice, and Joe took advantage of it to call on the girl he had rescued. He found her home, her wrist still bandaged, and she welcomed him warmly, introducing him to her mother. Joe was made to feel quite at home, and he realized that Reggie had said nothing about the articles missing from the valise--or, at least, had not mentioned the accusation against Joe. "Will you tell me how, and when, you met my brother?" asked Mabel, after some general talk. "Hasn't he told you?" inquired Joe, with a twinkle in his eyes. "No, he keeps putting it off." "Then perhaps I'd better not tell," said Joe. "Oh, Mr. Matson, I think you're horrid! Is there some reason I shouldn't know?" "Not as far as I am concerned. But I'd rather your brother would tell." "Then I'm going to make him when he comes home." Joe was rather glad Reggie was not there then. For, in spite of everything, Joe knew there would be a feeling of embarrassment on both sides. "I have come to say good-bye," he said to the girl. "We leave for the North, soon, and the rest of the season will be filled with traveling about." "I'm sorry you're going," she said, frankly. "Are you?" he asked, softly. "Perhaps you will allow me to write to you." "I'd be glad to have you," she replied, warmly, and she gave him a quick glance. "Perhaps I may see you play sometime; I love baseball!" "I'm very glad," returned Joe, and, after a while--rather a long while, to speak the truth--he said good-bye. CHAPTER IX THE FIRST LEAGUE GAME "All aboard!" "Good-bye, everybody!" "See you next Spring!" "Good-bye!" These were some of the calls heard at the Montville station as the Pittston ball team left their training grounds for the trip to their home city, where the league season would start. Joe had been South about three weeks, and had made a few friends there. These waved a farewell to him, as others did to other players, as the train pulled out. Joe was not sure, but he thought he saw, amid the throng, the face of a certain girl. At any rate a white handkerchief was waved directly at him. "Ah, ha! Something doing!" joked Charlie Hall, with whom Joe had struck up quite a friendship. "Who's the fair one, Joe?" "I didn't see her face," was the evasive answer. "Oh, come now! That's too thin! She's evidently taken a liking to you." "I hope she has!" exclaimed the young pitcher, and then blushed at his boldness. As the train pulled past the station he had a full view of the girl waving at him. She was Mabel Varley. Charlie saw her also. "My word!" he cried. "I congratulate you, old man!" and he clapped Joe on the shoulder. "Cut it out!" came the retort, as Joe turned his reddened face in the direction of the girl. And he waved back, while some of the other players laughed. "Better be looking for someone to sign in Matson's place soon, Mack," remarked John Holme, the third baseman, with a chuckle. "He's going to trot in double harness if I know any of the symptoms." "All right," laughed the assistant manager. "I'll have to begin scouting again, I suppose. Too bad, just as Joe is going to make good." "Oh, don't worry," advised our hero coolly. "I'm going to play." The trip up was much more enjoyable than Joe had found the one down, when he came alone. He was beginning to know and like nearly all of his team-mates--that is, all save Collin, and it was due only to the latter's surly disposition that Joe could not be friendly with him. "Think you'll stay in this business long?" asked Charlie of Joe as he sank into the seat beside him. "Well, I expect to make it my business--if I can make good." "I think you will." "But I don't intend to stay in this small league forever," went on Joe. "I'd like to get in a major one." "That isn't as easy as it seems," said the other college lad. "You know you're sort of tied hand and foot once you sign with a professional team." "How's that?" "Why, there is a sort of national agreement, you know. No team in any league will take a player from another team unless the manager of that team gives the player his release. That is, you can quit playing ball, of course; but, for the life of you, you can't get in any other professional team until you are allowed to by the man with whom you signed first." "Well, of course, I've read about players being given their release, and being sold or traded from one team to another," spoke Joe, "but I didn't think it was as close as that." "It is close," said Hall, "a regular 'trust.' Modern professional baseball is really a trust. There's a gentleman's agreement in regard to players that's never broken. I'm sorry, in a way, that I didn't stay an amateur. I, also, want to get into a big league, but the worst of it is that if you show up well in a small league, and prove a drawing card, the manager won't release you. And until he does no other manager would hire you. Though, of course, the double A leagues can draft anyone they like." Joe whistled softly. "Then it isn't going to be so easy to get into another league as I thought," he said. "Not unless something happens," replied his team-mate. "Of course, if another manager wanted you badly enough he would pay the price, and buy you from this club. High prices have been paid, too. There's Marquard--the Giants gave ten thousand dollars to have him play for them." "Yes, I heard about that," spoke Joe, "but I supposed it was mostly talk." "There's a good deal more than talk," asserted Charlie. "Though it's a great advertisement for a man. Think of being worth ten thousand dollars more than your salary!" "And he didn't get the ten," commented Joe. "No. That's the worst of it. We're the slaves of baseball, in a way." "Oh, well, I don't mind being that kind of a slave," said Joe, laughingly. He lay back in his seat as the train whirled on, and before him, as he closed his eyes, he could see a girl's face--the face of Mabel Varley. "I wonder if her brother told her?" mused the young pitcher. "If he did she may think just as he did--that I had a hand in looting that valise. Oh, pshaw! I'm not going to think about it. And yet I wish the mystery was cleared up--I sure do!" The training had done all the players good. They were right "on edge" and eager to get into the fray. Not a little horse-play was indulged in on the way North. The team had a car to itself, and so felt more freedom than otherwise would have been the case. Terry Blake, the little "mascot" of the nine, was a great favorite, and he and Joe soon became fast friends. Terry liked to play tricks on the men who made so much of him, and late that first afternoon he stole up behind Jake Collin, who had fallen asleep, and tickled his face with a bit of paper. At first the pitcher seemed to think it was a troublesome fly, and his half-awake endeavors to get rid of it amused Terry and some others who were watching. Then, as the tickling was persisted in, Collin awoke with a start. He had the name of waking up cross and ugly, and this time was no exception. As he started up he caught sight of the little mascot, and understood what had been going on. "You brat!" he cried, leaping out into the aisle. Terry fled, with frightened face, and Collin ran after him. "I'll punch you for that!" cried the pitcher. "Oh, can't you take a joke?" someone asked him, but Collin paid no heed. He raced after poor little Terry, who had meant no harm, and the mascot might have come to grief had not Joe stepped out into the aisle of the car and confronted Collin. "Let me past! Let me get at him!" stormed the man. "No, not now," was Joe's quiet answer. "Out of my way, you whipper-snapper, or I'll----" He drew back his arm, his fist clenched, but Joe never quailed. He looked Collin straight in the eyes, and the man's arm went down. Joe was smaller than he, but the young pitcher was no weakling. "That'll do, Collin," said Jimmie Mack, quietly. "The boy only meant it for a joke." Collin did not answer. But as he turned aside to go back to his seat he gave Joe a black look. There was an under-current of unpleasant feeling over the incident during the remainder of the trip. Little Terry stole up to Joe, when the players came back from the dining-car, and, slipped his small hand into that of the pitcher. "I--I like you," he said, softly. "Do you?" asked Joe with smile. "I'm glad of that, Terry." "And I'll always see that you have the bat you want when you want it," went on the little mascot. Poor little chap, he was an orphan, and Gus Harrison, the big centre fielder, had practically adopted him. Then he was made the official mascot, and while perhaps the constant association with the ball players was not altogether good for the small lad, still he might have been worse off. Pittston was reached in due season, no happenings worth chronicling taking place on the way. Joe was eager to see what sort of a ball field the team owned, and he was not disappointed when, early the morning after his arrival, he and the others went out to it for practice. It was far from being the New York Polo Grounds, nor was the field equal to the one at Yale, but Joe had learned to take matters as they came, and he never forgot that he was only with a minor league. "Time enough to look for grounds laid out with a rule and compass when I get into a major league," he told himself. "That is, if I can get my release." Joe found some letters from home awaiting him at the hotel where the team had its official home. But, before he answered them he wrote to Mabel. I wonder if we ought to blame him? The more Joe saw of his team-mates the more he liked them--save Collin, and that was no fault of the young pitcher. He found Pittston a pleasant place, and the citizens ardent "fans." They thought their team was about as good as any in that section, and, though it had not captured the pennant, there were hopes that it would come to Pittston that season. "They're good rooters!" exclaimed Jimmie Mack. "I will say that for this Pittston bunch. They may not be such a muchness otherwise, but they're good rooters, and it's a pleasure to play ball here. They warm you up, and make you do your best." Joe was glad to hear this. The new grounds were a little strange to him, at first, but he soon became used to them after one or two days' practice. Nearly all the other players, of course, were more at home. "And now, boys," said Manager Gregory, when practice had closed one day. "I want you to do your prettiest to-morrow. I've got a good team--I know it. Some of you are new to me, but I've heard about you, and I'm banking on your making good. I want you to wallop Clevefield to-morrow. I want every man to do his best, and don't want any hard feelings if I play one man instead of another. I have reasons for it. Now that's my last word to you. I want you to win." There was a little nervous feeling among the players as the time for the first league game drew near. A number of the men had been bought from other clubs. There was one former Clevefield player on the Pittston team, and also one from the pennant club of a previous year. That night Joe spent some time studying the batting averages of the opposing team, and also he read as much of their history as he could get hold of. He wanted to know the characteristics of the various batters if he should be fortunate enough to face them from the pitching mound. There was the blare of a band, roars of cheers, and much excitement. The official opening of the league season was always an event in Pittston, as it is in most large cities. The team left their hotel in a body, going to the grounds in a large 'bus, which was decorated with flags. A mounted police escort had been provided, and a large throng, mostly boys, marched to the grounds, accompanying the players. There another demonstration took place as the home team paraded over the diamond, and greeted their opponents, who were already on hand, an ovation having also been accorded to them. The band played again, there were more cheers and encouraging calls, and then the Mayor of the city stepped forward to throw the first ball. Clevefield was to bat first, the home team, in league games, always coming up last. The initial ball, of course, was only a matter of form, and the batter only pretended to strike at it. Then came the announcement all were waiting for; the naming of the Pittston battery. "For Clevefield," announced the umpire, "McGuinness and Sullivan. For Pittston, Matson and Nelson." Joe had been picked to open the battle, and Nelson, who was the regular catcher, except when Gregory took a hand, would back him up. Joe's ears rang as he walked to the mound. "Play ball!" droned the umpire. CHAPTER X BITTERNESS Joe glanced over to where Gregory sat on the bench, from which he would engineer this first game of the season. The manager caught the eye of the young pitcher, and something in Joe's manner must have told the veteran that his latest recruit was nervous. He signalled to Joe to try a few practice balls, and our hero nodded comprehensively. The batter stepped back from the plate, and Joe thought he detected a smile of derision at his own newness, and perhaps rawness. "But I'll show him!" whispered Joe fiercely to himself, as he clinched his teeth and stung in the ball. It landed in the mitt of the catcher with a resounding thud. "That's the boy!" called Gregory to him. "You'll do, old man. Sting in another." Joe threw with all his force, but there was a sickening fear in his heart that he was not keeping good control over the ball. Nelson signalled to him to hold his curves in a little more, and Joe nodded to show he understood. "Play ball!" drawled the umpire again, and the batter took his place at the plate. Joe looked at the man, and reviewing the baseball "dope" he recalled that the player batted well over .300, and was regarded as the despair of many pitchers. "If I could only strike him out!" thought Joe. His first ball went a little wild. He realized that it was going to be a poor one as soon as it left his hand, but he could not for the life of him recover in time. "Ball one!" yelled the umpire. "That's the way!" "Make him give you what you want!" "Wait for a pretty one!" "That's their ten thousand dollar college pitcher! Back to the bench for his!" These were only a few of the remarks, sarcastic and otherwise, that greeted Joe's first performance. He felt the hot blood rush to his face, and then, as he stepped forward to receive the ball which the catcher tossed back to him, he tried to master his feelings. The catcher shook his head in a certain way, to signal to Joe to be on his guard. Joe looked over at Gregory, who did not glance at him. "I'll do better this time!" whispered Joe, fiercely. He deliberated a moment before hurling in the next ball. "Here goes a home run! Clout it over the fence, Pike!" called an enthusiastic "fan" in a shrill voice and the crowd laughed. "Not if I know it!" muttered Joe. The ball clipped the corner of the plate cleanly, and the batter, who had made a half motion to hit at it, refrained. "Strike one!" yelled the umpire, throwing up his arm. "That's the way, Matson!" "Two more like that and he's a dead one!" Joe caught the signal for a drop, but shook his head. He was going to try another out. Again his catcher signalled for a drop, but Joe was, perhaps, a trifle obstinate. He felt that he had been successful once with an out, and he was going to do it again. The catcher finally nodded in agreement, though reluctantly. Joe shot in a fast one, and he knew that he had the ball under perfect control. Perhaps he was as disappointed as any of the home players when there came a resounding crack, and the white sphere sailed aloft, and well out over centre field. "That's the way, Pike! Two bags anyhow!" But the redoubtable Pike was to have no such good fortune, for the centre fielder, after a heart-breaking run, got under the fly and caught it, winning much applause from the crowd for his plucky effort. "One down!" called Gregory, cheerfully. "Only two more, Joe." Joe wished that he had struck out his man, but it was some consolation to know that he was being supported by good fielding. The next man up had a ball and a strike called on him, and Joe was a bit puzzled as to just what to offer. He decided on a swift in, and thought it was going to make good, but the batter was a crafty veteran, and managed to connect with the ball. He sent a swift liner which the shortstop gathered in, however, and there was another added to the list of outs. "One more and that'll be about all!" called the Pittston catcher. Joe threw the ball over to first for a little practice, while the next batter was picking out his stick, and then came another try. "I've got to strike him out!" decided the young pitcher. "I've got to make good!" His heart was fluttering, and his nerves were not as calm as they ought to have been. He stooped over and made a pretence of tying his shoe-lace. When he straightened up he had, in a measure, gained a mastery of himself. He felt cool and collected. In went the ball with certain aim, and Joe knew that it was just what he had intended it should be. "Strike!" called the umpire, though the batter had not moved. There was some laughter from the grandstand, and the batter tapped the plate nervously. Joe smiled. "Good work!" called Gregory from the bench. Again the ball went sailing in, but this time Joe's luck played him a shabby trick, or perhaps the umpire was not watching closely. Certainly Joe thought it a strike, but "ball" was called. Joe sent in the next one so quickly that the batter was scarcely prepared for it. But it was perfectly legitimate and the umpire howled: "Strike two!" "That's the boy!" "Good work!" "Another like that now, Joe!" Thus cried the throng. Gregory looked pleased. "I guess Mack didn't make any mistake picking him up," he said. The batter knocked a little foul next, that the catcher tried in vain to get. And then, when he faced Joe again, our hero sent in such a puzzling drop that the man was deceived and struck out. "That's the boy!" "What do you think of our ten thousand dollar college pitcher now?" "Come on, Clevefield! He's got some more just like that!" The home team and its supporters were jubilant, and Joe felt a sense of elation as he walked in to the bench. "Now see what my opponent can do," he murmured. McGuinness was an old time pitcher, nothing very remarkable, but one any small club would be glad to get. He had the "number" of most of the Pittston players, and served them balls and strikes in such order that though two little pop flies were knocked no one made a run. The result of the first inning was a zero for each team. "Now Joe, be a little more careful, and I think you can get three good ones," said Gregory, as his team again took the field. "I'll try," replied Joe, earnestly. He got two men, but not the third, who knocked a clean two-bagger, amid enthusiastic howls from admiring "fans." This two-base hit seemed to spell Joe's undoing, for the next man duplicated and the first run was scored. There were two out, and it looked as though Clevefield had struck a winning streak, for the next man knocked what looked to be good for single. But Bob Newton, the right fielder, caught it, and the side was retired with one run. Pittston tried hard to score, but the crafty pitcher, aided by effective fielding, shut them out, and another zero was their portion on the score board. "Joe, we've got to get 'em!" exclaimed Gregory, earnestly. "I'll try!" was the sturdy answer. It was heart-breaking, though, when the first man up singled, and then came a hit and run play. Joe was not the only player on the Pittston team who rather lost his head that inning. For, though Joe was hit badly, others made errors, and the net result was that Clevefield had four runs to add to the one, while Pittston had none. They managed, however, to get two in the following inning, more by good luck than good management, and the game began to look, as Jimmie Mack said, as though the other team had it in the "refrigerator." How it happened Joe never knew, but he seemed to go to pieces. Probably it was all a case of nerves, and the realization that this game meant more to him than any college contest. However that may be, the result was that Joe was effectively hit the next inning, and when it was over, and three more runs had come in, Gregory said sharply: "Collin, you'll pitch now!" It meant that Joe had been "knocked out of the box." "We've got to get this game!" explained the manager, not unkindly. But Joe felt, with bitterness in his heart, that he had failed. CHAPTER XI OLD POP CONSOLES Collin flashed a look of mingled scorn and triumph on Joe as he walked past him. It needed only this to make our hero feel that he had stood about all he could, and he turned away, and tried to get rid of a lump in his throat. None of the other players seemed to notice him. Probably it was an old story to them. Competition was too fierce--it was a matter of making a living on their part--every man was for himself, in a certain sense. They had seen young players come and old players go. It was only a question of time when they themselves would go--go never to come back into baseball again. They might eke out a livelihood as a scout or as a ground-keeper in some big league. It was a fight for the survival of the fittest, and Joe's seeming failure brought no apparent sympathy. Understand me, I am not speaking against organized baseball. It is a grand thing, and one of the cleanest sports in the world. But what I am trying to point out is that it is a business, and from a business standpoint everyone in it must do his best for himself. Each man, in a sense, is concerned only with his own success. Nor do I mean that this precludes a love of the club, and good team work. Far from it. Nor were Joe's feelings made any the less poignant by the fact that Collin did some wonderful pitching. He needed to in order to pull the home team out of the hole into which it had slipped--and not altogether through Joe's weakness, either. Perhaps the other players braced up when they saw the veteran Collin in the box. Perhaps he even pitched better than usual because he had, in a sense, been humiliated by Joe's preference over himself. At any rate, whatever the reason, the answer was found in the fact that Pittston began to wake up. Collin held the other team hitless for one inning, and the rest of the game, ordinary in a sense, saw Pittston march on to victory--a small enough victory--by a margin of two runs, but that was enough. For victory had come out of almost sure defeat. Poor Joe sat on the bench and brooded. For a time no one seemed to take any notice of him, and then Gregory, good general that he was, turned to the new recruit and said: "You mustn't mind a little thing like that, Joe. I have to do the best as I see it. This is business, you know. Why, I'd have pulled Collin out, or Tooley, just as quick." "I know it," returned Joe, thickly. But the knowledge did not add to his comfort, though he tried to make it do so. But I am getting a little ahead of my story. The game was almost over, and it was practically won by Pittston, when a voice spoke back of where Joe sat on the players' bench. It was a husky, uncertain, hesitating sort of voice and it said, in the ear of the young pitcher: "Never mind, my lad. Ten years from now, when you're in a big league, you'll forget all about this. It'll do you good, anyhow, for it'll make you work harder, and hard work makes a good ball player out of a middle-class one. Brace up. I know what I'm talking about!" Joe hesitated a moment before turning. Somehow he had a vague feeling that he had heard that voice before, and under strange circumstances. He wanted to see if he could place it before looking at the speaker. But it was baffling, and Joe turned quickly. He started as he saw standing behind him, attired rather more neatly than when last he had confronted our hero--the tramp whom he had saved from the freight train. On his part the other looked sharply at Joe for a moment. Over his face passed shadows of memory, and then the light came. He recognized Joe, and with a note of gladness in his husky voice--husky from much shouting on the ball field, and from a reckless life--he exclaimed: "Why it's the boy! It's the boy who pulled me off the track! It's the boy!" "Of course!" exclaimed Joe. Impulsively he held out his hand. A shout arose as one of the Pittston players brought in the winning run, but Joe paid no heed. He was staring at old Pop Dutton. The other player--the "has-been"--looked at Joe's extended hand a moment as if in doubt. Then he glanced over the field, and listened to the glad cries. He seemed to straighten up, and his nostrils widened as he sniffed in the odors of the crushed green grass. It was as though a broken-down horse had heard from afar the battle-riot in which he never again would take part. Back came the blood-shot eyes to Joe's still extended hand. "Do you--do you mean it?" faltered the old ball player. "Mean it? Mean what?" asked Joe, in surprise. "Are you going to shake hands with me--with a----" He did not finish his obvious sentence. "Why not?" asked Joe. The other did not need to answer, for at that moment Gregory came up. He started at the sight of Dutton, and said sharply: "How did you get in here? What are you doing here. Didn't I tell you to keep away?" "I paid my way in--_Mister_ Gregory!" was the sarcastic answer. "I still have the price." "Well, we don't care for your money. What are you doing here? The bleachers for yours!" "He came--I think he came to see me," spoke Joe, softly, and he reached for the other's reluctant hand. "I have met him before." "Oh," said Gregory, and there was a queer note in his voice. "I guess we've all met him before, and none of us are the better for it. You probably don't know him as well as the rest of us, Joe." "He--he saved my life," faltered the unfortunate old ball player. "In a way that was a pity," returned Gregory, coolly--cuttingly, Joe thought, "for you're no good to yourself, Dutton, nor to anyone else, as near as I can make out. I told you I didn't want you hanging around my grounds, and I don't. Now be off! If I find you here again I'll hand you over to the police!" Joe expected an outburst from Dutton, but the man's spirit was evidently broken. For an instant--just for an instant--he straightened up and looked full at Gregory. Then he seemed to shrink in his clothes and turned to shuffle away. "All--all right," he mumbled. "I'll keep away. But you've got one fine little pitcher in that boy, and I didn't want to see him lose his nerve and get discouraged--as I often did. That--that's why I spoke to him." Poor Joe felt that he had rather made a mess of it in speaking to Dutton, but, he said afterward, he would have done the same thing over again. "You needn't worry about Matson," said the manager, with a sneer. "I'll look after Joe--I'll see that he doesn't lose his nerve--or get discouraged." "I--I hope you do," said the old player, and then, with uncertain gait, he walked off as the victorious Pittston players swarmed in. The game was over. CHAPTER XII THE QUEER VALISE "Matson, I hope you didn't misunderstand me," remarked the manager as he walked beside Joe to the dressing rooms. "I mean in regard to that Dutton. He's an intolerable nuisance, and I didn't want you to get mixed up with him. Perhaps I spoke stronger than I should, but I'm exasperated with him. I've tried--and so have lots of us--to get him back on the right road again, but I'm afraid he's hopeless." "It's too bad!" burst out the young pitcher. "Yes, I thought you were a little severe with him." "I have to be. I don't want him hanging around here. I haven't seen him for some time. He drifts all about--beating his way like a tramp, I guess, though he's better dressed now than in a long while. What's that he said about you saving his life?" "Well, I suppose I did, in a way," and Joe told of the freight train episode. "But that happened a long distance from here," he added. "I was surprised to turn around and see him." "Oh, Pop travels all over. You've probably heard about him. In his day there wasn't a better pitcher in any league. But he got careless--that, bad companions and dissipation spelled ruin for him. He's down and out now, and I'm sure he can never come back. He lives off what he can borrow or beg from those who used to be his friends. Steer clear of him--that's my advice." Joe did not respond and after a moment Gregory went on with: "And you mustn't mind, Joe, being taken out of to-day's game." "Oh, I didn't--after the first." "It was for your own good, as well as for the good of the team," proceeded the manager. "If I hadn't taken you out you might have gone to pieces, and the crowd would have said mean things that are hard to forget. And I want you to pitch for us to-morrow, Joe." "You do!" cried the delighted young pitcher, all his bitterness forgotten now. "I thought maybe----" He paused in confusion. "Just because you got a little off to-day, did you imagine I was willing to give you your release?" asked Gregory, with a smile. "Well--something like that," confessed Joe. The manager laughed. "Don't take it so seriously," he advised. "You've got lots to learn yet about professional baseball, and I want you to learn it right." Joe felt a sense of gratitude, and when he reached the hotel that afternoon, he took a refreshing shower bath, attired himself in his "glad rags," and bought a ticket to the theatre. Then, before supper, he sat down to write home, enclosing some of his salary to be put in a savings bank at Riverside. Joe also wrote a glowing account of the game, even though his part in it was rather negligible. He also wrote to-- But there! I shouldn't tell secrets that way. It's taking too much of an advantage over a fellow. There was an air of elation about the hotel where the players lived, and on all sides were heard congratulations. The evening papers had big headlines with the victory of the home team displayed prominently. Collin's picture was there, and how much Joe wished that his own was so displayed only he himself knew. Clevefield played four games with Pittston, and they broke even--each side winning two. Joe was given another chance to pitch, and was mainly responsible for winning the second game for his team. Joe was fast becoming accustomed to his new life. Of course there was always something different coming up--some new problem to be met. But he got in the way of solving them. It was different from his life at boarding school, and different from his terms at Yale. He missed the pleasant, youthful comradeship of both places, but he found, as he grew to know them better, some sterling men in his own team, and in those of the opposing clubs. But with all that, at times, Joe felt rather lonesome. Of course the days were busy ones, either at practice or in play. But his nights were his own, and often he had no one with whom he cared to go out. He and Charlie Hall grew more and more friendly, but it was not a companionship of long enough standing to make it the kind Joe really cared for. He had much pleasure in writing home, and to Mabel, who in turn, sent interesting letters of her life in the South. One letter in particular made Joe rather eager. "My brother and I are coming North on a combined business and pleasure trip," she wrote, "and we may see your team play. We expect to be in Newkirk on the twentieth." Joe dropped everything to look eagerly at the official schedule. "Well, of all the luck!" he cried. "We play in Newkirk that date. I wonder if she knew it? I wonder----?" Then for days Joe almost prayed that there would be no rainy days--no upsetting of the schedule that would necessitate double-headers, or anything that would interfere with playing at Newkirk on the date mentioned. That city, as he found by looking at a map, was on a direct railroad line from Goldsboro. "I hope nothing slips up!" murmured the young pitcher. From then on he lived in a sort of rosy glow. The ball season of the Central League was well under way now. A number of games had been played, necessitating travel from one city to another. Some of the journeys Joe liked, and some were tiresome. He met all sorts and conditions of men and was growing to be able to take things as he found them. Joe worked hard, and he took a defeat more to heart than did any of the others. It seemed to be all in the day's work with them. With Joe it was a little more. Not that any of the players were careless, though. They were more sophisticated, rather. The third week of the season, then, found Pittston third in line for pennant honors, and when the loss of a contest to Buffington had set them at the end of the first division there were some rather glum-looking faces seen in the hotel corridor. "Boys, we've got to take a brace!" exclaimed Gregory, and the manner in which he said it told his men that he meant it. Joe went to bed that night wildly resolving to do all sorts of impossible things, so it is no wonder he dreamed that he pitched a no-hit no-run game, and was carried in triumph around the diamond on the shoulders of his enthusiastic comrades. I shall not weary you with an account of the ordinary games. Just so many had to be played in a certain order to fulfill the league conditions. Some of the contests were brilliant affairs, and others dragged themselves out wearily. Joe had his share in the good and bad, but, through it all, he was gradually acquiring a good working knowledge of professional baseball. He was getting better control of his curves, and he was getting up speed so that it was noticeable. "I'll have to get Nelson a mitt with a deeper pit in it if you keep on," said Gregory with a laugh, after one exciting contest when Joe had fairly "pitched his head off," and the game had been won for Pittston by a narrow margin. Gradually Joe's team crept up until it was second, with Clevefield still at the head. "And our next game is with Newkirk!" exulted Joe one morning as they took the train for that place. They were strictly on schedule, and Joe was eager, for more reasons than one, to reach the city where he hoped a certain girl might be. "If we win, and Clevefield loses to-morrow," spoke Charlie Hall, as he dropped into a seat beside Joe, "we'll be on top of the heap." "Yes--if!" exclaimed the young pitcher. "But I'm going to do my best, Charlie!" "The same here!" It was raining when the team arrived in Newkirk, and the weather was matched by the glum faces of the players. "No game to-morrow, very likely," said Charlie, in disappointed tones. "Unless they have rubber grounds here." "No such luck," returned Joe. As he walked with the others to the desk to register he saw, amid a pile of luggage, a certain peculiar valise. He knew it instantly. "Reggie Varley's!" he exclaimed to himself. "There never was another bag like that. And it has his initials on it. Reggie Varley is here--at this hotel, and--and--she--must be here too. Let it rain!" CHAPTER XIII MABEL Joe Matson stood spell-bound for a second or so, staring at the valise which had such an interest for him in two ways. It meant the presence at the hotel of the girl who had awakened such a new feeling within him, and also it recalled the unpleasant occasion when he had been accused of rifling it. "What's the matter, Matson?" asked Gus Harrison, the big centre fielder, who stood directly behind the young pitcher, waiting to register. "Have you forgotten your name?" "No--oh, no!" exclaimed our hero, coming to himself with a start. "I--er--I was just thinking of something." "I should imagine so," commented Harrison. "Get a move on. I want to go to my room and tog up. I've got a date with a friend." As Joe turned away from the desk, after registering, he could not refrain from glancing at the odd valise. He half expected to see Reggie Varley standing beside it, but there was no sign of Mabel's brother. "Quite a coincidence that she should be stopping at this hotel," thought Joe, for a quick glance at the names on the register, ahead of those of the ball team, had shown Joe that Miss Varley's was among them. "Quite a coincidence," Joe mused on. "I wonder if she came here because she knew this was where the team always stops? Oh, of course not. I'm getting looney, I reckon." Then, as he looked at the valise again another thought came to him. "I do wish there was some way of proving to young Varley that I didn't take the stuff out of it," reasoned Joe. "But I don't see how I can prove that I didn't. It's harder to prove a negative than it is a positive, they say. Maybe he has found his stuff by this time; I must ask him if I get a chance. And yet I don't like to bring it up again, especially as she's here. She doesn't know of it yet, that's evident, or she'd have said something. I mean Reggie hasn't told her that he once suspected me." Joe went to his room, and made a much more careful toilet than usual. So much so that Charlie Hall inquired rather sarcastically: "Who's the lady, Joe?" "Lady? What do you mean?" responded Joe, with simulated innocence. "Oh, come now, that's too thin!" laughed the shortstop. "Why all this gorgeousness? And a new tie! Upon my word! You are going it!" "Oh, cut it out!" growled Joe, a bit incensed. But, all the while, he was wondering how and when he would meet Mabel. Would it be proper for him to send her his card? Or would she know that the ball team had arrived, and send word to Joe that he could see her? How were such things managed anyhow? Joe wished there was some one whom he could ask, but he shrank from taking into his confidence any of the members of the team. "I'll just wait and see what turns up," he said. Fate was kind to him, however. Most of the ball players had gone in to dinner, discussing, meanwhile, the weather probabilities. There was a dreary drizzle outside, and the prospects for a fair day to follow were remote indeed. It meant almost certainly that there would be no game, and this was a disappointment to all. The Pittston team was on edge for the contest, for they wanted their chance to get to the top of the league. "Well, maybe it's just as well," confided Gregory to Jimmie Mack. "It'll give the boys a chance to rest up, and they've been going the pace pretty hard lately. I do hope we win, though." "Same here," exclaimed Jimmie earnestly. As Joe came down from his apartment, and crossed the foyer into the dining room, he turned around a pillar and came face to face with Reggie Varley--and his sister. They both started at the sight of the young pitcher, and Mabel blushed. Joe did the same, for that matter. "Oh, why how do you do!" the girl exclaimed graciously, holding out her hand. "I'm awfully glad to see you again! So you are here with your team? Oh, I do hope you'll win! Too bad it's raining; isn't it? Reggie, you must take me to the game! You remember Mr. Matson, of course!" She spoke rapidly, as though to cover some embarrassment, and, for a few seconds, Joe had no chance to say anything, save incoherent murmurs, which, possibly, was proper under the circumstances. "Oh, yes, I remember him," said Reggie, but there was not much cordiality in his tone or manner. "Certainly I remember him. Glad to meet you again, old man. We haven't forgotten what you did for sis. Awfully good of you." Joe rather resented this tone, but perhaps Reggie could not help it. And the young pitcher wondered whether there was any significance in the way Reggie "remembered." Young Varley glanced over toward where his odd valise had been placed, in a sort of checking room. "Excuse me," he said to his sister and Joe. "I must have my luggage sent up. I quite forgot about it." "Then there isn't any jewelry in it this time," spoke Joe significantly, and under the impulse of the moment. A second later he regretted it. "No, of course not. Oh, I see!" exclaimed Reggie, and his face turned red. "I'll be back in a moment," he added as he hurried off. Mabel glanced from her brother to Joe. She saw that there was something between them of which she knew nothing, but she had the tact to ignore it--at least for the present. "Have you dined?" she asked Joe. "If you haven't there's a vacant seat at our table, and I'm sure Reggie and I would be glad to have you sit with us." "I don't know whether he would or not," said Joe, feeling that, as his part in the story of the valise and the missing jewelry would have to come out sometime, now was as good as any. "Why--what do you mean?" asked Mabel in surprise. "Hasn't he told you?" demanded Joe. "Told me? Told me what? I don't understand." "I mean about his watch and some of your jewelry being taken." "Oh, yes, some time ago. You mean when he was up North. Wasn't it too bad! And my lovely beads were in his valise. But how did you know of it?" "Because," blurted out Joe, "your brother accused me of taking them!" Mabel started back. "No!" she cried. "Never! He couldn't have done that!" "But he did, and I'd give a lot to be able to prove that I had no hand in the looting!" Joe spoke, half jokingly. "How silly!" exclaimed the girl. "The idea! How did it happen?" Joe explained briefly, amid rather excited ejaculations from Mabel, and had just concluded when Reggie came back. He caught enough of the conversation to understand what it was about, and as his sister looked oddly at him, he exclaimed: "Oh, I say now, Matson! I was hoping that wouldn't get out. I suppose I made rather a fool of myself--talking to you the way I did, but----" "Well, I resented it somewhat at the time," replied Joe, slowly, "but I know how you must have felt." "Yes. Well, I never have had a trace of the stuff. I was hoping sis, here, wouldn't know how I accused you--especially after the plucky way you saved her." "I thought it best to tell," said the young pitcher, quietly. "Oh, well, as you like," and Reggie shrugged his shoulders. "It was certainly a queer go." "And I'm living in hope," went on Joe, "that some day I'll be able to prove that I had no hand in the matter." "Oh, of course you didn't!" cried Mabel, impulsively. "It's silly of you, Reggie, to think such a thing." "I don't think it--now!" But in spite of this denial Joe could not help feeling that perhaps, after all, Reggie Varley still had an undefined suspicion against him. "I say!" exclaimed Joe's one-time accuser, "won't you dine with us? We have a nice waiter at our table----" "I had already asked him," broke in Mabel. "Then that's all right. I say, Matson, can't you take my sister in? I've just had a 'phone message about some of dad's business that brought me up here. I've got to go see a man, and if you'll take Mabel in----" "I shall be delighted." "How long will you be, Reggie?" "Oh, not long, Sis. But if I see Jenkinson to-night it will save us time to-morrow." "Oh, all right. But if I let you off now you'll have to take me to the ball game to-morrow." "I will--if it doesn't rain." "And you'll be back in time for the theatre?" "Surely. I'll run along now. It's awfully good of you, Matson, to take----" "Not at all!" interrupted Joe. The pleasure was all his, he felt. He and Mabel went into the hotel dining room, and Joe's team-mates glanced curiously at him from where they sat. But none of them made any remarks. "It was dreadful of Reggie, to accuse you that way," the girl murmured, when they were seated. "Oh, he was flustered, and perhaps it was natural," said Joe. "I did sit near the valise, you know." "I know--but----" They talked over the matter at some length, and then the conversation drifted to baseball. Joe had never eaten such a delightful meal, though if you had asked him afterward what the menu was made up of, he could not have told you. It was mostly Mabel, I think, from the soup to the dessert. CHAPTER XIV BAD NEWS Grounds that were soggy and wet, and a dreary drizzle of rain, prevented a game next day, and there was much disappointment. Weather reports were eagerly scanned, and the skies looked at more than once. "I think it'll clear to-morrow," remarked Joe to Charlie Hall. "I sure hope so. I want to see what sort of meat these Newkirk fellows are made of since we played against 'em last." "Oh, they're husky enough, as we found, Charlie," for there had been several league games between this team and the Pittston nine, but in the latter town. Now the tables might be turned. "They've got some new players," went on Charlie, "and a pitcher who's said to be a marvel." "Well, you've got me," laughed Joe, in simulated pride. "That's right, old man, and I'm glad of it. I think you're going to pull us to the top in this pennant race." "Oh, I haven't such a swelled head as to think that," spoke Joe, "but I'm going to work hard--I guess we all are. But what does it look like for Clevefield to-day? You know she's got to lose and we've got to win to put us on top." "I know. There wasn't any report of rain there, so the game must be going on. We ought to get results soon. Come on over to the ticker." It was after luncheon, and the game in Clevefield, with the Washburg nine, would soon start. Then telegraphic reports of the contest that, in a way, meant so much for Pittston would begin coming in. After the delightful dinner Joe had had with Mabel his pleasure was further added to when he went with her to the theatre. Reggie telephoned that he could not get back in time, and asked Joe to take his sister, she having the tickets. Of course the young pitcher was delighted, but he could not get over the uneasy feeling that young Varley was suspicious of him. "Hang it all!" exclaimed Joe, mentally. "I've just got to get that out of his mind! But how? Only by finding his watch or Mabel's jewelry, and I suppose I might as well look for a needle in a haystack." Joe sat in the hotel corridor, looking over a newspaper, and waiting for some news of the Clevefield game, as many of his team were doing. An item caught the eye of the young pitcher that caused him to start. It was to the effect that the unfortunate Pop Dutton had been arrested for creating a scene at a ball park. "Poor old man!" mused Joe. "I wish I could do something for him. I feel sort of responsible for him, since I saved his life. I wonder if he couldn't be straightened up? I must have another talk with Gregory about him." A yell from some of the players gathered about the news ticker in the smoking room brought Joe to his feet. "What is it?" he called to Charlie Hall. "Washburg got three runs the first inning and Clevefield none!" was the answer. "It looks as if Washburg would have a walk-over. And you know what that means for us." "Yes, if we win to-morrow." "Win! Of course we'll win, you old bone-head!" cried Charlie, clapping Joe affectionately on the back. Further news from the game was eagerly awaited and when the last inning had been ticked off, and Washburg had won by a margin of three runs, the Pittston team was delighted. Not at the downfall of fellow players, understand, but because it gave Pittston the coveted chance to be at the top of the first division. "Boys, we've just got to win that game to-morrow!" cried Gregory. "If they don't I'll make them live on bread and water for a week!" cried Trainer McGuire, with a twinkle in his blue eyes. The second day following proved all that could be desired from a weather standpoint for a ball game, the grounds having dried up meanwhile. It was bright and sunny, but not too warm, and soon after breakfast the team was ordered out on the field for light practice. This was necessary as their day of comparative idleness, added to the damp character of the weather, had made them all a little stiff. "Get limbered up, boys," advised Jimmie Mack. "You'll need all the speed and power you can bring along to-day. Joe, how's your arm?" "All right, I guess," answered the young pitcher. "Well, do some light practice. Come on. I'll catch for you a while." There had been some slight changes made in the Newkirk grounds since last season, and Gregory wanted his players to familiarize themselves with the new layout. Joe was delighted with the diamond. Though Newkirk was a smaller city than Pittston the ball field was kept in better shape. "Of course it isn't the Polo Grounds," Joe confided to Charlie Hall, "but they're pretty good." "I wonder if I'll ever get a chance to play on the Polo Grounds?" murmured Charlie, half enviously. "It must be great!" "It is!" cried Joe, with memories of the Yale-Princeton contest he had taken part in there. "And I'm going to do it again, some time!" "You are?" "I sure am. I'm going to break into a big league if it's possible." "Good for you, Joe!" "Still, the grounds aren't everything, Charlie," went on Joe. "We've got to play the best ball to win the game." "And we'll do it, too! Don't worry." The practice was worked up to a fast and snappy point, and then Gregory sent his men for a brisk walk, to be followed by a shower bath in preparation for the afternoon contest. Certainly when the Pittston team started for the grounds again they were a bright, clean-looking lot of players. Joe was wondering whether he would have a chance to pitch, but, following his usual policy, the crafty manager did not announce his battery until the last moment. There was a big crowd out to see the game, for the rivalry in the Central League was now intense, and interest was well keyed up. Joe had seen Mabel and her brother start for the grounds, and he wished, more than ever before, perhaps, that he would be sent to the mound to do battle for his team. The Newkirk men were out on the diamond when the Pittston players arrived, and, after an interval the latter team was given a chance to warm up. Joe and the other pitchers began their usual practice, and Joe felt that he could do himself justice if he could but get a chance. There was silence as the batteries were announced, and Joe could not help feeling a keen disappointment as Tooley, the south-paw, was named to open the contest. "There's a lot of queer batters on the Newkirks," Joe heard Bob Newton, the right fielder, say to Terry Hanson, who played left. "I guess that's the reason the old man wants Tooley to feel them out." "I reckon." "Play ball!" droned the umpire as the gong clanged, and George Lee, the second baseman, who was first at bat, strolled out to pick up his club. The first part of the game was rather a surprise to the Pittston players. Lee was struck out with amazing ease, and even Jimmie Mack, who had the best batting average of any on the team, "fell" for a delusive "fade-away" ball. "But I've got his number!" he exclaimed, as he nodded at the opposing pitcher. "He won't get me again." Pittston did not get a run, though she had three men on bases when the last one went down, and it looked as though her chances were good. Then came more disappointment when Tooley failed to get his batters, and Newkirk had two runs chalked up to her credit. The second inning was almost like the first and then at the proper time, Gregory, with a decisive gesture, signalled to Joe. "You'll have to pitch us out of this hole!" he said, grimly. Collin, who had said openly that he expected to be called on, looked blackly at our hero. As Joe started to take his place a messenger boy handed him a telegram. He was a little startled at first, and then laughed at his fears. "Probably good wishes from home," he murmured, as he tore open the envelope. And then the bright day seemed to go black as he read: "Your father hurt in explosion. No danger of death, but may lose eyesight. If you can come home do so. MOTHER." CHAPTER XV JOE'S PLUCK Joe's distress at receiving the bad news was so evident, at least to Gregory, that the manager hurried over to the young pitcher and asked: "What's the matter, old man? Something upset you?" For answer Joe simply held out the message. "I say! That's too bad!" exclaimed Gregory sympathetically. "Let's see now. You can get a train in about an hour, I think. Skip right off. I'll make it all right." It was his business to know much about trains, and he was almost a "walking timetable." "Awfully sorry, old man!" he went on. "Come back to us when you can. You'll find us waiting." Joe made up his mind quickly. It was characteristic of him to do this, and it was one of the traits that made him, in after years, such a phenomenal pitcher. "I--I'm not going home," said Joe, quietly. "Not going home! Why?" cried Gregory. "At least not until after the game," went on Joe. "The telegram says my father isn't in any immediate danger, and I could not gain much by starting now. I'm going to stay and pitch. That is, if you'll let me." "Let you! Of course I'll let you. But can you stand the gaff, old man? I don't want to seem heartless, but the winning of this game means a lot to me, and if you don't feel just up to the mark----" "Oh, I can pitch--at least, I think I can," said Joe, not wishing to appear too egotistical. "I mean this won't make me flunk." "That's mighty plucky of you, Joe, and I appreciate it. Now don't make a mistake. It won't hurt your standing with the club a bit if you go now. I'll put Collin in, and----" "I'll pitch!" said Joe, determinedly. "After that it will be time enough to start for home." "All right," assented Gregory. "But if you want to quit at any time, give me the signal. And I'll tell you what I'll do. Have you a 'phone at home?" "Yes." "Then I'll have someone get your house on the long distance wire, and find out just how your father is. I'll also send word that you'll start to-night." "That will be fine!" cried Joe, and already he felt better. The bad news had shocked him for the time, though. "Play ball!" called the umpire, for there had been a little delay over the talk between Joe and the manager. "Just keep quiet about it, though," advised the manager to the young pitcher. "It may only upset things if it gets out. Are you sure you can stand it?" "I--I'm going to stand it!" responded Joe, gamely. He faced his first batter with a little sense of uncertainty. But Nelson, who was catching, nodded cheerfully at him, and gave a signal for a certain ball that Joe, himself, had decided would best deceive that man with the stick. He sent it in rushingly, and was delighted to hear the umpire call: "Strike one!" "That's the way!" "Two more like that and he's a goner!" "Slam 'em in, Matson!" Joe flushed with pleasure at the encouraging cries. He wondered if Mabel was joining in the applause that frequently swept over the grandstand at a brilliant play. Again Joe threw, and all the batter could do was to hit a foul, which was not caught. Then came a ball, followed by another, and Joe began to get a bit anxious. "That's the boy!" welled up encouragingly from the crowd. Joe tried a moist ball--a delivery of which he was not very certain as yet, but the batter "fell for it" and whirled around as he missed it cleanly. "Three strikes--batter's out!" howled the umpire, and the man went back to the bench. The next candidate managed to get a single, but was caught stealing second, and Joe had a chance to retire his third man. It was a chance not to be missed, and he indulged in a few delaying tactics in order to place, in his mind, the hitter and his special peculiarities. With a snap of his wrist Joe sent in an out curve, but the manner in which the batter leaped for it, missing it only by a narrow margin, told our hero that this ball was just "pie," for his antagonist. "Mustn't do that again," thought Joe. "He'll slam it over the fence if I do." The next--an in-shoot--was hit, but only for a foul, and Joe, whose heart had gone into his throat as he heard the crack of the bat, breathed easier. Then, just to puzzle the batter, after delivering a "moistener" that fell off and was called a ball, Joe sent in a "teaser"--a slow one--that fooled the player, who flied out to shortstop. Joe was beginning to feel more confidence in himself. The others of the Pittston team grinned encouragingly at Joe, and Gregory clasped his arms about the young pitcher as he came in to the bench. "Can you stick it out?" he asked. "Sure! Have you any word yet on the 'phone?" "No. Not yet. I'm expecting Hastings back any minute," naming a substitute player who had not gone into the game, and whom the manager had sent to call up Joe's house. "But are you sure you want to keep on playing?" "Sure," answered Joe. He had a glimpse of Collin, and fancied that the eager look on the other pitcher's face turned to one of disappointment. "You're beating me out," said Tooley, the south-paw, with an easy laugh. "I'm sorry," said Joe, for he knew how it felt to be supplanted. "Oh, I'm not worrying. My turn will come again. One can't be up to the mark all the while." Pittston managed to get a run over the plate that inning, and when it came time for Joe to go to the mound again he had better news to cheer him up. Word had come over the telephone that Mr. Matson, while making some tests at the Harvester Works, had been injured by an explosion of acids. Some had gone into his face, burning him badly. His life was in no danger, but his eyesight might be much impaired, if not lost altogether. Nothing could be told in this respect for a day or so. Hastings had been talking to Joe's sister Clara, to whom he explained that Joe would start for home as soon as the game was over. Mrs. Matson was bearing up well under the strain, the message said, and Joe was told not to worry. "Now I'll be able to do better," said the young pitcher, with a little smile. "Thanks for the good news." "You're doing all right, boy!" cried Gregory. "I think we're going to win!" But it was not to be as easy as saying it. The Newkirk men fought hard, and to the last inch. They had an excellent pitcher--a veteran--who was well backed up with a fielding force, and every run the Pittstons got they fully earned. Joe warmed up to his work, and to the howling delight of the crowd struck out two men in succession, after one had gone out on a pop fly, while there were two on bases. That was a test of nerve, for something might have broken loose at any moment. But Joe held himself well in hand, and watched his batters. He so varied his delivery that he puzzled them, and working in unison with Nelson very little got past them. Then came a little spurt on the part of Newkirk, and they "sweetened" their score until there was a tie. It was in the ninth inning, necessitating another to decide the matter. "If we can get one run we'll have a chance to win," declared Gregory. "That is, if you can hold them in the last half of the tenth, Joe." "I'll do my best!" "I know you will, my boy!" For a time it looked as though it could not be done. Two of the Pittston players went down in rapid succession before the magnificent throwing of the Newkirk pitcher. Then he made a fatal mistake. He "fed" a slow ball to John Holme, the big third baseman, who met it squarely with his stick, and when the shouting was over John was safely on the third sack. "Now bring him home, Joe!" cried the crowd, as the young pitcher stepped to the plate. It was not the easiest thing in the world to stand up there and face a rival pitcher, with the knowledge that your hit might win the game by bringing in the man on third. And especially after the advent of the telegram. But Joe steadied himself, and smiled at his opponent. He let the first ball go, and a strike was called on him. There was a groan from grandstand and bleachers. "Take your time, Joe!" called Gregory, soothingly. "Get what you want." It came. The ball sailed for the plate at the right height, and Joe correctly gaged it. His bat met it squarely, with a resounding "plunk!" "That's the boy!" "Oh, what a beaut!" "Take third on that!" "Come on home, you ice wagon!" "Run! Run! Run!" It was a wildly shrieking mob that leaped to its feet, cheering on Joe and Holme. On and on ran the young pitcher. He had a confused vision of the centre fielder running back to get the ball which had dropped well behind him. Joe also saw Holme racing in from third. He could hear the yells of the crowd and fancied--though of course it could not be so--that he could hear the voice of Mabel calling to him. On and on ran Joe, and stopped, safe on second, Holme had gone in with the winning run. But that was all. The next man struck out, and Joe was left on the "half-way station." "But we're one ahead, and if we can hold the lead we've got 'em!" cried Gregory. "Joe, my boy, it's up to you! Can you hold 'em down?" He looked earnestly at the young pitcher. "I--I'll do it!" cried Joe. CHAPTER XVI A SLIM CHANCE There was an almost breathless silence as Joe walked to the mound to begin what he hoped would be the ending of the final inning of the game. If he could prevent, with the aid of his mates, the Newkirk team from gaining a run, the Pittstons would be at the top of the list. If not---- But Joe did not like to think about that. He was under a great nervous strain, not only because of the news concerning his father, but because of what his failure or success might mean to the club he had the honor to represent. "I've just got to win!" said Joe to himself. "Play ball!" called the umpire. Joe had been holding himself a little in reserve up to now; that is, he had not used the last ounce of ability that he had, for he could see that the game was going to be a hard one, and that a little added "punch" at the last moment might make or break for victory. The young pitcher had a good delivery of what is known as the "jump" ball. It is sent in with all the force possible, and fairly jumps as it approaches the plate. It is often used to drive the batsman away from the rubber. It is supposed to go straight for the plate, or the inside corner, and about shoulder high. A long preliminary swing is needed for this ball, and it is pitched with an overhand delivery. Joe had practiced this until he was a fair master of it, but he realized that it was exhausting. Always after sending in a number of these his arm would be lame, and he was not good for much the next day. But now he thought the time had come to use it, varying it, of course, with other styles of delivery. "I've got to hold 'em down!" thought Joe. He realized that the attention of all was on him, and he wished he could catch the eyes of a certain girl he knew sat in the grandstand watching him. Joe also felt that Collin, his rival, was watching him narrowly, and he could imagine the veteran pitcher muttering: "Why do they send in a young cub like that when so much depends on it? Why didn't Gregory call me?" But the manager evidently knew what he was doing. "Play ball!" called the umpire again, at the conclusion of the sending in of a practice ball or two. Joe caught his breath sharply. "It's now or never!" he thought as he grasped the ball in readiness for the jump. "It's going to strain me, but if I go home for a day or so I can rest up." In went the horsehide sphere with great force. It accomplished just what Joe hoped it would. The batter instinctively stepped back, but there was no need. The ball neatly clipped the corner of the plate, and the umpire called: "Strike one!" Instantly there was a howl from the crowd. "That's the way!" "Two more, Matson, old man!" "Make him stand up!" "Slam it out, Johnson!" The batter had his friends as well as Joe. But the battle was not half won yet. There were two men to be taken care of after this one was disposed of, and he still had his chances. Joe signalled to his catcher that he would slip in a "teaser" now, and the man in the wire mask nodded his understanding. The batter smiled, in anticipation of having a "ball" called on him, but was amazed, not to say angry, when he heard from the umpire the drawling: "Strike--two!" Instantly there came a storm of protest, some from the crowd, a half-uttered sneer from the batter himself, but more from his manager and team-mates on the players' bench. "Forget it!" sharply cried the umpire, supreme master that he was. "I said 'strike,' and a strike it goes. Play ball!" Joe was delighted. It showed that they were now to have fair treatment from the deciding power, though during the first part of the game the umpire's decisions had not been altogether fair to Pittston. The crowd was breathlessly eager again, as Joe wound up once more. Then there was a mad yell as the batter hit the next ball. "Go on! Go on! You----" "Foul!" yelled the umpire, and there was a groan of disappointment. Joe was a little nervous, so it is no wonder that he was called for a ball on his next delivery. But following that he sent in as neat an out curve as could be desired. The batter missed it by a foot, and throwing his stick down in disgust walked to the bench. "Only two more, old man!" called Gregory encouragingly. "Only two more. We've got their number." Then came an attempt on the part of the crowd, which naturally was mostly in sympathy with their home team, to get Joe's "goat." He was hooted at and reviled. He was advised to go back to college, and to let a man take his place. Joe only grinned and made no answer. The nervous strain under which he was playing increased. He wanted, no one perhaps but Gregory knew how much, to get away and take a train for home, to be with his suffering father. But there were two more men to put out. And Joe did it. That is, he struck out the next man. The third one singled, and when the best batter of the opposing team came up, Joe faced him confidently. After two balls had been called, and the crowd was at the fever point of expectancy, Joe got a clean strike. It was followed by a foul, and then came a little pop fly that was easily caught by the young pitcher, who hardly had to move from his mound. "Pittston wins!" "Pittston is up head!" "Three cheers for Joe Matson!" They were given with a will, too, for the crowd loved a plucky player, even if it was on the other side. But Joe did not stay to hear this. He wanted to catch the first train for home, and hurried into the dressing room. He spoke to Gregory, saying that he was going, and would be back as soon as he could. "Take your time, old man; take your time," said the manager kindly. "You did a lot for us to-day, and now I guess we can hold our own until you come back." There were sympathetic inquiries from Joe's fellow players when they heard what had happened. Joe wanted to say good-bye to Mabel, but did not quite see how he could do it. He could hardly find her in that crowd. But chance favored him, and as he was entering the hotel to get his grip, he met her. "Oh, it was splendid!" she cried with girlish enthusiasm, holding out her slim, pretty hand. "It was fine! However did you do it?" "I guess because I knew you were watching me!" exclaimed Joe with a boldness that he himself wondered at later. "Oh, that's awfully nice of you to say," she answered, with a blush. "I wish I could believe it!" "You can!" said Joe, still more boldly. "But you--you look as though something had happened," she went on, for surely Joe's face told that. "There has," he said, quietly, and he told of the accident to his father. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, clasping his hand again. "And you pitched after you heard the news! How brave of you! Is there anything we can do--my brother--or I?" she asked anxiously. "Thank you, no," responded Joe, in a low voice. "I am hoping it will not be serious." "You must let me know--let Reggie know," she went on. "We shall be here for some days yet." Joe promised to write, and then hurried off to catch his train. It was a long ride to Riverside, and to Joe, who was all impatience to be there, the train seemed to be the very slowest kind of a freight, though it really was an express. But all things must have an end, and that torturing journey did. Joe arrived in his home town late one afternoon, and took a carriage to the house. He saw Clara at the window, and could see that she had been crying. She slipped to the door quickly, and held up a warning finger. "What--what's the matter?" asked Joe in a hoarse whisper. "Is--is he worse?" "No, he's a little better, if anything. But he has just fallen asleep, and so has mother. She is quite worn out. Come in and I'll tell you about it. Oh, Joe! I'm so glad you're home!" Clara related briefly the particulars of the accident, and then the doctor came in. By this time Mrs. Matson had awakened and welcomed her son. "What chance is there, Doctor," asked the young pitcher; "what chance to save his eyesight?" "Well, there's a chance; but, I'm sorry to say, it is only a slim one," was the answer. "It's too soon to say with certainty, however. Another day will have to pass. I hope all will be well, but now all I can say is that there is a chance." Joe felt his heart beating hard, and then, bracing himself to meet the emergency if it should come, he put his arm around his weeping mother, and said, as cheerfully as he could: "Well, I believe chance is going to be on our side. I'm going to use a bit of baseball slang, and say I have a 'hunch' that we'll win out!" "That's the way to talk!" cried Dr. Birch, heartily. CHAPTER XVII OLD POP AGAIN Dr. Birch remained for some little time at the Matson home, going over in detail with Joe just what the nature of his father's injuries were. In brief, while experimenting on a certain new method of chilling steel, for use in a corn sheller, Mr. Matson mixed some acids together. Unknown to him a workman had, accidentally, substituted one very strong acid for a weak one. When the mixture was put into an iron pot there was an explosion. Some of the acid, and splinters of iron, flew up into the face of the inventor. "And until I can tell whether the acid, or a piece of steel, injured his eyes, Joe, I can't say for sure what we shall have to do," concluded the doctor. "You mean about an operation?" "Yes. If we have to perform one it will be a very delicate one, and it will cost a lot of money; there are only a few men in this country capable of doing it, and their fees, naturally, are high. But we won't think of that now. I think I will go in and see how he is. If he is well enough I want you to see him. It will do him good." "And me, too," added Joe, who was under a great strain, though he did not show it. Mr. Matson was feeling better after his rest, and Joe was allowed to come into the darkened room. He braced himself for the ordeal. "How are you, Son," said the inventor weakly. "Fine, Dad. But I'm sorry to see you laid up this way." "Well, Joe, it couldn't be helped. I should have been more careful. But I guess I'll pull through. How is baseball?" "Couldn't be better, Dad! We're at the top of the heap! I just helped to win the deciding game before I came on." "Yes, I heard your mother talking about the telephone message. I'm glad you didn't come away without playing. Have you the pennant yet?" "Oh, no. That won't be decided for a couple of months. But we're going to win it!" "That's what I like to hear!" Dr. Birch did not permit his patient to talk long, and soon Joe had to leave the room. The physician said later that he thought there was a slight improvement in Mr. Matson's condition, though of course the matter of saving his eyesight could not yet be decided. "But if we do have to have an operation," said Mrs. Matson. "I don't see where the money is coming from. Your father's investments are turning out so badly----" "Don't worry about that, Mother," broke in Joe. "But I have to, Joe. If an operation is needed we'll have to get the money. And from where is more than I know," she added, hopelessly. "I'll get the money!" exclaimed the young pitcher in energetic tones. "How?" asked his mother. "I'm sure you can't make enough at ball playing." "No, perhaps not at ordinary ball playing, Mother, but at the end of the season, when the deciding games for the pennant are played off, they always draw big crowds, and the players on the winning team come in for a good share of the receipts. I'll use mine for the operation." "But your team may not win the pennant, Joe," said Clara. "We're going to win!" cried the young pitcher. "I feel it in my bones! Don't worry, Mother." But, naturally, Mrs. Matson could not help it, in spite of Joe's brave words. Clara, though, was cheered up. "There's more to baseball than I thought," she said. "There's more in it than I'll ever learn," admitted Joe, frankly. "Of course our pennant-deciding games aren't like the world series, but I understand they bring in a lot of money." Mr. Matson was quite improved the next day, but Dr. Birch, and another physician, who was called in consultation, could not settle the matter about the eyes. "It will be fully a month before we can decide about the operation," said the expert. "In the meanwhile he is in no danger, and the delay will give him a chance to get back his strength. We shall have to wait." As nothing could be gained by Joe's staying home, and as his baseball money was very much needed at this trying time, it was decided that he had better rejoin his team. He bade his parents and sister good-bye, and arranged to have word sent to him every day as to his father's condition. "And don't you worry about that money, Mother," he said as he kissed her. "I'll be here with it when it's needed." "Oh, Joe!" was all she said, but she looked happier. Joe went back to join the team at Delamont, where they were scheduled to play four games, and then they would return to their home town of Pittston. From the newspapers Joe learned that his team had taken three of the four contests in Newkirk, and might have had the fourth but for bad pitching on the part of Collin. "Maybe he won't be so bitter against me now," thought Joe. "He isn't such a wonder himself." Joe was glancing over the paper as the train sped on toward Delamont. He was looking over other baseball news, and at the scores of the big leagues. "I wonder when I'll break into them?" mused Joe, as he glanced rather enviously at several large pictures of celebrated players in action. "I'm going to do it as soon as I can." Then the thought came to him of how hard it was for a young and promising player to get away from the club that controlled him. "The only way would be to slump in form," said Joe to himself, "and then even if he did get his release no other team would want him. It's a queer game, and not altogether fair, but I suppose it has to be played that way. Well, no use worrying about the big leagues until I get a call from one. There'll be time enough then to wonder about my release." As Joe was about to lay aside the paper he was aware of a controversy going on a few seats ahead of him. The conductor had stopped beside an elderly man and was saying: "You'll have to get off, that's all there is to it. You deliberately rode past your station, and you're only trying to see how far you can go without being caught. You get off at the next station, or if you don't I'll stop the train when I get to you and put you off, even if it's in the middle of a trestle. You're trying to beat your way, and you know it! You had a ticket only to Clearville, and you didn't get off." "Oh, can't you pass me on to Delamont?" pleaded the man. "I admit I was trying to beat you. But I've got to get to Delamont. I've the promise of work there, and God knows I need it. I'll pay the company back when I earn it." "Huh!" sneered the conductor, "that's too thin. I've heard that yarn before. No, sir; you get off at the next station, or I'll have the brakeman run you off. Understand that! No more monkey business. Either you give me money or a ticket, or off you go." "All right," was the short answer. "I reckon I'll have to do it." The man turned and at the sight of his face Joe started. "Pop Dutton!" exclaimed the young pitcher, hardly aware that he had spoken aloud. "That's me," was the answer. "Oh--why--it's Joe!" he added, and his face lighted up. Then a look of despair came over it. Joe decided quickly. No matter what Gregory and the others said he had determined to help this broken-down old ball player. "What's the fare to Delamont?" Joe asked the conductor. "One-fifty, from the last station." "I'll pay it," went on Joe, handing over a bill. The ticket-puncher looked at him curiously, and then, without a word, made the change, and gave Joe the little excess slip which was good for ten cents, to be collected at any ticket office. "Say, Joe Matson, that's mighty good of you!" exclaimed Old Pop Dutton, as Joe came to sit beside him. "Mighty good!" "That's all right," spoke Joe easily. "What are you going to do in Delamont?" "I've got a chance to be assistant ground-keeper at the ball park. I--I'm trying to--trying to get back to a decent life, Joe, but--but it's hard work." "Then I'm going to help you!" exclaimed the young pitcher, impulsively. "I'm going to ask Gregory if he can't give you something to do. Do you think you could play ball again?" "I don't know, Joe," was the doubtful answer. "They say when they get--get like me--that they can't come back. I couldn't pitch, that's sure. I've got something the matter with my arm. Doctor said a slight operation would cure me, and I might be better than ever, but I haven't any money for operations. But I could be a fair fielder, I think, and maybe I could fatten up my batting average." "Would you like to try?" asked Joe. "Would I?" The man's tone was answer enough. "Then I'm going to get you the chance," declared Joe. "But you'll have to take care of yourself, and--get in better shape." "I know it, Joe. I'm ashamed of myself--that's what I am. I've gone pretty far down, but I believe I can come back. I've quit drinking, and I've cut my old acquaintances." Joe looked carefully at Pop Dutton. The marks of the life he had led of late were to be seen in his trembling hands, and in his blood-shot eyes. But there was a fine frame and a good physique to build on. Joe had great hopes. "You come on to Delamont with me," said the young pitcher, "and I'll look after you until you get straightened out. Then we'll see what the doctor says, and Gregory, too. I believe he'll give you the chance." "Joe! I don't know how to thank you!" said the man earnestly. "If I can ever do something for you--but I don't believe I ever can." Pop Dutton little realized how soon the time was to come when he could do Joe a great favor. CHAPTER XVIII IN DESPAIR Joe and Pop Dutton arrived at the hotel in Delamont ahead of the team, which was on the way from Newkirk after losing the last game of the four. But at that Pittston was still in the lead, and now all energies would be bent on increasing the percentage so that even the loss of a game now and then would not pull the club from its place. "Now look here, Joe," said Pop, when he and Joe had eaten, "this may be all right for me, but it isn't going to do you any good." "What do you mean?" "I mean consorting with me in this way. I can't stay at this hotel with you, the other players would guy you too much." "I don't care about that." "Well, but I do. Now, look here. I appreciate a whole lot what you're doing for me, but it would be better if I could go to some other hotel. Then, if you can, you get Gregory to give me a chance. I'll work at anything--assistant trainer, or anything--to get in shape again. But it would be better for me not to stay here where the team puts up. "If things go right, and I can go back to Pittston with the boys, I'll go to some quiet boarding house. Being at a hotel isn't any too good for me. It brings back old times." Joe saw the logic of Pop's talk, and consented. He gave the broken-down player enough money to enable him to live quietly for several days. When the team came Joe determined to put the question to the manager. As Joe had registered he looked over the book to see if he knew any of the guests at the hotel. Though he did not admit so to himself he had half a forlorn hope that he might find the name of Mabel and her brother there. He even looked sharply at the various pieces of luggage as they were carried in by the bell boys, but he did not see the curious valise that had played such an unpleasant part in his life. Joe was feeling very "fit." The little rest, even though it was broken by anxiety concerning his father, had done him good, and the arm that had been strained in the game that meant so much to Pittston was in fine shape again. Joe felt able to pitch his very best. "And I guess we'll have to do our prettiest if we want to keep at the top of the heap," he reasoned. Then the team arrived, and noisily and enthusiastically welcomed Joe to their midst again. Seeking the first opportunity, Joe had a talk with the manager concerning Pop Dutton. At first Gregory would not listen, and tried to dissuade Joe from having anything to do with the old player. But the young pitcher had determined to go on with his rescue work, and pleaded with such good effect that finally the manager said: "Well, I'll give him a chance, providing he shows that he can keep straight. I don't believe he can, but, for your sake, I'm willing to make the experiment. I've done it before, and been taken in every time. I'm sure this will only be another, but you might as well learn your lesson now as later." "I don't believe I'll have much to learn," answered Joe with a smile. "I think Pop can come back." "The players who can do that are as scarce as hens' teeth," was the rejoinder of the manager. "But I'll take this last chance. Of course he can't begin to play right off the bat. He's got to get in training. By the way, I suppose he has his release?" The manager looked questioningly at Joe. "Oh, yes. He's free and clear to make any contract he likes. He told me that." "I imagined so. No one wants him. I'm afraid I'm foolish for taking him on, but I'll do it to please you. I'll take his option, and pay him a small sum." "Then I'll do the rest," returned Joe, eagerly. "I'm going to have his arm looked at, and then couldn't you get him a place where he could do out-door work--say help keep our grounds in shape?" "Well, I'll think about it, Joe. But about yourself? Are you ready to sail in again?" "I sure am. What are the prospects?" "Well, they might be better. Collin isn't doing any too well. I'm thinking of buying another pitcher to use when there's not much at stake. Gus Harrison is laid up--sprained his knee a little making a mean slide. I've got to do some shifting, and I need every game I can get from now on. But I guess we'll come out somehow." But the team did not come out "somehow." It came out "nohow," for it lost its first game with Delamont the next day, and this, coupled with the winning of a double-header by Clevefield, put that team in the lead and sent Pittston to second place. Joe worked hard, so hard that he began to go to pieces in the seventh inning, and had to be replaced by Tooley, who came into the breach wonderfully well, and, while he did not save the day, he prevented a disgraceful beating. Joe was in the dumps after this despite the cheerful, optimistic attitude of the manager. Joe's one consolation, though, was that Pop Dutton was in the way of being provided for. The old pitcher was holding himself rigidly in line, and taking care of himself. He had a talk with Gregory--a shame-faced sort of talk on Pop's part--and was promised a place at the Pittston ball park. It was agreed that he would go into training, and try to get back to his old form. Gregory did not believe this could be done, but if a miracle should happen he realized that he would own a valuable player--one that would be an asset to his club. And then something happened. How it came about no one could say for a certainty, but Joe went "stale." He fell off woefully in his pitching, and the loss of several games was attributable directly to his "slump." Joe could not account for it, nor could his friends; but the fact remained. Pittston dropped to third place, and the papers which gave much space to the doings of the Central League began to make sarcastic remarks. On the diamond, too, Joe had to suffer the gibes of the crowd, which is always ready to laud a successful player, and only too ready, also, to laugh at one who has a temporary setback. Joe was in despair, but in his letters home he kept cheerful. He did not want his folks to worry. Regularly he sent money to his mother, taking out of his salary check almost more than he could really afford. Also he felt the drain of looking after Pop, but now that the latter had regular work on the diamond, keeping it in order, the old pitcher was, in a measure, self-supporting. Pop was rapidly becoming more like his former self, but it would take some time yet. He indulged in light practice, Joe often having him catch for him when no one else was available. As yet Pop attempted no pitching, the doctor to whom Joe took him warning him against it. "There will have to be a slight operation on certain muscles," said the medical man, "but I prefer to wait a bit before doing it. You will be in better shape then." "You're taking too much trouble about me, Joe," remarked the veteran player one day. "Not a bit too much," responded Joe, heartily. From Joe's father came slightly encouraging news. The need of an operation was not yet settled, and Mr. Matson's general health had improved. "And we can bless baseball a lot!" wrote Mrs. Matson to her son. "I'm sorry I ever said anything against it, Joe. If it were not for the money you make at the game I don't know what we'd do now." Joe was glad his mother saw matters in a different light, but he was also a little disturbed. His pitching was not what it should be, and he felt, if his form fell off much more, that he would not last long, even in a small league. Occasionally he did well--even brilliantly, and the team had hopes. Then would come a "slump," and they would lose a much-needed game that would have lifted them well toward front place. Joe's despair grew, and he wondered what he could do to get back to his good form. Clevefield, the ancient rivals of Pittston, were now firmly entrenched in first place, and there remained only about a quarter of the league season yet to play. "We've got to hustle if we want that pennant!" said Gregory, and his tone was not encouraging. Joe thought of what he had promised about having the money for his father's operation, and wondered whether he could do as he said. But I must not give the impression that all was unhappiness and gloom in the Pittston team. True, the members felt badly about losing, but their nerve did not desert them, and they even joked grimly when the play went against them. Then came a little diversion. They played a contest against a well-known amateur nine for charity, and the game was made the occasion for considerable jollity. Gregory sent in most of his second string players against the amateurs, but kept Joe as a twirler, for he wanted him to see what he could do against some fairly good hitters. And, to Joe's delight, he seemed more like his old self. He had better control of the ball, his curves "broke" well and he was a source of dismay to the strong amateurs. Of course Pittston, even with her substitutes in the game, fairly walked away from the others, the right-handed batters occasionally doing left stick-work, on purpose to strike out. But the little change seemed to do them all good, and when the next regular contest came off Pittston won handily, Joe almost equalling his best record. It was at a hotel in Buffington, whither they had gone to play a series of games with that team, that, one afternoon, as Joe entered his room, after the game, he surprised a colored bell boy hurriedly leaving it. "Did you want me?" asked the young pitcher. "No, sah, boss! 'Deed an' I didn't want yo'all," stammered the dusky youth. "Then what were you doing in my room?" asked Joe, suspiciously. "I--I were jest seein', boss, if yo'all had plenty ob ice water. Dat's whut I was doin', boss! 'Deed I was." Joe noticed that the boy backed out of the room, and held one hand behind him. With a quick motion the young pitcher whirled the intruder about and disclosed the fact that the colored lad had taken one of Joe's neckties. But, no sooner had our hero caught sight of it than he burst into a peal of laughter which seemed to startle the boy more than a storm of accusation. CHAPTER XIX A NEW HOLD "What--what all am de mattah, Massa Matson?" asked the colored lad, his eyes bulging, and showing so much white that the rest of his face seemed a shade or two darker. "What all am de mattah? Ain't yo'all put out 'bout me takin' dish yeah tie? I didn't go fo' to steal it, suh! 'Deed an' I didn't. I were jest sort ob borrowin' it fo' to wear at a party I'se gwine t' attend dis ebenin'." "Put out about you!" laughed Joe. "Indeed I'm not. But don't say you're going to borrow that tie," and he pointed to the one the lad had tried unsuccessfully to conceal. It was of very gaudy hue--broad stripes and prominent dots. "Don't say you were going to borrow it." "'Deed an' dat's all I were gwine t' do, Massa Matson. I didn't go fo' t' take it fo' keeps. I was a gwine t' ask yo'all fo' de lend ob it, but I thought mebby yo'all wasn't comin' in time, so I jest made up mah mind t' 'propriate it on mah own lookout, an' I was fixin' t' put it back 'fo' yo'all come in. I won't hurt it, 'deed an' I won't, an' I'll bring yo'all ice water any time yo'all wants it. I--I'd laik mighty much, Massa Matson, t' buy dish yeah tie offen yo'all." "Buy it!" cried Joe, still laughing, though it was evident that the colored lad could not understand why. "Well, suh, that is, not exactly _buy_ it, 'case I ain't got no money, but yo'all needn't gib me no tips, suh, fo' a--fo' a long time, an' I could buy it dat way. Yes, suh, you needn't gib me no tips fo' two weeks. An' yo'all is so generous, Massa Matson, dat in two weeks' time I'd hab dis tie paid fo'. It's a mighty pert tie, it suah am!" He gazed admiringly at it. "Take it, for the love of mush!" cried Joe. "I'm glad you have it!" "Yo'all am glad, Massa Matson?" repeated the lad, as though he had not heard aright. "Sure! That tie's been a nightmare to me ever since I bought it. I don't know what possessed me to buy a cross section of the rainbow in the shape of a scarf; but I did it in a moment of aberration, I reckon. Take it away, Sam, and never let me see it again." "Does yo'all really mean dat?" "Certainly." "Well, suh, I thanks yo'all fo' de compliment--I suah does. An' yo'all ain't vexted wif me?" "Not at all!" "An'--an' yo'all won't stop giving me tips?" "No, Sam." "Golly! Dat's fine! I suah does thank you, mightily, suh! Won't all dem odder coons open dere eyes when dey sees me sportin' dis yeah tie! Yum-yum! I gass so!" and Sam bounced out of the room before Joe might possibly change his mind. The colored lad nearly ran into Charlie Hall, who was coming to have his usual chat with Joe, and the shortstop, seeing the tie dangling from the bell boy's hand, guessed what had happened. "Was he making free with your things, Joe?" asked Charlie, when Sam had disappeared around a corner of the hall. "Oh, I caught him taking my tie, that's all." "Yes, I did the same thing to one of the boys on my floor the other day. I gave him a flea in his ear, too." "And I gave Sam the tie," laughed Joe. "You _gave_ it to him?" "Yes, that thing has been haunting me. I never wore it but once and I got disgusted with it." Joe failed to state that Mabel had showed a dislike for the scarf, and that it was her implied opinion that had turned him against it. "You see," the young pitcher went on, "I didn't know just which of the fellows to give it to, and two or three times I've left it in my hotel room when we traveled on. And every blamed time some chambermaid would find it, give it to the clerk, and he'd forward it to me. That monstrosity of a scarf has been following me all over the circuit. "I was getting ready to heave it down some sewer hole, when I came in to find Sam 'borrowing' it. I had to laugh, and I guess he thought I was crazy. Anyhow he's got the tie, and I've gotten rid of it. So we're both satisfied." "Well, that's a good way to look at it. How are things, anyhow?" "They might, by a strain, be worse," answered Joe, a bit gloomily. The game that day had been a hard one, and Gregory had used a string of three pitchers, and had only been able to stop the winning streak of Buffington. Joe had been taken out after twirling for a few innings. "Yes, we didn't do ourselves very proud," agreed Charlie. "And to-morrow we're likely to be dumped. Our record won't stand much of that sort of thing." "Indeed it won't. Charlie, I've got to do something!" burst out Joe. "What is it? I can't see but what you're doing your best." "My hardest, maybe, but not my best. You see this league pitching is different from a college game. I didn't stop to figure out that I'd have to pitch a deal oftener than when I was at Yale. This is business--the other was fun." "You're tired, I guess." "That's it--I'm played out." "Why don't you take a vacation; or ask Gregory not to work you so often?" "Can't take any time off, Charlie. I need the money. As for playing the baby-act--I couldn't do that, either." "No, I reckon not. But what are you going to do?" "Hanged if I know. But I've got to do something to get back into form. We're going down." "I know it. Has Gregory said anything?" "No, he's been awfully decent about it, but I know he must think a lot. Yes, something's got to be done." Joe was rather gloomy, nor was Charlie in any too good spirits. In fact the whole team was in the "dumps," and when they lost the next game they were deeper in than ever. Some of the papers began running headlines "Pittston Loses Again!" It was galling. Jimmie Mack worked hard--so did Gregory--and he, and Trainer McGuire, devised all sorts of plans to get the team back in form again. But nothing seemed to answer. The Pittstons dropped to the rear of the first division, and only clung there by desperate work, and by poor playing on the part of other teams. In all those bitter, dreary days there were some bright spots for Joe, and he treasured them greatly. One was that his father was no worse, though the matter of the operation was not definitely settled. Another was that he heard occasionally from Mabel--her letters were a source of joy to him. Thirdly, Old Pop Dutton seemed to be "making good." He kept steadily at work, and had begun to do some real baseball practice. Joe wrote to him, and his letters were answered promptly. Even cynical Gregory admitted that perhaps, after all, the former star pitcher might come into his own again. "When will you give him a trial?" asked Joe, eagerly. "Oh, some day. I'll put him in the field when we're sure of an easy game." The time came when the tail-enders of the league arrived for a series of contests with Pittston, and Pop Dutton, to his delight, was allowed to play. There was nothing remarkable about it, but he made no errors, and once, taking a rather desperate chance on a long fly, he beat it out and retired the batter. He was roundly applauded for this, and it must have warmed his heart to feel that once more he was on the road he had left so long before. But coming back was not easy work. Joe realized this, and he knew the old pitcher must have had a hard struggle to keep on the narrow path he had marked out for himself. But Joe's influence was a great help--Dutton said so often. The other players, now that they found their former mate was not bothering them, begging money, or asking for loans, took more kindly to him. But few believed he could "come back," in the full meaning of the words. "He may be a fairly good fielder, and his batting average may beat mine," said Tooley, "but he'll never be the 'iron man' he once was." And nearly all agreed with him. Joe was faithful to his protegé. Often the two would saunter out to some quiet place and there pitch and catch for each other. And Joe's trained eye told him that the other's hand had lost little of its former cunning. Meanwhile the fortunes of Pittston did not improve much. Sometimes they would struggle to second place, only to slip back again, while victorious Clevefield held her place at the top. There was only one consolation--Pittston did not drop out of the first division. She never got lower than fourth. Joe was being used less and less on the pitching mound, and his heart was sore. He knew he could make good if only something would happen to give him back his nerve, or a certain something he lacked. But he could not understand what. Properly enough it was Pop Dutton who put him on the right track. The two were pitching and catching one day, when Joe delivered what he had always called a "fade-away" ball, made famous by Mathewson, of the New York Giants. As it sailed into Pop's big mitt the veteran called: "What was that, Joe?" "Fade-away, of course." "Show me how you hold the ball when you throw it." Joe did so. The old pitcher studied a moment, and then said: "Joe, you've got it wrong. Have you been pitching that way all the while?" "Always." "No wonder they have been hitting you. Let me show you something. Stand behind me." The old pitcher threw at the fence. Joe was amazed at the way the ball behaved. It would have puzzled the best of batters. "How did you do it?" asked Joe, wonderingly. "By using a different control, and holding the ball differently. I'll show you. You need a new hold." CHAPTER XX JOE'S TRIUMPH Then began a lesson, the learning of which proved of great value to Joe in his after life as a ball player. If Old Pop Dutton had not the nerve to "come back" as a pitcher in a big league, at least he could show a rising young one how to correct his faults. And a fault Joe certainly had. For several years he had been throwing the fade-away ball in the wrong manner. Not entirely wrong, to be sure, or he never would have attained the results he had, but it was sufficiently wrong to prevent him from having perfect control of that style of ball, and perfect control is the first law of pitching. For some time the two practiced, unobserved, and Joe was glad of this. He felt more hopeful than at any time since his team had commenced to "slump." "Am I getting there?" Joe anxiously asked of the veteran, one day. "Indeed you are, boy! But that's enough for to-day. You are using some new muscles in your arm and hand, and I don't want you to tire out. You'll probably have to pitch to-morrow." "I only wish I could use this style ball." "It wouldn't be safe yet." "No, I suppose not. But I'm going to keep at it." It was not easy. It is always more difficult to "unlearn" a wrong way of doing a thing, and start over again on the right, than it is to learn the proper way at first. The old method will crop up most unexpectedly; and this happened in Joe's case more times than he liked. But he persisted and gradually he felt that he was able to deliver the fade-away as it ought to come from a pitcher's hand. Now he waited the opportunity. Meanwhile baseball matters were going on in rather slow fashion. All the teams, after the fierce rush and enthusiasm of the opening season, had now begun to fall off. The dog-days were upon them, and the heat seemed to take all the energy out of the men. Still the games went on, with Pittston rising and falling on the baseball thermometer from fourth to second place and occasionally remaining stationary in third. First place was within striking distance several times, but always something seemed to happen to keep Joe's team back. It was not always poor playing, though occasionally it was due to this. Often it was just fate, luck, or whatever you want to call it. Fielders would be almost certain of a ball rolling toward them, then it would strike a stone or a clod of dirt and roll to one side. Not much, perhaps, but enough so that the man would miss the ball, and the runner would be safe, by a fraction of time or space. It was heart-breaking. Joe continued to work at the proper fade-away and he was getting more and more expert in its use. His control was almost perfect. Still he hesitated to use it in a game, for he wanted to be perfect. A new pitcher--another south-paw, or left-hander--was purchased from another league club, at a high price, and for a time he made good. Joe was fearful lest he be given his release, for really he was not doing as well as he had at first. Truth to tell he was tired out, and Gregory should have realized this. But he did not until one day a sporting writer, in a sensible article telling of the chances of the different teams in the Central League for winning the pennant, wrote of Joe: "This young pitcher, of whom bright things were predicted at the opening of the season, has fallen off woefully. At times he shows brilliant flashes of form, but it seems to me that he is going stale. Gregory should give him a few days off." Then the manager "woke up." "Joe, is this true?" he asked, showing the youth the article. "Well, I am a bit tired, Gregory, but I'm not asking for a vacation," answered Joe. "I know you're not, but you're going to get it. You just take a run home and see your folks. When you come back I'm going to pitch you in a series of our hardest games. We go up against Clevefield again. You take a rest." Joe objected, but half-heartedly, and ended by taking the train for home. His heart felt lighter the moment he had started, and when he got to Riverside, and found his father much improved, Joe was more like himself than at any time since the opening of the ball season. His folks were exceedingly glad to see him, and Joe went about town, renewing old acquaintances, and being treated as a sort of local lion. Tom Davis, Joe's chum, looked at the young pitcher closely. "Joe," he said, "you're getting thin. Either you're in love, or you aren't making good." "Both, I guess," answered Joe, with a short laugh. "But I'm going to make good very soon. You watch the papers." Joe rejoined his team with a sparkle in his eye and a spring in his step that told how much good the little vacation had done him. He was warmly welcomed back--only Collin showing no joy. Truth to tell Collin had been doing some wonderful pitching those last few days, and he was winning games for the team. The advent of Joe gave him little pleasure, for none knew better than he on how slim a margin a pitcher works, nor how easily he may be displaced, not only in the affection of the public, always fickle, but in the estimation of the manager. "Hang him! I wish he'd stayed away!" muttered Collin. "Now he's fresh and he may get my place again. But I'll find a way to stop him, if Gregory gives him the preference!" Joe went back at practice with renewed hope. He took Gregory and the catchers into his confidence, and explained about the fade-away. They were enthusiastic over it. "Save it for Clevefield," advised the manager. The day when Pittston was to play the top-notchers arrived. There were to be four games on Pittston's grounds, and for the first time since his reformation began, Pop Dutton was allowed to play in an important contest. "I'm depending on you," Gregory warned him. "And you won't be disappointed," was the reply. Certainly the old player had improved greatly. His eyes were bright and his skin ruddy and clear. Joe was a bit nonplussed when Collin was sent in for the opening game. But he knew Gregory had his reasons. And perhaps it was wise, for Collin was always at his best when he could deliver the first ball, and open the game. Clevefield was shut out in the first inning, and, to the howling delight of the crowd of Pittston sympathizers and "fans," the home team got a run. This gave the players much-needed confidence, and though the visitors managed to tie the score in their half of the second inning, Pittston went right after them, and got two more tallies. "We're going to win, Joe!" cried Charlie Hall. "We're going to win. Our hoodoo is busted!" "I hope so," said the young pitcher, wishing he had a chance to play. It came sooner than he expected. Collin unexpectedly "blew up," and had to be taken out of the box. Joe was called on, at the proper time, and walked nervously to the mound. But he knew he must conquer this feeling and he looked at Nelson, who was catching. The back-stop smiled, and signalled for a fade-away, but Joe shook his head. He was not quite ready for that ball yet. By using straight, swift balls, interspersed with ins and drops, he fooled the batter into striking out. The next man went out on a pop fly, and Joe teased the third man into striking at an elusive out. Clevefield was retired runless and the ovation to Pittston grew. But it was not all to be as easy as this. Joe found himself in a tight place, and then, with a catching of his breath, he signalled that he would use the fade-away. In it shot--the batter smiled confidently--struck--and missed. He did it twice before he realized what was happening, and then when Joe felt sure that his next fade-away would be hit, he swiftly changed to an up-shoot that ended the matter. Clevefield fought hard, and once when Joe was hit for a long fly, that seemed good for at least two bases, Pop Dutton was just where he was most needed, and made a sensational catch. There was a howl of delight, and Gregory said to Joe afterward: "Your man is making good." Joe was immensely pleased. And when, a little later, at a critical point in the game, he struck out the third man, again using his famous fade-away, his triumph was heralded in shouts and cries, for Pittston had won. It was a triumph for Joe in two ways--his own personal one, and in the fact that he had been instrumental in having Pop Dutton play--and Pop's one play, at least that day, saved a run that would have tied the score. CHAPTER XXI A DANGER SIGNAL "Boys, we're on the right road again!" exclaimed the enthusiastic manager at the conclusion of the game, when the team was in the dressing room. "Another like this to-morrow, and one the next day, if it doesn't rain, and we'll be near the top." "Say, you don't want much," remarked Jimmie Mack, half sarcastically, but with a laugh. "What do you think we are anyhow; wonders?" "We'll have to be if we're going to bring home the pennant," retorted Gregory. "And we're going to do it!" declared Joe, grimly. Collin went to pieces in more ways than one that day. Probably his failure in the game, added to Joe's triumph, made him reckless, for he went back to his old habit of gambling, staying up nearly all night, and was in no condition to report for the second game of the series. "He makes me tired!" declared Gregory. "I'd write his release in a minute," he went on, speaking to Jimmie Mack, "only I'm up to my neck in expenses now, and I can't afford to buy another pitcher. I need all I've got, and Collin is good when he wants to be." "Yes, it's only his pig-headedness about Joe that sets him off. But I think we've got a great find in Matson." "So do I. There was a time when I was rather blue about Joe, but he seems to have come back wonderfully." "Yes," agreed Jimmie Mack, "that fade-away of his is a wonder, thanks to Pop Dutton." "Pop himself is the greatest wonder of all," went on Gregory. "I never believed it possible. I've seen the contrary happen so many times that I guess I've grown skeptical." "He and Joe sure do make a queer team," commented the assistant manager. "Joe watches over him like a hen with one chicken." "Well, I guess he has to. A man like Pop who has been off the right road always finds lots of temptation ready and waiting to call him back. But Joe can keep him straight. "Now come over here. I want to talk to you, and plan out the rest of the season. We're in a bad way, not only financially, but for the sake of our reputations." If Joe could have heard this he would have worried, especially about the financial end. For he counted very much on his baseball money--in fact, his family needed it greatly. Mr. Matson's savings were tied up in investments that had turned out badly, or were likely to, and his expenses were heavy on account of the doctor's and other bills. Joe's salary was a big help. He also earned something extra by doing some newspaper work that was paid for generously. But Joe counted most on the final games of the series, which would decide the pennant. These were always money-makers, and, in addition, the winning team always played one or more exhibition games with some big league nine, and these receipts were large. "But will we win the pennant?" queried Joe of himself. "We've got to--if dad is going to have his operation. We've just got to!" The news from home had been uncertain. At one time Dr. Birch had decided that an operation must be performed at once, and then had come a change when it had to be delayed. But it seemed certain that, sooner or later, it would have to be undertaken, if the inventor's eyesight was to be saved. "So you see we've just got to win," said Joe to Charlie Hall. "I see," was the answer. "Well, I'll do my share toward it, old man," and the two clasped hands warmly. Joe was liking Charlie more and more every day. He was more like a college chum than a mate on a professional team. But Pittston was not to have a victory in the second game with Clevefield. The latter sent in a new pitcher who "played tag," to use a slang expression, with Joe and his mates, and they lost the contest by a four to one score. This in spite of the fact that Joe did some good work at pitching, and "Old Pop," as he was beginning to be called, knocked a three-bagger. Dutton was one of those rare birds, a good pitcher and a good man with the stick. That is, he had been, and now he was beginning to come back to himself. There was a shadow of gloom over Pittston when they lost the second game, after having won the first against such odds, and there was much speculation as to how the other two contests would go. Gregory revised his batting order for the third game, and sent in his latest purchase, one of the south-paws, to do the twirling. But he soon made a change in pitchers, and called on Tooley, who also was a left-hander. "I may need you later, Joe," he said as he arranged to send in a "pinch" hitter at a critical moment. "Don't think that I'm slighting you, boy." "I don't. I understand." "How's your fade-away?" "All right, I guess." "Good. You'll probably have to use it." And Joe did. He was sent in at the seventh, when the Clevefield nine was three runs ahead, and Joe stopped the slump. Then, whether it was this encouragement, or whether the other team went to pieces, did not develop, but the game ended with Pittston a winner by two runs. The crowd went wild, for there had been a most unexpected ending, and so sure had some of the "fans" been that the top-notchers would come out ahead, that they had started to leave. But the unexpected happens in baseball as often as in football, and it did in this case. Pittston thus had two out of the four games, and the even break had increased her percentage to a pleasing point. If they could have taken the fourth they would have fine hopes of the pennant, but it was not to be. An even break, though there was a close finish in the last game, was the best they could get. However, this was better than for some time, and Gregory and his associates were well pleased. Then came a series of games in the different league cities, and matters were practically unchanged. In turn Buffington, Loston and Manhattan were visited, the Pittston nine doing well, but nothing remarkable. Joe seemed firmly established in the place he most desired, and his fine delivery was increasing in effectiveness each day. His fade-away remained a puzzle to many, though some fathomed it and profited thereby. But Joe did not use it too often. The secret of good pitching lies in the "cross-fire," and in varying the delivery. No pitcher can continue to send in the same kind of balls in regular order to each batter. He must study his man and use his brains. Joe knew this. He also knew that he was not alone a pitcher, but a ball player, and that he must attend to his portion of the diamond. Too many twirlers forget this, and Joe frequently got in on sensational plays that earned him almost as much applause as his box-work did. Joe was always glad to get back to Pittston to play games. He was beginning to feel that it was a sort of "home town," though he had few friends there. He made many acquaintances and he was beginning to build up a reputation for himself. He was frequently applauded when he came out to play, and this means much to a baseball man. Then, too, Joe was always interested in Pop Dutton. He was so anxious that the former fine pitcher should have his chance to "come back." Often when scouts from bigger leagues than the Central stopped off to more or less secretly watch the Pittstons play, Joe would have a talk with them. Sometimes he spoke of Pop, but the scouts did not seem interested. They pretended that they had no special object in view, or, if they did, they hinted that it was some other player than Dutton. To whisper a secret I might say that it was Joe himself who was under observation on many of these occasions, for his fame was spreading. But he was a modest youth. Joe was not inquisitive, but he learned, in a casual way, that Pop Dutton was seemingly on the right road to success and prosperity. It was somewhat of a shock to the young pitcher, then, one evening, as he was strolling down town in Pittston, to see his protegé in company with a shabbily dressed man. "I hope he hasn't taken to going with those tramps again," mused Joe. "That would be too bad." Resolving to make sure of his suspicions, and, if necessary, hold out a helping hand, the young pitcher quickened his pace until he was close behind the twain. He could not help but hear part of the conversation. "Oh, come on!" he caught, coming from Dutton's companion. "What's the harm?" "No, I'll not. You don't know how hard it is to refuse, but I--I can't--really I can't." "You mean you won't?" "Put it that way if you like." "Well, then, I do like, an' I don't like it! I'll say that much. I don't like it. You're throwin' me down, an' you're throwin' the rest of us down. I don't like it for a cent!" "I can't help that," replied Dutton, doggedly. "Well, maybe _we_ can help it, then. You're leaving us in the lurch just when we need you most. Come on, now, be a sport, Pop!" "No, I've been too much of a sport in the past--that's the trouble." "So you won't join us?" "No." "Will you come out and tell the boys so? They maybe won't believe me." "Oh, well, I can't see any harm in that." "Come on, then, they'll be glad to see you again." Joe wondered what was afoot. It was as though he saw a danger signal ahead of Pop Dutton. CHAPTER XXII VICTORY Joe hardly knew what to do. He realized that all his efforts toward getting the old ball player back on the right road might go for naught if Pop went off with these loose companions. And yet would he relish being interfered with by the young pitcher? Pop was much older than Joe, but so far he had shown a strong liking for the younger man, and had, half-humorously, done his bidding. Indeed Pop was under a deep debt not only of gratitude to Joe, but there had been a financial one as well, though most of that was now paid. "But I don't want to see him slip back," mused Joe, as he walked along in the shadows, taking care to keep far enough back from the twain. But Pop never looked around. He seemed engrossed in his companion. "What shall I do?" Joe asked himself. He half hoped that some of the other members of the nine might come along, and accost Pop, perhaps taking him off with them, as they had done several times of late. For the old player was becoming more and more liked--he was, in a way, coming into his own again, and he had a fund of baseball stories to which the younger men never tired listening. "If some of them would only come along!" whispered Joe, but none did. He kept on following the two until he saw them go into one of the less disreputable lodging houses in a poor quarter of the city. It was a house where, though some respectable workingmen, temporarily embarrassed, made their homes for a time, there was more often a rowdy element, consisting of tramps, and, in some cases, criminals. At election time it harbored "floaters" and "repeaters," and had been the scene of many a police raid. "I wonder what he can want by going in there?" thought Joe. "It's a good thing Gregory can't see him, or he'd sure say my experiment was a failure. It may be, after all; but I'm not going to give up yet. Now, shall I go in, and pretend I happened by casually, or shall I wait outside?" Joe debated the two propositions within himself. The first he soon gave up. He was not in the habit of going into such places, and the presence of a well-dressed youth, more or less known to the public as a member of the Pittston nine, would excite comment, if nothing else. Besides, it might arouse suspicion of one sort or another. Then, too, Pop might guess why Joe had followed him, and resent it. "I'll just have to wait outside," decided Joe, "and see what I can do when Pop comes out." It was a dreary wait. From time to time Joe saw men slouch into the place, and occasionally others shuffled out; but Pop did not come, nor did his ragged companion appear. Joe was getting tired, when his attention was attracted to a detective whom he knew, sauntering rather aimlessly past on the opposite side of the street. "Hello!" thought the young ball player, "I wonder what's up?" He eyed the officer closely, and was surprised, a moment later, to see him joined by a companion. "Something sure is in the wind," decided Joe. "I'm going to find out." He strolled across the highway and accosted the detective with whom he had a slight acquaintance. "Oh, it's Matson, the Pittston pitcher!" exclaimed the officer. "What's up, Regan?" asked Joe. "Oh, nothing much. Do you know Farley, my side partner? Farley, this is Matson--Baseball Joe, they call him. Some nifty little pitcher, too, let me tell you." "Thanks," laughed Joe, as he shook hands with the other detective. "Why, we're looking for a certain party," went on Regan. "I don't mind telling you that. We'll probably pull that place soon," and he nodded toward the lodging house. "Some of the regulars will be along in a little while," he added. "Pull," I may explain, is police language for "raid," or search a certain suspected place. "Anything big?" asked Joe. "Oh, nothing much. There's been some pocket-picking going on, and a few railroad jobs pulled off. A lot of baggage belonging to wealthy folks has been rifled on different lines, all over the country, and we think we're on the track of some of the gang. We're going to pull the place and see how many fish we can get in the net." Joe did not know what to do. If the place was to be raided soon it might mean that his friend, the old pitcher, would be among those arrested. Joe was sure of his friend's innocence, but it would look bad for him, especially after the life he had led. It might also be discouraging to Pop, and send him back to his old companions again. "How long before you'll make the raid?" asked Joe. "In about half an hour, I guess," replied Regan. "Why, are you going to stick around and see it?" "I might. But there's a friend of mine in there," spoke Joe, "and I wouldn't like him to get arrested." "A friend of yours?" repeated Regan, wonderingly. "Yes. Oh, he's not a hobo, though he once was, I'm afraid. But he's reformed. Only to-night, however, he went out with one of his old companions. I don't know what for. But I saw him go in there, and that's why I'm here. I'm waiting for him to come out." "Then the sooner he does the better," observed Farley, grimly. "It's a bad place." "Look here," said Joe, eagerly, "could you do me a favor, Mr. Regan?" "Anything in reason, Joe." "Could you go in there and warn my friend to get out. I could easily describe him to you. In fact, I guess you must know him--Pop Dutton." "Is Old Pop in there?" demanded the officer, in surprise. "Yes," responded Joe, "but I'm sure he's all right. I don't believe you want him." "No, he's not on our list," agreed Regan. "Well, say, I guess I could do that for you, Joe. Only one thing, though. If Farley or I happen in there there may be a scare, and the birds we want will get away." "How can we do it, then?" asked Joe. A figure came shuffling up the dark street, and, at the sight of the two detectives and the young pitcher, hesitated near a gas lamp. "Hello! There's Bulldog!" exclaimed Regan, but in a low voice. "He'll do. We'll send him in and have him tip Pop off to come out. Bulldog is on our staff," he added. "He tips us off to certain things. Here, Bulldog!" he called, and a short, squat man shuffled up. His face had a canine expression, which, Joe surmised, had gained him his name. "Slip into Genty's place, Bulldog," said Regan in a low voice, "and tell a certain party to get out before the bulls come. Do you know Pop Dutton?" "Sure. He and I----" "Never mind about that part of it," interrupted the detective. "Just do as I tell you, and do it quietly. You can stay in. You might pick up something that would help us." "What, me stay in there when the place is going to be pulled, and get pinched? Not on your life!" and the man turned away. "Hold on!" cried Regan. "We'll get you out all right, same as we always do. You're too valuable to us to go to jail for long." Then, as Bulldog started for the dark entrance to the lodging house, Joe realized that he had seen what is called a "stool-pigeon," a character hated by all criminals, and not very much respected by the police whom they serve. A "stool-pigeon" consorts with criminals, that he may overhear their plans, and betray them to the police. Often he is himself a petty criminal. In a sense he does a duty to the public, making it more easy for the authorities to arrest wrong-doers--but no one loves a "stool-pigeon." They are the decoy ducks of the criminal world. I am making this explanation, and portraying this scene in Joe Matson's career, not because it is pleasant to write about, for it is not. I would much rather take you out on the clean diamond, where you could hear the "swat" of the ball. But as Joe's efforts to make a new man of the old pitcher took him into this place I can do no less than chronicle the events as they happened. And a little knowledge of the sadder, darker and unhappy side of life may be of value to boys, in deterring them from getting into a position where it would appeal to them--appeal wrongly, it is true, but none the less strongly. The Bulldog had not been in the building more than a minute before the door opened again, and Pop Dutton, alone, and looking hastily around, came out. Joe got in a shadow where he could not be seen. He did not want his friend humiliated, now that he had seen him come out victorious. For the young pitcher could see that Pop was the same straight and sober self he had been since getting back on the right road. His association with his former companions had evidently not tempted him. "Oh, I'm glad!" exulted Joe. Pop Dutton looked curiously at the two detectives. "Thanks," he said briefly, as he passed them, and they knew that he understood. Not for a long time afterward did the former pitcher know that to Joe he owed so much. For, though his intention in going to the rendezvous of the unfortunates of the under-world was good, still it might have been misconstrued. Now there was no danger. Afterward Joe learned that Pop had been urged by the man he met on the street to take part in a robbery. The old pitcher refused, but his false companion tried to lure him back to his old life, on the plea that only from his own lips would his associates believe that Pop had reformed. And Pop made them plainly understand that he had. Pop Dutton passed on down the street, and, waiting a little while, Joe followed. He did not care to see the raid. The young pitcher soon reached his hotel, and he felt that Pop was safe in his own boarding house. The next morning Joe read of the wholesale arrests in the lodging house, though it was said that the quarry the detectives most hoped to get escaped in the confusion. "Baggage robbers, eh?" mused Joe. "I wonder if they were the ones who went through Reggie Varley's valise? If they could be caught it would clear me nicely, providing I could prove it was they." CHAPTER XXIII THE TRAMP AGAIN Baseball again claimed the attention of Joe and his mates. They were working hard, for the end of the season was in sight, and the pennant ownership was not yet decided. Clevefield was still at the top of the list, but Pittston was crowding her hard, and was slowly creeping up. Sometimes this would be the result of her players' own good work, and again it would be because some other team had a streak of bad luck which automatically put Joe's team ahead. The young pitcher was more like himself than at any time since he had joined the club. He was really pitching "great" ball, and Gregory did not hesitate to tell him so. And, more than this, Joe was doing some good work with the bat. His average was slowly but steadily mounting. Joe would never be a great performer in this line, and none realized it better than himself. No clubs would be clamoring for his services as a pinch hitter. On the other hand many a pitcher in the big leagues had not Joe's batting average, though of course this might have been because they were such phenomenal twirlers, and saved all their abilities for the mound. Also did Joe pay attention to the bases. He wished he was a south-paw, at times, or a left-hand pitcher, for then he could more easily have thrown to first. But it was too late to change now, and he made up his mind to be content to work up his reputation with his good right arm. But, even with that, he made some surprisingly good put-outs when runners took chances and got too long a lead. So that throughout the circuit the warning began to be whispered: "Look out for Matson when you're on first!" Joe realized that a good pitcher has not only to play the game from the mound. He must field his position as well, and the failure of many an otherwise good pitcher is due to the fact that they forget this. Much of Joe's success, at this time, was due to the coaching and advice he received from Pop Dutton. The veteran could instruct if he could not pitch yet, and Joe profited by his experience. No reference was made by Joe to the night Pop had gone to the lodging house, nor did the old pitcher say anything to his young friend. In fact he did not know Joe had had any hand in the matter. Pop Dutton went on his reformed way. He played the game, when he got a chance, and was increasingly good at it. "Joe!" he cried one day, when he had played a full game, "we're getting there! I hope I'll soon be pitching." "So do I!" added Joe, earnestly. True, the game Pop had played at centre for the full nine innings was with the near-tailenders of the Central League, but it showed that the veteran had "come back" sufficiently to last through the hard work. "How is your arm?" asked Joe. "Not good enough to use on the mound yet, I'm sorry to say," was Pop's answer. "I guess I'll have to have that operation, after all. But I don't see how I can manage it. I'm trying to pay back some of my old debts----" "Don't let that part worry you," spoke Joe, quickly. "If things turn out right I may be able to help you." "But you've done a lot already, Joe." "I'll do more--if I can. Just wait until the close of the season, when we have the pennant." What Joe meant was that he would have the money for an operation on the pitcher's arm if the cash was not needed to put Mr. Matson's eyes in shape through the attention of a surgeon. And this matter was still undecided, much to the worriment of Joe, his mother and sister, to say nothing of his father. But it is necessary, in such matters, to proceed slowly, and not to take any chances. Joe felt the strain. His regular salary was much needed at home, and he was saving all he could to provide for his father's possible operation. That cost would not be light. Then there was Pop Dutton to think of. Joe wanted very much to see the old player fully on his feet again. He did not know what to do, though, should all the money he might get from the pennant series be required for Mr. Matson. "Well, I'll do the best I can," thought Joe. "Maybe if Gregory and the others see how well Pop is doing they'll take up a collection and pay for the operation. It oughtn't to cost such an awful lot." Joe shook his head in a puzzled way. Really it was a little too much for him to carry on his young shoulders, but he had the fire of youth in his veins, and youth will dare much--which is as it should be, perhaps. Then, too, Joe had to be on edge all the time in order to pitch winning ball. No pitcher is, or can be, at top notch all the while. He can hardly serve in two big games in quick succession, and yet Joe did this several times, making an enviable record for himself. The rivalry between him and Collin grew, though Joe did nothing to inflame the other's dislike. But Collin was very bitter, and Pop gave Joe some warning hints. "Oh, I don't believe he'd do anything under-handed," said Joe, not taking it seriously. "Well, be on the lookout," advised the veteran. "I don't like Collin, and never did." There came a series of rainy days, preventing the playing of games, and everyone fretted. The players, even Joe, grew stale, though Gregory tried to keep them in form by sending them off on little trips when the grounds were too wet even for practise. Then came fine bracing weather, and Pittston began to stride ahead wonderfully. It was now only a question of whether Joe's team or Clevefield would win pennant honors, and, in any event, there would have to be several games played between the two nines to decide the matter. This was due to the fact that the league schedule called for a certain number of games to be played by each club with every other club, and a number of rainy days, and inability to run off double headers, had caused a congestion. Pittston kept on playing in good form, and Joe was doing finely. So much so that on one occasion when a big league scout was known to be in attendance, Gregory said in a way that showed he meant it: "Joe, they're going to draft you, sure." The larger or major league clubs, those rated as AA, have, as is well known, the right to select any player they choose from a minor league, paying, of course a certain price. Thus the big leagues are controllers in a way of the players themselves, for the latter cannot go to any club they choose, whereas any big league club can pick whom it chooses from the little or "bush" leagues. If two or more of the big clubs pick the same player there is a drawing to decide who gets him. "Well, I'm not worrying," returned Joe, with a smile. After a most successful game, in Washburg, which team had been playing good ball--the contest having been won by Pittston--Joe was walking across the diamond with Pop Dutton, when the young pitcher saw approaching them the same tramp with whom his protegé had entered the lodging house that night. "Hello, Pop!" greeted the shabby man. "I want t' see you." He leered familiarly. Pop Dutton stopped and gazed with half-frightened eyes at Joe. CHAPTER XXIV ON THE TRACK "Well, are you comin'?" demanded the tramp, as Dutton did not answer. "I said I want to see you, an' I'm dead broke! Took all I had t' git a seat on th' bleachers t' see de bloomin' game." "Well, you saw a good game--I'll say that," commented the old player, though his voice was a bit husky. He seemed to be laboring under some nervous strain. "Huh! I didn't come to see th' game. I want t' see you. Are you comin'?" Pop did not answer at once. About him and Joe, who still stood at his side, surged the other players and a section of the crowd. Some of the members of the team looked curiously at Pop and the ragged individual who had accosted him. Collin, the pitcher, sneered openly, and laughed in Joe's face. "Who's your swell friend?" he asked, nodding toward the tramp. Joe flushed, but did not answer. "Well, I'm waitin' fer youse," spoke the tramp, and his tone was surly. "Come on, I ain't got all day." "Nothing doing," said Pop, shortly. "I'm not coming with you, Hogan." "You're not!" There was the hint of a threat in the husky tones, and the glance from the blood-shot eyes was anything but genial. "No, I'm not coming," went on Pop, easily. He seemed to have recovered his nerve now, and glanced more composedly at Joe. "Huh! Well, I like that!" sneered the tramp. "You're gettin' mighty high-toned, all of a sudden! It didn't used to be this way." "I've changed--you might as well know that, Hogan," went on Pop. There were not so many about them now. All the other players had passed on. "Well, then, if you won't come with me, come across with some coin!" demanded the other. "I need money." "You'll not get any out of me." "What!" There was indignant protest in the husky voice. "I said you'll not get any out of me." "Huh! We'll see about that. Now look here, Pop Dutton, either you help me out, or----" Dutton turned to one of the officers who kept order on the ball field. "Jim, see that this fellow gets out," the old player said, quietly. "All right, Pop. What you say goes," was the reply. "Now then, move on out of here. We want to clean up for to-morrow's game," spoke the officer shortly to the man whom Pop had addressed as Hogan. "Ho! So that's your game is it--_Mister_ Dutton," and the ragged fellow sneered as he emphasized the "Mister." "If you want to call it a game--yes," answered Dutton, calmly. "I'm done with you and yours. I'm done with that railroad business. I don't want to see you again, and I'm not going to give you any more money." "You're not!" "I am not. You've bled me enough." "Oh, I've bled you enough; have I? I've bled you enough, my fine bird! Well then, you wait! You'll see how much more I'll bleed you! You'll sing another tune soon or I'm mistaken. I've bled you enough; eh? Well you listen here! I ain't bled you half as much as I'm goin' to. And some of the others are goin' t' come in on the game! You wait! That's all!" And he uttered a lot of strong expressions that the ground officer hushed by hustling him off the field. Joe took no part in this. He stood quietly at the side of Pop as though to show, by his presence, that he believed in him, trusted him and would help him, in spite of this seeming disgrace. They were alone--those two. The young and promising pitcher, and the old and almost broken down "has-been." And yet the "has-been" had won a hard-fought victory. Pop Dutton glanced curiously at Joe. "Well?" he asked, as if in self-defence. "What's the answer?" inquired Joe, trying to make his tones natural. "Was it a hold-up?" "Sort of. That's one of the fellows I used to trail in with, before you helped me out of the ditch." "Is he a railroad man?" asked Joe. "I thought he said something about the railroad." "He pretends to be," said Dutton. "But he isn't any more. He used to be, I believe; but he went wrong, just as I did. Just as I might be now, but for you, Joe." His voice broke, and there was a hint of tears in his eyes. "Oh, forget it!" said Joe, easily. "I didn't do anything. But what sort of a fellow is this one, anyhow?" The man had been hustled off the grounds by the officer. "Oh, he's just a plain tramp, the same as I was. Only he hasn't anything to do with the railroad any more, except to rob baggage. That's his specialty. He hangs around the depots, and opens valises and such when he gets a chance." "He does!" cried Joe, with sudden interest. "Is he the fellow the detectives wanted to get the time they raided the Keystone Lodging House?" Pop Dutton flushed red. "What--what do you know about that?" he asked. "Oh--I--er--I happened to be around there when the police were getting ready to close in," answered Joe, truthfully enough. He did not want to embarrass his friend by going into details. "Oh," said Pop, evidently in relief. "Yes, I think he was one of the gang they wanted to get. But they didn't." "He's taking a chance--coming here now." "Oh, he's let his whiskers grow, and I suppose he thinks that disguises him. He's had a hold over me, Joe, but I'm glad to say he hasn't any longer. I won't go into details, but I will say that he had me in his power. Now I'm out." "So he used to rob travelers' baggage, did he?" "Yes, and he does yet I guess, when he gets the chance. Jewelry is his specialty. I remember once he was telling me of a job he did. "It was at a small station. I forget just where. Anyhow this fellow--Hogan is one of his names--he pretended to be a railroad freight brakeman. You know they are rather roughly dressed, for their work is not very clean. Well, he got a chance to open a certain valise. I remember it because he said it was such an odd bag." Joe felt a queer sensation. It was as though he had heard this same story years before. Yet he knew what it meant--what it was leading to--as well as if it had all been printed out. "Hogan made a good haul, as he called it," went on Pop. "He thought he was going to have a lot of trouble opening the bag when he came into the station pretending he wanted a drink of water. It was a foreign-make valise, he said, but it opened easier than he thought and he got a watch and a lot of trinkets that ladies like." "He did?" asked Joe, and his voice sounded strange, even to himself. "Yes. Why, do you know anything about it?" asked Pop in some surprise. "I might," said Joe, trying to speak calmly. "Would you remember how this bag looked if I told you?" "I think so." "Was it a yellow one, of a kind of leather that looked like walrus hide, and did it have two leather handles, and brass clips in the shape of lions' heads?" "Yes--that's exactly how Hogan described it," said Pop. "But--why----" "And would you remember the name of the station at which the robbery took place?" asked Joe. "That is if you heard it?" "I think so." "Was it Fairfield?" "That's it! Why, Joe, what does this mean? How did you know all this? What is Hogan to you?" "Nothing much, Pop, unless he proves to be the fellow who took the stuff I was accused of taking," answered Joe, trying to speak calmly. "Do you know where we could find this man again?" "You mean Hogan?" "Yes. I'm going to tackle him. Of course it's only a chance, but I believe it's a good one." "Oh, I guess we can easily locate him," said Pop. "He hasn't any money to get far away." "Then come on!" cried Joe, eagerly. "I think I'm at last on the track of the man who took the stuff from Reggie Varley's valise. Pop, this means more to me than you can imagine. I believe I'm going to be cleared at last!" "Cleared! You cleared? What of?" asked the old ball player in bewilderment. "I'll tell you," said Joe, greatly excited. "Come on!" CHAPTER XXV REGGIE'S AUTO Hardly understanding what was afoot, and not in the least appreciating Joe's excitement, Pop Dutton followed the young pitcher across the diamond. "What are you going to do?" asked the old player, as he hurried on after Joe. "Get into my street togs the first thing. Then I'm going to try and find that fellow--Hogan, did you say his name was?" "One of 'em, yes. But what do you want of him?" "I want him to tell when and where he took that stuff from the queer valise. And I want to know if he has any of it left, by any chance, though I don't suppose he has. And, in the third place, I want to make him say that I didn't take the stuff." Pop Dutton drew a long breath. "You, Joe!" he exclaimed. "You accused?" "Yes. It's a queer story. But I'm beginning to see the end of it now! Come on!" They hurried into the dressing rooms. Most of the other players had gone, for Joe and Pop had been delayed out on the diamond talking to Hogan. Charlie Hall was there, however, and he looked curiously at Joe. "Anything the matter?" asked the young shortstop. "Well, there may be--soon," answered his friend. "I'll see you later. Tell Gregory that I may be going out of town for a while, but I'll sure be back in time for to-morrow's game." "All right," said Charlie, as he went in to take a shower bath. "Now, Pop," spoke Joe, as he began dressing, "where can we find this Hogan?" "Oh, most likely he'll be down around Kelly's place," naming a sort of lodging-house hang-out for tramps and men of that class. "Then down there we'll go!" decided the young pitcher. "I'm going to have an interview with Hogan. If I'd only known he was the one responsible for the accusation against me I'd have held on to him while he was talking to you. But I didn't realize it until afterward, and then the officer had put him outside. He was lost in the crowd. But suppose he isn't at Kelly's?" "Oh, someone there can tell us where to find him. But it's a rough place, Joe." "I suppose so. You don't mind going there; do you?" "Well, no, not exactly. True, a lot of the men I used to trail in with may be there, but, no matter. They can't do any more than gibe me." "We could take a detective along," suggested Joe. "No, I think we can do better by ourselves. I don't mind. You see after I--after I went down and out--I used to stop around at all the baseball towns, and in that way I got to know most of these lodging-house places. This one in Washburg is about as rough as any." "How did you come to know Hogan?" "Oh, I just met him on the road. He used to be a good railroad man, but he went down, and now he's no good. He's a boastful sort, and that's how he came to tell me about the valise. But I never thought you'd be mixed up in it." "Of course I can't be dead certain this is the same valise that was robbed," said Joe; "but it's worth taking a chance on. I do hope we can find him." But they were doomed to disappointment. When they reached Kelly's lodging-house Hogan had gone, and the best they could learn, in the sullen replies given by the habitués, was that the former railroad man had taken to the road again, and might be almost anywhere. "Too bad!" exclaimed Pop sympathetically, as he and Joe came out. "Yes, it is," assented the young pitcher, "for I did want Reggie Varley to know who really robbed his valise." Perhaps Joe also wanted a certain other person to know. But he did not mention this, so of course I cannot be sure. "Better luck next time!" exclaimed the young pitcher as cheerfully as he could. They endeavored to trace whither Hogan had gone, but without success. The best they could ascertain was that he had "hopped a freight," for some point west. Joe did not allow the disappointment to interfere with his baseball work. In the following games with Washburg he fitted well into the tight places, and succeeded, several times, when the score was close, in being instrumental in pulling the Pittston team out a winner. On one occasion the game had gone for nine innings without a run on either side, and only scattered hits. Both pitchers--Joe for Pittston, and young Carrolton Lloyd for Washburg--were striving hard for victory. The game came to the ending of the ninth, with Washburg up. By fortunate chance, and by an error on the part of Charlie Hall, the home team got two men on bases, and only one out. Then their manager made a mistake. Instead of sending in a pinch hitter--for a hit was all that was needed to score the winning run, the manager let the regular batting order be followed, which brought up the Washburg pitcher. Lloyd was tired out, and, naturally, was not at his best. He popped up a little fly, which Joe caught, and then sending the ball home quickly our hero caught the man coming in from third, making a double play, three out and necessitating the scoring of another zero in the ninth frame for Washburg. Then came the tenth inning. Perhaps it was his weariness or the memory of how he had had his chance and lost it that made Lloyd nervous. Certainly he went to pieces, and giving one man his base on balls, allowed Joe to make a hit. Then came a terrific spell of batting and when it was over Pittston had four runs. It was then Joe's turn to hold the home team hitless, so that they might not score, and he did, to the great delight of the crowd. This one feat brought more fame to Joe than he imagined. He did not think so much of it himself, which is often the case with things that we do. But, in a way, it was the indirect cause of his being drafted to a big league, later on. The season was now drawing to a close. The race for the pennant was strictly between Pittston and Clevefield, with the chances slightly in favor of the latter. This was due to the fact that there were more veteran players in her ranks, and she had a better string of pitchers. A week or so more would tell the tale. Pittston and Clevefield would play off the final games, the best three out of four, two in one town and two in the other. Interest in the coming contests was fast accumulating and there was every prospect of generous receipts. The winners of the pennant would come in for a large share of the gate receipts, and all of the players in the two leading teams were counting much on the money they would receive. Joe, as you may well guess, planned to use his in two ways. The major part would go toward defraying the expenses of his father's operation. It had not yet been definitely settled that one would be performed, but the chances were that one would have to be undertaken. Then, too, Joe wanted to finance the cost of getting Dutton's arm into shape. A well-known surgeon had been consulted, and had said that a slight operation on one of the ligaments would work wonders. It would be rather costly, however. "Joe, I'm not going to let you do it," said Pop, when this was spoken of. "You can't help yourself," declared Joe. "I saved your life--at least I'm not modest when it comes to that, you see--and so I have, in a way, the right to say what I shall do to you. Besides, if we win the pennant it will be due, as much as anything, to the instruction you gave me. Now will you be good!" "I guess I'll have to," agreed Pop, laughingly. Pittston closed all her games with the other teams, excepting only Clevefield. The pennant race was between these two clubs. Arrangements had been made so that the opening game would be played on the Pittston grounds. Then the battle-scene would shift to Clevefield, to come back to Pittston, and bring the final--should the fourth game be needed, to Clevefield. "If we could only win three straight it would be fine," said Joe. "It's too much to hope," returned Pop. It was the day before the first of the pennant games. The Pittstons had gone out for light practice on their home grounds, which had been "groomed" for the occasion. As far as could be told Pittston looked to be a winner, but there is nothing more uncertain than baseball. As Joe and his mates came off the field after practice there shuffled up to the veteran player a trampish-looking man. At first Joe thought this might be Hogan again, but a second look convinced him otherwise. The man hoarsely whispered something to the old pitcher. "He says Hogan and a gang of tramps are in a sort of camp in Shiller's Woods," said Pop, naming a place that was frequently the abiding place of "gentlemen of the road." "He is?" cried Joe. "Then let's make a beeline for there. I've just got to get this thing settled! Are you with me, Pop?" "I sure am. But how are we going to get out there? It's outside the city limits, no car line goes there, and trains don't stop." "Then we've got to have an auto," decided Joe. "I'll see if we can hire one." He was on his way to the dressing rooms, when, happening to glance through the big open gate of the ball ground he saw a sight that caused him to exclaim: "The very thing! It couldn't be better. I can kill two birds with one stone. There's our auto, and the man in it is the very one I want to convince of my innocence! That's Reggie Varley. I'll make him take us to Shiller's Woods! We'll catch Hogan there. Come on!" Never stopping to think of the peculiar coincidence that had brought Reggie on the scene just when he was most needed, Joe sprinted for the panting auto, Pop following wonderingly. CHAPTER XXVI THE TRAMP RENDEZVOUS "Come on!" cried Joe to Reggie Varley, not giving that astonished young man a chance to greet him. "Come on! Got plenty of gas?" "Gas? Yes, of course. But where? What is it? Are they after you?" "Not at all. We're after _them_!" laughed Joe. He could afford to laugh now, for he felt that he was about to be vindicated. "But I--er--I don't understand," spoke Reggie, slowly. "Where is it you want to go?" "After the tramp who rifled the valise you suspected me of opening in that way-station some time ago," answered Joe quickly. "We're after him to prove I didn't do it!" "Oh, but my dear Matson--really now, I don't believe you took it. Sis went for me red-hot, you know, after you told her. She called me all kinds of a brute for even mentioning it to you, and really----" He paused rather helplessly, while Joe, taking the situation into his own hands, climbed up beside Reggie, who was alone in his big car. The young pitcher motioned for Pop to get into the tonneau, and the veteran did so, still wondering what was going to happen. "It's all right," laughed Joe, more light-hearted than he had been in many months. "If you'll take us to Shiller's Woods you may see something that will surprise you." "But still I don't understand." Joe explained briefly how Hogan, the railroad tramp, had boasted of robbing a valise corresponding to Reggie's. Hogan was now within five miles of Pittston, hiding in a tramps' camp, and if he was arrested, or caught, he might be made to tell the truth of the robbery, clear Joe, and possibly inform Reggie where the watch and jewelry had been disposed of. "I don't suppose he has any of it left," said Reggie, simply. "There was one bracelet belonging to sis that I'd like awfully much to get back." "Well, we can try," answered Joe, hopefully. "Sometimes," broke in Pop, "those fellows can't dispose of the stuff they take, and then they hide it. Maybe we can get it back." "Let's hope so," went on Reggie. "And now, where do you want to go? I'll take you anywhere you say, and I've got plenty of gas." "Shiller's Woods," returned Joe. "Do you know where it is, Pop?" "Yes. I've been there--once or twice." "And now," went on Joe, as he settled back in the seat, still in his baseball uniform, as was Pop Dutton, "how did you happen to be here?" and he looked at Reggie. "Why, I had to come up in this section on business for dad, and sis insisted that I bring her along. So we motored up, and here we are. Sis is at the Continental." "Our hotel!" gasped Joe. "I didn't see her!" His heart was beating wildly. "No, I just left her there," returned Reggie. "She is wild to see these final games----" "I hope she sees us win," murmured Joe. "But about this chase," went on Reggie. "If we're going up against a lot of tramps perhaps we'd better have a police officer with us." "It wouldn't be a bad idea," agreed Pop. "We can stop and pick up a railroad detective I know. They'll be glad of the chance to raid the tramps, for they don't want them hanging around." "Good idea," announced Joe, who was still puzzling over the manner in which things fitted together, and wondering at the absurdly simple way in which Reggie had appeared on the scene. The car sped away from the ball field, purring on its silent, powerful way. Pop Dutton gave directions as to the best roads to follow, and a little distance out of Pittston he called a halt, in order that a railroad detective might be summoned. They found one at a small branch freight station, and this man called a companion, so there were five who proceeded to the rendezvous of the tramps in Shiller's Woods. It is not a difficult matter to raid the abiding place of the men, unfortunates if you will, who are known as "hoboes," and tramps. They are not criminals in the usual sense of the term, though they will descend to petty thievery. Usually they are "pan-handlers," beggars and such; though occasionally a "yegg-man," or safe-blower, will throw in his lot with them. But for the most part the men are low characters, living as best they can, cooking meager meals over a camp fire, perhaps raiding hen-roosts or corn fields, and moving from place to place. They have no wish to defy police authority, and usually disappear at the first alarm, to travel on to the next stopping place. So there was no fear of any desperate encounter in this raid. The railroad detectives said as much, and expressed the belief that they would not even have to draw their revolvers. "We'll be glad of the chance to clean the rascals out," said one officer, "for they hang around there, and rob freight cars whenever they get the chance." "But we'd like a chance to talk to them--at least to this Hogan," explained Joe. "We want to find what he did with Mr. Varley's jewelry." "Well, then, the only thing to do is to surround them, and hold them there until you interview them," was the decision. "I guess we can do it." Shiller's Woods were near the railroad line, in a lonesome spot, and the outskirts were soon reached. The auto was left in charge of a switchman at his shanty near a crossing and the occupants, consisting of the two detectives, Joe, Pop and Reggie, proceeded on foot. They all carried stout cudgels, though the officers had revolvers for use in emergency. But they were not needed. Pop Dutton knew the way well to a little hollow where the tramps slept and ate. He led the others to it, and so quietly did they approach that the tramps were surrounded before they knew it. Down in a grassy hollow were half a dozen of them gathered about a fire over which was stewing some mixture in a tomato can, suspended over the flame on a stick, by means of a bit of wire. "Good afternoon, boys!" greeted one of the officers, as he stood up, and looked down on the men. It was apparent at first glance that Hogan was one of them. Pop had silently indicated him. The tramps started up, but seeing that they were surrounded settled back philosophically. Only Hogan looked eagerly about for a way of escape. "It's no go," said one of the railroad detectives. "Just take it easy, and maybe you won't be so badly off as you imagine." Hogan had been found at last. It developed that Pop had asked his former "friends of the road" to keep track of him, and send word when located. This had been done by the ragged man who accosted the old player on the diamond that afternoon. CHAPTER XXVII THE SLOW WATCH "Well, what do you want?" growled Hogan, for he seemed to feel that attention was centered on him. "Nothing much--no more than usual, that is," said one of the detectives, to whom the story of the looted valise had been told. "Where did you put the stuff you got from this gentleman's bag some time last Spring?" was the sharp question. "Whose bag?" Hogan wanted to know, with a frown. "Mine!" exclaimed Reggie. "That is, if you're the man. It was a yellow bag, with lions' heads on the clasps and it contained a Swiss watch, with a gold face; some jewelry, including a bracelet of red stones was also taken." Hogan started as this catalog was gone over. "Now look here!" broke in the officer. "These gentlemen are willing to make some concessions to you." "Yes?" spoke Hogan, non-committally. He seemed easier now. "Yes. If you'll own up, and give back what you've got left we'll call it off, providing you get out of the State and keep out." "An' s'posin' I don't?" he asked, defiantly. "Then it's the jug for yours. You're the one we want. The rest of you can go--and keep away, too," added the detective, significantly. The tramps slunk off, glad enough to escape. Only Hogan remained. "Well," he said, but now his nerve was gone. He looked surlily at Pop, and wet his lips nervously. "Go on," urged the officer. "I guess I did get a few things from his bag--leastwise it was a satchel like the one he tells about," confessed Hogan. "Then that clears me!" cried Joe, joyfully. Reggie Varley held out his hand to the young pitcher. "It was silly of me ever to have suspected you," he said, contritely. "Will you forgive me?" "Of course!" Joe would have forgiven Reggie almost anything. "Where's the stuff now?" asked the chief detective, sharply. Hogan laughed. "Where do you s'pose?" he asked. "Think I can afford to carry Swiss watches with gold faces, or ladies' bracelets? I look like it; don't I?" Truly he did not, being most disreputable in appearance. "Did you pawn it?" asked the other officer. "Yes, and precious little I got out of it. You can have the tickets if you like. I'll never redeem 'em," and he tossed a bunch of pawn tickets over to Reggie, who caught them wonderingly. "Are--er--are these stubs for the things?" he asked. "How can I get them back?" "By paying whatever the pawnbrokers advanced on the goods," answered Pop Dutton, who looked quickly over the tickets. He knew most of the places where the goods had been disposed of. "I'll be glad to do that," went on the young man. "I'm much obliged to you, my good fellow." Hogan laughed again. "You're a sport!" he complimented. "Is that all you want of me?" The detectives consulted together a moment. Then one of them asked Joe and his two friends: "What do you say? There isn't much to be gained by arresting him. You've got about all you can out of him. I suppose you might as well let him go." "I'm willing," spoke Joe. "All I wanted was to have my name cleared, and that's been done." "I don't care to have him prosecuted," spoke Reggie. "It might bring my sister into unpleasant prominence, as most of the things were hers." "I say, my good fellow," he went on--he would persist in being what he thought was English, "does the ticket for that bracelet happen to be among these you've given me." "No, here's the thing itself--catch!" exclaimed Hogan, and he threw something to Joe, who caught it. It proved to be a quaint wrist-ornament. The young pitcher slipped it into his pocket. "It'll have to be disinfected before she can wear it," he said in a low voice to Reggie. "I'll give it to her, after I soak it in formaldehyde." Reggie nodded--and smiled. Perhaps he understood more than Joe thought he did. "Is that all you want of me?" asked Hogan, looking uneasily about. "I guess so," answered one of the officers. "But how did you come to get at the valise?" "Oh, it was easy. I spotted it in the depot and when that chap wasn't looking,"--he nodded at Reggie--"I just opened it, took out what I wanted, and slipped out of the station before anyone saw me. You'd never have gotten me, either, if I hadn't been a dub and told him," and he scowled at Pop Dutton. "Well, I'm glad, for my own sake, that you did tell," spoke Joe. "Now you'd better clear out," warned the officer, "and don't let us find you near the railroad tracks again, or it will be the jug for yours. Vamoose!" "Wait a minute," said Pop Dutton, softly. "Have you any money, Hogan?" "Money! No, how should I get money? I couldn't pawn that bracelet, or I'd have some though. They all said it wasn't worth anything." "My sister values it as a keepsake," explained Reggie to Joe in a low voice. "She'll be awfully glad to get it back." "Here," went on the old pitcher to his former companion of the highway, and he passed him a bill. "It's all I can spare or I'd give you more." Hogan was greatly surprised. He stared at the money half comprehendingly. "You--do you mean it?" he stammered. "Certainly," answered Pop. "Well, I--er--I--I'm sorry!" burst out the tramp, and, making a quick grab for the bill, he turned aside and was soon lost to sight amid the trees. "Hum! That's a queer go!" commented one of the officers. "I guess he's got some feeling, after all," said Joe, softly. They had accomplished what they set out to do--proved the innocence of the young pitcher. And they had done more, for they were in the way of recovering most of the stolen stuff. Joe anticipated much pleasure in restoring to Mabel her odd bracelet. They motored back to the city from the rendezvous of the tramps, talking over the strange occurrence. But they took none of the members of the ball team into their confidence--Joe and Pop. They thought the fewer who knew of it the better. "And now if I was sure dad would be all right, and Pop's arm would get into pitching shape again, I wouldn't ask for anything more," said Joe to Reggie that night, when he called on the youth and his sister. "Don't you want to win the pennant?" asked Mabel, softly. She had thanked Joe--and her brother--with blushing cheeks for the return of her keepsake bracelet. But her blushes were not for her brother. "The pennant! Of course!" cried Joe. "I almost forgot about that! And we're going to win it!" "I'm going to see every game, too!" exclaimed Mabel, with brilliant cheeks and eyes. The first pennant game with Clevefield was a hard-fought one. Collin took the mound in the opening of the battle, and for a time all went well. He made some mistakes, and the heavy batters on the other side began "finding" him. But he was well supported by the fielders and basemen, and three innings ran along with the visitors securing nothing but zero tallies. Then came a break. A swift ball glanced off Collin's glove, and Charlie Hall, the shortstop, after a magnificent jump, by which he secured the horsehide, made a wild throw to first. Then began a slump, and Collin had his share in it. Joe was called on, but too late to be of any real service, though he stopped the rout. Score: Pittston three, Clevefield nine. "We've got to take three straight, or make a tie so as to get another game--making five instead of four," said Gregory, gloomily that evening. The next contest would take place in Clevefield and the teams made a night journey there. Reggie and his sister went on by auto early the next day, arriving in time to visit Joe before practice was called. "Joe, you're nervous!" exclaimed Reggie, when he met the young pitcher, just before lunch. "You ought to come out in the country for a little run. I'll take you in my car. It will do you good." "Yes, do come," urged Mabel. "All right," agreed Joe. "But I'll have to be back soon. No telling which one of us Gregory will call on to pitch." "Oh, I'll get you back in time," promised Reggie. So Joe, with the permission of Gregory, who warned him not to be late, started off for an auto ride. They went for some distance into the beautiful country and Joe was beginning to feel in fit condition to pitch a great game. As they passed through one small town, Joe looked at the clock in a jeweler's window. Then he glanced at his watch. "I say!" he cried in dismay. "Either my watch is slow, or that clock is fast. Why, I haven't time enough to get back to play! What time have you, Reggie?" "My watch has stopped. But we can ask the jeweler if his time is right." It was, as Joe learned to his dismay. They had been going by his watch, and now it developed that it was nearly an hour slow! "Jove! If I should be late!" cried the young pitcher in a panic of apprehension. CHAPTER XXVIII THE RACE There was but one thing to do--make all speed back to the ball park. Already, in fancy, Joe could see his team trotting out for warming-up practice, and wondering, perhaps, why he was not there with them. "This is fierce!" he gasped. "I had no idea it was so late!" "Neither had I," admitted Reggie. "It was such easy going that I kept on. It was my fault, Joe." "No, it was my own. I ought to have kept track of the time on such an important occasion. Of course I don't mean to say that they won't win the game without me, but if Gregory should happen to call on me and I wasn't there it would look bad. I'm supposed to be there for every game, if I'm able, whether they use me or not." "Then I'll get you there!" cried Reggie. "I'll make this old machine hum, take my word for that! We'll have a grand old race against time, Joe!" "Only don't get arrested for speeding," cautioned the young pitcher. "That would be as bad as not getting there at all." He looked at his watch while Reggie turned the car around in a narrow street, necessitating some evolutions. Again Joe compared his timepiece with the clock in the window of the jewelry store. His watch was more than an hour slow. "I can't understand it," he murmured. "It never acted like this before." Joe's watch was not a fancy one, nor expensive, but it had been recommended by a railroad friend, and could be relied on to keep perfect time. In fact it always had, and in the several years he had carried it the mechanism had never varied more than half a minute. "Maybe the hair spring is caught up," suggested Reggie. "That happens to mine sometimes." "That would make it go fast, instead of slow," said Joe. "It can't be that." He opened the back case, and looked at the balance wheel, and the mechanism for regulating the length of the hair spring, which controls the time-keeping qualities of a watch. "Look!" he cried to Reggie, showing him, "the pointer is shoved away over to one side. And my watch has been running slow, no telling for how long. That's what made us late. My watch has been losing time!" "Did you do it?" asked Reggie. "Of course not." "Then it was an accident. You can explain to your manager how it happened, and he'll excuse you." "It was no accident!" cried Joe. "No accident! What do you mean?" "I mean that someone did this on purpose!" cried Joe. "Someone got at my watch when I wasn't looking, and shoved the regulator lever over to slow. That was so it would lose time gradually, and I wouldn't notice. It has lost over an hour. This is too bad!" "Well, don't worry," advised Reggie, as he speeded the car ahead, turning into a long, country road that would take them almost directly to the ball park. "I'll get you there on time if I have to do it on bare rims. Let the tires go! But who do you imagine could have slowed down your watch?" "I wouldn't like to say--not until I have more proof," answered Joe, slowly. "It would not be fair." "No, I suppose not. Yet it was a mean trick, if it was done on purpose. They didn't want you to get back in time to pitch. Say! Could it have been any of the Clevefield players? They have plenty of cause to be afraid of you for what you did in the game yesterday--after you got a chance." "No, it wasn't any of them," said Joe, with a shake of his head. "They're too good sports to do a thing like that. Besides, I didn't do so much to them yesterday. We couldn't have had a much worse drubbing." "But you prevented it from being a regular slaughter." "Maybe. But it was none of them who slowed my watch." "You don't mean it was one of your own men!" cried Reggie. "I won't answer now," returned Joe, slowly. "Let's see if we can get there on time." Joe was doing some hard thinking. There was just one man on the Pittston nine who would have perpetrated a trick like this, and that man was Collin. He disliked Joe very much because of his ability, and since the game of yesterday, when Collin, unmercifully batted, had been taken out to let Joe fill his place, there was more cause than ever for this feeling of hatred--no good cause, but sufficient in the eyes of a vindictive man. Joe realized this. He also realized that Collin might even throw away the chance for his team to win in order to gratify a personal grudge. Other players had said as much to Joe, and it was almost an open secret that Gregory intended giving Collin his release at the end of the season. But Joe had not believed his enemy would go to such lengths. "He must be afraid I'll be put in first to-day," thought Joe, "and that he won't get a chance at all. Jove, what a mean trick!" Joe had no "swelled head," and he did not imagine, for a moment, that he was the best pitcher in the world. Yet he knew his own abilities, and he knew he could pitch a fairly good game, even in a pinch. It was but natural, then, that he should want to do his best. For Joe was intensely loyal to the team. He had always been so, not only since he became a professional, but while he was at Yale, and when he played on his school nine. "Hold on now!" called Reggie, suddenly breaking in on Joe's musings. "I'm going to speed her up!" The car sprang forward with a jump, and Joe was jerked sharply back. Then the race was on in earnest. The young pitcher quickly made up his mind. He would say nothing about the slowed watch, and if he arrived too late to take part in the game--provided he had been slated to pitch--he would take his medicine. But he resolved to watch Collin carefully. "He might betray himself," Joe reasoned. He could easily see how the trick had been worked. The players came to the ball field in their street clothes, and changed to their uniforms in the dressing rooms under the grandstand. An officer was always on guard at the entrance, to admit none but the men supposed to go in. But Collin could easily have gone to Joe's locker, taken out his watch and shoved over the regulator. It was the work of only a few seconds. Naturally when one's watch had been running correctly one would not stop to look and see if the regulator was in the right position. One would take it for granted. And it was only when Joe compared his timepiece with another that he noticed the difference. Could they make it up? It was almost time for the game to start, and they were still some distance from the grounds. There was no railroad or trolley line available, and, even if there had been, the auto would be preferable. "I guess we'll do it," Joe murmured, looking at his watch, which he had set correctly, also regulating it as well as he could. "We've just got to!" exclaimed Reggie, advancing the spark. They were certainly making good time, and Reggie was a careful driver. This time he took chances that he marveled at later. But the spirit of the race entered into him, and he clenched his teeth, held the steering wheel in a desperate grip, with one foot on the clutch pedal, and the other on the brake. His hand was ready at any moment to shoot out and grasp the emergency lever to bring the car up standing if necessary. And it might be necessary any moment, for though the road was good and wide it was well crowded with other autos, and with horse-drawn vehicles. On and on they sped. Now some dog would run out to bark exasperatingly at the flying machine, and Reggie, with muttered threats, would be ready to jam on both brakes in an instant. For a dog under an auto's wheels is a dangerous proposition, not only for the dog but for the autoist as well. "Get out, you cur!" yelled Joe, as a yellow brute rushed from one house. "I wish I had something to throw at you!" "Throw your watch!" cried Reggie grimly, above the noise of the machine. "No, it's a good watch yet, in spite of that trick," answered Joe. "It wasn't the fault of the watch." Once more he looked at it. Time was ticking on, and they still had several miles to go. The game must have been called by this time, and Joe was not there. He clenched his hands, and shut his teeth tightly. "We'll do it--or bust!" declared Reggie. His car was not a racer, but it was capable of good speed. He did not dare use all that was available, on account of the traffic. Many autos were taking spectators to the game, and they were in a hurry, too. Amid dust clouds they sped on, the engine whining and moaning at the speed at which it was run. But it ran true and "sweet," with never a miss. "They're playing now!" spoke Joe, in a low voice. In fancy he could hear the clang of the starting gong, and hear the umpire cry: "Play ball!" And he was not there! "We'll do it!" muttered Reggie. He tried to pass a big red car that, unexpectedly, swerved to one side. Reggie, in desperation, as he saw a collision in prospect, whirled the steering wheel to one side. His car careened and almost went over. Joe clung to the seat and braced himself. An instant later there was a sharp report, and the car, wobbling from side to side, shot up a grassy bank at the side of the road. "A blow-out!" yelled Reggie, and then, as he managed to bring the car to a sudden stop, the vehicle settled over on one side, gently enough, tossing Joe out on the grass with a thud. CHAPTER XXIX A DIAMOND BATTLE Confusion reigned supreme for a moment. Several autos that were passing stopped, and men and women came running up to be of assistance if necessary. But neither Joe nor Reggie was hurt. Slowly the young pitcher picked himself up, and gazed about in some bewilderment. For a moment he could not understand what had happened. Then he saw Reggie disentangling himself from the steering wheel. "Hurt?" asked Joe, anxiously. "No. Are you?" "Not a scratch." "Rotten luck!" commented Reggie. "Now you'll never get to the game on time." "Lucky you weren't both killed," commented an elderly autoist. "And your car isn't damaged to speak of. Only a tire to the bad. That grassy bank saved you." "Yes," assented Reggie. "All she needs is righting, but by the time that's done it will be too late." "Where were you going?" asked another man. "To the game," answered Reggie. "I'm on the Pittston team," said Joe. "I'm supposed to be there to pitch if I'm needed. Only--I won't be there," he finished grimly. "Yes you will!" cried a man who had a big machine. "I'll take you both--that is, if you want to leave your car," he added to Reggie. "Oh, I guess that will be safe enough. I'll notify some garage man to come and get it," was the reply. "Then get into my car," urged the gentleman. "I've got plenty of room--only my two daughters with me. They'll be glad to meet a player--they're crazy about baseball--we're going to the game, in fact. Get in!" Escorted by the man who had so kindly come to their assistance, Joe and Reggie got into the big touring car. The other autoists who had stopped went on, one offering to notify a certain garage to come and get Reggie's car. Then the young pitcher was again speeded on his way. The big car was driven at almost reckless speed, and when Joe reached the ball park, and fairly sprang in through the gate, he was an hour late--the game was about half over. Without looking at Gregory and the other players who were on the bench, Joe gave a quick glance at the score board. It told the story in mute figures. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 PITTSTON 0 0 0 0 CLEVEFIELD 1 0 2 3 It was the start of the fifth inning, and Pittston was at bat. Unless she had made some runs so far the tally was six to nothing in favor of Clevefield. Joe groaned in spirit. "Any runs?" gasped Joe, as he veered over to the bench where his mates sat. He was short of breath, for he had fairly leaped across the field. "Not a one," said Gregory, and Joe thought he spoke sharply. "What's the matter? Where have you been?" Joe gaspingly explained. When he spoke of the slow watch he looked at Collin sharply. For a moment the old pitcher tried to look Joe in the face. Then his eyes fell. It was enough for Joe. "He did it!" he decided to himself. "How many out?" was Joe's next question. "Only one. We have a chance," replied Gregory. "Get into a uniform as fast as you can and warm up." "Are you going to pitch me?" "I guess I'll have to. They've been knocking Collin out of the box." Gregory said the last in a low voice, but he might as well have shouted it for it was only too well known. Collin himself realized it. He fairly glared at Joe. As Joe hurried to the dressing room--his uniform fortunately having been left there early that morning--he looked at the bases. Bob Newton was on second, having completed a successful steal as Joe rushed in. Charlie Hall was at bat, and Joe heard the umpire drone as he went under the grandstand: "Strike two!" "Our chances are narrowing," thought Joe, and a chill seemed to strike him. "If we lose this game it practically means the loss of the pennant, and----" But he did not like to think further. He realized that the money he had counted on would not be forthcoming. "I'm not going to admit that we'll lose," and Joe gritted his teeth. "We're going to win." Quickly he changed into his uniform, and while he was doing it the stand above him fairly shook with a mighty yell. "Somebody's done something!" cried Joe aloud. "Oh, if I was only there to see!" The yelling continued, and there was a sound like thunder as thousands of feet stamped on the stand above Joe's head. "What is it? What is it?" he asked himself, feverishly, and his hands trembled so that he could hardly tie the laces of his shoes. He rushed out to find the applause still continuing and was just in time to see Charlie Hall cross the rubber plate. "He must have made a home run! That means two, for he brought in Bob!" thought Joe. He knew this was so, for, a moment later he caught the frantic shouts: "Home-run Hall! Home-run Hall!" "Did you do it, old man?" cried Joe, rushing up to him. "Well, I just _had_ to," was the modest reply. "I'm not going to let you do all the work on this team." Gregory was clapping the shortstop on the back. "Good work!" he said, his eyes sparkling. "Now, boys, we'll do 'em! Get busy, Joe. Peters, you take him off there and warm up with him." Charlie had caught a ball just where he wanted it and had "slammed" it out into the left field bleachers for a home run. It was a great effort, and just what was needed at a most needful time. Then the game went on. Clevefield was not so confident now. Her pitcher, really a talented chap, was beginning to be "found." Whether it was the advent of Joe, after his sensational race, or whether the Pittston players "got onto the Clevefield man's curves," as Charlie Hall expressed it, was not quite clear. Certainly they began playing better from that moment and when their half of the fifth closed they had three runs to their credit. The score was PITTSTON 3 CLEVEFIELD 6 "We only need four more to win--if we can shut them out," said Gregory, as his men took the field again. He sat on the bench directing the game. "Go to it, Joe!" "I'm going!" declared our hero, grimly. He realized that he had a hard struggle ahead of him. Not only must he allow as few hits as possible, but, with his team-mates, he must help to gather in four more tallies. And then the battle of the diamond began in earnest. Joe pitched magnificently. The first man up was a notoriously heavy hitter, and Joe felt tempted to give him his base on balls. Instead he nerved himself to strike him out if it could be done. Working a cross-fire, varying it with his now famous fade-away ball, Joe managed to get to two balls and two strikes, both the latter being foul ones. He had two more deliveries left, and the next one he sent in with all the force at his command. The bat met it, and for an instant Joe's heart almost stopped a beat. Then he saw the ball sailing directly into the hands of Charlie Hall. The man was out. Joe did not allow a hit that inning. Not a man got to first, and the last man up was struck out cleanly, never even fouling the ball. "That's the boy!" cried the crowd as Joe came in. "That's the boy!" His face flushed with pleasure. He looked for Collin, but that player had disappeared. The rest of that game is history in the Central League. How Pittston rallied, getting one run in the sixth, and another in the lucky seventh, has been told over and over again. Joe kept up his good work, not allowing a hit in the sixth. In the seventh he was pounded for a two-bagger, and then he "tightened up," and there were no runs for the Clevefields. They were fighting desperately, for they saw the battle slipping away from them. Pittston tied the score in the eighth and there was pandemonium in the stands. The crowd went wild with delight. "Hold yourself in, old man," Gregory warned his pitcher. "Don't let 'em get your goat. They'll try to." "All right," laughed Joe. He was supremely happy. There was almost a calamity in the beginning of the ninth. Pittston's first batter--Gus Harrison--struck out, and there was a groan of anguish. Only one run was needed to win the game, for it was now evident that the Clevefield batters could not find Joe. George Lee came up, and popped a little fly. The shortstop fumbled it, but stung it over to first. It seemed that George was safe there, but the umpire called him out. "Boys, we've got a bare chance left," said Gregory. "Go to it." And they did. It was not remarkable playing, for the Clevefields had put in a new pitcher who lost his nerve. With two out he gave Joe, the next man, his base. Joe daringly stole to second, and then Terry Hanson made up for previous bad work by knocking a three-bagger. Joe came in with the winning run amid a riot of yells. The score, at the beginning of the last half of the ninth: PITTSTON 7 CLEVEFIELD 6 "Hold 'em down, Joe! Hold 'em down!" pleaded Gregory. And Joe did. It was not easy work, for he was tired and excited from the auto run, and the close call he had had. But he pitched magnificently, and Clevefield's last record at bat was but a single hit. No runs came in. Pittston had won the second game of the pennant series by one run. Narrow margin, but sufficient. And what rejoicing there was! Joe was the hero of the hour, but his ovation was shared by Charlie Hall and the others who had done such splendid work. Pop Dutton did not play, much to his regret. "Congratulations, old man," said the Clevefield manager to Gregory. "That's some little pitcher you've got there." "That's what we think." "Is he for sale?" "Not on your life." "Still, I think you're going to lose him," went on Clevefield's manager. "How's that?" asked Gregory in alarm. The other whispered something. "Is that so! Scouting here, eh? Well, if they get Joe in a big league I suppose I ought to be glad, for his sake. Still, I sure will hate to lose him. He was handicapped to-day, too," and he told of the delay. "He sure has nerve!" was the well-deserved compliment. CHAPTER XXX THE PENNANT The pennant was not yet won. So far the teams had broken even, and unless Pittston could take the next two games there would be a fifth one necessary. "If there is," decided Gregory, "we'll make it an exhibition, on some neutral diamond, and get a big crowd. It will mean a lot more money for us." "Will it?" asked Joe. "Then let's do it!" "We can't make sure of it," went on the manager. "We'll not think of that, for it would mean throwing a game away if we won the next one, and I've never thrown a game yet, and never will. No, Joe, we'll try to win both games straight, even if it doesn't mean so much cash. Now take care of yourself." "I'll try," promised Joe. The next contest would take place at Pittston, and thither the two teams journeyed that evening. Before they left Joe spent a pleasant time at the hotel where Reggie and his sister had rooms. "Are you coming back to Pittston, or stay here for the fourth game?" the young pitcher asked. "We're going to see you play--of course!" exclaimed Mabel. "I wouldn't miss it for anything." "Thank you!" laughed Joe, and blushed. "Did you get your auto all right?" he asked Reggie. "Yes. The man brought her in. Not damaged a bit. Sis and I are going to motor in to-morrow. But I won't take a chance in giving you a ride again--not so close to the game." "I guess not," agreed Joe, laughing. "Did you find out anything?" Reggie went on. "About who meddled with your watch?" "I didn't ask any questions. It was too unpleasant a thing to have come out. But my first guess was right. And I don't think that player will stay around here." I may say, in passing, that Collin did not. He left town that night and was not seen in that part of the country for some years. He broke his contract, but Gregory did not much care for that, as he was about ready to release him anyhow. Joe told the story to the manager only, and they kept it a secret between them. It was a mystery to Collin's team-mates why he disappeared so strangely, but few ever heard the real story. The third game with Clevefield came off before a record-breaking crowd. It was a great contest, and was only won for Pittston in the tenth inning, when Jimmie Mack, the doughty first-baseman, scored the winning run. The crowd went wild at that, for it had looked as though Clevefield would take the game home with them. But they could not stand against Joe's terrific pitching. This made the pennant series stand two to one in favor of the Pittston team. Another victory would clinch the banner for them, but the following game must take place in Clevefield, and this fact was rather a disadvantage to Joe's team. "Now, boys, do your best," pleaded Gregory, as he sat with his men on the bench, making up the batting order. "We want to win!" Tom Tooley was to pitch in Joe's place, for our hero's arm really needed a rest. "I may have to use you anyhow, toward the end, if we get in a hole, Joe," said the manager. "So hold yourself in readiness." Much as Joe liked to pitch he was really glad that he did not have to go in, for he was very tired. The strain of the season, added to the responsibility of the final big games, was telling on him. The battle opened, and at first it seemed to favor Pittston. Then her best hitters began to "slump," and the game slipped away from them. Clevefield came up strong and though, as a desperate resort, Joe was sent in, it was too late. Clevefield won the fourth game by a score of nine to seven. "That means a fifth game!" announced Gregory. "Well, we'll have a better chance in that! Oh, for a rain!" "Why?" asked Jimmie Mack, as they walked off the field. "To give Joe a chance to rest up. He needs it." And the rain came. It lasted for two days, and a third one had to pass to let the grounds at Washburg dry up. It had been decided to play off the tie there, for the diamond was a fine one, and Washburg was centrally located, insuring a big attendance. "We should have arranged this series to be the best three out of five in the beginning," said Gregory. "We'll know better next time. There's too much uncertainty in a three out of four--it practically means five games anyhow." Reggie and Mabel saw every contest, and announced their intention of going to Washburg for the last. At least Mabel did, and Reggie could do no less than take her. The rest had done Joe good, though of course it had also allowed his opponents to recuperate. Joe felt fit to play the game of his life. The grandstands were filled--the bleachers overflowed--the band played--the crowds yelled and cheered. There was a riot of color--represented by ladies' hats and dresses; there was a forest of darkness--represented by the more sober clothes of the men. It was the day of the final game. "Play ball!" called the umpire, and Joe went to the mound, for Pittston had been lucky in the toss-up and could bat last. Joe hardly knew whether he was more elated over his own chance of shining in this deciding game or over the fact that Pop Dutton was playing. The old pitcher had improved wonderfully, and Gregory said, was almost "big league stuff" again. So he had been put in centre field. His batting, too, was a bulwark for Pittston. Just before the game Joe had received a letter from home, telling him news that disconcerted him a little. It was to the effect that an operation would be necessary to restore his father's sight. It was almost certain to be successful, however, for a noted surgeon, who had saved many by his skill, would perform it. But the cost would be heavy. "So I've just got to win this game; to make my share of the money bigger," Joe murmured. "I'll need every cent of it for dad--and Pop." The winner of the pennant, naturally, would receive the larger share of the gate money, and each man on the winning team, the manager had promised, was to have his proportion. "We've just got to win!" repeated Joe. It was a desperately fought battle from the very start. Joe found himself a trifle nervous at first, but he pulled himself together and then began such a pitching battle as is seldom seen. For five innings the game went on without a hit, a run or an error on either side. It was almost machine-perfect baseball, and it was a question of which pitcher would break first. Joe faced batter after batter with the coolness of a veteran. Little "no count" flies were all he was hit for, not a man getting to first. There came a break in the sixth. How it happened Joe never knew, but he hit the batter, who went to first, and a runner had to be substituted for him. Naturally this made Joe nervous and he was not himself. Then one of the Clevefield players knocked a home run, bringing in the man from first, and there were two runs against none for Pittston, and only one man out. Then, if ever, was a crucial moment for Joe. Many young pitchers would have gone to pieces under the strain, but by a supreme effort, Joe got back his nerve. The crowd, always ready to be unfriendly when it sees a pitcher wavering, hooted and howled. Joe only smiled--and struck out the next man--and the next. He had stopped a winning streak in the nick of time. "Get some runs, boys! Get some runs!" pleaded Gregory, and his men got them. They got three, enough to put them one ahead, and then Joe knew he must work hard to hold the narrow margin so hardly won. "I've got to do it! I've just got to do it!" he told himself. "I want to win this game so I'll have money enough for dad--and Pop! I'm going to do it!" And do it he did. How he did it is history now, but it is history that will never be forgotten in the towns of that league. For Joe did not allow another hit that game. He worked himself to the limit, facing veteran batters with a smile of confidence, sending in a deadly cross-fire with his famous fade-away until the last tally was told, and the score stood: PITTSTON 3 CLEVEFIELD 2 When the last batter had gone down to defeat in the first half of the ninth Joe drew off his glove, and, oblivious to the plaudits of the crowd and his own mates, hurried to the dressing rooms. "Where are you going?" cried Charlie Hall. "They're howling for you. They want to see you--hear you talk." Joe could hear the voices screaming: "Speech! Speech! Speech, Matson! Baseball Joe!" "I just can't! I'm all in, Charlie. Tell them," pleaded Joe. "I want to send a telegram home, telling the folks that I'll be with them when dad's operated on. I can't make a speech!" Charlie told the crowd, and Joe was cheered louder than before. And so ended the race for the pennant of the Central League, with Pittston the winner. As Joe walked off the field, on his way to the telegraph office, being cheered again and again, while he made his way through the crowd, a keen-faced man looked critically at him. "I guess you're going to be mine," he said. "I think we'll have to draft you." "What's that?" asked Pop Dutton, who recognized the man as a well-known scout, on the lookout for promising players. "Oh, nothing," answered the keen-faced one, with a laugh. Pop laughed also, but it was a laugh of understanding. And what it meant--and what the man's remark meant to Joe, may be learned by reading the next volume of this series, to be called: "Baseball Joe in the Big League; Or, a Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles." Joe hurried home that night, stopping only to say good-bye to Mabel, and promising to come and see her as soon as he could. The operation on Mr. Matson was highly successful. It cost a large sum, and as his father had no money to pay for it, Joe used much of the extra cash that came to him as his share in the pennant series. Had his team not won he would hardly have had enough. But there was enough to spare for the simple operation on Pop Dutton's arm. "Joe, I hate to have you spend your money this way--on me," objected the grizzled veteran of many diamonds. "It doesn't seem right." "Oh, play ball!" cried Joe, gaily. "You can pay me back, if you want to, you old duffer, when you get into a bigger league than the Central, and are earning a good salary." "I will!" cried Pop, enthusiastically. "For I know I'm good for some years yet. I have 'come back,' thanks to you, Joe." They clasped hands silently--the young pitcher at the start of his brilliant career, and the old one, whose day was almost done. Pop's operation was successful, and he went South for the Winter, there, in company with an old friend, to gradually work up into his old form. Hogan seemed to have vanished, but Reggie got all the pawned jewelry back. The Pittston players, in common with the others in the league teams, went their several ways to their Winter occupations, there to remain until Spring should again make green the grass of the diamond. "Oh, Joe!" exclaimed Mrs. Matson, with trembling voice, when it was certain her husband would see again, "how much we owe to you, my son." "You owe more to baseball," laughed Joe. Clara came in with a letter. "This is for you, Joe," she said, adding mischievously: "It seems to be from a girl, and it's postmarked Goldsboro, North Carolina. Who do you know down there?" "Give me that letter, Sis!" cried Joe, blushing. And while he is perusing the missive, the writer of which you can possibly name, we will, for a time, take leave of Baseball Joe. THE END THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES By LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Illustrated. Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] 1. BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS _or The Rivals of Riverside_ 2. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE _or Pitching for the Blue Banner_ 3. BASEBALL JOE AT YALE _or Pitching for the College Championship_ 4. BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE _or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_ 5. BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE _or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles_ 6. BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS _or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_ 7. BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES _or Pitching for the Championship_ 8. BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD _or Pitching on a Grand Tour_ 9. BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING _or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record_ 10. BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE _or Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy_ 11. BASEBALL JOE CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM _or Bitter Struggles on the Diamond_ 12. BASEBALL JOE CHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE _or The Record that was Worth While_ 13. BASEBALL JOE CLUB OWNER _or Putting the Home Town on the Map_ 14. BASEBALL JOE PITCHING WIZARD _or Triumphs Off and On the Diamond_ _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BOMBA BOOKS By ROY ROCKWOOD _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. With colored jacket._ _Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] _Bomba lived far back in the jungles of the Amazon with a half-demented naturalist who told the lad nothing of his past. The jungle boy was a lover of birds, and hunted animals with a bow and arrow and his trusty machete. He had a primitive education in some things, and his daring adventures will be followed with breathless interest by thousands._ 1. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY _or The Old Naturalist's Secret_ 2. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE MOVING MOUNTAIN _or The Mystery of the Caves of Fire_ 3. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE GIANT CATARACT _or Chief Nasconora and His Captives_ 4. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON JAGUAR ISLAND _or Adrift on the River of Mystery_ 5. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE ABANDONED CITY _or A Treasure Ten Thousand Years Old_ 6. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON TERROR TRAIL _or The Mysterious Men from the Sky_ 7. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE SWAMP OF DEATH _or The Sacred Alligators of Abarago_ 8. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AMONG THE SLAVES _or Daring Adventures in the Valley of Skulls_ _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York * * * * * Transcriber's note: --Printer, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected, except as noted below. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --Author's em-dash style has been preserved. --Changed "Rocky-ford" (p. 17) to "Rocky Ford", the Resolutes ball team's home town, for consistency with previous and subsequent books in the series. 
41206	----	[Illustration: HE SLAMMED IT OUT FOR A THREE-BASE HIT.] BATTING TO WIN A Story of College Baseball BY LESTER CHADWICK AUTHOR OF "THE RIVAL PITCHERS," "A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK," ETC. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK =THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES= 12mo. Illustrated THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK A Story of College Football BATTING TO WIN A Story of College Baseball (Other Volumes in preparation) CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY NEW YORK Copyright, 1911, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BATTING TO WIN Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I A STRANGE MESSAGE 1 II SID IS CAUGHT 16 III MISS MABEL HARRISON 27 IV ELECTING A MANAGER 41 V RANDALL AGAINST BOXER 59 VI THE ACCUSATION 75 VII GETTING BACK AT "PITCHFORK" 84 VIII THE ENVELOPE 92 IX A CLASH 100 X SID IS SPIKED 105 XI A JOKE ON THE PROCTOR 114 XII PLANNING A PICNIC 122 XIII A SPORTY COMPANION 131 XIV "MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!" 140 XV AN UNEXPECTED DEFENSE 146 XVI A SERIOUS CHARGE 152 XVII SID KEEPS SILENT 157 XVIII BASCOME GIVES A DINNER 163 XIX FAIRVIEW AND RANDALL 170 XX RANDALL SCORES FIRST 176 XXI RANDALL IN THE TENTH 183 XXII SID DESPAIRS 195 XXIII FINANCIAL DIFFICULTIES 202 XXIV PITCHFORK'S TALL HAT 209 XXV A PETITION 219 XXVI TOM STOPS A HOT ONE 226 XXVII GLOOMY DAYS 233 XXVIII A FRESHMAN PLOT 239 XXIX THE SOPHOMORE DINNER 246 XXX TOM'S LAST APPEAL 255 XXXI THE BAN LIFTED 265 XXXII A PERILOUS CROSSING 275 XXXIII THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME 284 XXXIV BATTING TO WIN 295 BATTING TO WIN CHAPTER I A STRANGE MESSAGE Sid Henderson arose from the depths of an antiquated easy chair, not without some effort, for the operation caused the piece of furniture to creak and groan, while from the thick cushions a cloud of dust arose, making a sort of haze about the student lamp, and forcing two other occupants of the college room to sneeze. "Oh, I say, Sid!" expostulated Tom Parsons, "give a fellow notice, will you, when you're going to liberate a colony of sneeze germs. I--er--ah! kerchoo! Hoo! Boo!" and he made a dive for his pocket handkerchief. "Yes," added Phil Clinton, as he coughed protestingly. "What do you want to get up for and disturb everything, when Tom and I were so nice and quiet? Why can't you sit still and enjoy a good think once in a while? Besides, do you want to give that chair spinal meningitis or lumbago? Our old armchair, that has stuck to us, through thick and thin, for better and for worse--mostly worse, I guess. I say----" "I came near sticking to it, myself," remarked Sidney Henderson, otherwise known as, and called, Sid. "It's like getting out of the middle of a featherbed to leave it. And say, it does act as if it was going to pieces every time one gets in or out of it," he added, making a critical inspection of the chair. "Then why do you want to get in or out?" asked Phil, closing a book, over which he had made a pretense of studying. "Why do you do it, I ask? You may consider that I have moved the previous question, and answer," he went on. "How about it, Tom?" "The gentleman is out of order," decided Tom, a tall, good-looking lad, with the bronzed skin of an athlete, summer and fall, barely dimmed by the enforced idleness of winter. "Sid, you are most decidedly out of order--I think I'm going to sneeze again," and he held up a protesting hand. "No, I'm not, either," he continued. "False alarm. My, what a lot of dust! But, go ahead, Sid, answer the gentleman's query." "Gentleman?" repeated the lad, who had arisen from the easy chair, and there was a questioning note in his voice. "Here! Here! Save that for the amateur theatricals!" cautioned Tom, looking about for something to throw at his chum. "Why did you get up? Answer!" "I wanted to see if it had stopped raining," announced Sid, as he moved over toward one of the two windows in the rather small living room and study, occupied by the three chums, who were completing their sophomore year at Randall College. "Seems to me it's slacking up some." "Slacking up some!" exclaimed Tom. "Stopped raining!" echoed Phil. "Listen to it! Cats and dogs, to say nothing of little puppies, aren't in it. It's a regular deluge. Listen to it!" He held up his hand. Above the fussy ticking of a small alarm clock, which seemed to contain a six-cylindered voice in a one-cylindered body, and which timepiece was resting at a dangerous angle on a pile of books, there sounded the patter of rain on the windows and the tin gutter outside. "Rain, rain, nothing but rain!" grumbled Phil. "We haven't had a decent day for baseball practice in two weeks. I'm sick of the inside cage, and the smell of tan bark. I want to get into the open, with the green grass of the outfield to fall on." "Well, this weather is good for making the grass grow," observed Tom, as he got up from his chair, and joined Sid at the window, down which rain drops were chasing each other as if in glee at the anguish of mind they were causing the three youths. "Aren't you anxious to begin twirling the horsehide?" asked Sid. "I should think you'd lose some speed, having only the cage to practice in, Tom." "I am, but I guess we'll get some decent weather soon. This can't last forever." "It's in a fair way to," grumbled Phil. "It would be a nice night if it didn't rain," came from Sid musingly, as he turned back to the old easy chair, "which remark," he added, "is one a little boy made in the midst of a driving storm, when he met his Sunday-school teacher, and wanted to say something, but didn't know what." "Your apology is accepted," murmured Tom. "I don't know what you fellows are going to do, but I'm going to sew up a rip in my pitcher's glove. I think maybe if I do the weather man will get a hunch on himself, and hand us out a sample of a nice day for us to select from." "Nice nothing!" was what Phil growled, but with the activity of Tom in getting out his glove, and searching for needle and thread, there came a change of atmosphere in the room. The rain came down as insistently, and the wind lashed the drops against the panes, but there was an air of relief among the chums. "I've got to fix a rip in my own glove," murmured Sid. "Guess I might as well get at it," and he noted Tom threading a needle. "And I've got to do a little more boning on this trigonometry," added Phil, as, with a sigh, he opened the despised book. For a time there was silence in the apartment, while the rain on the windows played a tattoo, more or less gentle, as the wind whipped the drops; the timepiece fussed away, as if reminding its hearers that time and tide waited for no man, and that 99-cent alarm clocks were especially exacting in the matter. Occasionally Sid shifted his position in the big chair, to which he had returned, each movement bringing out a cloud of dust, and protests from his chums. The room was typical of the three lads who occupied it. At the beginning of their friendship, and their joint occupation of a study, they had agreed that each was to be allowed one side of the apartment to decorate as he saw fit. The fourth side of this particular room was broken by two windows, and not of much use, while one of the other walls contained the door, and this one Sid had chosen, for the simple reason that his fancy did not run to such things as did Tom's and Phil's, and he required less space for his ornaments. Sid was rather an odd character, somewhat quiet, much given to study, and to delving after the odd and unusual. One of his fads was biology, and another, allied to it, nature study. He would tramp all day for a sight of some comparatively rare bird, nesting; or walk many miles to get a picture of a fox, or a ground-hog, just as it darted into its burrow. In consequence Sid's taste did not run to gay flags and banners of the college colors, worked by the fair hands of pretty girls, nor did he care to collect the pictures of the aforesaid girls, and stick them up on his wall. He had one print which he prized, a representation of a football scrimmage, and this occupied the place of honor. As for Tom and Phil, the more adornments they had the better they liked it, though I must do them the credit to say that they only had one place of honor for one girl's photograph at a time. But they sometimes changed girls. Then, on their side, were more or less fancy pictures--scenes, mottoes, and what not. Much of the ornamentation had been given them by young lady friends. Of course the old chair and an older sofa, together with the alarm clock, which had been handed down from student to student until the mind of Randallites ran not to the contrary, were the chief other things in the apartment, aside from the occupants thereof. Each lad had a desk, and a bureau or chiffonier, or "Chauffeur" as Holly Cross used to dub them. These articles of furniture were more or less in confusion. Neckties, handkerchiefs, collars and cuffs were piled in a seemingly inextricable, if not artistic, confusion. Nor could much else be expected in a room where three chums made a habit of indiscriminately borrowing each other's articles of wearing apparel, provided they came any where near fitting. On the floor was a much worn rug, which Phil had bought at auction at an almost prohibitive price, under the delusion that it was a rare Oriental. Learning to the contrary he and his chums had decided to keep it, since, old and dirty as it was, they argued that it saved them the worriment of cleaning their feet when they came in. Then there were three neat, white, iron beds--neat because they were made up fresh every day, and there was a dormitory rule against having them in disorder. Otherwise they would have suffered the fate of the walls, the rug or the couch and easy chair. Altogether it was a fairly typical student apartment, and it was occupied, as I hope my readers will believe, by three of the finest chaps it has been my lot to write about; and it is in this room that my story opens, with the three lads busily engaged in one way or another. "Oh, I say! Hang it all!" burst out Sid finally. "How in the mischief do you shove a needle through this leather, Tom? It won't seem to go, for me." "You should use a thimble," observed Tom. "Nothing like 'em, son." "Thimble!" cried Sid scornfully. "Do you take me for an old maid? Where did you ever learn to use a thimble?" and he walked over to where Tom was making an exceedingly neat job of mending his glove. "Oh, I picked it up," responded the pitcher of the Randall 'varsity nine. "Comes in handy when your foot goes through your socks." "Yes, and that's what they do pretty frequently these days," added Phil. "If you haven't anything to do, Tom, I wish you'd get busy on some of my footwear. I just got a batch back from the laundry, and I'm blessed if out of the ten pairs of socks I can get one whole pair." "I'll look 'em over," promised the pitcher. "There, that's as good as new; in fact better, for it fits my hand," and he held up and gazed critically at the mended glove. "Where's yours, Sid?" he went on. "I'll mend it for you." Silence was the atmosphere of the apartment for a few minutes--that is comparative silence, though the pushing of Tom's needle through the leather, squeaking as he forced it, mingled with the ticking of the clock. "I guess we can count on a good nine this year," observed Tom judicially, apropos of the glove repairing. "It's up to you, cap," remarked Sid, for Tom had been elected to that coveted honor. "You mean it's up to you fellows," retorted the pitcher-captain. "I want some good batters, that's what I want. It's all right enough to have a team that can hold down Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute, but you can't win games by shutting out the other fellows. Runs are what count, and to get runs you've got to bat to win." "Listen to the oracle!" mocked Phil, but with no malice in his voice. "You want to do better than three hundred with the stick, Sid." "Physician, heal thyself!" quoted Tom, smiling. "I think we will have a good----" He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor. Instinctively the three lads started, then, as a glance at the clock showed that they were not burning lights beyond the prescribed hour, there was a breath of relief. "Who's coming?" asked Tom. "Woodhouse, Bricktop or some of the royal family," was Phil's opinion. "No," remarked Sid quietly, and there was that in his voice which made his chums look curiously at him, for it seemed as if he expected some one. A moment later there came a rap on the door, and then, with a seeming knowledge of the nerve-racking effect this always has on college students, a voice added: "I'm Wallops, the messenger. I have a note for Mr. Henderson." "For me?" and there was a startled query in Sid's voice, as he went to the door. Outside the portal stood a diminutive figure--Wallops--the college messenger, so christened in ages gone by--perhaps because of the chastisements inflicted on him. At any rate Wallops he was, and Wallops he remained. "A message for me?" repeated Sid. "Where from?" "Dunno. Feller brought it, and said it was for you," and, handing the youth an envelope, the messenger departed. Sid took out the note, and rapidly scanned it. "See him blush!" exclaimed Phil. "Think of it, Tom, Sid Henderson, the old anchorite, the petrified misogynist, getting notes from a girl." "Yes," added Tom. "Why don't you sport her photograph, old man?" and he glanced at several pictures of pretty girls that adorned the sides of the room claimed by Phil and himself. Sid did not answer. He read the note through again, and then began to tear it into bits. The pieces he thrust into his pocket, but one fluttered, unnoticed, to the floor. "I've got to go out, fellows," he announced in a curiously quiet voice. "Out--on a night like this?" cried Tom. "You're crazy. Listen to the rain! It's pouring." "I can't help it," was the answer, as the lad began delving among his things for a raincoat. "You're crazy!" burst out Phil. "Can't you wait until to-morrow to see her, old sport? My, but you've got 'em bad for a fellow who wouldn't look at a girl all winter!" "It isn't a girl," and Sid's voice was still oddly calm. "I've got to go, that's all--don't bother me--you chaps." There was such a sudden snap to the last words--something so different from Sid's usual gentle manner--that Phil and Tom looked at each other in surprise. Then, as if realizing what he had said, Sid added: "It's something I can't talk about--just yet. I've got to go--I promised--that's all. I'll be back soon--I guess." "How about Proc. Zane?" asked Tom, for the proctor of Randall College was very strict. "I'll have to chance it," replied Sid. "I've got about two hours yet, before locking-up time, and if I get caught--well my reputation's pretty good," and he laughed uneasily. This was not the Sid that Tom and Phil--his closest chums--had known for the last three terms. It was a different Sid, and the note he received, and had so quickly destroyed, seemed to have worked the change in him. Slowly he drew on his raincoat and took up an umbrella. He paused a moment in the doorway. The rain was coming down harder than ever. "So long," said Sid, as he stepped into the corridor. He almost collided with another youth on the point of entering, and the newcomer exclaimed: "Say, fellows! I've got great news! Baseball news! I know this is a rotten night to talk diamond conversation, but listen. There's been a new trophy offered for the championship of the Tonoka Lake League! Just heard of it. Dr. Churchill told me. Some old geezer that did some endowing for the college years ago, had a spasm of virtue recently and is now taking an interest in sports. It's a peach of a gold loving cup, and say----" "Come on in, Holly," invited Tom, "Holly" being about all that Holman Cross was ever called. "Come on in," went on Tom, "and chew it all over for us. Say, it's great! A gold loving cup! We must lick the pants off Boxer and Fairview now!" Holly started to enter the room, Phil and Tom reaching out and clasping his hands. "Where are you bound for?" asked Holly, looking at Sid, attired in the raincoat. "I've got to go out," was the hesitating answer. "Wait until you hear the news," invited Holly. "It's great! It will be the baseball sensation of the year, Sid." "No--no--sorry, but I've got to go. I'll be back--soon--I guess. I've--I've got to go," and breaking away from the detaining hand of Holly, the strangely-acting boy turned down the corridor, leaving his roommates, and the newcomer, to stare curiously after him. "Whatever has gotten into old Sid?" inquired Holly. "Search us," answered Phil. "He got a note a little while ago; seemed quite put out about it, tore it up and then tore out, just as you saw." "A note, eh?" mused Holly, as he threw himself full length on a rickety old sofa, much patched fore and aft with retaining boards--a sofa that was a fit companion for the ancient chair. It creaked and groaned under the substantial bulk of Holly. "Easy!" cautioned Phil. "Do you want to wreck our most cherished possession?" "Anyone who can wreck this would be a wonder," retorted Holly, as he looked over the edge, and saw the boards that had been nailed on to repair a bad fracture. "Hello!" he exclaimed a moment later, as he picked up from the floor a scrap of paper. "You fellows are getting most uncommon untidy. First you know Proc. Zane will have you up on the carpet. You should keep your scraps of paper picked up." "We didn't put that there," declared Tom. "That must be part of the note Sid tore up." Idly Holly turned the bit of paper over. It was blank on one side, but, at the sight of the reverse the athlete uttered a cry. "I say, fellows, look here!" he said. He held the paper scrap out for their inspection. It needed but a glance to see that it bore but one word, though there were pen tracings of parts of other words on the edges. But the word that stood plainly out was "_trouble_," and it appeared to be the end of a sentence, for a period followed it. "Trouble," mused Holly. "Trouble," repeated Phil. "I wonder if that means Sid is going to get into trouble?" and his voice took a curious turn. "Trouble," added Tom, the last of the trio to use the word. "Certainly something is up or Sid wouldn't act the way he did. I wonder----" "It isn't any of our affair," spoke Holly softly, "that is unless Sid wants our help, of course. I guess we shouldn't have looked at this. It's like reading another chap's letters." "We couldn't help it," decided Phil. "Go ahead, Holly. Tell us about the trophy. Sid may be back soon." "All right, here goes," and wiggling into a more comfortable position on the sofa, an operation fraught with much anxiety on the part of Phil and Tom, Holly launched into a description of the loving cup. But, unconsciously perhaps, he still held in his hand that scrap of paper--the paper with that one word on--"_trouble_." CHAPTER II SID IS CAUGHT "It's this way," began Holly, as he crossed one leg over, and clasped his hands under his recumbent head. "Randall has been looking up in athletics lately. Since we did so well last season on the diamond, and won the championship at football, some of the old grads and men who have such 'oodles' of money that they don't know what to do with it, have a kindlier feeling for the old college. It's that which brought about the presentation of the loving cup trophy, or, rather the offer of it to the winner of the baseball championship of the Tonoka Lake League. The cup will be worth winning, so the doctor says." "How'd he come to tell you?" asked Phil. "I happened to go to his study to consult him about some of my studies----" began Holly. "Yes you did!" exclaimed Tom disbelievingly. "You went there because Proc. Zane made you!" declared Phil. "Well, no matter, if you can't take a gentleman's word for it," said Holly, with an assumed injured air. "Anyhow, I was in the doctor's office, and he had just received a letter from some old grad, honorary degree man, offering the gold cup. Doc asked me if I thought the boys would like to play for it. Has to be won two out of three times before any college can keep it. I told him we'd play for it with bells on!" "Of course!" agreed Tom and Phil. "Now, about the team for this spring?" resumed Holly. "You're captain, Tom, but we've got to elect a manager soon, and we'd better begin talking about it," and then the trio launched into a rapid-fire talk on baseball and matters of the diamond. The three youths were sophomores in Randall College, a well-known institution located near the town of Haddonfield, in one of our Middle Western States. The college proper was on the shore of Sunny River, not far from Lake Tonoka; and within comparative short distance of Randall were two other colleges. One was Boxer Hall, and the other Fairview Institute--the latter a co-educational institution. The three, together with some other near-by colleges and schools, formed what was called the Tonoka Lake Athletic League, and there were championship games of baseball, football, tennis, hockey, golf, and other forms of sport. Those of you who have read the previous volumes of this "College Sports Series" need little if any introduction to the characters who have held the stage in my opening chapter. Others may care for a formal introduction, which I am happy to give them. In the first book, called "The Rival Pitchers," there was told of the efforts Tom Parsons made to gain the place as "twirler" on the 'varsity nine. Tom was a farmer's son, in moderate circumstances, and had come to Randall from Northville. Almost at once he got into conflict with Fred Langridge, a rich student, who was manager of the 'varsity ball nine, and also its pitcher, and who resented Tom's efforts to "make" the nine. After much snubbing on the part of Langridge, and not a few unpleasant experiences Tom got his chance. Eventually he supplanted Langridge, who would not train properly, and who smoked, drank and gambled, thinking himself a "sport." Tom soon became one of the most liked of the sporting crowd, and the especial friend of Phil Clinton and Sidney Henderson, with whom he had roomed for the last term. The three were now called the "inseparables." In the first book several thrilling games were told of, also how Randall won the championship after a hard struggle with Boxer and Fairview, in which games Tom Parsons fairly "pitched his head off," to quote Holly Cross, who was an expert on diamond slang. Langridge did his best to injure Tom, and nearly succeeded, but the pitcher had many friends, besides his two special chums, among them being Holly Cross, Bricktop Molloy, Billy or "Dutch" Housenlager, who was full of horseplay, "Snail" Looper, so called from his ability to move with exceeding slowness, and his liking for night prowlings. Then there was Pete Backus, known as "Grasshopper," from his desire, but inability, to shine as a high and broad distance jumper; "Bean" Perkins, a "shouter" much depended on in games, when he led the cheering; Dan Woodhouse, called Kindlings, and Jerry and Joe Jackson, known as the "Jersey Twins." Of course, Tom and his two chums had many other friends whom you will meet from time to time. Sufficient to say that he "made good" in the eyes of the coach, Mr. Leighton, and was booked not only to pitch on the 'varsity again, but he had been elected captain, just before the present story opens. Phil Clinton was the hero of my second volume, a story of college football, entitled "A Quarter Back's Pluck." Phil was named for quarter back on the 'varsity eleven, but, for a time it looked as if he would be out of the most important games. His mother was very ill in Florida, in danger of death from a delicate operation, and Phil, and his sister Ruth Clinton (who attended Fairview Institute) were under a great nervous strain. Langridge, seeing that Tom was beyond his vengeance, tried his tricks on Phil. Together with Garvey Gerhart, a freshman, Langridge planned to keep Phil out of an important game. They "doctored" a bottle of liniment he used, but this trick failed. Then they planned to send him, just before an important contest, a telegram, stating that his mother was dying. They figured that he would not play and that Randall would lose the contest--both Gerhart and Langridge being willing to thus play the traitor to be revenged on the coach and captain of the eleven. But, with characteristic pluck, Phil went into the game, stuffing the fake telegram in his pocket, and playing like a Trojan, even though he believed his mother was dying. It was pluck personified. After aiding his fellows to win the championship, Phil hurried off the field, to go to Florida to his mother. Then, for the first time, he learned that the message he had received was a "fake"--for his mother was on the road to recovery as stated in a telegram his sister Ruth had received. Of course the trick Langridge and Gerhart played was found out, and they both left Randall quietly, so that the name of the college might not be disgraced. But though Tom, Phil, Sid and their chums lived a strenuous life when sports were in the ascendency, that does not mean that they had no time for the lighter side of life. There were girls at Fairview--pretty girls and many of them. One, in particular--Madge Tyler--seemed to fit Tom's fancy, and he and she grew to be very friendly. Perhaps that was because Tom had rather supplanted Langridge in the eyes of Miss Tyler, who had been to many affairs with him, before she knew his true character. Then there was Ruth Clinton, Phil's sister. After meeting her Tom was rather wavering in his attachment toward Miss Tyler, but matters straightened themselves out, for Phil and Miss Tyler seemed to "hit it off," to once more quote Holly Cross, though for a time there was a little coldness between Tom and Phil on this same girl question. When this story opens, however, Tom considered himself cheated if he did not see Ruth at least twice a week, and as for Phil, he and Miss Tyler--but there, I'm not going to be needlessly cruel. To complete the description of life at Randall I might mention that Dr. Albertus Churchill, sometimes called "Moses," was the venerable and well-beloved head of the institution, and that as much as he was revered so much was Mr. Andrew Zane, the proctor, disliked; for, be it known, the proctor did not always take fair advantage of the youths, and he was fond of having them "upon the carpet," or, in other words, before Dr. Churchill for admonition about certain infractions of the rules. Another character, little liked, was Professor Emerson Tines, dubbed "pitchfork," by his enemies, and they were legion. I believe that is all--no, to give you a complete picture of life at Randall I must mention that Sidney Henderson, the third member of the "inseparables" was a woman hater--a misogynist--an anchorite--a dub--almost anything along that line that his chums could think to call him. He abhorred young ladies--or he thought he did--and he and Tom and Phil were continually at variance on this question, and that of having girls' photographs in the common study. But of that more later. With Holly stretched out on the old sofa, and Phil and Tom in various tangled attitudes in chairs--Phil in the depths of the ancient one--the talk of baseball progressed. "Yes, we must have an election for manager soon," conceded Tom. "But first I want to see what sort of a team I'm going to have. We need outdoor practice, but if this rotten weather keeps up----" "Hark! I think I hear the rain stopping," exclaimed Phil. "Stop nothing," declared Holly. "It's only catching its breath for another deluge." And it did seem so, for, presently, there came a louder patter than ever, of drops on the tin gutter. "Well, guess I'd better be moving," announced Holly, after another spasm of talk. "What time is it by your town clock, anyhow?" and he shied a book at the alarm timepiece so that the face of it would be slewed around in his direction, giving him a peep at it without obliging him to get up. "Here! What are you trying to do?" demanded Tom. "Do you want to break the works, and stop it?" "Impossible, my dear boy," said Holly lazily. "Just turn it around for me, will you, like a good fellow. I don't see how I missed it. I must practice throwing, or I won't be any good when the ball season opens. Give me another shot?" and he raised a second volume. "Quit!" cried Tom, interposing his arm in front of the fussy little clock. "That calls us to our morning duties," added Phil, adding in a sing-song voice: "Oh, vandal, spare that clock, touch not a single hand, for surely it doth keep the time the worst in all the land." "Fierce," announced Holly, closing his eyes and pretending to breathe hard. "It tells you how much longer you can sleep in the morning, I guess you mean," he went on. "The three of you were late for chapel this a. m." "That's because Sid monkeyed with the regulator," insisted Tom. "He thought he could improve it. But, say, it is getting late. Nearly ten." "And Sid isn't back yet," went on Phil. "My bedtime, anyhow," came from Holly, as he slid from the sofa, and glided from the room. "So long. Sid wants to look out or he'll be caught. Proc. Zane has a new book, and he wants to get some of the sporting crowd down in it. See you in the dewy morn, gents," and he was gone. "Sid _is_ late," murmured Tom, as he began to prepare for bed. "Shall we leave a light for him?" "Nope. Too risky," decided Phil. "No use of us all being hauled up. But maybe he's back, and is in some of the rooms. He's got ten minutes yet." But the ten minutes passed, and ten more, and Sid did not come back. Meanwhile Tom and Phil had "doused their glim," and were in bed, but not asleep. Somehow there was an uneasy feeling worrying them both. They could not understand Sid's action in going off so suddenly, and so mysteriously--especially as there was a danger of being caught out after hours. And, as Sid was working for honors, to be caught too often meant the danger of losing that for which he had worked so hard. "I can't understand----" began Tom, in a low voice, when from the chapel clock, the hour of eleven boomed out. "Hush!" exclaimed Phil. Some one was coming along the corridor--two persons to judge by the footsteps. "Is that Sid?" whispered Tom. Phil did not answer. A moment later the door opened, and in the light that streamed from a lamp in the corridor, Sid could be seen entering. Behind him stood Proctor Zane. "You will report to Dr. Churchill directly after chapel in the morning," the proctor said, in his hard, cold voice. "You were out an hour after closing time, Mr. Henderson." "Very well, sir," answered Sid quietly, as he closed the door, and listened to Mr. Zane walking down the corridor. "Caught?" asked Tom, though there was no need of the query. "Sure," replied Sid shortly. "Where were you?" asked Phil, sitting up in bed, and trying to peer through the darkness toward his unfortunate chum. "Out," was the answer, which was none at all. "Humph!" grunted Tom. Then, suddenly: "You must have been hitting it up, Sid. I thought you didn't smoke. Been trying it for the first time?" "I haven't been smoking!" came the answer, in evident surprise. "Your clothes smell as if you'd been at the smoker of the Gamma Sig fraternity," declared Tom. "Oh, shut up, and let a fellow alone; can't you?" burst out Sid, and he threw his shoes savagely into the corner of the room. Neither Tom nor Phil replied, but they were doing a great deal of thinking. They could not fathom Sid's manner--he had never acted that way before. What could be the matter? It was some time before they learned Sid's secret, and the keeping of it involved Sid in no small difficulties, and nearly cost the college the baseball championship. CHAPTER III MISS MABEL HARRISON Neither Tom nor Phil made any reference, the following morning, to the incident of the night before. As usual, none of the boys got up when the warning of the alarm clock summoned them, for they always allowed half an hour for its persistent habit of running fast. As it was, it happened to be correct on this occasion, and they were barely in time for chapel, Tom having to adjust his necktie on the race across the campus. "Well, what's on for to-day?" asked Phil, as, with Tom and Sid, he strolled from the chapel after service. "Baseball practice this afternoon," decided Tom, for the rain had stopped. "It'll be pretty sloppy," observed Phil dubiously. "Wear rubbers," advised the captain. "The fellows need some fresh air, and they're going to get it. Be on hand, Sid?" "Sure. Now I've got to get a disagreeable job over with. Me for the doctor's office," and that was his only reference to the punishment meted out to him. He was required to do the usual number of lines of Latin prose, which was not hard for him, as he was a good scholar. Tom and Sid went to their lectures, the captain, on the way, calling to the various members of the team to be on hand at the diamond in the afternoon. Sid accomplished his sentence of punishment in the room, and after dinner the three chums, with a motley crowd of players, and lovers of the great game, moved over the campus toward the diamond. "Done anything about a manager?" asked Holly Cross, as he tightened his belt and began tossing up a grass-stained ball. "Not yet," replied Tom. "There's time enough. I want to get the fellows in some kind of shape. We won't play a game for a month yet--that is any except practice ones, and we don't need a manager to arrange for them. Whom have you fellows in mind?" "Ed Kerr," spoke Holly promptly. "He knows the game from A to Z." "I thought he was going to play," came quickly from Tom. "We need him on the nine." "He isn't going to play this season," went on Holly. "I heard him say so. He wants to save himself for football, and he says he can't risk going in for both. He'd make a good manager." "Fine!" agreed Tom, Sid and Phil. "Yes, but did you hear the latest?" asked Snail Looper, gliding along, almost like the reptile he was christened after. "What?" demanded several. "There's talk of Ford Fenton for manager," went on Snail. "What, Ford!" cried Tom. "He'd be giving us nothing all the while but 'my uncle says this' and 'my uncle used to do it that way'! No Ford for mine, though I like the chap fairly well." "Same here," agreed Phil. "We can stand him, but not his uncle," for, be it known, Ford Fenton, one of the sophomore students, was the nephew of a man who had been a celebrated coach at Randall in the years gone by. Ford believed in keeping his memory green, and on every possible, and some impossible, occasions he would preface his remarks with "My Uncle says" and then go on and tell something. It got on the nerves of his fellows, and they "rigged" him unmercifully about it, but Fenton could not seem to take the hint. His uncle was a source of pride to him, but it is doubtful if the former coach knew how his reputation suffered at the hands of his indiscrete youthful relative. "Who told you Fenton had a chance for manager?" asked Sid Henderson. "Why, Bert Bascome is his press agent." "Bascome, the freshman?" Phil wanted to know, and Snail Looper nodded. "Guess he didn't get all the hazing that was coming to him last fall," remarked Tom. "We'll have to tackle him again. Kerr is the only logical candidate for manager, if he isn't going to play." "That's right," came in a chorus, as the lads kept on toward the diamond. Tom was doing some hard thinking. It was a new responsibility for him--to run the team--and he wanted a manager on whom he could depend. If there was a contest over the place, as seemed likely from what Snail Looper had said, it would mean perhaps a dividing of interests, and lack of support for the team. He did not like the prospect, but he knew better than to tell his worries to the players now. At present he wanted to get them into some kind of shape, after a winter of comparative idleness. "Here comes Mr. Leighton," observed Phil, as a young, and pleasant-faced gentleman was seen strolling toward the diamond. "Everybody work hard now--no sloppy work." "That's right," assented Tom. "Fellows, what I want most to bring out this season," he went on, "is some good hitting. Good batting wins games, other things being equal. We've got to bat to win." "You needn't talk," put in Dutch Housenlager, coming up then, and, with his usual horse play trying to trip Tom. "You are the worst hitter on the team." "I know it," admitted Tom good naturedly, as he gave Dutch a welt on the chest, which made that worthy gasp. "My strong point isn't batting, and I know it. I can pitch a little, perhaps----" "You're there with the goods when it comes to twirling," called out Holly Cross. "Well, then, I'm going to depend on you fellows for the stick work," went on Tom. "But let's get down to business. The ground isn't so wet." "Well, boys, let's see what we can do," proposed the coach, and presently balls were being pitched and batted to and fro, grounders were being picked up by Bricktop Molloy, who excelled in his position of shortstop, while Jerry and Joe Jackson, the Jersey twins, with Phil Clinton, who on this occasion filled, respectively, the positions of right, left and center field were catching high flies. "Now for a practice game," proposed Tom. "I want to see if I have any of my curves left." Two scrub nines were soon picked out, and a game was gotten under way. It was "ragged and sloppy" as Holly Cross said, but it served to warm up the lads, and to bring out strong and weak points, which was the object sought. The team, of which Tom was just then the temporary captain, won by a small margin, and then followed some coaching instructions from Mr. Leighton. "That will do for to-day," he said. "Be at it again to-morrow, and we'll soon be in shape." The players and their admirers--lads who had not made the team--strolled off the diamond. Tom, walking along with Phil and Sid, suddenly put his hand in his pocket. "Just my luck!" he exclaimed. "What's the matter?" asked Phil. "I'm broke," was the answer, "and I want to get a new shirt. Phil, lend me a couple of dollars. I'll get my check from dad to-morrow." "I'm in the same boat, old man," was the rueful reply. "Tackle Sid here, I saw him with a bunch of money yesterday. He can't have spent it all since, for he isn't in love." "Just the thing," assented Tom. "Fork over a couple of bones, Sid. I'll let you have it directly." "I--er--I'm sorry," fairly stammered the second baseman, for that was the position Tom had picked out for his chum, "I haven't but fifty cents until I get my allowance, or until----" and he stopped suddenly. "Wow!" cried Phil. "You must have slathered it away last night then, when you were out, for I saw you with a bundle----" Then he stopped, for he saw a queer look come over Sid's face. The second baseman blushed, and was about to make reply, when Phil remarked: "I beg your pardon, Sid. I hadn't any right to make that crack. Of course I--er--you understand--er--I----" "That's all right," said Sid quickly. "I was a little flush yesterday, but I had a sudden demand on me, Tom, and----" "Don't mention it!" interrupted Tom. "I dare say I can get trusted at Ballman's for a shirt. I'm going out to-night, or I wouldn't need a clean one, and my duds haven't come back from the laundry." "I didn't know my sister was going out to-night," fired Phil, for Tom had been rather "rushing" Ruth Clinton of late, "rushing" being the college term for accompanying a young lady to functions. "I guess she doesn't have to ask you," retorted the captain. "But I understood you and Miss Tyler----" "Speak of trolley cars, and you'll hear the gong," put in Sid suddenly. "I believe your two affinities are now approaching." "By Jove, he's right!" exclaimed Phil, looking across the green campus. "There's Ruth, and Madge Tyler is with her. I didn't know Ruth was coming over from Fairview." "And they've got a friend with them--there are three girls," said Tom quickly. "Sid, you're right in it. There's one for you." "Not on your life!" cried the tall and good-looking second baseman. "I've got an important engagement," and he would have fled had not Tom and Phil seized and held him, despite his struggles, until Miss Ruth Clinton, Miss Madge Tyler and the third young lady approached. Whereat, seeing that his struggle to escape was futile, as well as undignified, Sid gave it up. "Hello, Ruth!" cried Phil good-naturedly to his sister, but his eyes sought those of Madge Tyler. "How'd you get here?" "Trolley," was the demure answer. "I'm going to the Phi Beta theatrical with Mr. Parsons to-night, and I thought I'd save him the trouble of coming for me. Madge and I are staying in Haddonfield with friends of Miss Harrison." "Good!" cried Tom, as he moved closer to Phil's pretty sister, while, somehow, Phil and Madge seemed to drift together. "Oh, I almost forgot, you don't know Mabel, do you, boys?" asked Madge, with a merry laugh. "Miss Mabel Harrison. Mabel, allow me to present to you Tom Parsons, champion pitcher of the Randall 'varsity nine; Phil Clinton, who made such a good showing on the gridiron last year, he's Ruth's brother, you know, and----" she paused as she turned to Sid Henderson, who was moving about uncomfortably. "Sid Henderson, the only and original misogynist of Randall college," finished Tom, with a mischievous laugh. "He is the only one in captivity, but will eat from your hand." "I'll fix you for that," growled Sid in Tom's ear, but the girls laughed, as did Phil and the captain, and the introductions were completed. Miss Harrison proved to be an exceptionally pretty and vivacious girl, a fit companion for Ruth and Madge. She was fond of sport, as she soon announced, and Phil and Tom warmed to her at once. As might have been expected, Tom walked along with Ruth, Phil with Miss Tyler, and that left Sid nothing to do but to stroll at the side of Miss Harrison. "So you play ball, too," she began as an opener, looking at his uniform. "Yes--er--that is I play at it, sometimes," floundered Sid, conscious of a big green grass stain on one leg, where he had fallen in reaching for a high fly. "Isn't it great!" went on the girl, her blue eyes flashing as she glanced up at Sid. Somehow the lad's heart was beating strangely. "It's the only game--except football," he conceded. "Do you play--I--er--I mean--of course----" "Oh, I just love football!" she cried. "I hope our team wins the championship this year!" "Your team?" and Sid was plainly puzzled. "Well, I mean the boys of Fairview--I attend there you know." "I didn't know it, but I'm glad to," spoke Sid, wondering why he never before thought blue eyes pretty. "Do you live at the college?" "Oh, yes; but you see I happened to come to Haddonfield to stay over night with relatives, and when I found Madge and Ruth were going to a little affair here to-night, I asked them to stay with me. It's such a jaunt back to the college." "Indeed it is," agreed Sid. "You and Miss Tyler and Miss Clinton are great friends, I judge," he went on, wondering what his next sentence would be. "Indeed we are. Aren't they perfectly sweet girls?" "Fine!" exclaimed Sid with such enthusiasm that his companion looked at him in some surprise, her flashing eyes completing the work already begun by their first glance. "I thought you didn't care for--that is--was that true what Mr. Parsons accused you of?" Miss Harrison asked. "Is a misogynist a very savage creature?" she went on demurely. "That's all rot--I beg your pardon--they were rigging you--I--er--I mean--Oh, I say, Miss Harrison, are you going to the Phi Beta racket to-night--I mean the theatricals to-night?" and poor Sid floundered in deeper and deeper. "No," answered the girl, "I'm not going." "Why not?" asked Sid desperately. "Because I haven't been asked, I suppose," and she laughed merrily. "Then would you mind--that is--I have two tickets--but I didn't expect to go. Now, if you would----" "Oh, Mr. Henderson, don't go on my account!" "Oh, it isn't on your account--I mean--that is--Oh, wouldn't you like to go?" and he seemed in great distress. "I should love to," she almost whispered. "Then will you--that is would you--er--that is----" "Of course I will," answered Mabel, taking pity on her companion's embarrassment. "Won't it be lovely, with Madge and Ruth, and her brother and Mr. Parsons. We'll be quite a party." "It'll be immense!" declared Sid with great conviction. Thereafter he seemed to find it easier to keep the conversation going. The little group came to the end of the campus. Phil, Tom, Madge and Ruth waited for Sid and Mabel. "Well, we'll see you girls to-night," said Tom, for he and his chum were anxious to get to their room and "tog up." Then he added: "It's a pity Miss Harrison isn't going. If I had thought----" "Miss Harrison is going!" cried Sid with sudden energy. "What?" cried Tom and Phil together. Then, realizing that it might embarrass the girl, Tom added: "Fine! We'll all go together. Come on, Sid, and get some of the outfield mud scraped away." The girls waved laughing farewells, and Sid, rather awkwardly, shook hands with Miss Harrison. "What's the matter, old chap?" asked Tom of him, when they were beyond hearing distance of the girls. "Are you afraid you'll never see her again?" "Shut up!" cried Sid. "Wonders will never cease," went on Phil. "To see our old misogynist being led along by a pretty girl! However did you get up the spunk to ask her to go to-night, sport?" "Shut up!" cried Sid again. "Haven't I got a right to?" "Oh, of course!" agreed Tom quickly. "It's a sign of regeneration, old man. I'm glad to see it! What color are her eyes?" "Blue," answered Sid promptly, before he thought. "Ha! Ha!" laughed Phil and Tom. "Did you get her photograph?" asked Tom, clinging to Phil, so strenuous was his mirth. "Say, I'll punch your head if you don't quit!" threatened Sid, and then, as he saw Wallops, the messenger, coming toward him, with a letter, there came to Sid's face a new look--one of fear, his chums thought. He read the note quickly, and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he turned, and hastened after the three girls. "Here, what's up?" demanded Tom, for Sid had acted strangely. "I can't go to the theatricals to-night, after all," was the surprising answer. "I must apologize to Miss Harrison. Will you take her, Tom?" "Of course," was the answer, and then, as Sid hastened to make his excuses to the girl who, but a few minutes before, he had asked to accompany him, his two chums looked at each other, and shook their heads. The mystery about Sid was deepening. CHAPTER IV ELECTING A MANAGER Sidney Henderson fairly broke into a run in order to catch up to the three girls. They heard him coming, and turned around, while Tom and Phil, some distance off, were spectators of the scene. "I say!" burst out poor Sid pantingly, as he came to a halt, "I'm awfully sorry, Miss Harrison, but--er--I can't take you to the theatricals to-night, after all. I've just received bad news." "Bad news? Oh, I'm so sorry!" and the blue eyes of the pretty girl, that had been merry and dancing, as she chatted with Ruth and Madge, took on a tender glance. "Oh, it isn't that any one is sick, or--er--anything like that," Sid hastened to add, for he saw that she had misunderstood him. "It's just that I have received a message--I have got to go away--I--er--I can't explain, but some one is in trouble, and I--I'm awfully sorry," he blurted out, feeling that he was making a pretty bad mess of it. "I've arranged for Tom Parsons to take you to the theatricals, Miss Harrison." "You've arranged for Mr. Parsons to take me?" There was no mistaking the anger in her tones. Her blue eyes seemed to flash, and she drew herself up proudly. Madge and Ruth, who had shown some pity and anxiety at Sid's first words, looked at him curiously. "Yes, Tom will be very glad to take you," went on the unfortunate Sid. "Thank you," spoke Miss Harrison coldly. "I don't believe I care to go to the theatricals after all. Come on, girls, or we will be late for tea," and without another look at Sid she turned aside and walked on. "Oh, but I say, you know!" burst out the second baseman. "I thought--that is--you see--I can't possibly take you, as it is, and I thought----" "It isn't necessary for anyone to take me!" retorted Miss Harrison coldly. "It's not at all important, I assure you. Good afternoon, Mr. Henderson," and she swept away, leaving poor Sid staring after her with bewilderment in his eyes. It was his first attempt at an affair with a maiden, and it had ended most disastrously. He turned back to rejoin his chums. "Well?" questioned Tom, as Sid came up. "Is it all right? Am I to have the pleasure of two young ladies to-night?" "No, it's all wrong!" blurted out Sid. "I can't understand girls!" "That's rich!" cried Phil. "Here you have been despising them all your life, and now, when you do make up to one, and something happens, you say you can't understand them. No man can, old chap. Look at Tom and me, here, and we've had our share of affairs, haven't we, old sport." "Speak for yourself," replied the pitcher. "But what's the row, Sid?" "Hanged if I know. I told her I couldn't possibly go to-night----" "Did you tell her why?" interrupted Phil. "Well, I said I had received word that I had to go away, and--er--well I can't explain that part of it even to you fellows. I've got to go away for a short time, that's all. It's fearfully important, of course, or I wouldn't break a date with a girl. I can't explain, except that I have to go. I tried to tell her that; and then I said I'd arranged with you to take her, Tom." "You what?" cried the amazed pitcher. "I told her I was going to have you take her." "Without asking her whether it would be agreeable to her?" "Of course. I didn't suppose that was necessary, as you and Miss Clinton and Miss Tyler were all going together. I just told her you'd take her." "Well, of all the chumps!" burst out Phil. "A double-barreled one!" added Tom. "Why--what's wrong?" asked Sid wonderingly. "Everything," explained Phil. "You ask a pretty girl--and by the way, Sid, I congratulate you on your choice, for she is decidedly fine looking--but, as I say, you ask a pretty girl to go to some doings, and when you find you can't go, which is all right, of course, for that often happens, why then, I say, you coolly tell her you have arranged for her escort. You don't give her a chance to have a word to say in the matter. Why, man alive, it's just as if you were her guardian, or grandfather, or something like that. A girl likes to have a voice in these matters, you know. My, my, Sid! but you have put your foot in it. You should have gently, very gently, suggested that Tom here would be glad to take her. Instead, you act as though she had to accept your choice. Oh, you doggoned old misogynist, I'm afraid you're hopeless!" "Do you suppose she'll be mad?" asked Sid falteringly. "Mad? She'll never speak to you again," declared Tom, with a carefully-guarded wink at Phil. "Well, I can't help it," spoke Sid mournfully. "I've just got to go away, that's all," and he hastened on in advance of his companions. "Don't stay out too late, and get caught by Proc. Zane again," cautioned Phil, but Sid did not answer. Tom and Phil lingered in the gymnasium, whither they went for a shower bath, and when they reached their room, to put on clothes other than sporting ones for supper, Sid was not in the apartment. There was evidence that he had come in, hastily dressed, and had gone out again. "He's off," remarked Tom. "Yes, and it's mighty queer business," remarked Phil. "But come on, we'll get an early grub, tog up, and go get the girls." "What about Miss Harrison?" "Hanged if I know," answered Tom. "I'd be glad to take her, of course, but I'm not going to mix up in Sid's affairs." "No, of course not. Well, come on." In spite of hearty appetites Tom and Phil did not linger long at the table, and they were soon back in their room, where they began to lay out their dress suits, and to debate over which ties they should wear. Tom had managed to borrow a dress shirt, and so did not have to buy one. "I say, Phil," remarked the pitcher, as he almost strangled himself getting a tight fifteen collar to fit on the same size shirt, "doesn't it strike you as queer about Sid--I mean his chasing off this way so suddenly?" "It sure does. This is the second time, and each time he scoots off when he's had a note from some one." "Remember when he came back last night, smelling so strong of tobacco?" "Sure; yet he doesn't smoke." "No, and that's the funny part of it. Then there's the fact of him having no money to-day, though he had a roll yesterday." There was silence in the small apartment, while the clock ticked on. Tom, somewhat exhausted by his struggle with his collar, sank down on the ancient sofa, a cloud of dust, like incense, arising around him. "Cæsar's legions! My clothes will be a sight!" he cried, jumping up, and searching frantically for a whisk broom. "Easy!" cried Phil, "I just had my tie in the right shape, and you've knocked it all squee-gee!" for Tom in his excitement had collided with his chum. They managed to get dressed after a while--rather a long while. "Come on," said Tom, as he took a final look at himself in the glass, for though he was not too much devoted to dress or his own good looks, much adornment of their persons must be excused on the part of the talented pitcher and his chum, on the score of the pretty girls with whom they were to spend the evening. "I'm ready," announced Phil. "Shall we leave a light for Sid?" "I don't know. No telling when he'll be in. Do you know, Phil, it seems rotten mean to mention it, and I only do it to see if you have the same idea I have, but I shouldn't be surprised if old Sid was gambling." "Gambling!" "Yes. Look how he's sneaked off these last two nights, not saying where he's going, and acting so funny about it. Then coming in late, all perfumed with tobacco, and getting caught, and not having any money and--and--Oh, well, hang it all! I know it won't go any further, or I shouldn't mention it; but doesn't it look queer?" Phil did not reply for a moment. He glanced at Tom, as if to fathom his earnestness, and as the two stood there, looking around their common home, marked by the absence of Sid, the fussy little alarm clock seemed to be repeating over and over again the ugly word--"gambler--gambler--gambler." "Well?" asked Tom softly. "I hate to say it, but I'm afraid you're right," replied Phil. "Sid, of all chaps, though. It's fierce!" and then the two went out. Tom and Phil called at the residence of Miss Harrison's relatives for Madge and Ruth. Tom tried, tactfully enough, to get Miss Harrison to come to the theatricals with himself and Ruth, but the blue-eyed girl pleaded a headache (always a lady's privilege), and said she would stay at home. Sid's name was not mentioned. Then the four young people went off, leaving a rather disconsolate damsel behind. Sid was in bed when Tom and Phil returned, and he did not say anything, or exhibit any signs of being awake, so they did not disturb him, refraining from even talking in whispers of the jolly time they had had. There was a strong smell of tobacco about Sid's clothes, but his chums said nothing of this. The next day Sid was moody and disconsolate. He wrote several letters, tearing them up, one after the other, but finally he seemed to hit on one that pleased him, and went out to mail it. Amid the torn scraps about his desk Phil and Tom could not help seeing several which began variously "My dear Miss Harrison," "Dear Miss Harrison," "Dear friend," and "Esteemed friend." "Trying to square himself," remarked Tom. "He's got it bad--poor old Sid," added Phil. "It will all come out right in the end, I hope." But it didn't seem to for Sid, since in the course of the next week, when he had written again to Miss Harrison asking her to go with him to a dance, he received in return a polite little note, pleading a previous engagement. "Well," remarked Tom one afternoon, when he and his crowd of players had thronged out on the diamond, "we're getting into some kind of shape. Get back there, Dutch, while I try a few curves, and then we'll have a practice game." "And pay particular attention to your batting, fellows," cautioned Coach Leighton. "It isn't improving the way it ought, and I hear that Boxer has some good stick-wielders this season." "Yes, and they've got some one else on their nine, too," added Bricktop Molloy. "Have ye heard the news, byes?" for sometimes the red-haired shortstop betrayed his genial Irish nature by his brogue. "No, what is it?" asked Phil. "Fred Langridge is playing with them." "What? Langridge, the bully who used to be here?" cried one student. "That same," retorted Bricktop. "Have they hired him?" inquired Holly Cross. "No, he's taking some sort of a course at Boxer Hall, I believe." "A course in concentrated meanness, I guess," suggested Tom, as he thought of the dastardly trick Langridge had tried to play on Phil during the previous term. "Well, no matter about that," came from the coach. "You boys want to improve your batting--that's all. Your field work is fair, and I haven't anything but praise for our battery." "Thanks!" chorused Tom and Dutch Housenlager, making mock bows. "But get busy, fellows," went on the coach. "Oh, by the way, captain, what about a manager?" "Election to-night," answered Tom quickly. "The notice has been posted. Come on, we'll have a scrub game. Five innings will be enough. There ought to be----" "My uncle says----" began a voice from a small knot of non-playing spectators. "Fenton's wound up!" cried Dutch, making an attempt to penetrate the crowd and get at the offending nephew of the former coach. "Can him!" shouted Joe Jackson. "Put your uncle on ice!" added Pete Backus. "Leave him out after dark, and Proc. Zane will catch him," came from Snail Looper. "Well, I was only going to say," went on Ford, but such a storm of protesting howls arose that his voice was drowned. "And that's the chap they talk of for manager," said Phil to Tom disgustedly. "Oh, I guess it's all talk," remarked the pitcher. "We will rush Ed Kerr through, and the season will soon start." The scrub game began. It was not remarkable for brilliant playing, either in the line of fielding or batting. Tom, though, did some fine work in pitching, and he and Dutch worked together like well-built machines. Tom struck out three men, one after the other, in the second inning, and repeated the trick in the last. Sid Henderson rather surprised the coach by making a safe hit every time he was up, a record no one else approached that day, for Rod Evert, who was doing the "twirling" for the team opposed to Tom's, was considered a good handler of the horsehide. "Good work, Henderson," complimented Mr. Leighton. But Sid did not seem particularly pleased. "Everybody on hand for the election to-night," commanded Tom, as the game ended, the pitcher's team having won by a score of eight to four. There was a large throng assembled in the gymnasium that evening, for at Randall sports reigned supreme in their seasons, and the annual election of a baseball manager was something of no small importance. For several reasons no manager had been selected at the close of the previous season, when Tom had been unanimously selected as captain, and it now devolved upon the students who were members of the athletic committee to choose one. As has been explained, among the players themselves, or, rather, among the majority, Ed Kerr, the catcher of the previous season was favored, but, of late there had been activity looking to the choosing of some one else. There were vague rumors floating about the meeting room, as Tom Parsons went up on the platform, and called the assemblage to order. It was noticed that Bert Bascome, a freshman who was said to be quite wealthy, was the center of a group of excited youths, of whom Ford Fenton was one. Ford had tried for the 'varsity the previous season, had failed, and was once more in line. As for Bascome, he, too, wanted to wear the coveted "R." "Politics over there all right," observed Phil Clinton to Dutch. "Any idea of how strong they are?" "Don't believe they can muster ten votes," was the answer. "We'll put Ed in all right." Tom called for nominations for chairman, and Mr. Leighton, who was in the hall, was promptly chosen, he being acceptable to both sides. "You all know what we are here for," began the coach, "and the sooner we get it over with the better, I presume. Nominations for a manager of the ball nine are in order." Jerry Jackson was on his feet in an instant. "Mr. Chairman," he began. "Are you speaking for yourself or your brother?" called Dutch. Bang! went the chairman's gavel, but there was a laugh at the joke, for Jerry and Joe, the "Jersey twins" were always so much in accord that what one did the other always sanctioned. Yet the query of Dutch seemed to disturb Jerry. "Mr. Chairman," he began again. "I wish----" "Help him along, Joe," sung out Snail Looper. "Jerry is going to make a wish." "Boys, boys," pleaded the coach. "My uncle says----" came from Ford Fenton, indiscreetly. "Sit down!" "Put him out!" "Muzzle him!" "Silence!" "Get a policeman!" "Turn the hose on him!" "Don't believe he ever had an uncle!" These were some of the cries that greeted Ford. Bang! Bang! went the gavel, and order was finally restored, but Fenton did not again venture to address the chair. "Mr. Chairman," began Jerry Jackson once more, and this time he secured a hearing, and was recognized. "I wish to place in nomination," he went on, "a manager who, I am sure, will fulfill the duties in the most acceptable manner; one who knows the game from home plate to third base, who has had large experience, who is a jolly good fellow--who----" "Who is he?" "Name him!" "Don't be so long-winded about it!" "Tell us his name!" "He's going to name Ford's uncle!" Once more the horse-play, led by Dutch, broke out. Bang! Bang! went Mr. Leighton's gavel again. "I nominate Ed Kerr!" sung out Jerry. "Second it!" came from his brother in a flash. "Mr. Kerr has been nominated," spoke the chairman. "Are there any others?" "Move the nominations be closed," came from Tom quickly, but, before it could be seconded, Bert Bascome was on his feet. He had a sneering, supercilious air, that was in distinct bad taste, yet he seemed to have a sort of following, as, indeed, any youth in college may have, who is willing to freely spend his money. "One moment, Mr. Chairman," began Bascome, and so anxious were the others to hear what was coming that they did not interrupt. "When I came to Randall college," went on the freshman, with an air as if he had conferred a great favor by his act, "I was given to understand that the spirit of sportsmanship and fair play was a sort of a heritage." "So it is!" "What's eating you?" "Who's the goat?" came the cries. Bert flushed but went on: "Closing the nominations before more than one name----" "The nominations have not been closed," suggested Mr. Leighton. "Then am I out of order?" inquired Bascome sarcastically. He seemed to know parliamentary law. "No," answered the coach. "You must speak to the point, however. Have you a name to place in nomination? Mr. Parsons' motion was lost for want of a second." "I _have_ a name to place in nomination," went on Bert deliberately, "and in doing so I wish to state that I am actuated by no sense of feeling against Mr. Kerr, whom I do not know. I simply wish to see the spirit of sport well diversified among the students, and----" "Question! Question!" shouted several. "Name your man!" demanded others. "I believe Mr. Kerr is highly esteemed," continued Bascome, holding his ground well, "and I honor him. I believe, however, that he belongs to a certain crowd, or clique----" "You're wrong!" was a general shout. "Mr. Chairman!" shouted Kerr, springing to his feet, his face strangely white. "Mr. Bascome has the floor," spoke Mr. Leighton quietly. "Name your man!" was the cry from half a score of youths. "I nominate Ford Fenton for manager!" shouted Bascome, for he saw the rising temper of some of the students. "Second it," came from Henry Delfield, who was the closest chum of the rich lad. "Move the nominations close!" cried Tom quickly, and this time Phil Clinton seconded it. The battle was on. "Two students have been nominated," remarked Mr. Leighton, when the usual formalities had been completed. "How will you vote on them, by ballot or----" "Show of hands!" cried Tom. "We want to see who's with us and who's against us," he added in a whisper to Phil and Sid. "I demand a written ballot," called out Bascome. "We will vote on that," decided the chairman, and it went overwhelmingly in favor of a show of hands. "We've got 'em!" exulted Tom, when this test had demonstrated how few were with Bascome--a scant score. A moment later the real voting was under way, by a show of hands, Kerr's name being voted on first. He had tried to make a speech, but had been induced to keep quiet. It was as might have been expected. Possibly had the ballot been a secret one more might have voted for Fenton, but some freshmen saw which way the wind was blowing, changing their votes after having declared for a secret ballot, and all of Bascome's carefully laid plans, and his scheming for several weeks past, to get some sort of control of the nine, came to naught. Fenton received nine votes, and Kerr one hundred and twenty. It was a pitiful showing, and Fenton soon recognized it. "I move the election of Mr. Kerr be made unanimous!" he cried, and that did more to offset his many references to his uncle than anything else he could have done. Bascome was excitedly whispering to some of his chums, but when Fenton's motion was put it was carried without a vote in opposition, and Kerr was the unanimous choice. "Well, I'm glad that's over," said Phil with a sigh of relief, as he and his chums drifted from the gymnasium. "Yes, now we'll begin to play ball in earnest," added Tom. "Come on, Sid, I'll take you and Phil down to Hoffman's and treat you to some ice cream." "I--er--I'm going out this evening," said Sid, and he blushed a trifle. "Where, you old dub?" asked Tom, almost before he thought. "I'm going to call on Miss Harrison," was the somewhat unexpected answer. CHAPTER V RANDALL AGAINST BOXER Tom and Phil stood staring at each other as Sid walked on ahead. "Well, wouldn't that get your goat?" asked Tom. "It sure would," admitted Phil. "He must have made up with her, after all." How it came about Sid, of course, would never tell. It was too new and too delightful an experience for him--to actually be paying attentions to some girl--to make it possible to discuss the matter with his chums. Sufficient to say that in the course of two weeks more there was another photograph in the room of the inseparables. Baseball matters began to occupy more and more attention at Randall. The team was being whipped into shape, and between Tom, Ed Kerr and the coach the lads were beginning to get rid of the uncertainty engendered by a winter of comparative idleness. "Have you arranged any games yet?" asked Tom of Ed one afternoon, following some sharp practice on the diamond. "We play Boxer Hall next week," answered the manager. "And I do hope we win. It means so much at the beginning of the season. How is the team, do you think?" "Do you mean ours or theirs?" "Ours, of course." "Fine, I should say," replied Tom. "You know who'll pitch against you when we play Boxer, I dare say," remarked Mr. Leighton, who had joined Tom and Ed. "No. Who?" "Your old enemy, Langridge. He's displaced Dave Ogden, who twirled for them last season. But you're not frightened, are you?" "Not a bit of it! If there's anything that will make our fellows play fierce ball it's to know that Langridge--the fellow who almost threw our football team--is going to play against them. I couldn't ask a better tonic. Will they play on our grounds?" "No, we've got to go there. But don't let that worry you." There was sharp practice for the next few days, and Tom and his chums were put through "a course of sprouts" to quote Holly Cross. They did some ragged work, under the eagle eye of the coach, and things began to look bad, but it was only the last remnant of staleness disappearing, for the day before the game there was exhibited a noticeable stiffness, and a confidence that augured well for Randall. "The batting still leaves something to be desired," remarked Mr. Leighton, as practice was over for the day. "I have great hopes of Sid Henderson, though." "Yes, if----" began Tom. "If what?" asked the coach quickly. "If he doesn't go back on himself," finished the pitcher, but that was not what he had intended to say. He was thinking of Sid's queer actions of late--wondering what they portended, and what was the meaning of his chum's odd absences, for, only the night previous, Sid had gone out, following the receipt of a note, and had come in late, smelling vilely of tobacco. Fortunately he had escaped detection by the proctor, but he offered no explanation, and his manner was disturbed, and not like his usual one. As for Sid, well might his chums be puzzled about him. He seemed totally to have changed, not only in manner but in his attitude toward Tom and Phil. There was a new look on his face. Several times, of late, since his acquaintance with Miss Harrison, and the reconciliation following his little "_de trop faux pas_," as Tom termed it, Sid had been caught day dreaming. Phil or Tom would look up from their studying to see Sid, with a book falling idly from his hands, gazing vacantly into a corner of the room, or looking abstractedly at his side of the wall space, as though calculating just where would be the best spot for a certain girl's picture. It was a most enthralling occupation for Sid--this day dreaming. It was a new experience--a deliciously tender and sweet one--for no young man can be any the worse for thinking and dreaming of a fine-charactered girl, albeit one who is amazingly pretty; in fact he is the better for it. In Sid's case his infatuation had come so suddenly that it was overwhelming. In the past he had either been shy with girls, or had not cared enough for them to be more than decently polite. But now everything was different. Though he had seen her but a few times, he could call to mind instantly the very way in which she turned her head when she addressed him. He could see the slight lifting of the eyebrows as she asked a question, the sparkle that came into the blue eyes, that held a hint of mischief. He could hear her rippling laugh, and he knew in what a tantalizing way a certain ringlet escaped from the coils of her hair, and fell upon her neck. Often in class the lecturer would suddenly call his name, and Sid would start, for he had sent his thoughts afar, and it required a sort of wireless message to bring them back. The day of the Boxer game could not have been better. There had been a slight shower in the night, but only sufficient to lay the dust, and it was just cool enough to be delightful. The Randall players and their supporters, including a crowd of enthusiastic "rooters," a number of substitutes and a mascot, in the shape of a puppy, fantastically attired, made the trip to Boxer Hall in special trolleys, hired stage coaches and some automobiles. Bert Bascome owned an automobile, and he made much of himself in consequence. There was a big crowd in the grand stands when the Randall players arrived, and they were received with cheers, for the sporting spirit between the two colleges was a generous one. "My, what a lot of girls!" remarked Tom to Sid and Phil, as the three chums looked over toward the seats, which were a riot of color. "Yes, all the Fairview students are here to-day," spoke Phil. "Ruth said she and Miss Tyler were coming." "I wonder if----" began Sid, and then he stopped, blushing like a girl. "Yes, Miss Harrison is coming with them," replied Phil, with a laugh. "We'll look 'em up after the game--if we win." "Why not, if we lose?" asked Sid quickly. "I haven't the nerve, if we let Boxer Hall take the first game of the season from us," was the reply. Fast and snappy practice began, and it was somewhat of a revelation to the Randall players to note the quick work on the part of their rivals. In getting around the bases, batting out flies, getting their fingers on high balls and low grounders, Boxer Hall seemed to have improved very much over last year. "We've got our work cut out for us," remarked Phil in a low voice to his two chums. "Say, Langridge has some speed, too. Look at that!" The new pitcher of Boxer Hall was throwing to Stoddard, the catcher, and the balls landed in the pocket of the big mitt with a vicious thud. "Don't worry. Sid, here, will knock out a couple of home runs," said Tom. "Won't you, Sid?" "I only hope I don't fan the air. How are his curves?" "Pretty good, for the first few innings," answered Tom. "After that you can find 'em easy enough. He wears down--at least he did last year." The practice came to an end. The preliminaries were arranged, and, with the privilege of the home team coming last to the bat, Randall went in the initial inning. The two teams were made up as follows: RANDALL COLLEGE Sid Henderson, _second base_. William Housenlager, _catcher_. Phil Clinton, _first base_. Tom Parsons, _pitcher_. Dan Woodhouse, _third base_. Jerry Jackson, _right field_. Bob Molloy, _shortstop_. Joe Jackson, _left field_. Holman Cross, _center field_. BOXER HALL Lynn Ralling, _second base_. Hugh McGherity, _right field_. Roy Conklin, _left field_. Arthur Flood, _center field_. George Stoddard, _catcher_. Pinkerton Davenport, _first base_. Fred Langridge, _pitcher_. Bert Hutchin, _third base_. Sam Burton, _shortstop_. "Now, Sid, show 'em what you can do," advised Mr. Leighton, as Sid selected a bat, and walked up to the plate. He faced Langridge, and noted the grim and almost angry look in the eyes of the former pitcher on the Randall 'varsity. "Make him give you a nice one," called Bean Perkins, who was ready to shout for victory. A ball came whizzing toward Sid, and so sure was he that he was going to be hit that he dodged back, but he was surprised when it neatly curved out, went over the plate, and the umpire called: "Strike One!" There was a howl of protest on the part of the Randall sympathizers, but it died away when Mr. Leighton held up a warning hand. Sid struck viciously at the next ball, and felt a thrill of joy as he felt the impact, but, as he rushed away toward first he heard the umpire's call of "Foul; strike!" and he came back. "Wait for a good one," counseled Phil, in a low voice. "Make him give you a pretty one." Langridge sent in another swift curve and Sid struck at it. Another foul resulted, and he began to wonder what he was up against. The next attempt was a ball, for Langridge threw away out, but Sid saw coming a moment later, what he thought would make at least a pretty one-bagger. He swung viciously at it, but missed it clean, and walked to the bench somewhat chagrined. Dutch Housenlager, with a smile of confidence, walked up next. He was cool, and Langridge, having struck out Sid, seemed to lose some of his anger. He delivered a good ball--an in-shoot--and Dutch caught it on the end of his bat. It seemed to promise well, but Roy Conklin, out on left field was right under it, and Dutch ingloriously came back from first. "Now, Phil, line one out!" pleaded Tom, as his chum selected his bat, and Phil struck at the first ball, sending a hot liner right past the shortstop. Phil got to first, and stole second when Tom came up, making it only by a close margin. "A home run, Tom," begged the coach, and Tom nodded with a grim smile on his face. But alas for hopes! He knocked a fly, which the right fielder got without much difficulty, and the first half of the initial inning was over with a goose-egg in the space devoted to Randall. "Never mind, we're finding him," consoled Tom, as he walked to his box. Lynn Ralling was up first for Boxer Hall, and Tom resolved to strike him out, if it was at all possible. It was his first pitching in a league game that season, and he was a trifle nervous. Still he held himself well in hand, and, though the first two attempts were called "balls" the next three went down as strikes. Ralling refused to swing on two of them, but the last one seemed to him as just right, but Tom had the satisfaction of striking him out. McGherity, the next man up, was a notoriously heavy hitter, and Tom purposely gave him a pass to first. He struck out Roy Conklin, but something went wrong with the next man, Arthur Flood, who knocked a two-bagger. Then George Stoddard got to first on a swift grounder, that, somehow rolled through the legs of Bricktop, much to that hero's disgust. There was some good playing the rest of the inning, George being caught napping on second, and it ended with two runs in favor of Boxer Hall. "We've got to wake up!" decided Mr. Leighton grimly. "Put a little more ginger into it, boys!" "What's the matter with our team?" Bean Perkins demanded to know in his loudest voice. "It's all right," was the response, from scores of throats. "Now for the 'Conquer or Die' song," called Bean, and as Dan Woodhouse went up to the bat in the beginning of the second inning the strains of "_Aut vincere aut mori_," welled out over the diamond. But the inspiring melody that, more than once had been the means of inspiring a faint-hearted team to victory, seemed to be of no effect now. Not a man got further than second, and another goose egg went up to the credit of Randall. But a similar dose was served to Boxer in the same inning, and when Randall opened the third with Holly Cross at the bat, there was much wonder, and not a little disappointment. What would Holly do? He soon showed by knocking a two bagger, but, alas for what followed. Though he managed to steal to third, Langridge pitched so well that those who followed were struck out, and there was another white circle. It was duplicated for Boxer Hall, however, and there began to be talk of a "pitchers' battle." "We'll find Langridge this inning," prophesied Tom, and it was partly justified, for one run came in, which sent the grand stand where the Randallites were gathered wild with delight. "Now, fellows, give 'em that song--'We're going to wallop you now,'" called Bean, and there arose a riot of "melody." In the fifth inning neither side scored, and then came the turn of Captain Tom's men again. They delighted their supporters by pulling down two runs, and making the score three to two in their favor. Then, when Boxer Hall came up for their inning, they hammered out two runs, which sent Randall stock down to zero again with the score of four to three against them. The seventh and eighth innings saw big circles chalked up in the frames of both teams, though Tom and his men worked hard to bring in at least another run. But it was not to be. "Now, fellows, it's our last chance," remarked the coach, as Holly Cross stepped up in the ninth, his teeth fairly gritting together. "Two runs to win--that is if we hold 'em down when they come up." "I'll do that part," guaranteed Tom grimly. From the grand stands there were shouts and yells of encouragement--and otherwise. Bean led his cohorts in, "It's Your Last Chance, Boys--Soak It!" a Randall classic of the diamond. Well, Holly did "soak" it, with the result that he knocked the prettiest three-bagger seen in many a day. Then came Sid's turn. Two strikes were called on him, and then came a foul. "I'm afraid he's going to fan," whispered Tom to the coach. "Watch him," advised Mr. Leighton. There was a reassuring "thump" as the next ball reached Sid. Away sailed the sphere right over the center fielder's head. "It's a beaut! It's a beaut! Run! Run! Run!" yelled the frenzied students. Holly was legging it in from third and my! how Sid was running! Low down, and like the wind! The frantic center fielder was racing for the ball amid the daisies. On and on came Sid! "A home run! A home run!" screamed Tom and his players, jumping up and down and over the bench in their excitement. Around the bases came Sid, following Holly. The second baseman swung around third and started for home, but the ball was on the way. Would he beat it? He did, by about a second, rushing in almost exhausted, over the plate which Holly had just crossed. "Wow! Wow! Wow!" cried Sid's and Holly's mates. "That wins the game!" and they hugged Sid and his chum. "Two Runs!" "The game is not won yet," said the coach, more soberly. "We need more runs." But they couldn't get them. There was a sudden improvement on the part of Langridge, who had begun to weaken, and he struck out the next two men, the third getting out on a bingle. But the score was five to four in favor of Randall, and if Tom could hold them down, and strike out three men, the game was theirs. Could he do it? There was a great strain on everyone as the Randall team went out to the field. From the grand stand came softly the "Conquer or Die" song, and Tom felt a sense of moisture in his eyes. "I'll strike 'em out!" he muttered. How he did it is college history to this day. Calmly he faced the first man, and delivered a ball. "Strike!" howled the umpire, and this time it was Boxer Hall that sent up a groan of protest. But it was silenced, and in two more balls delivered over the plate with faultless precision, but with puzzling curves, Tom had one down. "Only two more," called Phil to him encouragingly. Tom nodded. How he did pitch! The balls sounded like guns when they hit Dutch Housenlager's big mitt, but he held them. "Three strikes--batter out!" yelled the umpire, and the second man threw down his stick and walked disgustedly to the bench. George Stoddard was up next. Tom was afraid of him. He delivered a puzzling slow drop, but Stoddard got under it for a foul. Tom breathed a bit easier. Two more chances. He sent one of his best out shoots, and Stoddard foolishly bit at it. The ball just grazed the bat, and bounded up into the air. Dutch made a desperate effort for it. "Can't get it!" yelled the crowd, as it went over the back grand stand. The umpire threw Tom a new ball. He hated to use it, as the other seemed just right. But the one that had gone over the stand was slow in being returned. Dutch signalled for another drop, but Tom shook his head. He wanted to try a delicate in-curve. It seemed that the players and spectators were scarcely breathing--it was the critical point of the game, yet with two down Boxer Hall could scarcely hope to win. Yet there was a chance. Tom delivered the ball. Stoddard swung at it with such force that he turned completely around. But the new, white ball was safe in the mitt of Dutch Housenlager. Stoddard had struck out--there were three down for Boxer in the ending of the ninth, and not a run. Randall had won--the score being five to four. Then such a chorus of yells as went up! Even Bean Perkins could scarcely be heard. "Wow! Wow! Wow!" cried Dutch, seizing Holly Cross around the waist, and doing a dance with him about the bench. "We did it!" "Great work, boys!" cried the coach. "I congratulate you!" "Three cheers for Randall!" proposed Pinkey Davenport for Boxer Hall, and the yells came with spontaneous enthusiasm. "Three and a tiger for Boxer Hall!" yelled Tom, and his men nearly split their throats. "Come on! Clean up, and then for some fun!" cried Phil. "We'll go hunt up the girls, as soon as we look decent again," he suggested to Tom and Sid, who nodded joyfully. Langridge passed Tom. "It's only one game," growled the defeated pitcher. "We'll do you fellows next time!" "You'll have the chance," retorted Tom good naturedly. A little later the victorious pitcher, and his two chums, having donned their street clothes, were strolling across the field toward a knot of girls. CHAPTER VI THE ACCUSATION "Wasn't it glorious!" cried Madge Tyler, as Tom and his chums came up. "I was just gripping the seat when you threw that last ball, Mr. Parsons." "So was I," admitted Ruth. "Phil, I'm proud of you, even if you are my brother." "Humph!" grunted Phil. "If it hadn't been for Sid's home run we wouldn't have been in it. The fellows who followed him fanned." "You should be very proud, Mr. Henderson," remarked Mabel Harrison, who looked charming in some sort of a soft, clinging dress which I'm not going to describe. "Oh, it was just luck," spoke Sid modestly. "Luck nothing, you old walloper!" cried Tom, thumping his chum on the back. "You just laid for that one, and lambasted it out where the buttercups and daisies grow." "Oh, how poetic!" cried Miss Harrison. "Some ice cream would sound a heap-sight more poetic," decided Phil. "What do you girls say? Will you come and have some?" "Oh, I've provided a little treat for you boys," said Ruth quickly. "By rare good luck Miss Philock, the ogress of Fairview Institute, is away to-day, and I secured permission from the assistant to have a little tea in one of the rooms. We three girls will feed you lions of the diamond, if you promise not to eat up all the charlotte russe and lady fingers I have provided." "Great!" cried Tom. "I haven't the appetite of a butterfly, but----" "Me either," interrupted Sid, with a laugh. "Come on, then," invited Phil's sister. "We are just in time to catch a trolley for Fairview. I have a letter from home for you, Phil," she added. A little later a merry crowd of young people were walking up the campus of the co-educational institution, where the three girls were pursuing their studies. It was Saturday afternoon, and a half holiday for everyone. Ruth, having secured permission, escorted her brother and his two chums to one of the rooms set aside for the use of the girl students in which to entertain their friends. "Why, sis, this is quite a spread!" complimented Phil, as he saw the elaborate preparations in the shape of paper napkins, in the colors of Randall--yellow and maroon--spread about on the table, and as he noted the flowers and the rather more generous "feed" than that indicated when his sister had named lady fingers and charlotte russe. "Yes, we provided this in case you won," replied Ruth, "but if you had lost----" "Well, in case we had lost?" asked Sid, who was close to Miss Harrison. "We were going to eat it all ourselves," finished Madge. "And be ill afterward," interjected Tom. "I'm glad, for more reasons than two, that we won; eh, fellows?" "Yes, but--er--if it's all the same to you, let's eat," suggested Phil, with the freedom of an elder brother. There was a merry time. The fair hostesses had provided coffee and sandwiches, with plenty of ice cream and cake, and when they had been at the table for some time, Phil, with a sigh of satisfaction, remarked: "I'm glad this didn't happen before the game, fellows, or I couldn't have caught even a pop fly." "Ditto here," agreed Tom. "Pass the macaroons, Sid. I see you and Miss Harrison trying to hide them between you." "No such a thing!" retorted the second baseman, while the blue-eyed girl blushed. "Oh, Phil, I promised to get you the letter from home!" suddenly exclaimed Ruth. "I'll run up to my room for it. Excuse me," and she darted off, to return presently with two missives. "Here's one for you, Mabel," she said. "I found it on your dresser. It must have come in after the regular mail." "A letter for me," repeated Miss Harrison in some bewilderment. "I didn't expect any." "Unexpected ones are always the best," ventured Sid, and when Tom whispered "Bravo," at the attempt on the part of his chum to shine in the society of ladies, Sid muttered a threat to punch the captain when they got outside. "Mother is well, and dad as busy as ever," remarked Ruth as she handed her letter to her brother, and passed the other to Miss Harrison. The latter gazed curiously at the missive. "I don't know this writing," she remarked. "I wonder who it can be from." "Better open it and see," suggested Sid. She tore open the envelope, which fluttered to the ground, as she took out a piece of paper. "Why, how funny!" exclaimed Miss Harrison. "There is nothing but a Haddonfield newspaper clipping, and--and--why it seems to be about you, Mr. Henderson," she added. "Why--why!" she stammered. "How odd! Of course it must be some one else. Just listen," and she read: "'During a raid on an alleged gambling house kept by Tony Belato in Dartwell, just outside of Haddonfield on Thursday night, a number of college students, believed to be from Boxer Hall, Fairview or Randall were captured. Several got away, and those who were locked up gave false names, it is believed. One young man, who stated that he was Sidney Henderson, fought the officers, and was not subdued until after a struggle. None of the college boys seemed to know him, but it was stated that he had lost heavily in playing poker. The prisoners were fined ten dollars each, and this morning were discharged by Judge Perkins with a warning.'" There was silence for a moment following Miss Harrison's reading of the clipping. "What's that?" cried Tom at last, and his words seemed to break the spell. "Arrested in a gambling raid--Sid Henderson? Of course it must be some one else! But who sent the clipping to you, Miss Harrison?" "I don't know," was her answer, as she looked full at Sid. "It was a piece of impertinence, at any rate," and she began to tear up the newspaper item. "Of course it wasn't you, Mr. Henderson. I should not have read it. I don't suppose you were within miles of the place where it happened. These newspaper reporters are so careless, sometimes. You weren't there, were you?" she went on. As they all remembered it afterward it seemed strange that Miss Harrison should so insist on her question, but, later, it was explained that her family, as well as herself, had an extraordinary abhorrence of any games of chance, since her brother had once been fleeced by gamblers, and there had been some disgrace attached to it. "You weren't there; were you?" repeated Miss Harrison, and her eyes were fastened on those of Sid. His face was strangely white, and his hands trembled. His chums looked at him in surprise. "I--I wasn't arrested in any raid," he said, and his voice was husky. The girl seemed to catch at the evasion. "Were you there?" she demanded. "I--of course--I have no right to ask you that--but--this clipping, coming to me--as it did--and under the circumstances----" "I wasn't--I wasn't arrested," faltered Sid. "It's all--it's all a mistake!" Almost instantly there came to Phil and Tom at the same time a memory of Sid's queer actions of late--of his strange absences from college--of his hurried departures on receiving notes--of the smell of tobacco on his clothes. "Were you at the gambling place, in Dartwell?" asked Miss Harrison coldly, and it was not until later that the others understood her strange insistence and hatred of games of chance. "Were you there?" "I--I wasn't arrested!" blurted out Sid. "I--I can't explain--I was in Dartwell that night--but--but it is all a mistake--I don't see how my name got in the paper." "Sometimes these matters get out in spite of all that is done to keep them quiet," remarked the girl, and her voice sounded to Sid like the clash of steel. "I tell you I wasn't arrested--I wasn't there--that is, I wasn't gambling--I--I--er--Oh, won't you believe me? Won't you take my word for it?" He was pleading with her now. "I haven't any right to control your actions," said Miss Harrison. "I don't know who sent me this clipping--nor why--I wish I had never seen it," and her eyes filled with tears. "Yet when I ask you if you were there, it seems as if you could say yes or no." "That's it! I can't!" cried poor Sid. "I--I wasn't arrested. I was there--yes, in--in Dartwell that night--but I can't explain--it's a secret--it--Oh, won't you believe me?" Miss Harrison turned and looked full at him. The others were watching the little tragedy that was being enacted before them. "Won't you believe me--I'll--I'll explain--some time," faltered Sid desperately. "I'm sorry, but unless you care to tell me everything, and explain why you were in a gambling house I can't accept your excuses," she said coldly. "I cannot retain the friendship of a person who goes to gambling places. I must ask you to excuse me," and holding her head high, though there were tears in her blue eyes, and a sob in her trembling voice, she turned and left the room. Ruth and Madge looked at each other. "Come on," said Phil to Tom huskily, and they filed out. Sid remained long enough to pick up the envelope that had contained the accusing clipping, and then he followed. None of the three chums spoke until they were out on the campus. Then Phil turned to Sid and demanded: "What in blazes is the matter? If that didn't mean you, and you weren't there, why didn't you say so?" "I--I can't," was the answer. "Oh, fellows, don't go back on me now. I'll explain--some time." "Of course we won't go back on you," declared Tom. "Even if you were playing the ponies or shuffling a deck of cards, it doesn't matter to us. It's your money to lose, if you want to, only I didn't think you cared for such things." "I--I don't!" blurted out Sid. "Then why don't you----" "But I can't explain! Don't desert me now!" "We're not going to," spoke Phil more gently, "only it hurts with a girl like Miss Harrison to have a thing like this come out. She's done with you." "Do you think so?" asked Sid miserably. "Sure," agreed Tom, "but don't worry over that. You've got to bat for us to win, as you did to-day," for he feared Sid would go to pieces, such was the wild look on his face. CHAPTER VII GETTING BACK AT "PITCHFORK" The three chums were not very jolly as they began their return to Randall college, whither the baseball team had preceded them some time before. Sid, Phil and Tom had sent their suits back with some of their friends while they attended the little tea given by Ruth Clinton--the tea which had had such an unfortunate ending. Tom and Phil conversed in low tones about the team and the showing made that day in the first formal game of the season, but as for Sid, he kept to himself in one corner of the electric car, and there was a moody look on his face. "He's taking it hard," observed Phil in a low voice. Tom shook his head. "I can't understand it," he said. Sid stalked into the room ahead of his chums and threw himself down on the old sofa, which creaked and groaned with his weight. "Easy, old man," called Phil good naturedly. "We've had that in the family for three terms, now, and it's a regular heirloom. Don't smash it for us. Remember what a time we had last term, patching it up, and moving it here from our old room?" "Yes, and how Langridge was upset trying to get down stairs past us," added Tom. "Have a little regard for the sofa, Sid." "Oh, hang the sofa!" burst out the lad, and then Tom and Phil knew it was useless to talk to him. Phil crossed the room softly and sat cautiously down in the old armchair. Tom looked at the alarm clock, and exclaimed: "Jove! If it hasn't stopped! Must be something wrong," and he hurriedly wound it, and then started it by the gentle process of pounding it on the edge of the table. Soon the fussy clicking was again heard. "It's all right," went on the pitcher, in relieved tones. "Gave me heart disease at first. The clock is as much of a relic as the chair and sofa. But I've got to mend my glove again. It's ripped in the same place. Rotten athletic goods they're selling nowadays." There came a knock on the door, and Wallops, the messenger, who stood revealed as the portal was opened, announced: "Mr. Zane would like to see you, Mr. Henderson." [Illustration: "MR. ZANE WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU, MR. HENDERSON."] "Me?" inquired Sid. "Yep," was the sententious answer. Saying nothing further, the second baseman got up, and, as the messenger went down the hall, he followed slowly. "He's in for it, I'm afraid," remarked Tom dubiously. "Looks so," agreed Phil. "It's about that item in the paper, of course. Too bad it leaked out." But what took place at the interview with the proctor, Sid's chums did not learn until long afterward. All that became known was that Dr. Churchill was summoned, and that Sid was in the proctor's study a long time. He returned to his room a trifle pale, and with unnaturally bright eyes. Throwing himself on the creaking sofa he stared at the ceiling moodily, while Phil and Tom maintained a discrete silence. "Why don't some of you fellows say something?" burst out Sid finally. "Think this is a funeral?" "We didn't think you wanted to have a talk-fest," observed Tom. "What in blazes am I to do?" asked Sid desperately. "What about?" inquired Phil. "You know--Miss Harrison. I don't want to have her think I'm a gambler. I'm not--I----" "Then why don't you tell her why you were in Dartwell the night of the raid?" suggested the captain. "I--I can't," burst out Sid. "It's impossible!" Tom shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I know what you mean!" burst out Sid. "It looks as if I wasn't telling the truth. But I am--you'll believe me--some day." "Forget it," advised Phil. "Let's talk about baseball. Have you seen the loving cup trophy?" "It's a beaut!" declared Tom. "I saw it in the doctor's study. We're going to win it, too!" "Hope so," murmured Phil. "If we have a few more games like to-day, we may. But speaking of games----" He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Sid started and leaped up from the sofa. "I'll go," he exclaimed. "If it's a message----" He did not finish, but Tom and Phil looked significantly at each other. Clearly Sid expected another mysterious summons. But, as he opened the portal there stood the Jersey twins. "Hello, fellows," began Joe, "do you want to see some sport?" "Fine sport," added Jerry, who sometimes echoed his brother, a trick that was interchangeable with the twins. "We're always ready for sport," replied Tom. "What is it: baiting a professor, or hazing some freshies?" "Professor," replied Joe. "Pitchfork," echoed Jerry, that name, as I have explained, being applied to Professor Emerson Tines. "What's up now?" asked Phil. "Oh, he's been particularly obnoxious of late," went on Joe. "Some of us had a little smoker the other night, strictly sub-rosa, you understand, but he smelled us out, and now some of us are doing time for it. To-day Bricktop Molloy evolved a little scheme, and we thought we'd let you fellows in on it. Want to come, Sid?" for Sid had gone back to the sofa. "No, I guess not," he answered listlessly. "What's the matter--sick?" inquired Joe, in a whisper of Tom and Phil. They shook their heads, and motioned to the twins not to make further inquiries. "What's the game?" asked Tom. "We'll come." "We're going to get back at Pitchfork," went on Jerry. "Come along and you'll see. I'll just explain, though, that he has quietly been 'tipped off' to the effect that another smoker is in progress, and if he does as we expect him to, he'll try to raid the room." "And if he does?" "Well, he won't find what he expects to. Come on, and keep quiet. What's the matter with Sid, anyhow?" for by this time the four were out in the corridor, leaving the moody one in the room. "Hanged if we know," replied Phil, "except that there's a girl mixed up in it." He refrained from saying anything about the accusation, thinking that would be noised about soon enough. "Oh, if it's only a girl he'll soon be over it," declared Joe with a professional air. "Of course," echoed his brother. "Come on." Phil and Tom soon found themselves in the midst of a number of choice spirits, who moved silently about the lower end of the corridor, near a room that was sometimes used for student meetings, and where, more than once, it was whispered, smokers had been held, in violation of the rules. The reason for the selection of this apartment was that it had an open fireplace, which carried off the fumes of the tobacco. "Did he get the tip?" asked Jerry, as he and his brother, together with Phil and Tom, came up. "He sure did," answered Bricktop. "Reports from the front are that he is on the warpath." "Is everything working all right?" asked Joe. "Fine. Can't you smell it?" Tom and Phil sniffed the air. There was an unmistakable odor of tobacco. "But if there's a smoker going on in there, why was Pitchfork tipped off?" inquired Tom. "Wait an' ye'll see, me lad," advised Bricktop in his rich brogue. "I think he's coming now. Pump her up, Kindlings!" Then, for the first time Tom and his chum noticed that Dan Woodhouse had a small air pump, which he was vigorously working, as he stood in a dark corner. Footsteps sounded down the corridor. There were hasty cautions from the ringleaders, and the lads hid themselves in the dim shadows of the big hall. The footsteps came nearer, and then they seemed to cease. But the reason was soon apparent, for Professor Emerson Tines was now tip-toeing his way toward the door of the suspected room. By the dim light of a half-turned down gas jet he could be seen sneaking up. The only sound from the students was the faint sound of the air pump. Tom and Phil could not imagine what it was for. Professor Tines reached the portal. Then he gave a sudden knock, and called: "I demand to be admitted at once, young gentlemen! I know the nefarious practice that is going on in there, and it must stop at once! Open the door or I shall summon the janitor and have it forced! Open at once!" The professor tried the knob. To his surprise it at once opened the door, and he almost stumbled into the apartment. He uttered an exclamation of delight, probably in the belief that he had caught the students red-handed, but the next moment he gave a gasp of dismay. For, as Tom, Phil, and all the others could see from their vantage points in the shadowy recesses, the room was empty. It was lighted, however, and in plain view on a table in the middle of the floor was a large flask. In the top of this there was a receptacle which contained a pile of burning tobacco, and it was glowing as though some giant was puffing on the improvised pipe. From a glass tube extending from the flask there poured out volumes of the pungent odor, and, as the puffs came, Tom and Phil could hear the air pump being worked. It was a "studentless smoker," the air pump, attached to a rubber hose which exhausted the air from the flask, producing exactly the effect of some one puffing a pipe. The room was blue with the haze of tobacco, and as the astonished professor stood and gazed at the strange sight more smoke arose from the flask. Then, from somewhere in the dark recesses of the corridor came a voice. "Stung!" it ejaculated, and there was a hurried movement as the students fled in the darkness. CHAPTER VIII THE ENVELOPE Plunging on through the darkened corridors Tom and Phil reached their room. They found Sid still on the sofa. "Say, that was great!" cried Tom, venturing to laugh, now that there was no danger of being caught. "You should have been along, Sid. Pitchfork got his to-night, all right. I'll never forget the blank look on his face." "I either," agreed Phil. "That was a smoker as was a smoker. I hope none of us are caught. The twins and Bricktop outdid themselves this trip." Sid began to show some signs of interest, and the trick was told of in detail to him. Of course a faculty inquiry followed, but the hose and air pump had been taken from the school laboratory, and there were no clues to the perpetrators. Professor Tines was furious, and demanded that the guilty ones be dismissed. "Willingly, my dear professor," agreed the venerable Dr. Churchill, "if I can only find them," and there was a twinkle in his deep-set eyes, which he took care that Mr. Tines did not see. Baseball practice went on for several days. One afternoon, as the lads were dispersing, Ed Kerr was seen coming over the diamond, holding in his hand a letter. "We can't play Fairview Saturday," he announced. "Why not?" asked Tom quickly. "They say they're not quite ready to open their season," went on the manager. "They ask me to put the opening game off a week." "Are you going to do it?" inquired several. "Well, what do you fellows say?" asked the manager. "Oh, well, they probably have a good reason. We'll let it go a week," assented Tom. "But can we get another game in place of it?" "Yes, I can fill in with the Layton Preparatory school for this Saturday, and we can go to Wescott University the following Saturday, and then tackle Fairview, if you fellows say so." "Sure," came in a chorus. When Tom and Phil returned to their room Sid was not there. "What do you think about it, anyhow, Phil?" asked the pitcher, and there was no need to be more explicit. "Oh, hang it all, I don't know. It looks funny; about Sid not wanting to tell. And he sure is cut up over Miss Harrison. I wonder who sent her that newspaper clipping?" "Give it up. But I heard that there was a raid all right, and a lot of college fellows were caught. Some of 'em were our chaps, but they managed to keep their identity hidden. I don't see how Sid's got out." "Then you think he was there?" "No, I didn't mean that. But it looks mighty funny. I do hope he isn't going to cut loose, just at the opening of the ball season," and Tom sighed, as though he had the weight of worlds on his shoulders. And, indeed it is no small task to be captain of a lively college team, struggling to win the championship trophy, and the pitcher was beginning to realize this. "Oh, maybe he just wanted a fling," suggested Phil. "Now he's had it he's ashamed to admit it, and wants to cover it up." "But he denies that he was caught," said Tom. "I know it; but what good will that do him, if he doesn't tell where he was that night? He admits that he was in Dartwell, and he must have been somewhere near the place of the raid, or his name would never have gotten in the papers." "Unless some one gave his name out of spite." "By hookey! That's so!" admitted Phil. "I never thought of that. But no--no college fellow would be as mean as that." "Unless it was Langridge or Gerhart. Gerhart is in parts unknown, and Langridge----" "I understand none of the Boxer Hall fellows were in it," went on Phil. "Only some of our boys and a few from Fairview--more fools they! But it sure has put Sid on the blink as far as Miss Harrison goes. Ruth was telling me her family, as well as she, has a horror of gambling in any form. Poor old Sid. I wish we could help him; don't you?" "I sure do," agreed Tom. "We need him on the nine, and we need him in good condition. First thing I know I'll have to put a sub on in Sid's place." "Oh, I hope not. But, say, I've got to do some studying if I'm to play on the team myself. I'm getting to low water mark in Latin and maths. Here goes for some hard boning." It was about a week after this, in which time Randall had met, and beaten, Layton Preparatory school, that Phil, Sid and Tom were taking a trolley ride one evening. "Where shall we go?" asked Phil. "Let's take the Tonoka Lake car," suggested Tom. "Which means let's go to Fairview," asserted Phil. "Well, I don't mind." Sid said nothing. Of course it was only a coincidence, but a little later the three lads were walking down toward the co-educational institution, and of course, I suppose, it was also only a coincidence that Miss Tyler and Miss Clinton should shortly come strolling over the campus. "There's Ruth," announced Phil carelessly, though he was not looking at her, but at Miss Tyler. "That's so," replied Tom, as if it was the queerest thing in the world. "They're headed this way--no use to turn back, I suppose?" asked Phil, as if there was some doubt of it. "No," agreed Tom. "Besides, I want to ask your sister what she thinks of the chances of Fairview beating us." "Oh, she'll tell you her college will win, of course," asserted Phil. "Well, come on," and they walked to meet the girls who had pretended not to notice the approach of the lads. "Oh, why hello, Phil!" called his sister. "Glad to see you; aren't we, Madge?" "Of course," replied Miss Tyler, with a merry laugh. "I'll see you fellows later," murmured Sid, who was very sensitive, and he was about to swing away. "Don't go," urged Tom. "We'll soon be going back." But Sid turned aside. As he did so there came around the corner of the main college building two figures, who strolled over the campus. It needed but a glance to disclose to Tom and Phil who they were--Miss Harrison and Fred Langridge. The couple were chatting and laughing merrily. Instinctively Tom turned to see if Sid had observed them. The second baseman had, and, for an instant he stood staring after the two, who had not seen him. Then, without a word, he kept on his way. "Beautiful evening," remarked Miss Tyler quickly, and she began to talk rapidly about the weather, as if to cover Sid's retreat. As Tom and Phil walked along the corridor leading to their room a little later that night, they saw a light streaming out of the cracks around the portal. "Sid's in there," said Tom. "Yes," agreed Phil, "I wonder----" But he did not finish the sentence. Awkwardly he and Tom pushed in. They started back at the sight of their chum. He was bending over a table on which he had placed a portable electric lamp, the college rooms being illuminated with both gas and the incandescents. Holding a paper in the glow of the bulb, Sid was examining the document with the aid of a magnifying glass. At the same time he seemed to be comparing other pieces of paper with the one he held. "Studying?" asked Tom. "Yes," replied Sid shortly. "Something new?" inquired Phil. "I didn't know you were qualifying for a course in identifying handwriting," for he saw that the papers Sid was looking at contained writing. "Do you see this?" asked Sid suddenly, holding up an envelope. "Why--er--yes," answered Tom. "It's addressed to Miss Harrison, and--but--are you going over with a microscope a letter you've written to her, to see if it will pass muster? She's not as particular as that, you old bat." "I haven't been writing to her," replied Sid coldly. "This is the envelope containing that clipping with my name in it--the report of the gambling raid--I picked up the envelope--that afternoon," and he seemed struggling with some emotion. "What about it?" asked Phil, who did not exactly catch the drift. "This," answered Sid quickly. "Look at this note," and he showed them a missive containing some reference to baseball matters. It was signed "Fred Langridge." "I got that from Langridge last term," went on Sid, "and I saved it, for some unknown reason. I'm glad, now, that I did." "Why?" inquired Tom, who began to see what was coming. "Because, look at that!" and Sid placed side by side the note from Langridge and the envelope that had contained the damaging clipping. He held the magnifying glass first over one and then the other. "Do you notice any similarity?" he asked. "Looks to me as if the same person wrote both," said Tom. "That's right," agreed Phil. "They did!" cried Sid, as he held up the envelope. "Fred Langridge sent to Miss Harrison that lying clipping about me, and to-day he was out walking with her!" CHAPTER IX A CLASH Sid stood facing his two chums, and his breath came quick and fast. He was much worked up over his discovery, as were also his roommates. "From the time I picked up this envelope, after that day when we had lunch with your sister, Phil," he went on, "I've been trying to think in whose handwriting it was. Perhaps I had no right to take the envelope, but I couldn't help it after she--Miss Harrison dropped it. To-night, after I saw him--saw Langridge out walking with her--I came back here, and I had a suspicion. I knew I had an old note of Langridge's somewhere around. I found it, and compared it with the envelope. You see what it shows." "He must have sent her the clipping," agreed Tom. "But why?" "Easy enough to see that," answered Sid. "He was mad because I--er--I happened to go with her a few times, and he is taking this course to give me a bad name, though if she only knew it Langridge is no white-ribboner." "Maybe that was a fake clipping," suggested Phil. "I've heard of such things being done before. Langridge might have hired a printer to set that item up so that it looked as if it was cut from a newspaper." "No," answered Sid quietly. "The item was genuine. I have a similar one I cut from the Haddonfield _Herald_." "But it isn't true?" inquired Tom. "No--that is--well, I can't say anything about it," and Sid looked miserable again. "But I'm glad I found out who sent it to Miss Harrison." "What are you going to do about it?" asked Tom. "I'm going to have it out with Langridge the first time I meet him. I'll punch----" "Better go slow," advised Phil. "Take it easy, old man. Langridge is a slick article. We know that of old. If you try a rough-house he'll have you at a disadvantage." "I can't help it. I'm not going to let him get ahead of me this way." "Oh, forget it and play ball," advised Tom with a laugh, for he felt that the subject was getting too serious, and his heart was wrapped up in his team, despite a certain pretty girl. "I only wish I could--forget it," answered Sid. It was several days after this, and a few days before the game with Wescott University, which was to be played on the latter club's grounds, that Phil, Tom and Sid journeyed to the town of Haddonfield to get some things to take with them on the trip. For it was quite a journey to play Wescott, a college with whom Randall had clashed in football, losing the game because Phil was taken sick and a new quarter back had to go in. It took a day to go and a day to come, and the lads would need to take some baggage with them. The three chums had made their purchases, and were on their way to take a car back to Randall, when Sid grasped the arm of Tom. "There he is!" he exclaimed. "Who?" asked Tom, who was critically examining a new tie he had purchased. "Langridge!" cried Sid. "I'm going to have it out with him." "Don't," begged Phil, but it was too late, for Sid had crossed the street to where the former pitcher for Randall was walking with another chap, as sportily attired as was he. "I want to speak to you!" called Sid to his enemy, as he came up behind him, Tom and Phil following at a distance. "What's that?" drawled Langridge, turning. "Oh, it's you, is it Henderson? Well, I don't know that I care to talk to you. I'm not used to associating with chaps caught in gambling raids!" Sid was fairly trembling with rage, but he managed to take from his pocket a duplicate of the clipping which Miss Harrison had received. "Did you--did you send that to her?" spluttered Sid. "Send it to whom?" asked Langridge insolently. "Miss Harrison? That lying clipping about me? Did you send it, I ask?" "Well, supposing I did? It's a free country; isn't it? Besides, I'm not so sure that the clipping doesn't tell the truth." "Then you sent it!" cried Sid. "You don't dare deny it!" "Dare you deny that you are the person referred to in it? Dare you deny that you were in that gambling hall the night of the raid? Dare you deny that?" fired back Langridge. Sid seemed stunned. "I--I--er--how--how did you----" he was stammering. "I see you don't dare deny it," went on Langridge with a sneer. "Your manner is answer enough. Come on, Perkins. I don't care to prolong this discussion." "But I do!" cried poor Sid, now beside himself. "I'll get even with you for this dirty, sneaking piece of work! You dare send that clipping to her--to her! I'll----" he sprang forward, with clenched fists, and before Tom or Phil could stop him, he had struck Langridge. The latter, with a snarl of rage, jumped toward Sid, but his friend clasped his arm. "Not here! Not here!" implored Perkins. "You can't fight here, Langridge." "No, that's right," admitted the other with a shrug of his shoulders, as he calmed himself with an effort. "And I don't know that I care, after all, for the notoriety of fighting him." He turned aside. Sid was about to spring forward again, his face distorted with rage, but Tom and Phil held him back. "Come on," whispered the pitcher in his ear. "You don't know what you're doing, Sid. You're only making matters worse." With something like a sob in his throat, Sid allowed his chums to lead him away. CHAPTER X SID IS SPIKED "By Jove, but I'm glad we're going out of town for a game," remarked Tom to Phil the next morning. "Why?" inquired the first baseman, as he critically examined his favorite mushroom bat, which he had mended with wire and tape. "Because of Sid. It may put him on his feet again, after this business of Langridge, Miss Harrison, and the newspaper clipping. Hang it all! girls can sure mix things up when they want to, can't they?" "Yes, but it isn't her fault. She merely doesn't care for a fellow that gambles, and Sid can't say that he doesn't." "I don't believe Sid gambles," said Tom quickly. "I was going to add," he went on, "that I'd 'gamble' on that. After the way he acted with Langridge last night, almost coming to a fight, I think there is something more in this than we've thought of." "Probably there is; but why doesn't Sid come out and say he wasn't in the raid, and clear himself? It ought to be easy enough to do, but he doesn't do it." "I know; and yet he may have a reason." "Very likely. But things look suspicious. Mind you, I don't say to us, for I'd stick to Sid, no matter what he did. But there's the fact of him suddenly being broke, being out late several times, going off after getting mysterious notes, and coming in smelling strongly of tobacco. It looks bad, and I don't see why Sid doesn't own up and confess, or else clear himself." "Maybe he can't. But that's neither here nor there. I'm glad he and Langridge didn't fight. Now we're going out of town to play Wescott, and maybe get beaten, for they have a fine nine. But, anyhow, it will do Sid good. He may come back entirely different." "Let's hope so, for there's no fun living with him, as he is now. I was glad when he got so infatuated with Miss Harrison, even going to the length of taking up hammered brass work because she had a fad that way. But since she turned him down poor Sid chucked all his brass stuff out of the window the other day. Well, maybe it will come out all right." "It's got to," declared Tom fiercely. "Well, I'm going down to see Kerr and Leighton, to learn if everything's all ready for the trip." The next day the team started for Wescott University, accompanied by as many of the students as could cut their lectures. It was a day's trip to the big college, one day would be devoted to the game, which was an annual affair, and the return trip would be made the third day. The Randallites were accorded an enthusiastic welcome as they were escorted to their hotel by the Wescott lads. "Remember how sick I was when we were here last year to play 'em football?" asked Phil, as he and his chums went to their rooms. "I sure do. Please don't repeat the experience. We want to beat these fellows if we can." The morning of the game did not prove very auspicious, as it had rained in the night, and was still threatening. But when the two nines went out to the diamond the sun broke through the clouds and it cleared off. "Now, fellows," said Coach Leighton, as he gathered the captain and his men about him, "you've got to play fast, snappy ball to win. We're up against a better team than either Boxer Hall or Fairview, and I want to see what you can do." "If they don't do what's right they'll answer to me," said Tom, with a grim smile. "And if you fellows lose you'll have to walk home," added Manager Kerr. "Sure, then we'll not allow 'em a hit," prophesied Bricktop Molloy. "We'll whitewash 'em," added Dutch Housenlager, as he tried to trip up Joe Jackson, but failed. It was a fast, snappy game from the very start, Tom doing some superb work in the box, but being fully matched by Marshall, the Wescott twirler, who was "a southpaw," or left hander. "He certainly's hard to hit," conceded Holly Cross, when the Randallites came to bat in the fifth inning, with never a run scored, while Wescott had two, one each having been garnered in the second and third innings. "We ought to have some left-handed batters to sort of fool him," remarked Tom. "I can bat left handed," said Sid, who had been unusually quiet during the trip and the game. "Get out! Then it's something new!" exclaimed Mr. Leighton. "Yes," admitted Sid, "and yet it isn't either. I used to bat left handed before I came to Randall, but I gave it up. I've been practicing it on the quiet, lately, and if you like I'll try it now." "It's risky," objected Tom. "Wait until we see what we can do this inning." But they couldn't do anything, and after three men had gone down, one after the other, under the scientific twirling of Marshall, Mr. Leighton, Kerr and Tom, after a consultation decided to let Sid try, as he was to bat first in the next round. Wescott managed to get two more runs, as the players were "finding" Tom, and things began to look black for the visiting team. "See if you can't rap out a home run," begged the captain, as Sid went to the plate in the sixth. There was manifest surprise when he took the left-handed position, and Marshall and Bradshaw, the latter being the Wescott catcher, held a whispered consultation. Whatever line of play they decided on availed them nothing, however, for Sid caught a "beaut" on the end of his bat, selecting the first ball pitched, and he sent it away over in the right field bleachers, easily making a three-bagger of it. He could have come on home, except for ground rules, which allowed only three bases on a ball that went among the spectators, of whom there was an enormous crowd present, almost up to the base lines. "Good!" delightedly cried the Randall supporters, and the record was soon bettered for Holly Cross came up next, and, though he batted right handed, he managed to whale out a two-bagger, which brought in Sid and made the first tally for the visitors. That gave them confidence and they made three runs that inning, coming within one of tying the score. Tom, too, seemed to stiffen in his work, and he struck out three men in quick succession. "Now if we can only do as well this inning," remarked the coach, as Dutch Housenlager came up. Dutch knocked a pretty fly, and was off like the wind to first. He never would have reached it, but for an error on the part of the right fielder who muffed the ball, amid the groans of his fellows. Then, for a time, the Wescott team seemed to go to pieces, until, when the eighth inning opened, the score was tied. Goose eggs were chalked up in the frames of both teams in the eighth, however, the pitchers both working hard. Then came Randall's chance at the bat in the ninth. "One run will beat 'em, if we can only hold 'em down when they come up," muttered Kerr to Tom. "I'll do my part," the nervy pitcher assured him. It fell to Sid again, to do the trick. There were two men out, when he came up, and it looked hopeless, but he again batted left handed, and once more caught a "beaut" on the end of his bat. He got two bases on it, and, by great good luck Holly Cross, next player, whaled out what proved to be a triple, and Sid, as soon as he heard the crack of the ball, started home. As he swung around toward third base the player there perhaps unintentionally got in his way. The baseman pretended that the ball was being fielded to him, in his endeavor to throw Sid out of his calculations, but the nervy Randall second baseman kept on. There was a collision between him and the man covering the bag, and, for an instant, Sid hesitated on third, and almost fell over, seizing his left foot in both hands, and hopping about. "Sid's spiked!" cried Tom. "The third baseman spiked him, just as he had a chance to score! Come on in, Sid. Come on in!" yelled the captain frantically. There was a confusing chorus of yells, so much so that the fielder after the ball, which had gone past him, did not know what to do, after he had the horsehide. But by this time Sid was limping toward home, running fairly well, but with a look of agony on his face. Holly Cross was racing from second now. "Home with that ball, you loon!" yelled the Wescott catcher, who saw Sid coming, for the Wescott fielder was stupidly holding it. Then the fielder woke up, and threw to second, hoping to catch out Holly, who was somewhat undecided. But Sid kept on to home, and tallied the run, though he almost collapsed a moment later, while Holly leaped on to third. "Hurt bad?" asked Tom, as he and several others hurried up to Sid. "I should say so," remarked Mr. Leighton, as he saw the blood running from Sid's shoe. Meanwhile Holly had reached third, though the decision was close. He died there, for the next man struck out, retiring the side, and making the score five to four, in favor of Randall, though with Wescott still to have a chance in the ending of the ninth. The third baseman made all sorts of apologies to Sid, who indeed had a nasty cut, for a spike had gone through the outer, fleshy part of his foot. It was so evidently an accident, however, that nothing unpleasant was said, though Sid could not play, and had to be replaced by Pete Backus. There was a grim look on Tom's face as he took his place in the box, and it was justified, for he struck out two men. The third knocked what seemed was going to be a nice hit, but Pete Backus caught it, though he had to jump well for it, a feat for which his training stood him well in hand. "Wow! We've done 'em!" cried Tom, when he realized that the third Wescott man was out, without a run having been scored by their rivals in the last inning. "We sure have," agreed Mr. Leighton. "Poor Sid, though. He'll be out of it for a few days." "I don't care, as long as we won the game," spoke the plucky lad, as he limped along, his foot having been dressed, and peroxide applied, to prevent blood poisoning. "It was a glorious victory," sang Holly Cross, the others joining in, after cheers had been given for Wescott, and returned by those fine-spirited lads. It was a jolly crowd that journeyed back to Randall next day, with the Wescott scalps hanging at their belts. "It was just what Sid wanted," decided Tom to Phil as he noted the lively look on the second baseman's face, for he was jolly and laughing, in spite of the pain of his injured foot. There was a great celebration in Randall when the victorious team marched up the campus that night, and bonfires galore glared all around. "A feast to-night," decided a crowd of the team's most enthusiastic supporters. "Sid Henderson will be toastmaster, on account of his great work." But Sid, who had limped to his room to change his clothes, shook his head. "Why not?" asked Tom and Phil in surprise. "Because I--I've got to go away to-night," and Sid tried to conceal a letter in his hand--a letter which he had found awaiting him when he returned from Wescott with his chums. CHAPTER XI A JOKE ON THE PROCTOR For a moment neither Tom nor Phil answered. There was an embarrassed silence, but it only affected the three chums, for all about them was a rollicking, shouting crowd of students intent on arranging for a celebration in honor of the nine, and Sid--the player who had done so much to help win. "Have you _got_ to go?" asked Tom, in a low voice. "Can't you put it off, Sid?" "I've got to go. I can't put it off," was the reply, as Sid turned and limped away. "Oh, I say! Where's he going?" demanded Snail Looper. "We want to form a procession and carry him." "Oh, he'll be back--later," answered Phil, for both he and Tom wished to conceal, as long as possible, the growing mystery that seemed to be enveloping their chum. There was no time for longer talk with Sid, as he had hurried off as fast as his injured foot would let him, though Mr. Leighton had advised him to stay in his room for a couple of days. "Where do you s'pose he's going?" asked Tom of Phil. "Give it up, unless he's going to call on Miss Harrison, and it doesn't seem very likely. He'd be more cheerful if it was that. As it is he acts as if he was going to a funeral." "That's right. He got another one of those queer letters, and, as usual, when he does, he scoots off somewhere. Do you know what I think?" "You think of so many things, Tom, I can't be sure." "No joking. I mean we ought to follow him, and see where he goes so mysteriously. Maybe we could help him." "Oh, we couldn't do that, but I'd do anything else to help Sid." "No, of course it wouldn't be fair to play the spy; but, just the same, I wish I knew what was worrying him." A moment later the two players were caught up in a rush of enthusiastic students that involved the whole nine except Sid, and were carried off to an impromptu celebration. Bonfires were blazing, and hastily-organized banquets were in order. "Why, you'd think we'd won the championship to see the way they take on," remarked Holly Cross. "Well, we're in line for it, after the way we beat Wescott," said Tom. "It's the best nine Randall has had in many a year, if I do say it myself," and Tom looked proudly on his team. "My uncle says----" began a voice. "Smother him!" "Into the lake with him!" "Make him eat soft soap!" "Choke him with a double ice-cream cone!" These cries, and many more, greeted the almost fatal announcement of Ford Fenton. Much abashed, he turned aside from the crowd into which he had made his way. "I wouldn't stand for that, if I were you," remarked Bert Bascome to him. "Why don't you go back at 'em." "Oh, I don't know," replied Ford hesitatingly. "You'd have been manager of the team if some of the mollycoddles around here had had any spunk," went on the sporty freshman. "I'm not done yet, either. I'll make the team wish, before the season is over, that Ed Kerr hadn't been manager." "You'll not do anything rash, will you?" asked Ford, who was somewhat afraid of his wealthy chum, who proposed daring pranks sometimes. "I don't know," answered Bascome with a superior air. "If I had some one to help me I know what I'd do. Come over here, I want to talk to you," and he led Ford off to where a number of freshmen of Bascome's crowd were looking on at the celebration in honor of the nine, but taking no part. Tom saw Ford going off with Bascome, the enthusiastic welcome of the players having calmed down for a moment. "I don't like that," he observed to Phil. "Bascome is a chap likely to get Ford into trouble. There's a fast set in the freshie crowd this year." "Yes, we didn't take enough temper out of 'em with the hazing last fall. Have to do the job over again, I guess. But come on, enjoy life while you can," and the two were once more caught up in the happy rush. The celebration went on the better part of the evening, and when Phil and Tom got to their room Sid was not there. He came in later, narrowly missing detection by the proctor, and said little. He was limping quite badly. "How's the foot?" asked Tom. "Not much better," answered Sid. "I shouldn't have gone out to-night, only--I had to." He was dead lame the next day, and for two days after that had to stay in bed, his place on the nine, in practice games, being taken by Pete Backus, who did not do half badly. The game with Fairview was approaching and it was likely to be a severely-contested one. Tom was a little anxious but seemed more at ease when Dr. Marshall, the college physician, gave it as his opinion that Sid could play, his foot having almost healed. "And you've got to bat as you did before too, old sport," insisted Tom, with a laugh. "Why didn't you spring that left-hand racket before?" "Well, you see I wasn't at all sure of it. When I was a kid I always batted left handed. Then I broke my shoulder and I had to bat right handed after it mended, for it was stiff. Then later I found I could bat either way, but I favored right, until lately, when I began practicing left again." "We'll keep you for a pinch hitter," declared Tom. "I must revise the batting order, and get you up first, after this." Sid got into practice a few days before the Fairview game, but was so stiff that it was decided to have some one run for him, after he had gotten to first. The day before the game, when Sid, Phil and Tom were in their room, Sid putting some strips of adhesive plaster on his lame foot, there came a cautious knock at the door. Dutch Housenlager was at once admitted. "Are you fellows game?" was his first question. "For what?" asked Phil. "For a joke on Proc. Zane?" "Oh, we're always ready for that!" exclaimed Sid. "He has caught me once this term, and nearly twice. What's the joke?" "I'll explain," went on Dutch, fairly bubbling over with mirth. "Only you fellows may have to stand for part of it." "How?" asked Tom. "We'll do our share, of course." "We want to use one of your windows for part of the trick. May we?" "Sure," answered Phil. "We'll stand for anything short of setting fire to the college, and we'll throw in a hazing of Pitchfork if it's possible." "Oh, he'll get his some day," replied Dutch, "but just now we're after Zane. Here's a cord. When you hear three tree-toad whistles down below, lower it from your window, and then at two tugs haul up." "You're not going to pull the proctor up here, are you?" inquired Phil in some alarm. "No, but I wish we could. He's been on the job pretty brisk, lately. Just haul the cord, and then I'll be back to explain more," and leaving a stout string in Tom's hands Dutch hurried away. The three chums tried to guess what was to follow, and made all sorts of wild hazards, in the midst of which they were interrupted by hearing from below the cautious imitation of the trill of a tree-toad, thrice repeated. "Lower the cord," whispered Phil, and Tom dangled it from the window. In a few minutes he felt two tugs, which was the signal for hauling up, and he pulled until he had hoisted to his window sill a coil of strong wire. The inseparables were wondering what it was for, when Dutch reappeared. "Anything heavy we can fasten this to?" he asked, as his eyes roved about the room. "There's the alarm clock," replied Sid. "It wakes us out of a heavy sleep, sometimes." "Rotten joke," commented Dutch. "Here, this will do," and he approached the old sofa, holding the coil of wire. "It won't damage it; will it?" cried Phil in some alarm. "Impossible, son! Impossible!" replied Dutch. "I only want to anchor the wire to the sofa. There we are," and he rapidly made a loop in the wire, and strung it around the ancient piece of furniture. Then the other end of the wire was dangled out of the window. It was promptly pulled taut, and seemed to be stretched out for some distance. "That's the stuff!" commented Dutch. "Holly and the rest of the boys are on the job." "But what are you going to do?" asked Tom, much mystified. "You'll soon see," answered Dutch, as he hurried from the room again. CHAPTER XII PLANNING A PICNIC When Dutch returned, after an absence of about half an hour, he seemed in considerable of a hurry. He went directly to the window, out of which there stretched away in the darkness the tight wire, and from the casement dropped a cord. Then he gave a whistling signal, which was answered. Dutch began to haul up on the cord. "Say, look here!" burst out Phil. "What's up, anyhow? Let us in on the joke, as long as you're using our room to work it from." "Sure," agreed Dutch. "It's all ready now, as soon as I get the cord Snail Looper is fastening to this one." He hauled up a thin but strong rope, and once more gave some whistling signals. Then he closed down the window. "Now we'll have to wait about an hour," he explained, "but I'll tell you what's up. You know the proctor has been unusually officious of late, and several of us have suffered." Sid nodded appreciatively. "Well," resumed Dutch, "some of us have rigged up an effigy, in the shape of a student in a dress suit, and at this moment the said imitation student is strung on this wire, which extends from your window across the campus, to the clump of elms just beyond Booker Memorial chapel. The effigy is a sort of trolley car, and this is the wire. This cord, which I just hauled up is also attached to the figure. Now at the proper time, when Proc. Zane goes out to catch some poor chap, who has been off to see his best girl, and has stayed too late, I'll pull this string, the figure will slide along the wire, with the feet just touching the ground, and the proctor thinking it is a student, will rush up to identify him. There will be something interesting when the two meet," and Dutch began to chuckle. "But how can we see it?" asked Tom. "It's as dark as a pocket to-night." "All the better. The fellows hidden in the clump of elms have an automobile search light, which they will turn on at the proper moment. Do you catch on?" "Wow! It's rich!" cried Phil. "All to the mustard and the spoon, too!" decided Tom. "A lallapaloosa!" was Sid's comment. "And not a bit of danger," added Dutch. "As soon as the search light flashes on the scene, and the proctor is made aware of the joke, I'll cut the wire from your window, it will fall to the ground, be hauled in by the fellows in the elms, together with the figure, and not a bit of evidence will remain." "Great!" commented Tom. "But how can you be sure that the proctor will be out there?" "Oh, we've arranged for that. Snail and Holly took pains to converse, rather loudly, in Mr. Zane's hearing to-night, though they pretended not to see him. They intimated that they might try to sneak in about eleven o'clock." "Then the trick comes off then?" asked Phil. "Exactly. We've got half an hour yet." The students sat and talked of many things while waiting, chiefly baseball, until a slight vibration of the wire and a tug of the cord warned them that the time for action had arrived. Dutch explained that he had arranged a code of signals with his chums so that he knew when to haul in on the cord which would pull the stuffed figure along the wire. "There it goes!" he whispered finally. "Now watch the fun!" He began to haul, and the sagging of the wire told of a weight on it. Listening, as they peered from the window into the darkness, Tom and his friends could hear some one running across the campus. Then came a challenge. "Stop, if you please, sir! I see you, and it is useless to try and sneak into college at this hour! I demand your name, sir!" "That's Zane!" whispered Phil. A moment later the wire was violently agitated. "He's caught him!" exclaimed Dutch. "Why don't they turn on the light, so he can see it's only a stuffed scarecrow?" At that instant a dazzling pencil of light cut the air, wavered around uncertainly, and then was focused on a queer sight. The dignified proctor of Randall College held in his embrace the swaying figure of an effigy, attired in full evening dress, but with a caricature of a face. The image swayed from the overhead wire, and the proctor cried out: "It is disgraceful, sir! I believe you are intoxicated! You will be expelled for this!" Then, as the light suddenly became brighter the official was made aware that what he had grasped was only rags and straw in a dress suit. So bright was the light that the amazed anger on the proctor's face was plainly depicted. Suddenly Mr. Zane leaped back from the image, looked up and saw the wire, and darted for the clump of elms, toward which it extended. "Why don't they turn off that light?" demanded Dutch, anxiously, and, as though in answer, it went out. Hurriedly he cut the wire, and closed the window. "It worked like a charm," he said. "Mum's the word now." What happened outside in the darkness Tom and his chums could not see, but later they learned that the image and wire was safely hauled out of sight, and the students escaped from the group of trees before the proctor got there. Of course he made diligent efforts to find out who had played the trick, but it was useless. "That puts us in good humor for the game to-morrow," observed Tom, as, chuckling, he and his chums went to bed. But if they had known what was in store for them on the morrow, they would not have slept so peacefully. For they suffered a severe drubbing at the hands of Fairview Institute when they met that nine on the diamond the next afternoon. How it happened they did not like to think of afterward, but it was mainly due to poor fielding. Tom pitched well, and Sid made some good hits, but his foot went back on him, even in the short spurt to first. Then, too, Dutch and Holly, usually to be depended on, disgraced themselves by making almost inexcusable errors. Nor was Fairview's playing anything to boast of, aside from the work of the battery. It was just one of those occasions when both teams seem to go stale, and probably on the part of Randall the prank of the night before, which kept several members of the team up late, had not a little to do with it. Sufficient to say, that though Tom managed to whip his men into some kind of shape for the last three innings it was too late, and they went down to defeat by a score of 3 to 10. "And the girls watching us, too!" groaned Phil, as they were changing their clothes after the game. "Are you going to see them when we get washed up?" asked Sid eagerly. "I don't feel much like it," grumbled Tom, but, somehow, he and Phil did manage to gravitate to where Madge Tyler and Ruth Clinton were standing. Sid followed at a discreet distance, but when he saw Miss Harrison strolling about the grounds with Langridge, the second baseman took a trolley car for home. Tom and Sid had to stand considerable chaffing on the part of their two pretty companions, but they didn't mind so much, and Tom declared that his team was only practicing, and would eventually win the championship, and the gold loving cup. "Oh, by the way," remarked Phil, at parting, "Ruth, don't you and Miss Tyler want to come to our doings next week?" "What doings?" asked his sister. "See you defeated at baseball again, or go to a fraternity dance?" "Something on the order of the latter," replied her brother, making a wry face. "The sophs are going to have a little picnic on Crest Island, in Tonoka Lake, next Wednesday, and it will be one swell affair. Regular old-fashioned picnic--basket lunches, ants in the butter, snakes under the leaves, and all that. Holly Cross thought it up, and it's great!" "What a wonderful brain he must have," said Miss Tyler, with a delicious laugh. "But it sounds nice. What do you say, Ruth? Shall we go?" "I will, if you will. But--er--Mabel----" She looked questioningly toward her chum, who was strolling with Langridge. "Oh, bring her along," invited Phil. "This is an old-fashioned affair, and no special person will bring any one else. Tom and Sid and I will look after you girls." "But, Phil, you forget that Mr. Henderson and Mabel----" began Ruth. "Oh, hang it all, don't let that matter," spoke Phil. "I dare say Sid won't be around. As soon as he gets in the woods or fields he's always after bugs or animals--he's a naturalist, you know." "I should say so," agreed Tom. "Remember last fall how he went out after a picture of a fox, and got stuck in the bog, and how Zane caught him, all covered with mud, and thought poor Sid was a thief, and how we pretended we didn't know our own chum, when the proctor brought him to our room for identification? Remember that, Phil?" "I should say I did. Well, that's probably what Sid will do this time, so Miss Harrison needn't worry about having to accept him as an escort, though for the life of me I can't understand what's up between her and Sid?" and Phil looked questioningly at his sister. "We don't know, either," answered Ruth, "except that Mabel is very miserable over it." "She can't be taking it very hard, when I see her off with that chump, Langridge," retorted Phil. "Yes, I'm sorry she goes with him," retorted Madge Tyler. "But she won't listen to us. However, to change the subject--are we to go to the picnic, Ruth?" "Oh, I guess so. How will we get there, Phil?" "Tom and I will come for you, we'll go to the summer resort on the west shore of the lake, and row to the island. It will be sport. Now pray for good weather." "And you boys pray that there aren't any snakes," added Miss Tyler. "Nor ants in the butter," went on Ruth, as the boys bade the girls good-by. CHAPTER XIII A SPORTY COMPANION "Where's my blue tie?" cried Tom, tumbling about the things on his bureau. "Have you seen it, Phil?" "Well, I like your nerve! Yes, I used it as a shoe polishing rag," remarked Phil sarcastically. "You'll find it on the blue-tie hook, I should say. Why don't you look there." "Blue-tie hook?" queried Tom. "Yes. You're such an orderly chap," added Phil, as he looked at his chum's disordered side of the room, "that I supposed you had a hook for each tie." "Oh, cut it out," advised Tom, making a perfect shower with a rainbow effect of colored silks, as he looked in vain for the blue article of adornment. "I don't know where in blazes your blue tie is," went on Phil, as he gazed with a puzzled air into a box on his dresser; "but I'd like to know where my garnet cuff buttons are. Have you been sporting 'em, Sid?" "Me? No!" answered the other chum, who was quietly dressing, a task which Tom and Phil seemed to think called for more or less elaborate effort. "But, say, what's getting into you chaps, anyhow? You're togging up as much for the soph picnic as though it was a frat. dance. Are there some damsels in the offing?" "Oh, there are always girls to these affairs," carelessly spoke Tom, as he opened another drawer and began tumbling about his collars and cuffs. "Hang it all, where _is_ that tie, anyhow." "I s'pose nothing but a baby-blue one would suit your fair complexion," remarked Phil, glancing at Tom, who was as brown as an Indian from his out-door life. "It will suit me as well as your cute little garnet cuff buttons will you. I never saw such a fusser! Ah, there's the tie. I remember now, I put it there to hide it away from you chaps," and Tom pulled out a gorgeous affair of silk from inside a cuff. "Speak for yourself, you old fossil!" retorted Phil, who just then discovered his cuff buttons marking a place in his Ovid. "Wonder how in blazes they got there?" he murmured, as he proceeded to put them in his cuffs, while Tom was busy trying to make just the proper knot with the blue tie. "Why are you fellows togging up so?" demanded Sid. "Are you going to take some girls, as well as meet some there?" And, for the first time he seemed to entertain some suspicions of his friends. "Oh, well, Ruth wanted to go," said Phil, as indifferently as he could, "and Tom and I promised to----" "I suppose Miss Tyler is going?" asked Sid quietly. "Yes," assented Tom, his face flushing under its bronze coat, though possibly it was from his exertion in pulling his tie into place. "And so is Miss Harrison," went on Phil, with a desperate effort, as if desirous of getting the worst over. "But you don't need to worry," he added, as he saw Sid sit limply down in a chair. "She probably won't see you, so there need be no embarrassment. I thought it was a pity to have her miss it, especially as Ruth and Madge are going, and she rooms with them. We thought you wouldn't mind, old fellow, but we weren't going to tell you." "So that's what you've been so mysterious about these last few days," commented Sid. "I thought something was up. Of course it's all right. I sha'n't annoy Miss Harrison, only--Oh, what's the use!" and he went on with his preparations. It was the morning of the day of the annual sophomore picnic, and there was much excitement, especially in the ranks of the second-year men, and the more or less numerous fair ones who counted on being taken to the charming little island in the middle of Lake Tonoka. The affair was always held at this season of the year, when there was no danger of an attack from the freshmen students, who, by this time, had settled down into something approaching dignity. "You're not going to back out, because she--Miss Harrison--is coming, are you?" asked Phil, as he saw Sid cease his arrangements for dressing. "No--no--of course not. I was just--just thinking. I'll take my camera and specimen box along, and do a little work in biology and nature study. I need a little freshening up for the final exams. I probably won't see much of you chaps." Phil and Tom departed ahead of Sid, who busied himself with his camera, his specimen box and his cyanide bottle, with which latter he painlessly killed such bugs and butterflies as he captured. "We'll see you later," called Tom, as, with his blue tie very much in evidence, he and Phil went to get the girls. A picnic is pretty much the same the world over, even if it is gotten up by a college crowd, and the one on Crest Island was no exception. There was the usual screaming of the girls when the boats tipped, and the usual strolling in shady nooks by youths and maidens, there was fun galore and happiness on all sides, for the day was perfect. Madge Tyler, Ruth Clinton and Mabel Harrison were walking along with Phil and Tom, having just come in from a ride around the lake in a motor launch. "What shall we do now?" asked Ruth. "We'll soon have the pleasure of seeing some ants do a waltz or a two-step in the butter," announced Tom. "I see the waiters getting the tables ready," for a caterer had been hired by the students to provide luncheon. "How interesting," remarked Madge. "Suppose we go over there in the shade----" She paused suddenly, and with a little gesture to Ruth went on hurriedly: "Oh, no, let's go this way." "That's too sunny," objected Mabel. "I'd rather go over in the shade, and----" She, too, stopped, and then she saw what had made her chum hesitate. Sid Henderson was approaching them on a path which had no turn in it, as they had passed the only one just as Madge tried to branch off. There was no help for it. Sid was creeping up with his camera, intent on getting a picture of a large butterfly that had alighted on a flower, and, as yet, he had not seen the little party. Miss Harrison was at once aware that her two girl chums had endeavored to save her the embarrassment of meeting Sid, but it was too late to turn back gracefully now, and with an admirable assumption of calmness the girl said: "Oh, isn't it interesting! I hope Mr. Henderson gets his picture. I did not know he was a naturalist." Tom and Phil both breathed easier. It seemed that Miss Harrison would not "cut" Sid after all. Perhaps their precautions had been useless. They were not aware that a girl can sometimes, under force of circumstances, assume a part she does not feel. It was this way with Mabel Harrison. She did not want to meet Sid, but she was too cultured to cause his friends sorrow by refusing to notice his presence. So, with somewhat heightened color, she stood in the group composed of her chums, Phil and Tom, and watched the young naturalist coming nearer and nearer. So intent was Sid on getting the picture that he had not, as yet, seen his chums or the girls. There was a click of the camera, and, a moment later, after the exposure had been made, the gorgeous butterfly sailed gracefully off through the air. "Did you get it?" called out Tom, and Sid looked up. "Yes," he replied. "A fine and rare specimen." Then he saw Miss Harrison, and halted in his approach, which he had begun. But, he also, was too proud to turn back now, and came on. The others advanced toward him, and Miss Harrison was just bowing, coolly perhaps, but with a show of cordiality, when from the bushes there stepped a gaily attired youth, whom neither Phil, Tom, nor either of the girls seemed to know. "Hello, Sid, old chap!" greeted the newcomer in easy but rather too loud tones. "I've been trying to pipe you off for ever so long. Looked all over for you. Say, this place is dead slow. Not even so much as a ring-cane game. What makes you college sports come here? It's too dead for me. But I've found a bunch of good things. Come on over and we'll have a little poker, and I'll depend on you to----" The sportily dressed youth paused, for Sid had started back with horror at the sight of him, and had made an unmistakable gesture of caution. "What's the matter?" went on the flashily attired one. "Ain't I good enough to speak to you? Or maybe you think the dames give me the fussers. Not a bit of it. Pleased to meet you, girls," and he made pert bows to the three young ladies, who returned them with mere nods, for they expected to learn that the new arrival was a friend of Sid's, however undesirable he might seem. "How came you here? What do you want?" demanded Sid, and the hand that held the camera trembled. "I came after you," was the answer. "Called up at the brain factory, and they told me the whole bunch of second year boys were off on a chowder party, so I took a boat and came here. I thought I'd have some sport, but it's dead slow. Come on, and I'll show you some fun. I've got a deck of cards and----" Sid was quickly at the side of the sporty one, and uttered something in a hoarse whisper. "Oh, that's all right then, don't mind me," came the answer, and the youth leered at the girls. Tom was with difficulty keeping down his anger, while Phil was hopelessly wondering who on earth Sid's acquaintance could be. Miss Harrison, who had started to greet Sid, drew back and there was a look of disgust on her face. She turned aside, and started back. "Don't go away--I like your style," called the sporty lad. "We need another lady as it is. Don't go away." "Keep quiet!" begged Sid desperately. "I'll go with you. Come on," and, to the surprise of his friends, Sid turned into the woods, and followed the youth, who impudently took off his hat and threw kisses to the girls, as they turned their backs. Miss Harrison had disappeared around a turn in the path. CHAPTER XIV "MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!" For a moment no one knew what to do or say. Tom was nervously kicking at the pebbles in the path, while Phil got out his knife and began whittling a stick furiously. As usual it was the girls who saved the situation. "I suppose he's gone off to get some more pictures," said Madge, with a nervous little laugh. "Come on, Ruth, we mustn't let Mabel go back there all alone. After all, I don't believe we want to go sit in the shade. Isn't dinner almost ready? I'm nearly famished, boys." "Yes, bring on the butter, ants and all," added Ruth. "All right, just as you say," responded Phil, with a quick look at Tom, who rather avoided the glance, for he was sorely puzzled. "I dare say grub is ready. We'll dine beneath the greenwood tree, from whence all care shall banished be." "Bravo!" cried Miss Tyler. "You never told me your brother was a poet, Ruth." "He doesn't know it himself," commented his sister dryly. "Oh, there's Mabel. Wait!" she called, and the girl in advance turned. There was a troubled look in her blue eyes, but otherwise she was calm. "Isn't it perfectly charming in the woods," she remarked. "I wish Fairview College was nearer the lake." "Oh, we'll come over and get you, any time you want to come," said Tom quickly. "Thank you," responded Miss Harrison, with a grateful look at him. She seemed to have recovered control of herself, but there was a pathetic air about her, which did not vanish. Luncheon was a gay affair, as Tom and Phil felt that it was their duty to make up, in a measure, for the strange action of Sid, in going off in company with a flashily-dressed youth who had practically insulted his chums' companions. In the afternoon there was a period of idling beneath the trees, walks along shady and moss-grown paths, and trips about the lake in boats, until the declining sun warned the merry-makers that it was time to depart. Phil and Tom took the three girls to Fairview, but they had no further sight of Sid that afternoon, nor was any mention made of him, though Tom rather hoped the girls would say something that would enable him to defend his chum. For, somehow, in spite of it all, Tom felt that there was something he didn't understand in relation to Sid. He was puzzled over it, grieved deeply, too, yet he could not condemn Sid. But no mention was made of the little incident of the morning, and the two youths left, promising to come over again at the first opportunity. "It was awfully kind of you to bother with me," said Miss Harrison, as she shook hands with Phil and Tom. "I was rather in the way, I'm afraid, and I realize----" "Why, Mabel, what a way to talk!" interrupted Ruth. "If they hadn't taken you with us, we wouldn't have gone with them; would we, Madge?" "Of course not." "It's awfully kind of you," went on Mabel, as she turned into the college, leaving Phil and Tom to say good-by to their friends. "Well, what do you make of it?" asked Phil, when he and Tom were on their way back to Randall. "Hanged if I know what to say. Who was that sporty chap, anyhow?" "Search me. He seemed to take a good deal for granted. The puppy! I felt like punching him one, the way he leered at the girls." "So did I. Would have, too, only for Sid. He seemed to be friendly with the flashy chap." "Yes, and that's the funny part of it. He seemed somehow to have Sid under a spell." "It's just another phase of the mystery that seems to have been enveloping poor old Sid, of late," went on Tom. "I only hope one thing, and that is, that whatever it is that it doesn't interfere with baseball. We've got to depend a lot on Sid this season, as the other fellows aren't batting as I hoped they would, and this includes myself, but I never was much as a hitter. I never could get above two sixty-eight, but Sid won't have any trouble getting to four hundred, and he can bat both ways, placing a ball in either right or left field. But if this thing is going to keep up," and Tom shook his head dolefully, "I don't know what to do." "Losing that game to Fairview didn't do our standing any good," remarked Phil. "I should say not! But we play Dodville Prep school Saturday, and they're easy fruit." "That will help pull our average up some," admitted Phil. They made the rest of the trip back to Randall almost in silence, Tom making an occasional remark about baseball, and Phil replying, but the thoughts of both were more on the events of the day than on the great game. Sid was not in the room when Phil and Tom entered. The latter took off his cherished blue tie, and placed it carefully away, probably in a place he would forget the next time he wanted it, while Phil made a point of sticking his garnet sleeve links in a box that contained everything from fish hooks to waxed ends for sewing ripped baseball covers. "Well, I'm glad to-day's over," remarked Tom, as he threw himself in the old armchair, with a sigh of relief, "but it was lots of fun while it lasted. Still I didn't exactly know what to do when that fellow showed up." "Same here, yet the girls got through all right. Trust them for a thing like that? Girls are queer creatures, anyhow." "You laughed at me when I said that last term," remarked Tom, as Phil stretched out on the ancient sofa, raising a cloud of dust. "Well, to-day is done. I wonder what will happen to-morrow?" "Same old grind. I've got to brush up a bit if I want to pass with honors. Guess I'll do some boning to-night." "Yes, and I've got to arrange for some more baseball practice," went on Tom. "I wonder where Sid is? I didn't like the looks of that chap. And did you hear what he said about playing poker?" "Yes, I'm afraid Sid's in bad, in spite of what he says." There was a moment of silence, broken only by the ticking of the alarm clock. Then Tom resumed: "I wish we could help him. If he's got in with a bad crowd we ought to help save him. Poor old Sid, I wish----" At that moment the door opened, and the chum whose troubles they were discussing walked in. He had heard what Tom had said, and a dull red flushed up under his brown skin. "Were you fellows talking about me?" he asked hotly. "We were just saying," began Phil, "that we couldn't----" "I wish you fellows would mind your own business!" blurted out Sid. "I guess I can look after myself!" and he crossed the room and gazed moodily out of a window, into the darkness of the night, while the tick of the fussy little alarm clock seemed to echo and re-echo through the apartment. CHAPTER XV AN UNEXPECTED DEFENSE There wasn't much said in the room of the chums after Sid had "gone off the handle," as Tom expressed it later. In fact there was not much that could be said. Phil shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Tom in a significant manner, and the captain of the nine shook his head discouragedly. Matters were getting worse, he thought, and he began to fear for the effect of Sid's trouble on the second baseman's ability as a player. But what could be done? Though he did not refer to the scene of the previous evening, when he greeted his chums next morning, Sid, by his manner showed that he realized it. There was a tender gruffness in his words and actions, and he seemed so contrite, and so anxious to make amends that Phil and Tom did not have it in their hearts to stand out against him. "A fine day for practice," observed Tom, as he sprang out of bed, at the first summons of the alarm clock. "Cæsar's battle-axe! What's going to happen?" demanded Phil, lazily turning over. "You're up, Tom." "Sure. I'm behind in my psychology work, and I've got to attend a stiff lecture this morning and stand for a quizz afterward. I'm afraid I'll slump." "I'll help you," came unexpectedly from Sid. "I've been all over that stuff, and I know what Pitchfork will try to stick you on. Get something on, and I'll help you bone." This was unexpected on Sid's part, but Tom was none the less grateful, and soon the two were delving deep into problems of mind and matter, while Phil protested that it was against all rules, and that he wanted to sleep. Tom did well in the "quizz," and this made him more than ever anxious to help Sid in his trouble. But the second baseman made no reference to it, and in practice that afternoon he did better than in several previous days at his stick work. "We'll eat up Dodville," prophesied Tom exultantly. "That's the way to lambast 'em, Sid!" But Randall didn't "eat up" Dodville. They beat the preparatory school nine, as indeed they should have done, but the score was no great showing of the abilities of Randall. For the smaller lads hit Tom rather too frequently, and their fielding was a joy to the heart of their coach and captain. Even Mr. Leighton complimented them on it, and he did not say much to his own men, who, to say the least, were a bit ragged. "Dodville shouldn't have gotten more than one run," declared the coach as the nine was returning, "yet you fellows let them get six." "Yes," added Tom bitterly. "I can see a large, gold-framed picture of us winning that loving cup, when we go up against Boxer Hall and Fairview again." "You needn't talk," declared Sid, somewhat bitterly. "You issued plenty of walking papers to-day, and they found you several times, in spite of your curves." "I didn't muff a ball, and let a man get away from me on second, though," retorted Tom. "Oh, come on, fellows, let's sing," proposed Holly Cross, as a way out of the difficulty, and when some of the old college lays had been rendered the team was in better humor. That evening, when Tom was putting a new toe-plate on his shoe, and Sid was pretending to study in one corner of the room, but scarcely glancing at his book, there came a summons at the door. Sid jumped up at the knock, and there was a look of apprehension on his face, which vanished, however, when Wallops, the messenger, came with word that Phil was wanted on the telephone. The first baseman returned presently, to announce: "My sister wants to see me, over at Fairview." "Anything the matter?" asked Tom quickly, and with suspicious interest. "No, she has a letter from dad, with something in about vacation plans, and she wants to talk to me about it. I'll be back soon. Don't sit up for me--ta-ta," and Phil was gone. It was not quite as difficult for him to gain admission to the young ladies' side of the Fairview institution as it had been for Tom, on one memorable occasion, when he had called to tell Ruth that her brother had been hurt in a football game. Then Miss Philock, the preceptress, seemed to think Tom was going to carry off some of her charges out of hand. "What is it, sis?" asked Phil, when his sister had come down to talk to him. "Oh, it's about where we're going this summer. Dad and Momsey have left it to me. I want to go to Europe awfully, Phil, and if you and I both ask, maybe they'll take us. Will you? That's what I wanted to see you about, and I couldn't wait to write, so I telephoned. Don't you want to go to Europe?" "Not much! I'm going camping with Sid and Tom. No Europe for me! We're going to do Yellowstone Park, and----" "Oh, Phil, and I was so counting on Europe," and Ruth began to argue with her brother. In the midst of it the door of the little reception room opened, and in came Madge and Miss Harrison. "Oh, excuse us, dear," exclaimed Madge. "We didn't know you were here." "Do stay," urged Ruth. "It's only Phil. Perhaps you can help me persuade him to join with me in begging the folks to take us to Europe," and Phil's sister looked knowingly at Madge. "Oh, wouldn't that be fine!" exclaimed Miss Tyler. "I heard mamma and papa talking about making a tour this year, and of course if they went I'd go too. Then we might see each other, Ruth. I don't see why you're so opposed to Europe, Mr. Clinton." "Oh, I'm not," answered Phil quickly, doing some hard thinking before he reversed himself. "In fact I rather like it. Perhaps we will postpone the camping trip and--er--well, I don't care, sis. If you can work the folks for a trip across the pond I'm with you." "Oh, thank you so much!" exclaimed Ruth, and she made a motion as though to kiss her brother, only Phil ducked. "How fortunate you people are to go abroad," spoke Miss Harrison. "I've been longing to go," and they began to talk of many things they wished to see. From that the talk switched to baseball, and before she thought Ruth remarked: "Is Mr. Henderson batting as well as ever?" "Not as well as he might," declared Phil, and he spoke not to disparage Sid, but merely as a lover of his team. "There's something wrong with Sid," he went on, scarcely aware of what he was saying. "He's going down, somehow. I'm afraid he's gotten in with a bad crowd. That sporty chap we met him with isn't doing him any good, and Sid will slump, if he isn't careful. He used to be a steady chap, but I'm afraid he's going to the bad." "Oh, what a shame!" remarked Ruth. "Yes, and he was so steady," added Madge. Miss Harrison was biting her lips. Her face had first flushed, but now was white. "I think it's very mean of you to say such things about him when he isn't here," she burst out. "Sid--I mean Mr. Henderson--doesn't--I mean--I'm sure he wouldn't--anyhow, why don't you be fair to him?" and, before any of the others could answer, she burst into tears and fled from the room. CHAPTER XVI A SERIOUS CHARGE "Well, what do you know about that?" exclaimed Phil, turning to his sister and Miss Tyler. "If that isn't the limit!" "Hush!" begged Ruth. "Poor Mabel! She isn't herself." "I wasn't saying anything against Sid," went on Phil. "I only said it was too bad something seemed to have gotten hold of him lately. Then she flies up----" "How dare you speak about Mabel flying up?" interrupted Ruth, stamping her little foot, and shaking her finger at her brother. "She's nervous and upset, that's all. You'd better go to her, Madge. Perhaps she has a headache." Miss Tyler, with a sympathetic look at Phil, glided from the apartment. "What do you s'pose ailed Miss Harrison?" asked Phil. "I don't know," replied Ruth. "Of course it was rather unexpected when she and Mr. Henderson became such friends. Then came that item in the paper, and his refusal to explain, and then meeting that horrid fellow at the picnic, and then--but I never expected her to break a lance for him in this fashion. I guess she cares more than she shows," and with this philosophical reflection Ruth bade her brother good night, as Miss Philock was marching aggressively up and down the corridor like a sentinel, for the hour of retiring was approaching. "Now don't say a word about this to Sid," cautioned Ruth. "Of course not," growled Phil. "Nor Tom Parsons, either." Phil grunted, but that night he told Tom everything, and the scene further added, in the mind of the pitcher, to the mystery that was enveloping Sid. "Maybe the worst of it's over," suggested Tom, as they were discussing the matter. "Sid hasn't been out late nights for two weeks now, and he's studying hard. He's playing the game, too. We'll beat Fairview the next time we tackle 'em, and wipe up Boxer Hall, likewise." But alas for Tom's hopes. Two nights later, as the three chums were studying in their room, Wallops brought a note for Sid, who showed much perturbation, and hastily went out, saying nothing to his chums. "There he goes again," remarked Tom helplessly, as the door closed on Sid. "Um," grunted Phil. He had nothing to say. Phil and Tom, who were taking up some advanced work in mathematics, spent two evenings a week "boning" with Mellville, a senior, and this was one of the occasions when they went to his room. They had permission to be up beyond the usual hour, and it was rather late when they returned to their own apartment. Mellville had his rooms in a new fraternity house, not far from Booker Memorial Chapel, and to get to their own room, which was in the west dormitory, Phil and Tom had to cross the campus, and go in the rear of the "prof house," as the building was called where Dr. Churchill and the faculty had their living quarters. As the two chums were walking along, they became aware of a figure coming up the campus from another direction--from where the main entrance gates of the college loomed up dimly in the darkness. "Some one's coming in late," murmured Phil. "Likely to get caught," added Tom. "I saw Proc. Zane sneaking around a few minutes ago." "By Jove, that walks like Sid!" whispered Phil, a moment later. "It is Sid," he added. "Yes, and there goes Zane after him!" groaned Tom. "He's caught, sure, unless we can warn him. Poor old Sid!" "Too late," remarked Phil, as he saw the figure of the proctor break into a run. Sid also darted off, but soon he saw he had no chance to escape, and he stood still. "Ah, Mr. Henderson, good evening," greeted the proctor sarcastically. "Out rather late, aren't you?" "I'm--I'm afraid so, sir," answered Sid hesitatingly; his two chums, from their position in the dark shadows of the faculty house being able to hear everything. "No doubt about it," went on the proctor gleefully. He had kept vigil for many nights of late, and his prey had escaped him. Now he had a quarry. "Have you permission to be out after hours?" demanded the official. "No, sir." "I thought not. Report to Dr. Churchill directly after chapel," and the proctor, by the light of a small pocket electric lamp he carried, began to enter Sid's name in his book. As he did so Tom and Phil could see the watch-dog of the college gate gaze sharply at their chum. Then Mr. Zane, putting out his hand, caught hold of Sid's coat. "Are they going to fight?" asked Tom in a hoarse whisper. "Sid must be crazy!" A moment later came the proctor's voice. "Ha, Mr. Henderson, I thought I smelled liquor on you! I am not deceived. What have you in that pocket?" "Noth--nothing, sir," stammered Sid. There was a momentary struggle, and the proctor pulled something from an inner pocket of Sid's coat. By the gleam of the electric lamp, Tom and Phil could see that it was a bottle--a flask of the kind usually employed to carry intoxicants--broad and flat, to fit in the pocket. "Ha! Mr. Henderson, this is serious!" exclaimed the proctor. "Trying to smuggle liquor into the college! Come with me to my room at once. This must be investigated. I will find out who are guilty with you, in this most serious breach of the rules. A bottle of liquor! Shameful! Come with me, sir! Dr. Churchill shall hear of this instantly!" and he took hold of Sid's arm, as if he feared the student would escape. "What do you think of that?" gasped Tom, as the full meaning of what he had seen came home to him. "I give up," answered Phil hopelessly. "Poor, old Sid!" CHAPTER XVII SID KEEPS SILENT Tom and Phil wished they could have been a witness to the scene which took place a little later in the study of Dr. Churchill. Not from mere motives of curiosity, but that they might, if possible, aid their chum. That he was in serious straits they well knew, for the rules of Randall (as indeed is the case at all colleges) were most stringent on the subject of liquor. Poor Sid, led like a prisoner by the proctor, walked moodily up to the faculty residence, while Tom and Phil, with sorrow in their hearts, went to their room. Their grief was too deep and genuine to admit of discussion. "You wished to see me?" inquired Dr. Churchill, coming out of his study into his reception room, as Sid and the proctor stood up to greet him, having previously sent in word by the servant. "Ha, what is it now?" and the venerable head of Randall looked over the tops of his spectacles at the two; the official, stern and unyielding, and the student with a puzzled, worried air, sorrowful yet not at all guilty. Dr. Churchill held a book and his finger was between the pages, as if he hoped soon to be able to go back and resume his reading at the place he had left off. "I regret to announce that I have a most flagrant violation of the rules to report to you, Dr. Churchill," began Mr. Zane. "Another of my boys out late," remarked the doctor, a half smile playing around his lips. "Well, of course that can't be allowed, but I suppose he has some good excuse. He went to see about a challenge for a ball game, or it was so hot in his room that he couldn't study," and the president smiled, then, as he caught sight of a little blaze of logs in the fireplace of his reception room (for the evening was rather chilly), he realized that his latter explanation about a hot room would scarcely hold. And, be it said, Dr. Churchill was always looking for some excuse for indiscreet students, to the chagrin of the officious proctor. "Doubtless a baseball matter took him out," went on the president. "Of course we can't allow that. Discipline is discipline, but if you will write out for me a couple of hundred lines of Virgil--by the way, you play at shortstop, don't you?" and the doctor looked quizzically at Sid. The president had rather less knowledge of baseball than the average lady. "How is the eleven coming on, Mr. Henderson?" The doctor tried to appear interested, but, for the life of him he never could remember whether baseball was played with nine, ten or a dozen men, albeit he attended all the championship games, and shouted with the rest when the team won. He wanted to appear interested now, however, and he was anxious to get back to his reading. "I regret to inform you," went on the proctor (which was not true, for Sid well knew that Mr. Zane took a fiendish delight in what he was about to say), "I regret to state that I caught Mr. Henderson coming in after hours to-night; and I would not think so much of that, were it not for the condition in which I caught him," and the proctor assumed a saintly air. "I don't quite understand," remarked the doctor, laying down his book, but taking care to mark a certain passage. Sid was idly aware that it was a volume of Sanskrit, the doctor being an authority on that ancient language of the Hindoos. "I regret to say that Mr. Henderson is intoxicated!" blurted out the proctor. "I am not, sir!" retorted the second baseman, it being his first remark since entering the room. "I have never touched a drop of intoxicating liquor in my life, sir!" There was a ring in his voice, and, as he stood up and faced his accuser there was that in his manner which would indicate to any unprejudiced person that he was perfectly sober. "Intoxicated!" exclaimed the doctor, for he had a nameless horror of anything like that. "Don't make such a charge, Mr. Zane, unless you are positive----" "I am positive, Dr. Churchill." "I have never touched a drop of liquor," insisted Sid. Dr. Churchill, with a stern look on his rugged face, advanced and took hold of Sid by the arms, not severely, not even tightly, but with a gentle, friendly pressure. He looked into the troubled eyes of the lad--troubled but not ashamed--worried, perhaps, but not abashed. The doctor bent closer. "I am no authority on intoxicants," went on the president grimly, "but I should say you were mistaken, Mr. Zane." "Will Mr. Henderson deny that I took a pint bottle of liquor from him not ten minutes ago?" asked Mr. Zane, as he produced the incriminating evidence. Sid's face turned red under its tan--it had been rather pale before--but he did not answer. Dr. Churchill looked grave. "Is this true?" he asked. "I did have the bottle in my pocket," admitted Sid. "But it was not for myself. I took it----" The president raised a restraining hand. "Wait," he said. "I will send for Dr. Marshall. This is serious." He sighed as he looked at his book. To-night he felt, more than ever, what it meant, to be the head of an institution where several hundred young men--healthy, vitalized animals--were held in leash only by slender cords. Dr. Churchill summoned a messenger, and sent him for the college physician. "Mr. Henderson is no more intoxicated than I am, and I never take a drop, nor give it," declared the physician. "I guess you're mistaken, Mr. Zane." "Is this liquor?" demanded the proctor, extending the bottle. Dr. Marshall looked at the bottle through the light, poured out some of the contents into his palm, and smelled of the liquid. "It seems to be whisky," he said doubtfully, "but I should have to make an analysis to be perfectly sure." "You need not go to that trouble," said Sid quickly. "I have every reason to believe that it _is_ whisky." "And what were you doing with it?" demanded Dr. Churchill sternly. "That is a question which I must decline to answer," and Sid drew himself up haughtily. The venerable president drew back, almost as if he had received a blow. He looked at Sid keenly. "Very well," he remarked quietly, and there was a note of sadness in his voice. "I shall have to inflict severe punishment. The rules call for suspension or expulsion, but, in view of your previous excellent record, I will make an exception. You will be debarred from all further participation in athletics for the remainder of the term--unless," and the doctor paused, "you can make some explanation that will prove your innocence," and he looked almost as a father might at an erring son. "I--I can't make any explanation," answered Sid brokenly, as he turned away, while the doctor, with a shake of his head, took up his Sanskrit book, and went back to his study. CHAPTER XVIII BASCOME GIVES A DINNER Of course, the story was all over college the next day, for those things leak out, through messengers or servants, or in some mysterious manner. But, in this case, the suspension of Sid from further participation in the ball games, had to be made known. "For the love of onions, what are we going to do?" demanded Tom. "We can't do without Sid." He was quite broken up over the affair. "We'll have to play Pete Backus in his place," suggested Phil. "Yes, I know, but Pete----" began the perplexed captain. "He'll have to train harder than he has been," observed the coach, who, with Tom and some friends, were talking over the alarming situation. "Oh, Pete'll do it, if he once makes up his mind to it, and I'll see that he does," agreed Tom. "Does this mean that we'll have to cancel the next game with Fairview?" asked Ed Kerr, who was anxious to know, for, as manager, he would have to shift his dates. "No, we'll play 'em," replied the coach. "It will mean more and harder practice for the next two weeks, though, and we have a game with that Michigan school Saturday. They're hard as nails, too, I hear, but maybe it will do our fellows good to get a few more drubbings. It may wake them up, for there's no denying that the fellows are not playing up to the mark." "I'm sure it's not my fault," began Tom, a bit aggressively. "I didn't say it was," retorted Mr. Leighton, and there was a sharp tone in his words. "Only we've got to play better if we want to win." Tom, with a fierce feeling in his heart, put his men through a hard practice previous to a game with the scrub team, and the men seemed to wake up. Pete Backus surprised his chums and himself by knocking a home run. "That's the stuff!" cried Tom. "Work like that wins games," added the coach, brightening up a bit. Tom and Phil, in tacit agreement with the rest of the athletic set, had avoided mentioning Sid's disgrace, but coming home from practice that afternoon, Tom, seeing his chum, curled up in the old armchair, studying, could not help remarking: "What in the world did you do it for, old man? You've put us in a fierce hole." "I'm sorry," spoke Sid contritely. "Why don't you explain?" asked Phil. "I can't." "You mean there's nothing to explain?" queried Tom. "You can put it that way, if you like. I wish you fellows would let me alone." "That's all right, Sid," went on Tom, "but when we count on you to play on the team--and when we need you--to go back on us this way--it's not----" "Oh, let me alone; will you?" burst out the unfortunate one. "Haven't I got troubles enough? You know it hurts me, as much as it does you, not to play. Don't I want to see Randall win?" "Doesn't look much like it," mumbled Phil. "Say, look here," exploded Sid, "if you fellows don't want me here any longer, just say so, and I'll get out." He sprang to his feet, and faced his chums, a look on his face they had never seen there before. It brought to them a realization of what it all meant, though they could not understand it. "Oh, hang it all, we're getting too serious!" declared Tom. "Of course, we want you to stay here--we wouldn't know what to do if you left us. Only it's tough on the team." "Glad you appreciate my abilities," remarked Sid, with a little softening of his manner. "I'm as much broken up over it as you are. All I can say is there's been a big mistake, and all I ask for is a suspension of judgment." "But if it's a mistake, why can't you tell?" insisted Phil. "I can't, that's all. You'll have to worry along without me. I hear Pete is doing good." "Oh, yes, fair," admitted Tom, "but he isn't as sure a batter as you are. We need you, Sid." "Well, I'm sorry--that's all. It may be explained--some day, but not now," and Sid fell to studying again. "I don't like this," remarked Tom to Phil, a few days later, following some practice the day before the game with Michigan, a team that had won a name for itself on the diamond. "Don't like what, Tom?" "The way some of our team are playing and acting. They seem to think any old kind of baseball will do. They play fine--at times--then they go to pieces. Then, too, there seems to be a sort of clique forming in the nine and among some of the subs. There's too much sporting around, and staying out nights. Too many little suppers and smokers." "Leighton doesn't kick--why should you?" "He doesn't know it, but if it keeps on I'm going to tell him, and have him stiffen up the men. Ed Kerr's got to help, too. Bert Bascome is responsible for some of it. He's got lots of money, and he spends it. Then, with his auto, he's playing old bob with some of the fellows, taking them on joy rides, and keeping them out until, first they know, Zane will have them down on his list." "Oh, it's not as bad as that, I guess." "It isn't, eh? You just watch, that's all," and Tom kept moodily on to his room. On the table were three envelopes, one each for the captain, Sid and Phil. "What's up?" asked Phil. "I wonder if Ruth is going to have a blow-out again, or if Madge----" He opened his missive and began to read it, Tom already having perused his. "There, what did I tell you?" asked the captain. "Bascome is giving a dinner to-night, and he wants the whole 'varsity nine, and the subs, to attend. The little puppy! He gives himself as many airs as if he was a senior. Why doesn't he dine the freshman nine, if he has to blow in his money?" "Are you going?" asked Phil. "Going? Of course not, and none of the nine will, if they have to ask me. It will break them all up for the game to-morrow. I won't stand for it." "What will you do?" "Tell Leighton, and have him officially forbid it." "Isn't that going it pretty strong? We can easily beat Michigan, even if the fellows do have a little fun to-night." "Look how we were fooled on Dodville Prep. I'm going to take no chances. I'll see Leighton," which Tom did, with the effect that the coach kindly, but firmly, forbade members of the 'varsity nine from dissipating at Bascome's dinner. Sid came in a little later, picked up his invitation, and read it. "They say Bascome gives very fine spreads," was his remark. "You're not going, are you?" asked Tom in some surprise, for he likened Bascome to Langridge, though the latter was more of a bully, and he did not believe Sid would take up with the rich freshman. "Why shouldn't I go?" asked Sid, and there was challenge in his tone. "I might as well have the game as the name," and he laughed uneasily. "Why, none of the 'varsity nine are going," said Tom. "Oh," and Sid turned aside, as he put the invitation in his pocket. "Well, I'm not on the 'varsity any longer," and he laughed, but there was no mirth in it. CHAPTER XIX FAIRVIEW AND RANDALL Tom did not reply to Sid's almost sneering allusion to the unfortunate fact that he was barred from playing. There was little the captain could say, and when Sid went to Bascome's dinner, together with a number of the more sporty students, Tom and Phil, who were in bed, did not greet their chum on his return. "What's the matter with you fellows?" demanded Sid, as he entered the darkened room, and proceeded to get ready to retire. "You'd think I'd committed an unpardonable crime. It was a jolly crowd I was with, and nothing out of the way. Bascome isn't half bad, when you get to know him." "Only a little fresh, that's all," remarked Phil, while Tom mumbled a few words that might have been taken for anything. The game with Michigan the next day demonstrated in how poor a condition was Randall, for the contest nearly went by the board, and Tom only pulled it out of the fire by excellent pitching, though he was not in the best of form. "Well, we won, anyhow," remarked Phil that night. "Yes, but nothing to boast of. I'm worried about the Fairview game Saturday," said the captain. "Do we play on their grounds?" "No, they come here." "Well, that's something in our favor. We'll have Bean Perkins and the other shouters with us. We've just got to win, Tom!" "I know it, but----" "There are no 'buts,' old man," declared the genial first baseman. "Just remember that the girls will be on hand, and they mustn't see us go down to defeat twice to a co-ed college." "No, of course not," and Tom turned in. The following days were devoted to practice--practice harder than any yet that term, for Tom and the coach worked the men every spare hour they could devote to the diamond, outside of lecture and study hours. Pete Backus improved wonderfully. He was not Sid's equal, but the best substitute that could be found. "Oh, Sid, but I wish you were going to play," said Tom, with a little sigh, the night before the Fairview game. "So do I," came in sorrowful tones from the second baseman. "But--Oh, well, what's the use of talking?" and he tried to laugh it off, but it was a poor attempt. Fairview was on hand early with a crowd of "rooters" and supporters, both young men and maidens, the next afternoon, when the Randall team fairly leaped out on the diamond. "I wonder if Ruth is here?" said Phil, as he stopped a particularly "hot" ball Tom threw. "Let's take a look," suggested the pitcher, and while the grand stand and bleachers were filling up the two strolled along, scanning the hundreds of faces. "There she is!" cried Tom at length. "Miss Tyler's with her." "And Miss Harrison is up there, too," added Phil. "And see who's with her--Miss Harrison, I mean." "Who?" "Langridge." "By Jove! you're right," agreed Tom. "I guess he came to get a line on us. Well, he'll get it." "Queer place he picked out to see the game from," went on Phil. "Why?" "It'll be sunny there, after a bit," replied Phil, for part of the seating accommodations on the Randall grounds were not of the best, and some grand stands were little better than the bleachers in the matter of shade. "He'll have the sun almost in his face before the game is half over," continued the first baseman. "Well, if it suits him, we oughtn't to kick," said Tom. "No, I s'pose not. Hello, if there isn't Sid, and he's going to sit right down behind Langridge and Miss Harrison." "That's so. Maybe he doesn't see 'em. Rather awkward if he and Langridge have a run-in here. But come on, we'll say how-d'y-do to the girls, and then get at practice," and, after greeting their friends, and assuring them that Fairview would go home beaten, Tom and Phil took their places with the other players. "Now, fellows, we've got to win!" declared Tom emphatically just before the game started. "Last time we played Fairview we lost by a score of ten to three. Don't let it happen again." "No, don't you dare to," cautioned Mr. Leighton. A moment later the Randall players went out in the field, the home team having the privilege of batting last. The umpire took the new ball from its foil cover, and tossed it to Tom. The tall, good-looking pitcher looked at it critically, glanced around the field to see that his men were in position, and then sent in a few practice balls to Dutch Housenlager, who loomed up big and confident behind home plate. Ted Puder, the Fairview center fielder and captain, was the first man up, and was greeted with a round of cheers as he tapped his bat on the rubber. Dutch signalled for an out curve and Tom delivered it, right over the plate. "Strike!" called the umpire. "Wow!" jeered Fairview's friends, for Puder had not swung at it. "Robber!" yelled some one, but the Fairview captain only laughed. "Make him give you a good one, Puder," he said. But waiting availed Puder nothing, for Tom neatly struck him out, and followed it by doing the same to Lem Sellig. Frank Sullivan managed to find Tom's second delivery, and sent a neat little liner out toward Bricktop Molloy, at short. Bricktop seemed to have it fairly in his grasp, even though he had to reach out to one side for it, but his foot slipped, and the ball went on past him. "Run, Frank, run!" screamed a score of voices, and Frank legged it for first, reaching the bag before Joe Jackson in left field could run up and redeem Bricktop's error by stopping the rolling ball. "Never mind, two down--play for the batter," advised Dutch in a signal to Tom, and the pitcher nodded comprehendingly. Ned Williams, who followed Sullivan, knocked two fouls, both of which Dutch tried hard to get, but could not. Then Tom struck him out with a puzzling drop, and a goose egg went up on the score board for Fairview. "Guess they're not finding us as soft as they expected," remarked Holly Cross, as his side came in. "It's early yet," advised Tom. "Wait until about the fifth inning, and then talk." "Do you wish to spank me?" asked Bricktop, as he came up to Tom, looking sorrowful over his error. "Don't do it again, that's all," said Coach Leighton. "Not for worlds," promised the red-haired shortstop. CHAPTER XX RANDALL SCORES FIRST Holly Cross was up first, and he faced John Allen, the Fairview pitcher, with a grin of confidence. He swung viciously at the first ball, and missed it clean. "Make him give you a nice one," called Bricktop, who was coaching from third. "We've got all day, Holly. He'll tire in about two innings. He has no Irish blood in him, as I have," and there was a laugh at Bricktop's "rigging" while the Fairview pitcher smiled sheepishly. But though Holly waited, it availed him but little. Three balls were called for him, after his first strike, though the Fairview crowd wanted to injure the umpire. Then Allen stiffened, and Holly walked back to the bench without even swinging the stick again. "Only one gone. We've got plenty of chances yet," called Bricktop, from the coaching box, and in his enthusiasm he stepped over the line. The umpire warned him back. Dan Woodhouse was up next. "Make kindling wood of your bat," yelled an enthusiastic freshman in the Randall bleachers, but though Dan sent a nice bingle to center, well over the pitcher's head, the second baseman pulled it down, and Dan was out. Bricktop repeated this, save that he flied to Herbert Bower, in left field, and Randall had a zero to her credit. In the second and third innings neither side scored, and when the fourth was half over, with another minus mark for Fairview the crowd began to sit up and take notice. "This'll be a hot game before it's through," prophesied Bert Bascome, who with Ford Fenton, and a crowd of like spirits sat together. "That's right," agreed Ford. "My uncle says----" "Sit down! Sit down!" yelled a score of voices about him, though the unfortunate Ford was not standing. He knew, however, what was meant, and uttered no protest. Though Randall did her best when her chance came in the ending of the fourth, nothing resulted. Backus flied to Sam Soden and Tom Parsons managed to get to first on a clean hit to right field, but Joe Jackson, who followed him, struck out, and, as though emulating his brother, the other Jersey twin did likewise, letting Tom die on second. "Say, when is something going to happen?" asked Holly Cross of Tom, as the home team filed out in the field. "It ought to, pretty soon now," replied Tom, as he kicked a small stone out of the pitchers' box. Bean Perkins, with his crowd of "shouters" started the "Wallop 'em" song, in an endeavor to make things lively, and he very nearly succeeded, for John Allen, who came up first in the beginning of the fifth, rapped out a pretty one to left field. It looked as if Joe Jackson would miss it, but Joe wasn't there for that purpose. He had a long run to the side to get within reaching distance of the horsehide, but, as though to make up for striking out, he made a sensational catch, and was roundly applauded, while Allen walked back disgustedly from first, which he had almost reached. "Pretty catch! Lovely catch!" yelled Bean Perkins. "Now a couple more like that, and things will be all ready for us when our boys come in." Herbert Bower and Sam Soden, the next two Fairview players who followed Allen, were both struck out by Tom, who was doing some fine twirling, having given no player his base on balls yet. "Now, boys, show 'em what you can do!" pleaded a score of Randall "fans," as Tom and his men walked in to the bench for their share of the fifth inning. Dutch Housenlager was up first, and he selected a bat with care. "What are you going to do, me son," asked Bricktop solicitously. "Knock a home run," declared Dutch, and he faced the pitcher with a grim air. He didn't do that, but he did rap out a single, and got to first. Then came Phil Clinton, who made a sacrifice bunt. That is, it was intended for that, but the pitcher fumbled it, and was delayed in getting it to first. Then the throw was so wild that the Fairview first baseman had to take his foot off the bag to get it, and, meanwhile Phil was legging it for the bag for all he was worth, while Dutch went on to second. "Batter's out!" howled the umpire, though it seemed to all the Randall players that Phil was safe. Tom protested hotly at the decision, but it stood, and, though it looked as if there would be trouble, Mr. Leighton calmed things down. "Only one gone," he said, "and Holly Cross is up next. He'll bring in Dutch, and score himself." Holly sent out a beautiful hit to center field, and there was a chorus of joyful cries. "Go on! Go on!" "Make a home run!" "Come on in, Dutch, you old ice wagon!" Dutch legged it from second to third, and started home, but the ball, which the center fielder had managed to get sooner than had been expected, looked dangerous to Dutch, and he ran back to third, after being halfway home. Holly was safe on second, and amid a storm of encouraging yells Dan Woodhouse got up. "Now a home run, Kindlings!" called the crowd, and then Bean and his cohorts began singing: "We've Got 'em on the Run Now." Dan got two balls, and the third one was just where he wanted it. He slammed it out for a three base hit, and Dutch and Holly scored the first two runs of the game, while Tom did a war dance at third, where he was coaching. On a single by Bricktop Dan came in, though he was nearly caught at home, for the ball was quickly relayed in from left field, where the shortstop had sent it, but old Kindlings slid in through a cloud of dust, and Charley Simonson, who was catching for Fairview, dropped the horsehide, so Dan's run counted. "Three--nothing! Three--nothing!" yelled Tom, wild with joy. "Now, boys, we've struck our gait! And only one out!" "Watch his glass arm break!" shouted several in scorn at the Fairview pitcher, but the latter refused to let them get his "goat" or rattle him and kept a watchful eye on Bricktop at first, when Pete Backus came up. "Now, Pete, don't forget what I told you!" shouted Tom, as the lad who was taking Sid's place stepped up, but poor Pete must have had a poor memory, for he struck out, and when Tom himself took up his stick, Bricktop, who had been vainly trying to steal second and who was somewhat tired out, by the pitcher's efforts to catch him napping on first, finally did what the Fairview players hoped he would do--he played off too far, and he couldn't get back, when Allen suddenly slammed the ball over to the first baseman. Bricktop was out, and the Randall side was retired, but with three runs to its credit. "That'll do for a starter," observed Tom, as he put on his pitching glove. "We'll duplicate that next inning." But the sixth saw goose eggs in the frames of both nines, though Tom sent a pretty, low fly out to center, where it was neatly caught by Ted Puder, who had to jump for it. The Jersey twins struck out in monotonous succession, thus ending the sixth. "Now for the lucky seventh!" yelled a crowd of Fairview supporters. "Everybody stand up!" and the big crowd arose to get some relief from sitting still so long. The seventh was destined to be lucky in spite of the efforts of Tom and his men to hold back Fairview. CHAPTER XXI RANDALL IN THE TENTH Lem Sellig, who was up first for Fairview, had what Tom thought was a wicked look in his eye. Whether Tom lost control or whether Lem surprised himself and his friends by finding the ball, in spite of its puzzling curve was not known, but at any rate he knocked a two bagger, and it was almost a three sacker, for the center fielder dropped the ball, and had some time in finding it in the grass before he threw it in just in time to shut off Lem from going to third. This stroke of luck seemed to give Fairview confidence, and Frank Sullivan almost duplicated Lem's trick, bringing in the third baseman, and getting to second himself. "Now we're going to walk away from 'em," declared Lem, as he tallied the first run for his side, and it did look so, for Ned Williams found Tom Parsons for a couple of fouls. But the fatal blow was wanting, and Ned went back to the bench, amid groans. Sullivan stole to third on a ball that managed to get past Dutch at home, and then followed a wild scene when John Allen knocked a pretty fly, bringing in Frank, but getting out himself. This made the score two to three in favor of Randall, and there was a nervous tension when Tom got ready to attend to Herbert Bower, the next man up. "I've got to dispose of him with some style," thought the Randall twirler, "or our fellows will get rattled. Let's see if I can't do it." It looked a bit discouraging when his first two deliveries were called balls, but the next three could not have been better, and Bower was struck out. "All we've got to do is hold 'em down now, and we've got the game," declared Dutch, as he walked with Tom in from the field. "We've got to get some more runs," insisted the captain. But they didn't. Dutch, Phil and Holly went down in one, two, three order. And a zero went up in the seventh frame for Randall. Tom struck out Sam Soden for a starter in the eighth, and then he lost his balance, or something else happened, for he issued a free pass to first for Simonson, amid a chorus of groans from the Randall lads, and jeers from Fairview, who hurled such encouraging remarks at Tom as these: "We've got him going now!" "He's all in!" "We have his goat!" "Talk about glass arms!" Whether it was this jeering, or whether Tom was really tired, did not develop, but, at any rate, Ed Felton, who followed Simonson, placed a magnificent hit just inside the first base line, and with such speed did it go that it sifted down in through the seats of the right field bleachers, and Ed scored the first home run of the game, bringing in Simonson, whose tally tied the score; the homer putting Fairview one run ahead. "Now we've got 'em! They're easy fruit!" yelled the Fairview throng, the girls from the college blending their shrill voices with those of their male companions. Tom was rather shaky when he and Dutch held a little consultation in front of home plate, as Puder walked up with his stick. Puder singled, and Tom was getting worried, but he managed to pull himself together, and struck out Sellig and Sullivan, killing Puder on second, and halting any further scoring by Fairview that inning. "Maybe you'd better put Rod Evert in the box in my place," suggested Tom to Mr. Leighton, as the Randall nine, much dispirited, came up for their turn at the bat, the score being four to three in favor of Fairview. "Nonsense!" exclaimed the coach. "You'll do all right, Tom. This is only a little slump." "I _hope_ this is the end of it," remarked the pitcher. "We can't stand much more." "I'll duplicate Felton's home run," promised Dutch. "That's the way to talk," declared Ed Kerr, who was not feeling very happy over the showing made by the team of which he was manager. But alas for Dutch's hope! He didn't get a chance to bat, for Woodhouse struck out, and Molloy and Pete Backus followed. "If we can hold 'em this inning, and then get two runs, it will do the trick," remarked Holly Cross at the beginning of the ninth. "If," spoke Tom dubiously, for he was beginning to lose heart. However, he gritted his teeth and, after a few warming-up balls before Ned Williams came up, he pitched to such good advantage that Williams was out in record time. John Allen swiped savagely at the horsehide, but it was not to be, and he walked back to the bench, while Bower came out, a smile of confidence on his face. "Here's another home run," he prophesied, but Tom, in his heart, decided it was not to be, nor was it, for Bower struck out. This still left the score four to three, in favor of Fairview at the ending of the first half of the ninth inning. Randall needed two runs to win, but one would tie the tally, and give them another chance. It would also afford another opportunity for Fairview. The big crowd was on edge. Songs and college cries were being hurled back and forth from grand stand and bleachers. "The 'Conquer or Die' song, fellows," yelled Bean Perkins, and the strains of "_Aut Vincere Aut Mori!_" sung in Latin, welled sweetly and solemnly over the diamond. Tom Parsons felt the tears coming into his eyes, as he walked in. "Oh, if we only can win!" he breathed. He was up first, and he almost trembled as he faced the Fairview pitcher. There was a mist in his eyes, but somehow he managed to see through it the ball that was coming swiftly toward him. It looked good to his practiced eye, and he swung at it with all his force. To his delight there followed that most delightful of sounds, the "ping," as the tough mushroom bat met the ball. "Oh! Oh! Oh! A pretty hit! A beaut!" Tom heard the crowd yell, as he tossed aside the club, and started for first like a deer. "Go on! Go on!" yelled Holly Cross. "Keep a-going, Tom!" Tom kept on, swung wide around first, and then legged it for second. The ball had gone well over the center fielder's head, and he was running back toward the daisies after it. "Go on! Go on!" implored Holly. Tom reached third before the ball was fielded in, and he remained there panting, while Joe Jackson took his place at home plate, swaying his bat to and fro. "None gone, Tom on third and Joe at bat," mused Mr. Leighton. "I wish Joe was a better hitter, but maybe he can knock out a bingle that will do the trick." Joe did, though it was more through an error on the part of the second baseman, who muffed the fly, than any ability on Joe's part, that the Jersey twin got to first. Tom came in, amid a burst of cheers and yells, scoring the tying run. Would there be a winning one, or would ten innings be necessary? Jerry Jackson struck out, while his friends groaned, but Joe, with desperate daring, managed to steal second. Then up came Dutch Housenlager, and when he hit the ball a resounding whack the heart of more than one lad was in his throat. But, by a desperate run, the left fielder caught the fly, and Dutch was out, while Joe Jackson was on third. He died there, for Phil, to his great chagrin, struck out. The score stood a tie 4 to 4. "Ten innings! Ten innings!" yelled the crowd. Bean Perkins and his fellows were singing all the songs they knew. So were the Fairview cohorts, and the scene was a wild one. "Hold 'em down, Tom; hold 'em down!" implored the coach as the plucky pitcher went to his box. It looked as if he was not going to do it, for he passed Sam Soden to first, and duplicated the trick for Charley Simonson and with two men on bases, not a man down, and Tom as nervous as a cat, it began to look dubious for Randall. The crowd was on edge. So was Tom, with two lively runners on the first and second bags to watch. Several times he threw to first, hoping to catch Simonson napping, but it was not to be. Suddenly Pete Backus, who was holding down second base, threw up his hand to shield his eyes, and Tom saw a dazzling streak of light flash across from the grand stand. "What's the matter, Pete?" asked the pitcher. "Some girl up there must have bright buttons on, or a hat pin made of diamonds, for they're flashing in my eyes," complained Pete. Then the flash vanished and Tom was about to pitch a ball for Ed Felton, who was up, when, as he gave a comprehensive look at first and second, he again saw the dazzling gleam in Pete's eyes. "We'll have to stop that!" exclaimed the captain. "I'll ask Kerr or Mr. Leighton to speak to whoever's wearing such bright adornments." "Funny it should hit me in the eyes all the while," complained Pete, changing his position, but the beam of light followed him. "Some one's doing that on purpose," declared Tom, and he fairly ran toward the grand stand. But before he got there he saw something happening. The beam of light came from that section of the stand near where Tom had noticed Langridge and Miss Harrison sitting. Then, as he raced on, he also remembered that Sid sat there too. A terrible thought came to him. Could Sid be trying to disconcert the player who was taking his place, by flashing a mirror in his eyes? "Of course he wouldn't do such a dirty trick!" said Tom to himself, a moment after he had entertained the thought. The captain reached the stand, in company with Dutch, who had run back in response to the pitcher's motion, in time to see Sid leap to his feet, reach forward toward Langridge, who sat in front of him, while the deposed second baseman exclaimed: "You mean sneak!" "What's the matter?" asked Langridge coolly, as he turned an insolent stare on Sid. "Mad because I'm with Miss Harrison?" "No, you cur! But I see what you're doing! Hand over that mirror!" and before Langridge could protest Sid had yanked him backward, partly over the seat, and had grasped the right hand of the former Randall student--a hand containing a small, circular mirror. "You were flashing that in the eyes of our second baseman, you sneak!" cried Sid hotly. "I was watching you! You held it down, where you thought no one would see. You ought to be kicked off the stand!" "I did not!" declared Langridge brazenly, yet there was fear in his manner, and the mirror was mute evidence. "I was just going to hand it to Miss Harrison," he went on. "To let her see if her hat----" The girl turned her blue eyes on him, and shrank away from the notice attracted to her escort. Langridge did not complete his lie. "I saw what you were doing," went on Sid. "Wasn't something flashing in Pete's eyes?" he asked, as Tom and Dutch, with some of the other Randall players, stood on the ground, in front of where the scene had taken place. "That's what I came in to see about," declared Tom. "I--I didn't know it was shining in his eyes," stammered Langridge. "Let go of me, Henderson, or I'll make you!" Sid did not want to make a scene, and released his hold of Langridge. Tom, by a motion, signalled to Sid to say nothing more, but it was principally on the score of not wanting to further subject Miss Harrison to embarrassment, rather than to save Langridge from punishment. Then, too, there was only slim proof against Langridge. Sid grabbed the mirror away from the bully, and the latter dared not protest. There were some hisses, and Miss Harrison blushed painfully. Langridge tried to brazen it out, but, with a muttered excuse that he wanted to get a cigar, he left the stand, and the blue-eyed girl, after a frightened glance around, went and sat with Ruth and Madge. Sid looked as if he wanted to follow her, but he did not dare, and after Tom, Ed Kerr and Mr. Leighton had consulted together for a few minutes, it was agreed to take no action against Langridge, who had sneaked off. "He did it, all right," decided Tom. "He wanted to rattle Pete and make us lose to Fairview, but we're not going to do it." "Indeed not," asserted the coach. "Hold 'em down now, Tom. One run will do the trick." There were two men on bases, and none out when Ed Felton resumed his place at home, and Tom was inclined to shiver when he remembered what Ed had done to the ball before. But the pitcher took a strong brace, and struck out Ed, much to that worthy's surprise. Then, by some magnificent pitching, in the face of long odds, Tom retired Puder and Lem Sellig with an ease that he himself marveled at. His arm seemed to have gotten back some of its cunning. A zero went up in the tenth frame for Fairview. "That looks good to me!" cried Holly Cross, dancing about. "If we can't get in one run now, Tom, we ought to be put out of the league." "Well, it's up to you, Holly," remarked Tom. "You're up first." "By Jove, you'll not be ashamed of me!" declared the big center fielder. He rapped out a nice bingle that took him to second base. Then came Dan Woodhouse, and he struck out, amid groans. Bricktop walked up with an air of confidence, amid encouraging comments from his chums. The Fairview pitcher was getting a little rattled, and threw so wild that the catcher, though he jumped for the ball, missed it, and had to run back while Holly, who had stolen to third, came in with a rush. There was a mixup at the plate, as Holly slid in, accompanied by a cloud of dust, but the pitcher, who had run up to assist the catcher, and make amends for his wild throw, dropped the ball, and Holly scored the winning run. There was a moment of silence until the big crowd and the players appreciated what it meant to pull out a victory in the tenth, and that after an exceedingly close game. Then came a burst of cheers, and applause that made the grand stands and bleachers rattle. "Wow! Wow! Wow!" yelled the exultant Randallites, and they capered about in very joy, like wild Indians, slapping each other on the back, punching and being punched, cheering for themselves and for Fairview by turns. CHAPTER XXII SID DESPAIRS "Wasn't it great!" demanded Dutch Housenlager, as he waltzed up to Tom, and tried to lead him out into a dance on the diamond. "Immense, eh? Pulling it out of the fire that way?" "Yes, that's what we did--pulled it out of the fire," agreed Tom, with a smile. "We needed this victory, and I'm glad we won, but we've got to play better--and that includes me--if we're to have the loving cup this year. Our batting and fielding could be improved a whole lot." "Oh, of course," agreed Dutch, "but aren't you a bit proud of us, captain?" "Oh, sure--of course," answered the pitcher heartily. "Let joy be unconfined," and with a yell of pure enjoyment he joined in the impromptu dance. Fairview was glum, but not cast down. They had cheered the winning team, and Ted Puder, the captain, came up to Tom. "You certainly beat us fair and square," he acknowledged. "I hope you don't think we had anything to do with Langridge using that mirror to dazzle the eyes of your second baseman." "Never thought of such a thing," declared Tom with emphasis. "The cad worked that trick up all by his lonesome. I guess he thought maybe Sid was playing there, and he has a grudge against Henderson--yet that couldn't have been it either, for Langridge knows Sid is suspended, and anyhow, Sid was sitting directly back of the sneak, where Langridge could have seen him." "Yes, it's a good thing Sid detected him. Well, we'll beat you next time." "Forget it," advised Tom with a laugh. "Come on, cap," called Phil to him a moment later. "Let's look up Sid, and, incidentally, the girls." "Sure," agreed the pitcher, and a moment later he and Phil were greeting Madge, Ruth and Mabel. But Sid had hurried away. The little group strolled past the grand stand, Tom and Phil excusing themselves while they went in to get on their street garments, the girls promising to wait for them. "Wonder where Sid went?" asked Tom. "Give it up," replied Phil. "Langridge lit out, too; the cad! What a chump he must be to think he could get away with a game like that!" "Yes, it was almost as good to have Sid discover him trying it, as if our old chum had held down the second bag," declared the captain. "A flash at the right moment would have confused Pete, and might have cost us the game." "That's right. Come on, hurry up, or the girls will get tired of waiting." The two went out, in time to see Langridge approaching the three young ladies. The Boxer Hall pitcher was striding over the grass toward Miss Harrison, who stood a little apart from her two friends. "I'm awfully sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Mabel," began Langridge. "The truth was, I had an important engagement, that I came near forgetting." "You haven't kept me waiting," was the cool answer. "No? Well, I'm glad of it. Now, if you're ready we'll trot along. I met a friend of mine, Mr. Bascome, of Randall, and he will take us back to Fairview in his auto." "Thank you, I don't care to go," replied Miss Harrison. "What? Don't you like rides in the gasolene gig?" asked Langridge, with a forced laugh. "Oh, I didn't exactly mean that," went on Miss Harrison. "It's the company I object to." "You mean Bascome? Why he's all right. Maybe he's a little too----" "I mean you!" burst out the girl, flashing a look of scorn on him from her blue eyes. "I don't care to ride with a person who seeks to take unfair advantage of another in a ball game." "You mean that mirror? That was all an accident--I assure you it was. I didn't intend anything--honestly." "You will favor me by not speaking to me again!" came in snapping tones from the indignant girl. "I shall refuse to recognize you after this, Mr. Langridge." "Oh, but I say now----" protested the bully, as he took a step forward. But Mabel linked her arm in that of Ruth, and, as Tom and Phil came along just then, Langridge, who was aware that they had heard the foregoing conversation, slipped hastily away, with a very red face. "Sorry to have kept you waiting," began Tom, unconsciously repeating the remark of Langridge. Miss Harrison seemed a little ill at ease, and Phil blurted out: "Oh, come on! Let's hurry, or there won't be any ice cream left at Anderson's. It's a hot day and the crowd must be dry as a bone. I know I am. Come on, girls." They had a merry little time, until it was necessary for the girls to return to Fairview, whither Tom and Phil escorted them. "Did you say any more to Langridge, old man?" asked Tom of Sid, that night in the room of the "inseparables." "No, it wasn't necessary." "You should have heard Miss Harrison lay him out," exulted Phil. "She certainly put it all over him!" "How?" demanded Sid eagerly, and his chums took turns telling him how the blue-eyed girl had given Langridge his "walking papers" in a manner very distasteful to that individual. "No! You don't mean it!" exclaimed Sid joyfully. Then, as a look came into his eyes that his chums had not seen there since the first happy days he had experienced with Mabel Harrison, Sid went on: "Say, what's the date of the Junior racket? I've mislaid my tickets." "Why?" asked Tom mischievously, though he well knew. "None of your affair," retorted Sid, but there was no sting in his answer. "It's next Friday," put in Phil. Sid tossed aside the things on his desk, and made a great fuss about writing a letter, while Phil and Tom casually looked on, well knowing to whom the epistle was addressed. Sid made several false starts, and destroyed enough paper to have enabled him to compute several problems and tore up a lot of envelopes before he finished something that met with his approval, and then he went out to post it. "He's asked Miss Harrison to go to the Junior affair with him," said Phil. "Of course," agreed Tom. "I hope she goes." Sid lived in an atmosphere of rosy hope for several days, but, when no reply came, he began to get uneasy. He eagerly accepted an invitation extended to him a few days later, to accompany Phil and Tom on a trip to Fairview, Ruth again having asked her brother to call to talk about the proposed trip to Europe. The three chums found the three girls in the reception room, and Miss Harrison showed some embarrassment when Sid entered. With a view to dispelling it Ruth, with a rapid signal to her brother, Tom and Madge, left the room, they following, leaving Miss Harrison and Sid alone there. "Lovely weather," remarked Sid desperately. "Very," answered Miss Harrison, uncertain whether to be amused or angry at the trick played on her by her chums. "Are you going to the Junior dance Friday night?" went on Sid. "I wrote and asked you--you got my letter, didn't you?" "Yes, Mr. Henderson, and I should have answered before, but I was uncertain----" "Won't you let me take you?" pleaded Sid. "I would like--won't you--can you explain a certain matter which I wish to know about?" she asked. "You know what I mean. Believe me, I'm not prudish, or anything like that, but--if you only knew how I feel about it--won't you tell me about that--that item in the paper accusing you?" she stammered. "If you weren't there, why can't you say so?" and she leaned eagerly forward, looking Sid full in the face. He scarcely seemed to breathe. There was a great struggle going on within him. He looked into the blue eyes of the girl. "I--I can't tell you--yet," he said brokenly. "Then I can't go with you to the dance," she replied in a low voice, and she turned and left the room, going back to the den she shared with Ruth and Madge, while Sid went out the front door, and across the campus; nor would he stay, though Phil and Tom called to him, but walked off, black despair in his heart. CHAPTER XXIII FINANCIAL DIFFICULTIES Tom and Phil went to the Junior dance, taking Madge and Ruth, and, though they enjoyed it thoroughly, there was a little sorrow in the hearts of the two lads that Sid was not there to share the pleasure with them. "I wonder why he didn't come?" asked Phil of Ruth, as the four stood chatting about his absence, over an ice, during an intermission. "You ought to be able to guess," replied his sister. "Why?" persisted Phil. "Because a certain person with blue eyes didn't." "Oh, you mean----" and Phil would have blurted out the name, had not Miss Tyler laid a pretty hand over his mouth. "Hush," cautioned Madge. "No names out in company, if you please." "Oh!" exclaimed Tom comprehendingly. "How is she?" "Rather miserable," answered Ruth. "She wouldn't come with us, though we knew you boys wouldn't object." "Of course not," spoke Phil quickly. "And she stayed there in the room, moping." "Just like----" began Phil, and again the pretty fingers spread themselves across his lips. "It's too bad," resumed Tom. "If he only would explain then----" "Then everything would be all right," finished Ruth. "But he won't. Talk about women having a mind of their own, and being stubborn! I know a certain young man very much that way." "Oh, you mustn't talk so about him," expostulated Phil. "He's all right. There's something queer at the bottom of it, and I shouldn't be surprised to learn that Langridge had had a hand in it." "By Jove, I never thought of that!" exclaimed Tom. "Maybe you're right. I wonder if we could do anything to help?" "Better not meddle," cautioned Ruth. "Madge and I tried to use our influence, and were roundly snubbed for our pains. It's too bad, but maybe things will come right after a while. Oh, there's a lovely waltz! Isn't it perfectly grand!" and her eyes sparkled in anticipation as Tom led her out on the floor while the music welled forth in dreamy strains. Back in the "den of the inseparables" Sid sat in gloomy loneliness, making a pretense of studying. "Oh, hang it all!" he cried at length, as he flung the book from him, knocking down the alarm clock in its flight. "What is the use? I might as well give up." Then, as he noted the cessation of the fussy ticking of the timepiece he crossed to where it lay on the ragged rug, and picked it up. "Hope it isn't damaged," he murmured contritely. He shook it vigorously, and the ticking resumed. "It's all right," he added, with a breath of relief, "you couldn't hurt it with an axe. Guess I might as well turn in. But I wish----" he paused, shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and did not finish. There came a knock at the door, and Sid started. He flung open the portal, and Wallops, the messenger, stood in the hall. "A note for you, Mr. Henderson," he said. "A fellow just brought it." Sid snatched it eagerly, a hopeful look showing on his face. Then, as he saw the writing, there seemed to come into his eyes a shadow of fear. "All right, Wallops," he replied kindly, and he closed the door. "Again," he exclaimed. "Oh, will this never end? Must I carry this secret all through college?" and he tore the note to bits. Then he slipped on another coat, pulled a cap down over his eyes and went out. "Why, Sid isn't here!" exclaimed Phil, when he and Tom, bubbling over still, with the spirit of the dance, came back to their apartment, after having escorted the girls home. "That's right," agreed the pitcher, "and he's not allowed any more passes since that affair with the pocket flask. He's taking chances to slip out. Zane will be almost sure to catch him, and a few turns like that and Sid will be expelled. I wonder what's gotten into him lately?" "Give it up," responded Phil. "Let's hope that he won't be nabbed." It was a vain hope, for Sid, coming into college about three o'clock that morning, was detected by the proctor. There was quite a stir over it, and Sid came mighty near expulsion. Only his fine scholarship saved him, but he was warned that another offense would be fatal to his chances. Sid said nothing to his chums, but maintained a gloomy reserve, which wore off in a few days, but still left a cloud between them. Meanwhile Tom was kept busy with his studies and his interest in the nine, while Phil was "boning" away, seeking a scholarship prize, and devoting as much time as he could to practice on the diamond. Sid, barred from participation in regular games, was, however, allowed to practice with the 'varsity, and play on the scrub as suited his fancy, and Tom was glad to have him do either, for he cherished a secret hope that the ban might be removed before the end of the term, and he wanted Sid to keep in form. As for the second baseman he was becoming a "crackerjack" wielder of the stick, and at either right or left hand work was an example to be looked up to by the younger players, and his average something to be sighed after. It happened one afternoon, a few days prior to an important out-of-town game Tom's nine was to play, that the captain came upon Ed Kerr, the manager, busy figuring, in a corner of the gymnasium, his brow as wrinkled as a washboard. "What's the row?" asked Tom. "Conic sections or a problem in trig, Ed?" "It's a problem in finance," was the response. "Ferd Snowden, the treasurer, has just handed me a statement of how the nine's finances are, and, for the life of me I can't see how it happened." "How what happened." "The shortage." "Shortage?" and there was a frightened note in Tom's voice. "Yes, shortage. I thought we were running along pretty well, but according to Snowden we're in debt to him about ten dollars, for money he's advanced from his own pocket. He says he can't afford any more, and--well, it means we can't play Richfield Saturday." "Why not?" "Because we haven't money enough to take the team out of town, and back again. Besides, Dutch needs a new catching mitt. I don't see how it happened. I thought we were making money." "So did I. Let's go have a talk with Snowden." The treasurer of the nine could only confirm his statement. He showed by figures that the amount of money taken in had not met the expenses, so far. "The crowds haven't been what they ought to have been," Snowden explained. "Randall isn't drawing as it used to." "We're playing better ball," fired Tom at him. "That may be. I'm only talking from a money standpoint. We're in debt ten dollars. Not that I mind, for I don't need the money, but I thought Kerr ought to know. I can't advance any more, and the team can't go to Richfield without cash for railroad fare." "That's right," agreed Tom, scratching his head. "Well, the only thing to do is to call a meeting and ask for subscriptions. The fellows will easily make up the deficit, and give enough over to provide for traveling expenses. Dutch can use his old glove for a few games yet, and we ought to get enough out of this Richfield game to put us on our feet. After that we have a number of contests that will draw big crowds. Then comes the final whack at Boxer Hall, and that is always a money-maker. We'll come out right yet, Ed. Don't worry." "I'm not, only it looks as if I hadn't managed things right." "Nonsense! Of course you have. The fellows will go down in their pockets. I'll call a meeting for this afternoon." CHAPTER XXIV PITCHFORK'S TALL HAT There was a buzz of excitement among the college students when the notice had been read, calling for a meeting of the athletic committee, to straighten out a financial tangle. There were various comments, and, though some remarked that it was "always that way," and that a "few fellows had to be depended on for the money," and like sentiments, the majority of opinion was that the sum needed would quickly be subscribed. "Why don't they make the ball nine a stock concern?" asked Mort Eddington, whose father was an "operator" in Wall street. "If they sold stock, lots of fellows would be glad to buy." "Yes, considering that the nine has made a barrel of money every year, it would be a paying proposition," added Holly Cross. "But we don't do business that way, Eddington, as you'll learn when you've been here more than one term. What money we have left over at the end of the season goes to help some college club, or a team that hasn't done so well. We're not stock jobbers in Randall." "That's all right. Maybe you'll be glad of some money you could have from selling stock, before you're through," sneered the "operator's" son. "Oh, I guess not," responded Dutch. "The fellows will toe the mark with the rocks all right." "My uncle says it's all in how a team is managed," began a voice, and Ford Fenton strolled up. "My uncle says----" "Get out of here, you shrimp!" cried Holly Cross, making a rush at Ford. "If your uncle heard you, he'd take you out of this college for disgracing him." "That's right," agreed Dutch, making a playful attempt to trip up Ford, which the much-uncled youth skillfully avoided. "You're right, just the same," declared Bert Bascome, who came up at that juncture. "The team hasn't been managed right, and I'm going to have something to say about it at the meeting." The session called by Tom to consider financial matters was well attended. Tom, by general consent, was made chairman. "You all know what we're here for," began the captain, who was not fond of long speeches. "The nine needs money to help it out of a hole." "Who got it in the hole?" asked Bascome with a sneer. "Bang!" went Tom's gavel. "You'll have a chance to speak when the time comes," said the pitcher sharply. "I'll be through in a minute." Bascome sat down, muttering something about "manager" and "money." "We need cash," went on Tom, "to carry us over a certain period. After that we'll have plenty. We haven't made as much as we expected. Now we'd like subscriptions, and if any fellow feels that he can't afford to give the money outright, don't let that stand in his way. We'll only borrow it, and pay it back at the end of the season. Of course, if any one wants to give it without any strings on it, so much the better. I've got ten dollars that goes that way." "So have I!" "Here too!" "Put me down for fifteen!" "I've got five that isn't working!" These were some of the cries that greeted Tom's closing words. "I'll let the treasurer take it," announced the chairman. "Get busy, Snowden. We've got enough now to take the team out of town." Phil, who was sitting near Sid, looked at his chum, and remarked: "You're going to help us out, aren't you, Sid? Seems to me I saw you with a fair-sized roll yesterday." "I--I'd like to help, first rate," answered Sid, in some confusion, "only I'm broke now." Phil did not reply, but there was a queer look on his face. He was wondering what Sid had done with his money. This was the second time he had unexpectedly "gone broke." Subscriptions were pouring in on Snowden, and it began to look as if Tom's prophecy would hold good, and that the boys only need be told of the needs of the nine to have them attended to. Bert Bascome, who had been whispering with Ford Fenton, and some of his cronies, suddenly arose. "Mr. Chairman," began Bascome. "Mr. Bascome," responded Tom. "I rise to a question of personal privilege," he went on pompously. "What is it?" asked Tom, trying not to smile. "I would like to know why it is that the nine hasn't made money enough to carry itself so far this season, when it has played a number of games, and won several?" went on Bascome. "One reason is that the attendance was not large enough to cover expenses, and leave a sufficiently large sum to be divided between our team and the ones we played," stated the captain, wondering what Bascome was driving at. "I would like to inquire if it is not because the team was not properly managed?" shot out Bascome. "I believe that if Ford Fenton had been elected we----" "Drop it!" "Dry up!" "Put him out!" "Treason!" "Fresh! Fresh!" A score of lads were on their feet, shouting, yelling, demanding to be recognized, shaking their fists at Bascome and uttering dire threats. "Mr. Chairman, may I spake wan wurd!" cried Bricktop Molloy, in his excitement lapsing into a rich brogue. Tom was banging away with his gavel, but he managed to make his voice heard above the tumult. "Mr. Bascome has the floor!" he cried. "Put him out!" "Who is he, anyhow?" "Whoever heard of Bascome?" Again the cries; again the banging of the gavel, and at last Tom succeeded in producing quiet. "Mr. Bascome has the floor," the chairman announced. "Do I understand that you ask that as a point of information?" and Tom gazed at the wealthy freshman, who, through all the tumult, had maintained his place, sneeringly indifferent to the threats made against him. "That's what I want to know," he stated. "I'll let the entire college answer that if necessary," declared Tom. "Mr. Bascome has asked a question----" "Don't answer him!" yelled Dutch. Bang! went the gavel. From his corner where he had been seated, doing some figuring, Ed Kerr arose--his face white. "Mr. Chairman! A question of personal privilege!" he cried. "Go on!" answered Tom, forgetting his parliamentary language. "I beg to tender my resignation as manager of the Randall baseball nine!" cried Ed. "No! No!" "We won't take it!" "Make him sit down!" "Don't listen to him!" "Let's haze Bascome!" "Fellows, will you be quiet?" begged Tom. "I won't recognize anyone until you're quiet!" and he banged away. Gradually there came a hush, while both Bascome and Kerr remained on their feet. "There is a question before the house," went on the captain, "and until that is settled I can't listen to anything else. Mr. Bascome wants to know whether the present financial trouble of the nine is not due to the manager. How do you answer him?" "No! No! No!" came in a great chorus. Tom turned to Ed Kerr. "Are there any who think otherwise?" asked the chairman. "Yes," called Bascome, and he was supported by half a dozen, including Ford Fenton. There were groans of protest, but Tom silenced them. "I think Mr. Bascome has his answer," declared the chairman. "You have an almost overwhelming vote of confidence, Mr. Manager, and I congratulate you. Is there any further business to come before the meeting. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. How are you making out, Mr. Treasurer?" "Fine!" cried Snowden. "All we need and more, too." "Good! Then the meeting is adjourned. We don't need any motion," and Tom started to leave the little platform. "Look here!" blustered Bert Bascome, "I'm a member of the athletic committee, and you can't carry things in this high-handed manner. I move that we go into executive session and consider the election of a new manager. Mr. Kerr has resigned, as I understand it." "Forget it!" advised Dutch Housenlager, and he stretched out his foot, and skillfully tripped up the noisy objector, who went down in a heap, with Ford Fenton on top of him. "Here! Quit! I'll have you expelled for that!" spluttered Bascome, rising and making a rush for Dutch. But he was surrounded by a mass of students, who laughed and joked with him, shoving him from side to side until he was so mauled and hauled and mistreated that he was glad to make his escape. "Little rat!" muttered Holly Cross, as he saw Bascome and Ford going off together. "That's all they're good for--to make trouble." "Yes," agreed Tom, "Bascome's been sore ever since he couldn't have his way about electing Ford Fenton manager. But I guess we're out of the woods now. Get in good shape for the Richfield game Saturday, fellows." The crowd rushed from the gymnasium, laughing and shouting, and refusing to listen to Kerr, who still talked of resigning, though he was finally shown that the objection to him amounted to nothing. It was still light enough for some practice, and most of the lads headed for the diamond. Tom, Phil and Sid walked along together. As they passed under the side window of the East Dormitory, where the freshmen and seniors roomed, Phil spied, hanging from a casement, a tall, silk hat. "Get on to the tile!" he cried. "Some blooming freshman must have hung it there to air, ready for a shindig to-night. Bet you can't hit it, Tom. Two out of three. If you do I'll stand for sodas for the bunch." "It's a go!" agreed the pitcher. "Here's a ball," remarked Sid, handing Tom one. "Let's see what you can do." Tom fingered the horsehide, glanced critically at the hat, which hung on a stick out of the window, and then drew back his arm. "Here goes!" he cried, and, an instant later the ball was whizzing through the air. Straight as the proverbial arrow it went, and so skillfully had Tom thrown, that the spheroid went right into the hat--and, came out on the other side, through the top of the crown, making a disastrous rent. Then ball and hat came to the ground together. "Fine shot!" cried Phil admiringly. "That hat won't do duty to-night," observed Sid. "You knocked the top clean out, Tom," and he ran forward to pick it up. As he did so he was aware of an indignant figure coming from the dormitory. So, in fact, were Phil and Tom. A moment later, as Sid held the ruined silk hat in his hands, Professor Emerson Tines confronted the lads. "May I ask what you young gentlemen are doing with my hat?" he asked in frigid tones. "Your--your hat?" stammered Tom. "My hat," repeated the stern teacher. "I was a witness to your act of vandalism. You may come with me to Dr. Churchill at once!" CHAPTER XXV A PETITION Phil, Tom and Sid stood staring blankly at one another. Sid still held the broken hat, until Professor Tines came up and took it from him. "Ruined, utterly ruined!" murmured the teacher. "My best hat!" "We--I--that is I--didn't know it was your hat," stammered Tom. "I threw the ball through it." "You didn't know it was my hat?" asked Professor Tines, as if such ignorance was inexcusable. "Whose did you suppose it was, pray?" "Some galoot's--I mean some freshman's," stammered Phil. "You see, it was hanging from a window in the freshmen's dormitory, and----" "It was not hanging from the window of any student in the first year class," declared the instructor pompously. "I had sent my silk hat to one of the janitors, who makes a practice of ironing them. He had finished it, and hung it out to air, when you--you vandals came along. I distinctly saw you throw at my hat, sir," and Professor Tines shook his finger at Tom. "I--I know it, sir. I admit it," confessed the captain. "Only--only----" "We didn't know it was your hat, sir," went on Sid. "I'm afraid it's quite--quite unfit to wear, sir," and Sid tried to put the flapping piece back into place, for the professor had dropped the tile, and Sid had picked it up. "Unfit to wear! I should say it was. Fit to wear! Why I intend delivering a lecture on 'The Art of Repose as an Aid to High Thinking' and now, sir--now, you young vandals have ruined the hat I was going to wear! It's infamous--infamous! I shall have you expelled! I shall let your parents know of your shameless conduct! I shall have you dismissed at once!" and the irate professor shook his fist first at Tom, then at Sid and then at Phil. "Your conduct is a disgrace to the school!" he went on. "Here, give me my hat!" and he fairly snatched it from Sid. "Come with me at once to Dr. Churchill. He shall know about this outrage!" "If you please, Professor Tines, we didn't know it was your hat," was about all Phil could think of to say. "So much the worse. You thought it belonged to some defenseless student, and that you could ruin it with impunity. But I shall soon show you how mistaken you were. Come with me at once!" and Professor Tines, holding his hat in one hand, seized Tom's coat sleeve in the other, and led him toward the president's office, followed by Phil and Sid. "I--I have a tall hat, which I'll give you, until you can have this one fixed," spoke Sid, as they walked along. "Until I get this one fixed? It is beyond fixing!" declared Mr. Tines wrathfully. Good Dr. Churchill looked pained when the three culprits were ushered into his presence. "Look here, sir! Look here!" spluttered Professor Tines, his voice fairly trembling as he thrust the battered hat close to the president, who was near-sighted. "Just look at that, sir!" "Ha! Hum!" murmured the doctor. "Very interesting, I should say. Very interesting." "Interesting?" and Mr. Tines stood aghast. "Yes. I presume you have been illustrating to your class the effect of some explosive agent on soft material. I should say it was a very complete and convincing experiment--very complete, convincing and interesting. I congratulate you." "Congratulate! Interesting experiment!" gasped the irate "Pitchfork." "Yes. It was very well done. My, my! The crown of the hat is almost completely gone. Almost completely," murmured the doctor, looking interestedly at the dilapidated tile. "What sort of an explosive did you use, Professor Tines? I trust your class took careful notes of it." "Explosion!" burst out Professor Tines, looking as if he was likely to blow up himself. "That was no explosion, sir! My best hat was ruined by a baseball in the hands of these vandals, sir! I demand their expulsion at once." "Baseball?" queried Doctor Churchill. "I threw it, sir," declared Tom quickly. "I'm very sorry. I did not know the hat belonged to Professor Tines, and I will pay for it at once," and the captain made a motion toward his pocket. "Let me have the whole story," requested the president, and Tom thought there was a twinkle in his eyes. Professor Tines related most of it, in his usual explosive fashion, and the lads could only plead guilty. The owner of the hat ended by a demand for their dismissal, and Dr. Churchill said he would take the matter under advisement, but there was that in his manner which gave the culprits hope, and when he sent for them a little later, it was to pass the sentence that the three of them must go shares in buying a new hat. Tom wanted to stand all the damage, but Dr. Churchill, with a half-laugh, said he must mete out punishment all around. "I say, will you lend me my share of the money, for a few days?" asked Sid, of Tom, when they were on their way back to the room. "Sure!" was the answer. "Say, what do you do with all your cash, Sid?" for Mr. Henderson was known to be well off. "I--er--Oh, I have uses for it," replied Sid, and he hurriedly turned the conversation. The nine played Richfield, a strong college team, on Saturday, and was nearly beaten, for just when some good hitting was needed, Pete Backus, who was filling Sid's place, went to the bad. Randall did manage to get the lead of a run, and kept it, due mainly to Tom's magnificent pitching, but the final score was nothing to boast of, though Randall came home winners. "We certainly do miss Sid," remarked Tom, as he was sitting beside Phil, in the train on the way back. "If there's anything that's going to make us win or lose the championship this year it's batting, and that's Sid's strong point. I wish we could get him back on the team." "Maybe we can." "How?" "By getting up a petition, and having all the fellows sign it. Maybe if the faculty understood what it meant they would vote to rescind the order not allowing Sid to take part in games." "By Jove, it's worth trying!" cried Tom. "We'll do it! I'll go talk with Ed Kerr and Mr. Leighton." The manager and coach thought the plan a good one, and a few days later a petition was quietly circulated. Nothing was said to Sid about it, for fear he would object. The students were anxious to get their names down, and soon there was an imposing list. "I want to get the freshmen now," decided Tom, one afternoon, when the petition was nearly ready for presentation. "I'm making a class affair of it, each year's students by themselves, and I let the freshmen go until last. I'll see Bascome, who is the class president, ask him to call a meeting, and have his fellows sign." Tom sought out Bascome a little later, and explained what was wanted, asking the freshman to call a session of his classmates. "In other words you want me and my friends to help you out of a hole?" asked Bascome, and he was sneering. "That's about it," answered Tom, restraining a desire to punch the overbearing freshman. "We want to strengthen the nine, and we can do it if we can get Henderson back on it." "Then you'll never get him back with my signature nor that of my friends!" cried Bascome. "I'll get even with you fellows now, for the way you've treated me!" He was sneering openly. Tom looked him full in the face. "You sneaking little cad," was what he said, as he turned away. CHAPTER XXVI TOM STOPS A HOT ONE There was much excitement of a quiet sort when it was known what stand Bascome had taken. He was roundly condemned by the sophomores, juniors and seniors, and even by a number of the freshmen students. But Bascome remained firm, and he carried the class with him. Only a few freshmen put their names down on the petition, and they resigned from the exclusive freshman society to be able to do so. For there was, that year in Randall, a somewhat bitter feeling on the part of the whole freshman class against the sophomores, on account of some severe hazing in the fall. It had created trouble, had engendered a sense of injury, and there was lacking a proper spirit in the college. This had its effect, and the freshmen were almost a unit against the nine, which (and this was perhaps unusual) happened to be composed mainly of sophomores that season. "What do you think of the dirty sneak?" asked Tom of Phil, to whom he narrated the refusal of Bascome. "Think of it? I'd be ashamed to properly express myself, Tom. It's rotten, that's what it is. But I guess we've got enough names as it is." "Hope so, anyhow. I'm going to send it in, at any rate." The petition was duly delivered to Dr. Churchill, and a faculty meeting was called. A unanimous vote of the corps of instructors was needed to reinstate a student suspended from athletics for a violation of the rules, such as Sid had been accused of, this being one of the fundamental laws of the college since its inception. Now the absence of the names of the majority of the freshman class tended to operate against the petition being accorded an unprejudiced hearing, but what did more to keep Sid out was the vote of Professor Tines. The latter could not get over the destruction of his silk hat, though a new one had been purchased for him, and when the final vote was taken he barred Sid from getting back on the nine. "I have reason to believe that Mr. Henderson is inclined to too much horse-play," he said, "as indicated by what he did to my hat. Again, if he were a popular student the freshmen would have joined in the request. They did not, as a class, and so I am constrained to vote as I do." None of the faculty--even Professor Tines--knew the real reason why the freshmen names were not down, and no one cared about mentioning it, for it was not a thing for students to discuss with the teachers. Mr. Leighton did his best, in a delicate way, but it was of no use. The petition failed, and not a few members of the faculty were deeply grieved, for they wanted to see a championship nine in Randall. Still they would not argue with Professor Tines. And the chances of Randall winning the championship and the loving cup seemed to be diminishing from day to day, in spite of the strenuous efforts of Tom, Ed Kerr and Mr. Leighton. There was something lacking. No one could just say what it was, but there was a spirit of uncertainty, and a sense of worriment in the nine, that did not operate for perfect team work. Tom threatened and pleaded by turns, but his words had little effect. The men showed up well in practice, and played a fast and snappy game with the scrub, but when it came to going out on the diamond there was a lack of batting ability and an absence of team work, that had a bad effect, and several games were won only by narrow margins, while some, that should have been won, were lost. "We play Boxer Hall, Saturday," observed Tom, in his room with Phil and Sid one evening. "I wonder how we'll make out." "It isn't the last game, is it?" inquired Sid. "No, there's one more, and another with Fairview. But I'm not worrying much about the co-eds. It's Boxer that has me guessing. Oh, Sid, but I wish you were with us." "So do I," and Sid turned his face aside. "Can't you get back?" asked Phil. "Can't you go to Dr. Churchill, and explain--about that bottle of liquor--you know." "No," answered Sid gently, "I can't." "The nine may lose," declared Tom. "I'm--I'm just as sorry as you are, Tom," said the second baseman earnestly, "but it's out of the question. I can't explain--just yet." "Can you ever?" demanded Phil eagerly. "Perhaps--soon now. I am hoping every day." "Have you given a--a sort of promise--to some one?" asked Tom gently. "Yes," replied Sid in a low voice. "It's a promise, and a great deal depends on it--even more than the championship of Randall college." And that was all Sid would say for the time being. The game with Boxer Hall was a hard one. Tom and his men had to work for everything they got, for Langridge seemed to have improved in his pitching, and the fielding of Randall's enemy was a thing to rejoice the heart of her captain and coach. The game ran along to the seventh inning with some sensational plays, and the score was 6 to 4 in favor of Boxer. Then Langridge grew a bit wild, and issued several passes until the bases were full, when a three bagger which Holly Cross knocked brought in three runs, and put Randall one ahead. There was wild delight then, and as none were out it looked as if Randall would be good for at least two more runs. But Langridge got control of the ball, and struck out three men, and the next inning Boxer put in a new pitcher--a semi-professional it was whispered, though Tom and his fellows decided to take no notice of the talk. Then began a desperate effort on the part of Boxer Hall to get in two more runs in the remaining two innings. They adopted unfair tactics, and several times the umpire warned the men on the coaching line that they were violating the rules. Tom managed to stiffen his work in the eighth, and, though two men got walking papers, no runs came in, for the next three batters went down and out under the influence of Tom's curves. But that inning saw no runs for Randall, either, and when her men came in for their last chance Tom pleaded with them to get at least one more to clinch the victory that was held by such a narrow margin. It was not to be, however, and a zero went up in the Randall space on the score board. The score was 7 to 6, in favor of Randall, when Boxer Hall came up for the ending of the ninth inning. "If we can only hold 'em there," thought Tom wearily, for his arm ached. Still he would not give up, though Rod Evert was anxious to fill the box. Tom struck out the first man, gave the next one a pass, and was hit for a single by the third batter. Then the Randall captain knew he must work hard to win. He struck out the next batter, and as Dave Ogden, who followed, was a notoriously hard hitter, Tom was worried. A three bagger, which was Ogden's specialty, would bring in two runs, and win the game for Boxer. Dutch signalled for a drop, but Tom gave the negative sign, and indicated that he would pitch an out. As the ball left his fingers he was aware that it had slipped and that Ogden would hit it. He did. There was a resounding "whack" and the ball, a hot liner, came straight for Tom. The Boxer Hall crowd set up a yell, thinking their man had made good, and that two runs, at least, would come in. For no one expected to see Tom stop the ball. But he did. It was well over his head, and passing him on the right side. He leaped into the air, and with his bare hand caught the horsehide. The impact on his unprotected palm was terrific, and he was at once aware that he had split the skin. But though a pain, like a red hot iron, shot down his arm, he held on. [Illustration: HE LEAPED INTO THE AIR AND WITH HIS BARE HAND CAUGHT THE HORSEHIDE.] "Batter's out!" cried the umpire. Then, amid the wild and frenzied shouting of his chums, Tom dropped the ball, and walked in, his arm hanging limply by his side, while Dutch and Mr. Leighton ran anxiously toward him. But what did Tom Parsons care for an injured hand? He had saved Randall from defeat, for that ended Boxer's chances, two men died on bases, and the game was over, the score being 7 to 6 in Randall's favor. CHAPTER XXVII GLOOMY DAYS "Much hurt?" inquired Mr. Leighton anxiously, as he reached Tom's side. "Oh, nothing to speak of," replied the plucky pitcher carelessly, but when he held up his hand a few drops of blood trickled from it, and there was a thin, red line across the palm. "You shouldn't have stopped that ball!" exclaimed Dutch, half savagely. "I shouldn't? Do you think I was going to stand there and let it go by, and lose us the game?" demanded Tom. "I guess not--not for two sore hands!" "But, it's your pitching hand," expostulated Dutch. "We need you the rest of the season, and the championship is far from won--in fact it's almost as far off as the stars," he added in a low voice, for he, too, had noted the lack of team work in the present game, and some that had preceded. "Oh, don't be a croaker," advised Tom, trying to speak lightly though he was in considerable pain. "I'll be all right in a week. We haven't any hard game until then, and we'll go in and clean up all the roosts around here before the season closes." "I hope so," remarked Mr. Leighton in a low voice. "You had better let the doctor look at that hand, Parsons. No use taking any chances." The injury was temporarily bandaged and Tom, with a queer feeling about him, that was not at all connected with his wound, changed his uniform for street clothing and returned to Randall with the nine. Dr. Marshall, later, dressed the hurt, and decided that Tom must refrain from playing ball for at least a week--perhaps longer. "I'll have Evert warming up all this week," decided the coach. "We play the Branchville nine Saturday, and ought to win easily. Then I think you'll be ready for Fairview the following week, and Boxer Hall after that." "The last two big games," murmured Tom. "We've got to win them both if we want the championship, and I'm afraid----" "Oh, cheer up!" advised Phil. "I know I played rotten to-day, but I'll do better next time. Please forgive me?" and he assumed a mocking, contrite air, at which Tom could not help laughing. "Get out!" exclaimed the captain. "You know I wasn't referring to you. But, seriously, Phil, something's got to be done. Think of it! We pulled through by the skin of our teeth to-day----" "By the skin of your hand, you mean." "Well, have it that way, but consider. Next Saturday will be an easy contest. Then comes Fairview and Boxer, both after our scalps. As it stands now we have played a number of games besides those with our two big enemies and are tied with Boxer for first place, and the possession of the loving cup. If we lose the Fairview game, and Boxer beats Fairview we will still have a show, by beating Boxer ourselves, but if it goes the other way we're out of it. Our only hope is to do up both Fairview and Boxer, in succession, and how we are going to do it is more than I can tell." "Oh, we'll do it--somehow," declared Phil. Matters, as regarded the baseball nine, did not improve much in the next few days, and Tom was filled with gloomy thoughts and dire forebodings. Though he was on hand at every practice the lads missed his sure arm in the pitching box, though Evert did fairly well. The game with Branchville proved fairly easy, though Randall did not shine with any unusual brilliancy. "Hang it all, something's got to be done!" declared Tom on the night after the game. He was nervous and irritated, for his hand pained him, though it was nearly healed, and he was going to pitch in practice on Monday. "What can be done?" inquired Phil, who was critically examining a new glove he had purchased. "Sid, we might as well have it out," went on Tom, and he squared his shoulders as if for a fight, as he confronted the deposed second baseman. "Are you or are you not going to play with us again this season? You know we need you. We want you to help us to bat to win. Are you going to do it?" "Why, it doesn't depend on me," answered Sid, in apparent surprise. "If the doctor says the word I'll jump right in, and do my best. You know that. It's up to the faculty. If they remove the ban----" "No, it's not up to the faculty!" declared Tom vigorously. "It's up to you, and you know it. It's up to you to save the Randall 'varsity nine!" "Up to me?" Sid had arisen from his seat near the window, and stood in the middle of the room. "Up to you," repeated Tom. "You know, as well as I do, that you weren't guilty when Zane caught you with the liquor. You had that for some one else, and you're trying to shield him. You never use it--you had no use for it, yet you kept still when they accused you, and didn't tell. Now it's time to tell--it's time to say you were innocent--it's time to come out and end this mystery. The team needs you! All you've got to do is to tell the truth, instead of keeping silent, and you know the faculty will exonerate you. Then the ban will be removed, and you can play. That's why I say it's up to you. Isn't it now? Own up, Sid; did you have that liquor for yourself? If you told the truth about it couldn't you get back on the team?" Tom was fairly panting from the force of his appeal. Sid's face was strangely white, as he turned to look the captain full in the eyes. For a moment he did not reply, and the breathing of the three chums could plainly be heard, for Phil was as much agitated as either of the others. "Answer me, Sid," pleaded Tom. "I can't answer everything you ask," spoke Sid, in a low voice. "As I told you before, I gave a promise, and, until I am released from it, I can't speak--my lips are sealed." "But you didn't have that liquor for yourself," persisted Tom. "Did you, now?" "I'm not going to answer that," and Sid's hands were gripped on the back of a chair, until his knuckles showed white with the strain. "Sid Henderson, will you--dare you say that if you told the truth about this miserable business you would not be reinstated and allowed to play?" went on the captain relentlessly. "If you told the whole story, couldn't you get back on the team?" "I'm not going to tell," said Sid slowly. "Then you don't want to get back on the team?" fired Tom quickly. "More than you know--more than you know," was Sid's answer, as he went out of the room. CHAPTER XXVIII A FRESHMAN PLOT Tom stood staring at the door which closed after Sid--staring as if he could not believe what he had heard. He was roused from his reverie by Phil's voice. "I'm afraid you've only made matters worse, Tom." "Made 'em worse? They can't be any worse," was the testy reply. "Hang it all! We're about as bad off now as we well can be. I wanted to get Sid back on the team, and--and----" "There's something we can't get at," declared Phil. "It is something pretty strong, or Sid would never keep quiet and see the college lose." "Not unless he's altogether different from what he was last term," agreed Tom, with a puzzled air. "He once said he hoped he would be able to tell us what his secret was--soon--I only wish the time would come--soon--we need Sid's stick work on the team. I wonder if it has anything to do with a girl--Miss Harrison?" "She's only one factor in the game. I fancy that was what Sid meant when he said he wanted to get back on the team more than we realized--he meant that it was so Miss Harrison would be friends with him again, for the same thing that caused the disagreement between them, got Sid into trouble with the proctor. And, if what Ruth says is true, Miss Harrison cares a lot for Sid." "Oh, you can't tell much about girls," retorted Tom, with an air of a youth who was past-master in the art of knowing the feminine mind. "Of course that's not saying that Ruth doesn't mean what she says," he added hastily, for Phil was her brother. "But look at how Miss Harrison went with Langridge." "Only a couple of times, and I fancy she didn't know his true character. She gave him his quietus soon enough after the trick he tried to play with the mirror." "That's so. Well, I wish this tangle would be straightened out somehow. It's getting on my nerves." "A baseball 'varsity captain shouldn't have nerves." "I know it, but I can't help it. Hello, some one's coming. Maybe it's Sid." "No, it's Dutch Housenlager, by his tread," and Phil's guess was right. "Glad I found somebody in," remarked Dutch, as he was about to throw himself with considerable force on the old sofa. Tom grabbed the catcher, and shunted him off to one side so violently that Dutch sat down on the floor, with a jar that shook the room. "Here, what's that for?" he demanded, somewhat dazed. "It was to save our sofa," Tom explained. "You were coming down on it as if you were making a flying tackle. It would have been broken like a half-sawed-through goal post if you had landed. I side-tracked you, that's all." "Oh," answered Dutch, as he slowly arose. "Next time I wish you'd serve notice on me when you're going to do a thing like that, and I'll wear my football suit," and he rubbed his back gingerly. "Would you mind translating your remark about being glad you found somebody in?" requested Phil. "With pleasure, son. I've been to about sixteen different domiciles this evening, and every one was vacant. I've got something to talk about. Where's Sid?" "He went out a while ago," answered Tom, uneasily. "Seems to me you fellows aren't as chummy as you once were," remarked Dutch, taking a seat in the old armchair, after a questioning look at Tom, who nodded a permission. "Oh, yes, we are," exclaimed Phil quickly. "Isn't it fierce that Sid's off the team." "Rotten--simply rotten," agreed Dutch. "Just when we need him most. Why didn't you chaps keep him in the straight and narrow path that leads to baseball victories?" "We tried," came quickly from Phil. "But Sid----" "Oh, it'll be all right," interrupted Tom. "I think things will straighten themselves out." In his heart he did not believe this, but he did not want Dutch to go away with the idea that there was a cloud hanging over the "inseparables." That would never do. "I have an idea that the faculty will relent at the last minute," went on the captain. "Especially when they know that the championship depends on it. Then they'll let Sid play. If they don't we'll get up another petition, and make Bascome and his crowd sign, or we'll run 'em out of college." "Speaking of the freshmen brings me to what I came here for," declared Dutch, and Tom gave a sigh of relief, that their visitor was away from the delicate subject. "What are we going to do to fool the first years, and keep 'em away from our spring dinner?" demanded Dutch. "That's what I called about. The dinner is to be held next week, a few days before our game with Fairview, and, naturally, the freshies will try to break it up." "I've been so busy with getting ready for the exams and baseball, that I haven't given the dinner much thought," declared Tom. "Of course we've got to have it, and we must fool the freshies." "Sure," agreed Phil. "Let's go have a talk with Holly Cross. He may be able to suggest something." "Come on!" called Dutch. "We'll call on Holly." As the three strolled down the corridor, out on the campus, and in the direction of Holly's room, the genial center fielder having an apartment in one of the college club houses, Dutch nudged his companions. "Look," he remarked, "there go Ford Fenton and Bert Bascome, with several freshies. I don't like to see one of the sophs mixing it up so close with the first years." "Me either," agreed Tom. "Ford ought to stick to his own class. The trouble is few of our fellows like him, on account of his ways and his 'uncle,' whereas the freshmen will stand for them. That's why Ford hangs out in their camp. But with our annual spring dinner coming off, I don't like it." "Oh, Ford wouldn't dare betray us," was Phil's opinion. They kept on across the campus, and were soon in Holly's room, where plans for the dinner were eagerly discussed. If they could have seen what took place a little later in the room of Bert Bascome, the four sophomores would have had more cause than ever to regret the intimacy between Ford Fenton and some of the first-year crowd. "It's your best chance to get even with them for making fun of you, Ford," Bascome was urging the lad whose uncle had once been a coach at Randall. "It will serve them right." "But I hate to give their plans away," objected Ford. "I'm a sophomore, and----" "They don't treat you as one," urged Henry Delfield, Bascome's crony. "It will be a fine chance to get back at them." "Suppose they find out that I told?" asked Ford. "They never will. We'll see to that," promised Bert eagerly. "All we want you to do is to tell us where the dinner is going to be held. We'll do the rest. There'll be a fight, of course, when we arrive, to break it up, and, just so Parsons, Clinton, Henderson and that crowd won't be suspicious, you can pitch into me--make believe knock me down, you know, and all that. Then they won't have any suspicion of you." "Think not?" inquired Ford. "Sure not. All we want is a tip, and when you've given it you'll be in a position to laugh at those fellows who are laughing at you so often." "That's right, they do make a lot of fun of me," said Ford weakly. "All right, I'll let you know, as soon as I find out where the dinner's going to be held. But don't squeal on me," and the prospective traitor looked apprehensively at the plotting freshmen. "Not for worlds," Bascome assured him solemnly, and Ford left, promising to deliver his classmates into the hands of their traditional enemies. CHAPTER XXIX THE SOPHOMORE DINNER When Phil, Tom and Dutch Housenlager came from Holly's room that evening, they were just in time to see Ford Fenton emerge from his plotting conference with Bascome and his cronies. "I don't like that," exclaimed Phil. "Ford has been in with those fellows for some time." "Probably trying to think up some scheme so he can get to be baseball manager next year," suggested Tom. "No!" cried Phil. "By Jove, I believe I have it. Come on back to Holly's room for a few minutes," and he took hold of his chums and fairly led them away, much to their mystification. There was another conference, which lasted a long time, and for a day or two thereafter much activity in the ranks of the sophomores. The dinner was to be a "swell" affair, to quote Holly Cross. An elaborate menu had been decided on, and there were to be several "stunts" more or less elaborate on the part of the "talented" members of the class. The affair was to be held in a hall in Haddonfield, and the great object of the second-year fellows, of course, was to prevent the time and place of the dinner becoming known to their enemies, the freshmen. "Do you s'pose they'll bite?" asked Tom, an evening or two later, as he, together with Phil and Sid and Holly, were in the room of the "inseparables." "It depends on us," answered Holly, who was the president of the sophomores. "I think they'll trail along when they see us go out." "If they don't have some of their number trail after the main bunch," spoke Phil. "We'll have to take our chances; that's all," came from Sid. "Well, are we all ready?" "Pretty nearly," answered Holly. "I want to wait until it's a little darker. Then we'll slip off. I hope the chap is there with the auto." "He promised to be," said Tom, and they sat about, waiting impatiently for the hour of action to arrive. It came finally, ticked off by the impatient little clock, and four figures stole from the sophomore dormitory, and hurried across the campus. "There they come," said Tom, in a low voice, a moment later. "They're trailing us all right. See 'em sneaking along on the other side?" "Sure," spoke Phil. It was just light enough to discern a number of hazy figures creeping along a boxwood hedge. "See anything of that traitor, Fenton?" asked Holly, in a low voice. "No, he's with the other crowd," answered Tom. "He's in fear of his life that we'll find him out." "As if we hadn't already," added Sid. Hurrying along, the four lads entered a trolley that was headed for Haddonfield. They looked back, as they were on the platform, and saw the shadowy figures leap into an auto which they knew belonged to Bert Bascome. "They're coming," spoke Sid. "And we'll be ready for 'em," added Tom. A little later Tom and his chums were in the town and they hurried to a building, containing several halls or meeting rooms, where the students frequently held dinners, or gave dances and other affairs. "Did you see anything of them since we arrived?" asked Holly of Tom as they scurried into the structure. "No, but they'll be on hand. Ford has tipped them off all right; the little puppy! Say, what ought we to do to him? Tar and feathers, or give him the silence?" "We can settle that later," remarked Phil. "Just now let's see how we make out against the freshies. It's tough to have to acknowledge that there's a traitor in the class." "It sure is. Come on, now I hope everything is here." A man came out of a room as the four sophomores knocked on the door. "All arranged?" asked Tom eagerly. "Yes. Now I hope you young gentlemen don't have too much of a fight. Don't break the furniture." "Not any more than we can help," promised Sid. "When the other fellows come--I mean the freshmen, let 'em right up," instructed Holly. "We'll be ready for 'em. Are the rear stairs clear?" "Yes, you can slip out that way, and I put double locks on the door you'll go out of." "And a spring lock on the one they'll enter by?" asked Tom. "Yes, just as you told me. Now don't do too much damage," and the man, the proprietor of the place, seemed somewhat apprehensive. "Oh, we'll pay for everything," agreed Holly. "Well, we're ready any time Bascome and his crowd are." "I'm glad the sophs didn't think of a game like this to play on us when we tried to break up their dinner last year," observed Sid, as the four entered the room. The place presented a curious sight. There was a table set as if for a banquet, with plates, knives and forks, glasses, and with the usual candles burning in silver candelabras. At the head of the banquet board was a stuffed figure, representing a Randall college student, with the college colors in gay ribbons pinned on one side of his caricature of a face, while the sophomore hues adorned the other side. "Got the camera and flash powder?" asked Holly. "Right here," answered Sid, who, because of his knowledge in that line, had been selected for this post of honor. "They'll be here pretty soon now," prophesied Tom. "Bascome has his crowd in waiting somewhere, and he just lingered around college until he saw us start. Then they'll delay until they think we're all here, and they'll rush in, and make a rough house." "That is, they _think_ they will," corrected Phil, with a grin. "I rather think they'll be surprised some." The four moved about the room, completing their arrangements, while Sid busied himself with a large camera, which was focused on the door leading into the banquet hall, and got ready a flashlight powder. "I think I hear them coming," spoke Tom in a whisper, about half an hour later. "Get ready, Sid." "I'm all ready." They listened. Out in the corridor there were shuffling noises, as if several persons were trying to walk quietly. There was a brushing against the door, and a cautious whisper. Suddenly the knob of the portal was tried, and a voice in the hall cried: "Give up, sophs! We've got you!" Several bodies flung themselves against the door, and to the surprise of the freshmen, who were headed by Bascome and Delfield, they found that the portal was not locked. It opened easily--so easily, in fact, that several of the lads fell to the floor, and the others rushed over them. There was a scene of confusion, and this probably prevented the attacking freshmen from seeing that only four sophomores were present. The first year lads caught sight of the table, with its glistening array of silver and glass, and they took it for granted that they were in the banquet place of their enemies. "Come on, fellows! We've got 'em!" yelled Bascome, scrambling to his feet. "Upset things, and then capture Holly Cross. There he is!" With a yell his cronies sprang to obey the sporty freshman. They fairly tumbled over each other until they filled the room. Then, with a bang, the door by which they had entered slammed shut behind them, fastening with a strong spring lock on the outside. "All ready with the camera, Sid!" cried Holly. "All ready," answered Sid. Then, for the first time the freshmen seemed to realize that only a small number of sophomores were present--four, who were ensconced behind a table, and near an open door. "Welcome to our banquet, freshies!" cried Tom. Holly Cross caught up the effigy of a sophomore and tossed it at Bascome. The freshman leader, taken by surprise, clasped the figure in his arms, and Phil yelled: "Let 'em have it, Sid!" There was a blinding flash, and a dull boom, as the flashlight powder exploded, and it was followed by a gasp of fear from the freshmen. Then Holly switched on the electric lights, which had been turned off, and addressed the huddled group of freshmen. "Gentlemen, I hope you enjoy your call," he said. "As for us, we have to leave you, as we are already a little late for the banquet. This is only a sample of what we will have, and as a sort of memento of this auspicious occasion, let me inform you that we have a flashlight photograph of you in your most interesting poses. Bascome, smile a little, if you please--that's it--look pleasant. That will do. You may lay aside the rag doll now." With a strong expression the freshman president cast aside the effigy, and yelled: "Fellows, we're stung! But we can prevent these four from going to the banquet, anyhow! Get at them!" He leaped across the table, followed by several of his fellows. "Too late! Sorry to leave you!" cried Tom, as he and his chums glided through the open doorway behind them, Sid taking the camera with him. The door was hastily pulled shut, and bolted, barred and locked, just as the group of infuriated freshmen threw themselves against it. "Trapped!" Tom heard Bascome shout from the other side of the portal. "Try the other door!" "That's locked, too," came the despairing cry. "We're caught!" "That's it!" cried Phil exultantly. "Ta-ta, freshies! Next time you listen to a traitor, take care to lay better plans. We're off to our annual feed. When you get out come along, and we'll give you the leavings. You can have Fenton, too," and the four who had successfully turned the trick on their class enemies, hastened off, leaped into a waiting auto, and were soon at the banquet hall, where their fellows were anxiously expecting them. CHAPTER XXX TOM'S LAST APPEAL "Did it work?" "Were they surprised?" "Did you get their picture?" "How was it?" A dozen other questions, besides these, were asked of Tom and his chums, as they entered the hall where the real sophomore banquet was about to take place. Around them eagerly thronged their classmates, all anxious to know how the trick had developed, for, it is needless to say that Ford Fenton's treachery was discovered, and plans laid to offset it, with what effect the reader has learned. "It worked like a charm," responded Holly Cross. "And I think I have a fine picture of them rushing in, and Bascome hugging the dummy," added Sid. "Now I'll take a flash of this banquet, and we'll post 'em all over college, with a notice saying: 'Gaze on this picture--then on that!' It will be great!" and he proceeded to arrange his camera to take a different view of the banquet scene. "Where's Fenton?" inquired Tom, looking around. "He didn't come," replied Dutch Housenlager. "We've been waiting for him." "Nasty scandal to get out about Randall," commented Phil. "Oh, we'll take care that it doesn't get out," responded Holly. "Ford will keep still, and I'll make a school-honor matter of it for the others. Only Fenton had better go back to his friends," he added significantly. I presume my readers have already guessed how the affair came about. Holly and his chums suspected, after seeing Fenton so chummy with Bascome and his crowd, that there might be at least a "leak" in regard to the time and place of the sophomore dinner. To forestall any such event, a ruse was adopted. It was arranged to hold the real dinner in a seldom-used hall, but to go ahead with arrangements as if one was going to take place in the usual building. To give color to this, Holly, Tom, Sid and Phil pretended to sneak off, as if to avoid the freshmen, but, in reality, to lead them on. Bascome and his followers trailed after, were drawn into the hall where the "fake" dinner table was set, and trapped, as told. They were locked in, and it was some time before they could summon help to open the doors. Meanwhile the real banquet came off most successfully. Later the picture Sid had taken, of Bascome and the freshmen, rushing pell-mell into the supposed dining hall, was developed and printed, while its companion-piece was hung up with it, showing the triumphant sophomores gathered at the board, making merry. It made a great hit, and the freshmen did not hear the last of their defeat for many moons. As for Fenton, he was made aware, that very night, of the fact that his indiscrete conduct, to give it the mildest term, was common knowledge. He withdrew from college, fearing the just wrath of his classmates, but, lest the scandal might stand against the fair name of Randall, he was induced to come back. He was promised that no punishment would be meted out to him, and none was, in the common acceptance of that term. But his life was made miserable in more ways than one. The spring term was drawing to a close. With all the excitement attending the annual examinations there was mingled with it the anxiety about the baseball team, and Randall's chances for winning the championship, and the gold loving cup. The latter was placed on view in one of the Haddonfield stores, and daily a crowd of persons, including many students, could be seen in front of the place. "I wonder if we'll get it?" asked Tom of Phil, a few days before the final game with Fairview. "How are you on pitching?" asked Phil, for Tom had done little more than light practice since his accident. "All right, I think. My hand is in fair shape." "Pity you're not a southpaw, or else it's too bad you caught that ball," said Phil. "Nonsense. I can pitch all right, and I would have felt like leaving the team, if I had let that liner get past me, hot as it was. No, I'm not worrying from my end, though perhaps I should. It's our batting I'm alarmed about. Hang it all, if only Sid----" "There's no use going over that again," and Phil spoke quietly. "No, I presume not. Well, we've just got to win from Fairview." "Suppose it would do any good to tackle Sid again?" "I don't know. I'll try, if I get a chance. I wish I knew his secret." The chance came sooner than Tom or Phil expected it would. It was the evening of the day before the final game with Fairview. There had been hard practice in the afternoon, and though Tom found himself in good shape, and noted an improvement in his fielding forces, the batting was weak. He was tired, and not a little discouraged. His one thought was: "If I could only get Sid to play, it would strengthen the whole team. He would stiffen the rest of 'em up, and stiffening is all that some of them need. Oh--well, what's the use." Tom and Phil were alone in the room, discussing plans for the game the next day, when Sid entered. One look at his face showed that he was moody and out of sorts. He had been off on a tramp, after biology specimens, and with scarcely a word to his chums he began changing his field clothes for other garments. "Going out this evening?" asked Phil. "No. Guess not," was the rather short answer. "I've got to do some studying. What have you fellows got on the carpet?" "Rest," answered Tom, and after supper he returned to the apartment, and stretched out on the creaking sofa, while Phil occupied the easy chair. Sid was at his desk writing, when a knock came at the door. The deposed second baseman started, and half arose. Then he sat down again. "Well, aren't some of you going to answer it?" asked Tom. "I'm too tired to move." "Same here," added Phil, but, as he was nearer the portal than Sid, he got up, with much groaning, and opened the door. Wallops stood there. "A message for Mr. Henderson," he announced, and he handed Phil a letter. "Here! Give it to me!" cried Sid, almost snatching it from Phil's fingers. "I was just going to, old man," was the gentle answer, and it seemed as if Sid was afraid his chum would see the writing on the envelope. Sid tore open the epistle, read it at a glance, and tore it up, scattering the fragments in his waste paper basket. Then he strode over to his closet, and got out his coat and cap. "Going out?" asked Phil, politely interested. "Yes--I've got to," muttered Sid. Tom slowly arose from the old sofa, the boards on the back and front creaking dismally with the strain. "Sid," spoke Tom, and there was that in his voice which made Phil and Sid both look at the captain. "Sid, I'm going to make a last appeal to you." "No--don't," almost begged the second baseman, and he put up his arm, as though to ward off a blow. "Don't, Tom, I--I can't stand it." "You've got to!" insisted Tom, almost fiercely. "I've stood this long enough. It's not fair to yourself--not fair to the nine." "I don't know what you mean," and Sid tried to speak calmly. "Yes, you do," and by this time Tom was on his feet, and had walked over toward the door. "Yes, you do know. You received a note just now. There's no use in me pretending I don't know what it is, for I do." Sid started. "I mean," went on Tom, "that I know what it portends. I don't know who it's from, and I don't care; neither do I know what's in it. But I do know that it calls you out----" "Yes, I've got to go," murmured Sid, as though it was a summons from fate, and he could not avoid it. "You've got to do nothing of the sort!" cried Tom. "Don't go!" "I've got to, I tell you!" "To that gambling hall? To lose your money again? Haven't you manhood enough to say 'no'? Can't you stay away? Oh, Sid, why do you go? Why don't you be fair to yourself--fair to the nine? We need you!" Tom held out his hands appealingly. There was a mist before his eyes, and, he fancied, something glistened in those of his chum. Phil stood, a silent spectator of the little scene, and the clock ticked on relentlessly. "Don't you want to help us win?" asked Tom. "You know I do!" exclaimed Sid brokenly. "Then do it!" cried Tom, in ringing tones. "Break off this miserable life! Give up this gambling!" "I'm not gambling!" cried Sid, and he shrank back, as though Tom had struck him. "Dare you deny that you're going from here to the gambling den in Dartwell?" asked Tom, with flashing eyes. Sid was silent. "You don't dare deny it," went on the captain. "Now, Sid, I've made my last appeal. From now on I'm going to act. I'm captain of the nine, and what I say goes. I say you sha'n't go out to that gambling hall to-night!" and, before either of his chums were aware of his action, Tom had sprung forward, locked the door, and taken out the key. "There! Let's see you go out now!" cried Tom, as he planted himself in front of the portal and folded his arms, a picture of defiance. Sid acted as if stunned for a moment. Then, fairly springing forward, he cried: "Stand aside, Tom! I've got to go out now! You don't understand. Stand aside and let me pass!" "I'll not! You sha'n't make a beast of yourself any longer!" "Stand aside or I'll tear you away from that door and burst it open!" and Sid fairly hissed out the words. Tom never moved. Calmly he faced his chum. Though his face was stern, there was a look of deep sorrow on it. As for Phil he knew not what to do or say. "Once more," asked Sid, and his voice was calmer, "will you stand aside, or have I got to force you?" "You're not going out of here to-night," repeated Tom. "This has got to end. I'm going to find out your secret--the secret you are keeping in spite of your better self. We'll get at the bottom of this--we'll restore you to yourself, Sid--to the nine that needs you. We'll have the ban removed!" Once more he held out his hands appealingly. "I ask you for the last time, will you stand back?" came from Sid, in steely tones. "No!" cried Tom resolutely. "Then I'll make you!" and Sid approached closer. He made a grab for Tom's outstretched right hand, and wrenched it cruelly. In spite of himself Tom gave a cry of pain, for the injury was tender yet. This seemed to break the spell. Phil sprang forward. "Sid--Tom!" he cried. "What are you doing?" They seemed to realize, then, that they had nearly come to blows. With a sob, almost of despair, Sid released his hold of Tom's hand, and staggered back. At the same time the captain, reaching in his pocket for the key, inserted it in the door, and shot back the lock. "You may go," he said gently. Sid, with never a word, but with a look of anguish on his face, as if he was torn between two fates, passed out. CHAPTER XXXI THE BAN LIFTED "I never knew that clock ticked so loud," remarked Tom, after a silence that seemed interminable. "Listen to it." "It does make an infernal racket," responded Phil, and his voice sounded strange to him. So great had been the strain engendered by the dramatic departure of Sid, that both Tom and Phil felt the awkwardness of speaking of commonplace matters after it. "Guess we'll get a new ticker," suggested Phil, for want of something better to say. "No," answered Tom slowly. "Old things are best after all--even if they don't keep just the right time. I'm attached to that clock." Somehow Tom felt that the simile might apply to Sid, but he did not mention it. "Is your hand--did he hurt it--I mean is it all right?" stammered Phil. "Oh, yes," replied Tom, with a glance at it. "Sid gave it a wrench, but I guess it will be all right to-morrow. I can't understand him, can you?" "No, and I've given up trying." "No, don't do that!" begged Tom. "We've just got to save Sid." "But if he won't let us?" "We must do it in spite of himself. I will try to think of a way," and Tom threw himself back on the sofa, and turned his face to the wall. Phil walked softly across the room, and sat down in the big chair. Somehow it seemed as if their chum had gone, never to return. For more than an hour the two sat there, neither speaking, and the clock ticked on relentlessly. "Well," remarked Tom at length, with a sigh, "guess I'll turn in." Sid was in his bed when the two chums awoke in the morning, though neither Phil nor Tom had heard him come in. He did not refer to the happening of the previous night, but after chapel, which was made particularly solemn by a short sermon by the doctor on the prodigal son, Sid drew away from his chums, who started for their classes. "Where you going?" asked Tom, for Sid and he had the same studies this morning period. "Up to see Moses," was the answer, "Moses" being the students' pet name for Dr. Churchill. "Zane caught me again last night. I was out after hours without a permit. I'm in for it I guess," and Sid laughed recklessly. "Why, old man----" began Tom, and then he stopped. He did not know what to say. Then he felt it would be better to say nothing, and he hurried on to the lecture, anxious to have it over with, and get out on the diamond with his men, for the final game with Fairview was to come off that afternoon. Tom and Phil did not see Sid again until after the game, and then they felt in no condition to dwell upon his trouble, for Randall had been beaten by Fairview. It was a never-to-be-forgotten battle of the diamond. It opened well for Randall, for Tom felt a fierce anger at fate in general, that nerved him to pitch as he had seldom pitched before. Then things began to go backward, for his hand was in no condition to stand the fierce work necessary. Mr. Leighton saw this, and deciding to save Tom for the Boxer Hall game, took him out of the box, and put in Evert. After that it was all over but the shouting, and Fairview piled up eleven runs against Randall's five. It was a miserable and dispirited lot of players that filed back to Randall that evening, nor could the sympathy of Ruth and Madge take any of the sting out of it for Tom. "It isn't so bad," remarked Phil, in a consoling sort of voice. "We still have a chance." "A mighty slim chance," grumbled Tom. "Almost none at all. Oh, if old Sid had only been with us!" "There's no use talking about that now," went on Phil. "We simply must devote all our energies to the Boxer Hall game." "No use thinking of that unless Fairview loses to them," came from Tom, gloomily. "Oh, cheer up!" urged Phil. "You can't win the championship by feeling that way," but his words did little to dispel the gloom in the heart of the captain. For the next few days there was hard practice. Tom's hand received special attention, and it was hoped that he could last the entire Boxer game. The batting improved very much, and the 'varsity nine was as much on edge as it was possible for it to be. Meanwhile there was anxiety over the outcome of the Fairview-Boxer game. For some time past the Randall players had been reckoning percentages. It must be remembered that the games described in detail in this volume were not the only ones played by the rival colleges in the league. There were many more contests than those set down here, but space will not permit their description. Sufficient to say that, reckoning in some forfeited contests, and computing the standings on the basis of games won and lost, it developed that if Boxer Hall beat Fairview it would make a tie for first place between Boxer and Randall, and all would then depend on the final contest between those two latter teams. Therefore it was with no small jubilation that the news was received, a week later, that Boxer had downed Fairview. "Now for _our_ chance to win!" cried Tom, brightening up a little. "All we have to do is to wallop Boxer, and the loving cup is ours. But Oh, Phil! if we only had Sid!" "That's right. Have you noticed how queer he's been acting of late?" "Oh, it's the same old story. I'm done now. I made my last appeal. By the way, I didn't hear what happened the time he was last caught by Zane. What was the verdict?" "It hasn't been announced yet. Faculty held a meeting but deferred action. It means expulsion, of course. Poor old Sid!" "Well, he brought it on himself." "How do you know?" asked Phil sharply. "Maybe there's something we don't understand." "And we never will," added Tom bitterly. "I consider that Sid has done as much as any one to defeat the team if we lose the last game." "Oh, don't think that. How's your hand?" "Fine! I can last all right. It's the batting I'm worried about. Langridge will do his worst, and we must look for a fierce game. We've got to practice until the gong rings." Tom worked his men to the limit, with Coach Leighton to help him. Matters seemed a little brighter, and in spite of his words Tom had a forlorn hope that, after all, the faculty might relent, and allow Sid to play. But this hope was dashed to the ground the night before the game. Then Sid came into the room, despondency showing on his face and in every motion. He began hauling his things out of the closet and bureau, and packing them in his trunk. "What's up, old man?" asked Phil in great surprise. "I'm leaving." "Leaving?" burst out Tom. "Yes. Expelled. Faculty just had a meeting on my case, and it's all off. I'm done!" "Look here!" cried Tom. "Are you going to let it go this far, Sid? Aren't you going to speak--going to tell your secret, and exonerate yourself?" "I can't," answered Sid simply, and his tone was so miserable that his chums forebore to question him further. His trunk was soon packed, and he left the room. Neither Phil nor Tom felt like talking and went to bed early. Sid did not return that night, and the two ball players were out early, for practice on the diamond, in anticipation of the great and deciding game which was to take place that afternoon on the Boxer Hall grounds. A little before noon, when the team had gone to the gymnasium for a light dinner, and to have some last secret instruction from the coach and Tom, Sid Henderson crossed the college campus. With him was an individual whom, had Phil or Tom seen, they would have at once recognized as the sporty youth who had met Sid the day of the island picnic. But there was a great change noticed in the young man. He no longer wore the "loud" suit and the brilliant tie; he no longer smoked a cigarette, and there was a chastened air about him. "Don't you feel a bit nervous about it, Guy?" asked Sid. "Not a bit, old man. It's a bitter dose to swallow, but I need it, I guess. I wish I could do more for you. Are you sure it isn't too late?" "I hope not. The team hasn't gone yet. There's just a chance." "Well, I can't thank you enough for all you've done for me. No one else would have done as much. No one else would have kept his promise in the face of such odds. It wasn't right for me to ask you." "We agreed not to talk about that, you know, Guy." "I can't help mentioning it. Lead on. I'll explain to Dr. Churchill, and all the rest of them." The two disappeared into the doctor's residence, and, presently there might have been seen wending their way thither the various members of the Randall college faculty. What took place occurred behind closed doors, and what that was, only was known afterward when Sid made his explanation. Sufficient, for the present, to say that the meeting was a protracted one, much to the restlessness of several of the younger professors who wanted to go to Boxer Hall to witness the championship struggle. "Well, then, are we all agreed?" asked Dr. Churchill, as he smiled kindly on Sid, and regarded with a pitying glance the youth whom the second baseman had addressed as Guy. "I think so," answered Professor Tines. "I seldom like to reverse myself, but I feel that it is warranted on this occasion. I will vote to remove the ban that has been on Mr. Henderson, and restore him to his full college rights and privileges." "I think we all feel the same way," spoke Professor Bogardus, the science teacher, "and I am glad that I can change my vote." "I think we all are," went on Dr. Churchill. "Mr. Henderson, I congratulate you, in the name of the college, for bearing up as you did, in the face of heavy odds. You are now a Sophomore in good standing, and----" "May I play on the team?" burst out Sid. "You may," answered the genial old doctor, his eyes twinkling, "and I'll be there to see you win, at least for the last part of the game. The ban is removed, Mr. Henderson." "Thank you, all," spoke Sid feelingly to the assembled professors. Then, turning to his companion, he added: "Come on, Guy. I'm going to get in the last game, after all." "No, I'll not come. You've had enough of me. I'm going back to mother. She--she needs me now," and the former sportily-attired lad turned away. Sid hurried over to the gymnasium. His heart was beating in wild exultation. At last he was eligible to play on the nine! He could help them to win, for that Randall would lose never entered his head. He reached the gymnasium. It seemed strangely deserted and quiet for a championship day. Sid felt a sense as if an icy hand was clutching his heart. "Where--where's the ball nine?" he asked one of the janitors. "The ball nine?" "Yes." Sid thought the man would never answer. "Oh, the ball nine has gone over an hour," was the reply. "They went to Boxer Hall in a big automobile--a rubberneck they calls 'em." "Gone! Over an hour!" gasped Sid. "Can I get there in time--in time to play? I must! I will! It's my last chance! Oh, I must get there!" and he started on a run for the trolley line that led to Boxer Hall. CHAPTER XXXII A PERILOUS CROSSING Sid hurried on, his thoughts in a wild tumult. In his pocket was a note from Dr. Churchill, restoring him to all his rights and privileges. Sid had asked for it, lest Boxer Hall protest his entrance into the game at the last minute, for Sid was fully determined to play, and help his team to win. He knew he was in good form, for he had not neglected practice. "If I can catch the next car," he thought, "I'll be in time." Then, as he caught sight of something yellow through the trees on the banks of Sunny river, along which the electric line extended, he exclaimed: "There's a car, now! I'll have to sprint for it. Glad I didn't stop to get my suit. I can borrow one from a sub when I get there, I guess." He broke into a run, but noted, curiously, that the car did not seem to be moving very fast. Then, as he made the turn in the road, he saw that it was standing still, and that a number of the passengers were walking about, idly. "Must have had a fuse blow out, or a hot box, and they're waiting to cool it," he mused. "Lucky for me, as the electrics don't run very often from now on." Sid dropped into a walk, and was soon at the stalled car. "What's the matter?" asked the second baseman of the motorman, who was sitting on a grassy bank, idly chopping at a stone with his controller handle. "Power's off." "For long?" asked Sid, his heart thumping under his ribs. "Hard to say. It's been off nearly an hour now, and the conductor just telephoned in, and they said it might be an hour more." "An hour more! Then I can't get to Boxer Hall in time for the game." The motorman looked quizzically at Sid. "Not unless you walk, or hire an auto," he remarked, and fell again to hammering the stone. The other passengers were fretting, complaining, or accepting the situation philosophically, as befitted their natures. Sid made up his mind quickly. "I can walk to Fordham junction, and take the train," he decided. "From Bendleton, which is the nearest railroad station to Boxer Hall, it's only two miles. Maybe I can run it in time, or perhaps I'll meet some one who will give me a lift. Anyway, that's my best chance. I'll do it," and, with a final glance at the stalled car, hoping he might see the flashing up of the lights on it, which would tell of the power being turned on, Sid turned and made off toward the distant railroad station. As the janitor had informed Sid, Tom and the other ball players, including the substitutes, had made an early start in a large automobile, carrying twenty passengers. It was of the type known as a "rubber-neck," from the fact that they are used in big cities to take visitors to the scenes of interest, there to "rubber," or stretch their necks in gazing aloft. "See anything of Sid, as you came away?" asked Holly Cross, who sat beside Tom and Phil, as the auto swayed along. "No," answered Tom briefly. "I fancy he's left for good. Poor old Sid! Isn't it a shame that he went to pieces as he did? If we only had him now our chances would be brighter." "Would you play him if he came along?" asked Phil. "Of course--provided I could--that he was in good standing so Boxer Hall couldn't protest. But what's the use of talking?" "Is he in good form, captain?" asked Bricktop. "Sid never goes stale," answered Tom. "Besides, with his ability to slice a ball to right or left field in a pinch, hitting right and left handed as he does, it would be just great for us to-day." "Still worrying?" asked Phil. "Of course. So would you, if you were in my place. Don't you know what this game means to us?" "Sure we do, me lad," answered Bricktop, kindly. "But say this over to yourself a few times and you'll feel better. 'Tis a proverb of me old Irish ancestors. 'Soft an' aisy goes far in a day,' that's it. 'Soft and aisy goes far in a day.' Remember that, Tommy, me lad, and take it 'aisy' as the good Irish say. We'll win--never fear--we'll win." There was talk and laughter, serious conversation and much chaffing as the auto rumbled along. They had started early and thought they would have plenty of time, but something went wrong with the steering gear once, and a second time the water in the radiator needed replenishing, so that with the delays it left the players with no more than time to get to Boxer Hall in season for the game, and left hardly any time for practice. "Hadn't you better hit up the pace a little, my friend," suggested Mr. Leighton to the chauffeur. "I will, yes, sir," was the answer, and the big car did make better time, for it was on a good road. The team fell to laughing and joking again, but suddenly stopped, as the auto once more came to a halt just before crossing Pendleton river, a stream somewhat larger than Sunny river, and intercepting the main road between the two colleges. "What's up now?" asked Tom. "The drawbridge is open," replied the chauffeur. The players stood up and looked across the river. The draw, which was necessary on account of a number of sailboats on the stream, was swung, making an impassable gap, for the stream at that point was swift and deep. Some men were seen on the middle of the bridge. "What's the matter? Why don't you swing shut that bridge?" yelled Phil. "Can't," answered one of the men. "Why not?" "The machinery that operates the draw is broken. We swung the bridge open to let a boat pass, and now we can't close it again. We've sent for some mechanics to repair it." "How long will it take?" yelled Tom. "Oh, not long. Two or three hours, maybe." "Two or three hours! Great smokestacks!" howled Tom. "That will be too late for us. We can't get to the game on time!" "Of course not!" agreed Holly Cross. "And Boxer Hall will be just mean enough to call a forfeit, and claim the championship!" "Say, you've got to swing this bridge shut, and let us pass!" sung out Phil. "Can't!" yelled the men who were on the bridge, marooned as it were. "We've tried, but it won't budge." "What's to be done?" asked Jerry Jackson. "Yes, what's to be done?" echoed his twin brother. "Guess we'll have to swim for it," suggested Dutch Housenlager. "That is, unless Grasshopper Backus can jump over with us on his back, one at a time." But, though they could joke over the situation, they all knew that it was serious. The time was drawing close, and they were still some distance from Boxer Hall. Further inquiry of the men on the bridge did not help matters, nor did the fuming and fretting of Tom and his chums. "Can't you suggest a plan?" asked Mr. Leighton of the chauffeur. "Well, there's another bridge about five miles below here." "That's too far. Ten miles out of our way. Time we went there, and got back it would be too late. Boxer Hall would claim the game. Can nothing be done?" and the coach looked at the swiftly swirling river. At that moment a man driving a mule hitched to a buckboard came along. He took in the situation at a glance. "Stuck, eh?" he remarked sympathetically. "That's what," replied Bricktop Molloy. "Maybe ye happen t' be a fairy, Mr. Man, an' can help us across." "Why don't you try the ford?" asked the man. "Ford? We didn't know there was one," said Tom. "Sure there is. About half a mile below here. It's where the river is shallow, and many's the time I've driven across before this bridge was built. The water's a leetle high now, but I guess your ark could make it. Will it go in water?" "If it's not too deep, and there's good bottom," was the chauffeur's answer. "Oh, it's good bottom, but, as I say, it's a trifle deep." "Try it, anyhow," suggested Tom. "It's our only chance. Go ahead." This was the sentiment of all, and the players getting into their seats again, which they had left to gaze at the river, the auto was backed up, and headed for the ford, the man with the buckboard going in advance to show the way. As he had said, the water was rather high, and it seemed to swirl along dangerously fast. He would not venture in with his mule, but, after a look at it the chauffeur said he would try it. "I'll be all right," he announced, "if the water doesn't come up high enough to short-circuit the batteries or the magneto." "Let her go!" cried Tom. Backing up, to get a good start down the slope that led to the ford, the chauffeur turned on full speed. Into the river went the big auto, with its heavy load. The water splashed up in a spray as the front wheels, with the big tires, struck the limpid surface. A moment later the entire machine was in the water, submerged to the hubs. "It's all right! Go on! Go on!" urged the man with the mule. "It won't be much deeper than that." "If it is we're done for," remarked the chauffeur in a low voice. It was a perilous passage, but the Randall nine was too anxious over the consequences of delay to mind that much. The man in charge of the auto was rather white-faced, but he gripped the steering wheel, and kept on high speed, though he throttled down the engine a trifle as he neared the middle of the river. The big machine careened dangerously, and several clung instinctively to the sides. "Can you make it?" asked Mr. Leighton anxiously. "I don't know," replied the chauffeur, as he peered at a bit of smooth water directly ahead. It looked to be deep, and he was contemplating turning to one side, though their guide had warned him to steer straight for the other side. "Keep on! Keep on!" cried the man with the mule encouragingly. "Straight ahead, and you'll be safe!" The chauffeur yanked the gasolene lever over the rachet, opening the throttle wider, and the car shot forward at increased speed. It swayed, and seemed about to topple over, righted itself, almost like a thing alive, and then, with a crunching of gravel, was out of the stream, and climbing the slope that led from the ford to the road. "By Jove! I'm glad we're over that!" exclaimed Tom, with a sigh of relief. "Speed her up now, and get us to Boxer Hall!" Half an hour later the players were on the diamond, being received by a crowd of their friends who had preceded them to the game earlier in the day, for the last game of the season was a gala affair, and the Randall lads usually came over to Boxer Hall early in the morning. "Now for a battle to the death," said Tom grimly, as he led his men out to practice. CHAPTER XXXIII THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME From grand stands and bleachers came cheers, yells, songs and cries of many kinds. There was a record-breaking crowd, every seat seeming to be filled when the two nines, in their natty uniforms, began their warming-up work. In the bleachers were many townspeople, both Randall and Boxer Hall adherents. It seemed as if the unprotected seats, shimmering in the hot sun, were composed of mats of straw hats, with colored bands for ornaments. In the grand stands there was a conglomeration of many colors, formed by the hats of girls, and the gay banners they carried, the yellow and maroon of Randall mingling with the red and green of Boxer Hall, a combination lately adopted. "Great crowd," commented Phil to Tom. "Yes. But say, look at Langridge send 'em in!" for the rival pitcher was warming-up with Stoddard, his catcher. "Ruth and Madge are here," went on Phil. "Are they? I wonder if Miss Harrison will come?" "Guess so. S'pose Sid will be on hand?" "I doubt it. But come on, let's have a talk with Leighton and Kerr. They may want to say something." The practice went on, the usual conferences took place between captain and captain, manager and manager. Boxer Hall, as the home team, had the privilege of batting last. Batting orders were submitted for inspection, and the umpire took several new balls from his valise, and stripped from them the foil covering. With the exception of Pete Backus in place of Sid, the Randall team was the same that had played the 'varsity games all season, though the batting order was different, Holly Cross leading off, he having improved greatly in stick work. There was no change in the Boxer team, from when she had last played Tom's men. The gong rang sharply. The buzzing talk and laughter on the grand stands ceased, as the umpire announced the batteries. There was a moment of consultation among the two nines, and then Stoddard, who was Boxer's captain that year, motioned to his players to take the field. He donned his mask and protector, and adjusted his big glove. Langridge, with a cynical smile on his face, walked to the pitcher's box. He threw four preliminary balls to Stoddard, who then signified that he was ready. "Play ball!" called the umpire, and Holly Cross stepped up to the plate. Langridge "wound up" and sent in a swift one. Holly did not offer to strike at it. "Strike wan!" howled the umpire, who was a bit Irish, throwing one arm up in the air. There was an indrawing of breath on the part of the Randall players. "It was a mile outside," complained Tom. "Hush!" cautioned Mr. Leighton. Holly struck at the next one, and missed. The following was a foul, and this gave his friends some encouragement. "Lambaste the next one!" yelled Bean Perkins from amid his throng of singers and shouters. But Holly struck out. Nor did any better luck attend Dan Woodhouse, who fanned. There was a wicked look in the eyes of Bricktop, as he walked to the plate, and perhaps for that reason Langridge walked him. He seemed to know he would have "easy fruit" in Pete Backus, who was taking Sid's place, and he did, for he easily struck him out, and Bricktop died on second, which he had stolen. No runs for Randall that inning. It was not without a nervous tremor that Tom walked to the box, to see what he could do against Boxer. He wondered how his hand was going to stand the strain, though it seemed to have healed perfectly. After exchanging the regulation number of practice balls with Dutch Housenlager, Tom was ready for Ralling, who was first up at the bat for Boxer Hall. Dutch signalled for a puzzling drop, and Tom delivered it, but Ralling took a quick step forward, and, before the curve "broke" he got his bat on it, and sent a pretty single just over Bricktop's head, though the plucky shortstop leaped high to get it. Ralling was safe on first. McGherity fanned twice, but the third time he, too, found the ball, and rapped out a two bagger, bringing in Ralling, who had managed to steal to second, though Tom tried desperately to throw him out. Roy Conklin was up next, and struck out, and then came Arthur Flood's turn. How it happened Tom couldn't tell, but the ball twisted in his hands, and instead of an out curve it went over the plate straight, and at slow speed. Flood hit it a mighty "poke" and away the horsehide spheroid sailed, well over the head of Holly Cross in center field. But Holly pluckily raced after it, and, though McGherity came in with a run, Flood found it expedient to linger on third. By this time all Boxer Hall was in a frenzy of delight, for they were two runs to the good, and only one out. But there were two, a moment later, for Flood, taking chances, was caught napping on the third bag, and put out by a quick throw. George Stoddard fanned, and that ended the inning, with the score 2 to 0, in favor of Boxer Hall. Randall could not score in the next inning though Tom knocked a two bagger. He stole third, and then had to stay there and watch the Jackson twins and Dutch Housenlager ingloriously fan the air. It was bitterness as of gall and wormwood, but Tom tried not to show it, as he took his place in the box for the ending of the second inning. Things looked a little brighter when Pinkey Davenport laid down a little bingle, almost in front of Tom, who tossed it to Phil, on first, and there was one down, with scarcely an effort. Then Langridge sent a neat little fly to Pete, on second base, and Bert Hutchin fanned, making three out in such quick succession that the wild cheering of Boxer Hall was checked, and Bean Perkins and his cohorts had a chance to let loose. "Now, Randall, do 'em up! Wallop 'em!" shouted a tall dignified man, accompanied by two pretty girls who sat well down in front on the center grand stand. "Eat 'em alive! Eat 'em alive!" "Oh, papa!" cried one pretty girl, clasping his left arm. "Oh, papa!" exclaimed the other pretty girl, seizing his right arm. "That's all right, my dears," he answered. "Don't you suppose I want to see my old college win? And they will, too! Those boys have grit!" "Yes, but they're short one of their best players," said a man next to the "old grad," and he told about Sid, for that was common knowledge now. A goose egg went up in the Boxer frame that inning, and Tom looked happier. But, try as his men did in their share of the third, nothing resulted, though Woodhouse laid out a pretty liner, which was caught, after a run, by Sam Burton. Then came the heart-breaking last of the third, when three runs were added to Boxer's score. "Go on back home!" yelled some Boxer enthusiast at the Randall team. "You can't play ball! Go back!" "Not until we have your scalps!" declared Bean Perkins vindictively. Seated together on the middle grand stand, Madge Tyler, Mabel Harrison and Ruth Clinton looked at each other. "Looks pretty bad, doesn't it, Ruth?" asked Madge. "Don't talk," said Ruth in a low voice, as she saw her brother's team coming in. "I'm--I'm just _praying_ for them, Madge." A ray of light came to Randall in this inning for, though Pete Backus struck out, Tom laid down a pretty two bagger and came home on what was intended as a sacrifice hit by Joe Jackson, only it was fumbled and Joe got to first. Then Jerry fanned and Dutch got out on an almost impossible foul that Stoddard grabbed, banging up against the grand stand to do it. "One to five," remarked Tom musingly, as he went to his box, for the ending of the fourth. "Well, we can't be whitewashed, anyhow, but I guess it's all up with us." It seemed so, for in that inning Boxer added two runs to her credit, even if again Tom did strike out Langridge. The score was 7 to 1 against Randall now. In the fifth inning Tom's side gathered in one run, Phil making it on a sacrifice by Holly Cross, and Boxer further sweetened her score by another tally. In the beginning of the sixth Randall had the joy of seeing another single mark go up in her frame. "We've got three runs," Tom remarked to Phil, as he went to his box. "One more in each inning will look pretty, but it will hardly do the work," and he spoke bitterly. "Hard luck, old man, but maybe it will turn," came from Phil. But, alas for hopes! Many things happened in the last half of the sixth, and when they were done occurring there were four runs chalked up for Boxer. Tom rather lost control of himself, and had walked two men, while there was ragged field work to account for the rest of the disaster. And now the score stood 12 to 3 in favor of Boxer Hall. It seemed like a farce, and even Boxer Hall was tired of cheering herself. Tom saw the championship slipping away after all his hard work. Even Bricktop Molloy, usually cheerful in the face of heavy odds, did not smile, and Mr. Leighton looked gloomy. "Well, let the slaughter go on," remarked Tom, as he came in with his men, to see what the seventh inning held in store for them. "I guess you'd better let Evert pitch the rest of the game, Mr. Leighton," said Tom, as he sat down on the bench beside the coach. "He can't do any worse than I've done." "Nonsense! Things may take a turn even yet, though I admit they look rather bad for us. I hope----" But Mr. Leighton did not finish. There seemed to be some dispute with the man on guard at the players' gate. "No, you can't go in," said the official. "How do I know you are a member of the Randall team?" "Why, of course I am!" cried a voice, and, at the sound of it, Tom looked up quickly. "Sid Henderson!" exclaimed the captain. "Oh, Tom! Tom!" cried Sid. "Am I in time?" and he pushed past the gate tender. "In time? Yes, to see us walloped," answered the captain bitterly. "In time? What do you mean?" and Mr. Leighton caught at a strange note in Sid's voice. "To play the game!" "Play the game?" Tom had leaped to his feet. "Yes. It's all right. Here's a note from Dr. Churchill. The ban is removed. I can play--I can play!" Tom ran over, and threw his arms around Sid. The game came to a sudden stop. The note was examined. Mr. Leighton told the umpire to make the announcement that Sid Henderson would bat for Pete Backus that inning, and take his place in the game after that. "I protest!" cried Langridge, coming up with an ugly look on his face. There was a conference of the officials, but in the end they had to admit that Sid was eligible, and the game started again. But with what a different feeling among the Randall players! It was as if new life had been infused into them. Bean Perkins started the song, "We're Going to Wallop 'em Now!" and it was roared out from several hundred lusty throats. Nor was it unjustified; for with a grim viciousness, after Holly Cross had struck out, Dan Woodhouse rapped out a three bagger the moment he came up to the bat, and Bricktop followed with a two-sack ball, bringing in Kindlings, while Sid, with a happy look on his face, looked grimly at Langridge, as if telling him to do his worst. The stands were still trembling under the stamping that had followed Dan's arrival home with a run, and when Sid swung at the ball, and duplicated Dan's trick, bringing in Bricktop, there was a wild riot of yells. They were kept up even when Tom sacrificed to bring Sid home, and then Joe Jackson got to first on a fly that McGherity muffed. Jerry, by hitting out a pretty liner, enabled his brother to get to third, while Jerry was held on first. Up came Dutch and he clouted the ball to such good purpose that he got to third, and the Jersey twins scored. Then poor Dutch died on third for Phil fanned out. But nothing could dampen the enthusiasm of the Randallites then, for they had secured five runs, and the score stood only 12 to 8 against them now. "Oh, we can catch up!" yelled Bean Perkins. "Now for the 'Conquer or Die' song, fellows," and the strangely beautiful and solemn strains of the Latin melody floated over the field. Tom's men began to play like fiends. They seemed to be all over the field, and, though Tom was hit for a single, not another man got to first. "Oh, if we can only hold 'em down, and bring in a few more runs we've got 'em!" panted Tom, as he came to the bench in the beginning of the eighth, and sat down beside Sid. "But say, old man, how did it happen that the doctor let you play at the last minute?" he asked, while the others waited for Sid's answer. "I'll tell you later," the second baseman promised. "Gee, but I had a time getting here! Trolley wasn't running, and I had to come by train. Thought I'd have a long walk, but I met a fellow in an auto and he gave me a lift. Then, just as I got here I heard that the trolleys started running about five minutes after I left the stalled car. But, Tom, are we going to win?" "We sure are," declared the captain, clapping Sid on the back. CHAPTER XXXIV BATTING TO WIN But, though things had started off with a rush in the seventh, they went slower for Randall in the eighth, and one run was all that could be gathered in. Holly Cross got to first, and managed to steal second and third, while Kindlings Woodhouse and Bricktop ingloriously fanned. Sid laid out a beautiful three-bagger, bringing in Holly with the run. Then Tom was walked, much to his surprise, with Sid on third, and Joe Jackson got a pass, thus filling the bases. Randall was wild, for it looked as if a big play would be pulled off, but Jerry Jackson fanned, and the three men expired on the bags. "Hold 'em down, fellows! Hold 'em down!" pleaded Tom. "We only need four runs to win the game, if we can keep 'em from scoring in their next two whacks." "If," remarked Phil cynically. "Ever see a white black-bird, Tom?" "Oh, we'll do it!" declared Sid savagely. Tom did manage to retire Boxer without a run, surpassing himself by the excellence of his curves. He was more like himself now. Then came the memorable ninth inning, which, when Dutch started it off by fanning out, looked as if the end had come. It looked even more so when Phil Clinton also whacked only the air and there was a curious hush over the big crowd as Holly Cross walked to the plate. "Now, Holly!" yelled Bean. "Another like you gave us before. There's only two out!" It looked rather hopeless, with two out, but Holly slammed out a single bagger. Dan Woodhouse followed, and hit well, Holly getting to third in the confusion. Then came Bricktop, his red hair all awry. "For the love of Cæsar hit it on the nose, old man!" pleaded Tom. "I'll do it for your sake, me lad," answered Bricktop calmly, and he proceeded to swing on the ball. He knocked a hot little liner to Langridge, and there was a groan as the pitcher, seemingly, caught it, but it bounded out of his hands, rolled between his legs and when he had picked it up Bricktop was at first, where he was called safe, though the Boxer players protested it. Holly had started for home, but when he saw Langridge stop the ball he ran back, and it was well he did so, for he was now safe there, as was Dan Woodhouse on second. The bases were full, there were two out, and it needed four runs to win the game when Sid Henderson came up to the bat. He was as cool as if he was the first man up in a small game, and not one on whom a championship depended. "Oh, Sid, old man, bat! bat! bat!" pleaded Tom in a low voice. "Bat to win! It all depends on you, now!" [Illustration: "BAT TO WIN! IT ALL DEPENDS ON YOU!"] Sid did not reply. He was watching Langridge narrowly, for he knew that pitcher's tricks of old. Sid did not strike at the first ball, for it was away to one side, but the umpire called a strike on him and there was a howl of protest. It was quickly hushed. Langridge "wound up" again, and sent in a swift one. With an intaking of his breath Sid swung at it. Almost before he connected his bat with the horsehide he was aware that he would make a good strike. There was a sweetness to the resonant vibration of the stick, as he cast it from him, and sprinted for first. He could not see where the ball had gone, though he had had a momentary glimpse of it going over center field, but he trusted to Tom, who was in the coaching box at first, urging him on. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" "Pretty hit!" "What a soaker!" "Run! Run! Leg it, you old sock doger!" yelled the man with the two pretty daughters, as he recklessly swung his silk hat in the air. "A home run! A home run!" cried Phil, capering about, and hugging the Jersey twins, one in each arm. Upward and outward sped the ball, away, far away over the center fielder's head. He ran back for it, became confused and began wildly searching around in the deep grass of far outfield. "Come on in! Come on in, everybody!" Tom was yelling, and swinging his arms like the sails of an old windmill. Holly raced over home plate, followed by Kindlings. Bricktop was racing in from third, followed by Sid, who had made such a magnificent hit. Bricktop tallied the tying run, and Sid was now running up from third, running as he had never run before, for he felt that it all depended on him now. The fielder had the ball by this time, and had thrown it to the second baseman, who swung about and relayed it home, but it was just a second too late, and Sid crossed the rubber on a grand slide. Four runs in succession! Oh, how the Randallites did yell! How they howled! How they stamped until the grand stands trembled, while as for the members of the team they fairly smothered Sid! But the game was not over yet. Tom Parsons was up next, and, though as nervous as a girl, he managed to make a single off Langridge, much to the latter's disgust, for he was being hooted and howled at almost to the limit. Then Joe Jackson was struck out, and that ended Randall's chances. But the score was 13 to 12 in her favor, and if they could retire Boxer Hall without a run, the championship was theirs. Tom did it. How, is Randall history now, and any "old grad" will gladly relate it to you. How two men were struck out in almost less time than it takes to tell it, and how Tom caught an almost impossible fly by leaping high in the air as it was sailing over his head, and downed his third man. And that was the end. Randall had won the championship. Oh, what a scene there was on the diamond then! Of course, Boxer cheered her rival, and then, hardly waiting for the answering compliment from Tom's men, they filed to their dressing rooms. "Oh, Sid, it was great! Great!" cried Tom, hugging his chum. "Simply great, old man!" "Up with him!" commanded Phil, and Sid was hoisted to the shoulders of his fellows, and carted around, much to his embarrassment. "A bully game! Whoop-de-doodle-de!" cried the man with the pretty daughters. "Oh, papa!" they cried protestingly, blushing at the notice attracted to them. "Let me alone!" he retorted. "Didn't my old college win? Wow! Wow! Wow!" and he began to dance, while his daughters blushed more deeply. But who cared? The diamond was overrun with spectators, anxious to shake hands with the victorious players, especially with Sid, who had batted the way to victory. Three pretty girls made their way through the press. "Are congratulations in order?" asked one. "Of course, Miss Tyler," answered Phil. "Sure," added Tom, clasping the hands Ruth Clinton held out to him. Sid stepped to one side, as Mabel Harrison came up. He was rather pale under his tan. "Come on, let's all go off and have some cream," proposed Phil. "Come along, Sid, you and Miss Harrison----" He paused in confusion, for he had, for the moment, forgotten the cloud between the two. Mabel Harrison blushed, and was about to turn away, but Sid stepped forward. "I will only be too happy," he said, "if Miss Harrison will----" "You know--you know----" she stammered in confusion. The six were somewhat by themselves now, for the crowd had surged away. "It's all right!" exclaimed Sid, and there was a joyous look on his face. "I can, and I'm going, to explain everything, now. You needn't hesitate about coming with me, Miss Harrison. See this," and he held out a duplicate of the newspaper clipping that had been fraught with such results. "I don't wonder you fellows thought I was going the pace," continued Sid, "nor do I blame you, Miss Harrison, for not believing in me. This is the first chance I've had to explain. I was in that gambling raid told of here." "You were?" and the girl recoiled a pace. "Yes," resumed Sid, with a little smile, "I went there to rescue my cousin. His name is Guy Norton, and he is the same flashily-dressed young man you saw me with at the picnic. Guy's father died a short time ago, leaving him a fortune, which he proceeded to get rid of as quickly as possible. He took to gambling, and fast company, though his widowed mother never knew it. She supposed him attending to business in Dartwell, but, instead, Guy was dissipating. His sister, Clara, knew of it, however, and wrote to me to try to save her brother. She came to Dartwell to help look after him, and boarded with him. I had considerable control over Guy, for we used to be little chaps together, and I once saved him from drowning, so he would generally do as I said. So I promised his sister I would save him, and gave my word not to tell anything about it, as she wanted to keep all knowledge from her mother, who had a weak heart, and who, she knew, would die if she ever knew her son was a gambler. "My first service was to take Guy out of a gambling hall, his sister having written me a hasty note to the effect that he had gone there with a large sum of money." "That piece of paper, with the word 'trouble' on it must have been from her note," remarked Phil. "We picked it up in the room, after you went out so quickly that rainy night, Sid." "Yes," assented the victorious second baseman, "Guy was in trouble, sure enough. I went to Dartwell, and managed to get my cousin to leave the place, just before the raid. As we went out, however, the police came in, and Guy and I were caught. He fought the officers, and called out my name, in asking me to help rescue him. Instead I advised him to submit. He was taken away, but I easily proved that I had nothing to do with the gambling, and I was allowed to go. I went to Guy's boarding place, and, from his sister, got money enough to pay his fine, together with some I had. In some way my name got in the papers. Guy might have recklessly given it instead of his own, thinking to keep the knowledge from his mother. "My cousin was released the next morning, but he made me promise never to tell of his scrape. That was what sealed my lips. He promised to reform, if I kept silent, and I did, though it was hard--terribly hard," and Sid looked at Miss Harrison, in whose blue eyes there were traces of tears. "As I knew Guy's mother had a weak heart, and that the least shock might be fatal, I dared not even ask her advice. Clara and I decided to fight it out alone. She arranged to send me word by a messenger, whenever her brother went off with his gay companions, and I promised to go and bring him away, no matter what the hour. "I did go, many times, to your wonderment, Tom and Phil, and once I had to cancel a promise I made to take Miss Harrison to an affair. But I could not break my word. On one occasion Guy, who was not himself, recklessly came to the college seeking me. He had a bottle of liquor with him, and I took it away from him, hurrying him back to Dartwell. But Mr. Zane caught me, and, as I was on my honor to Guy and his sister to keep silent, I could not explain. I took my punishment, being barred from the team, and kept still, though it was hard--very hard." "You were a hero!" exclaimed Mabel Harrison, her blue eyes bright with admiration. "Oh, no, hardly that, I guess," answered Sid, but he smiled gratefully. "Well," he resumed, "so it went on. I dared not tell, for I had given my word, though I was sorely tempted that day he came for me at the picnic, and nearly disgraced me. But Guy would not release me, and his sister pleaded for just a little longer try at saving him, and I consented. I paid his gambling debts many times, and, often, it left me temporarily without money. "Things looked very black, Guy would not heed my requests to stop gambling, and I did not care what happened. I even went to Bascome's dinner, thinking to get away from my troubles. Then, when everything seemed to go by the board, and I had been expelled for being caught out late, when I had gone one night to get Guy away from reckless companions, he suddenly reformed. He met some girl, I believe, who had a hand in it. At any rate he turned over a new leaf, gave up his gambling, and, what relieved me, confessed everything to his mother. "She was much affected, but she forgave him, and is to take him abroad this week, to straighten him out. That was the end of my thralldom. To-day Guy went with me to Dr. Churchill, made a clean breast of it, told what I had done, and why, and before the assembled members of the faculty, proved my innocence. It was just in time to allow the lifting of the expulsion ban, and permit me to play--only I had a task to get here in time----" "But you did, old man!" cried Tom, seizing his chum's hand--only one, however, for, somehow Mabel Harrison had the other. "You were in time to help us bat to win! Sid, can you forgive us?" "Forgive? There's nothing to forgive," declared Sid, and his eyes were moist. "I don't blame you in the least for thinking I was doing the very things I was trying to save my cousin from. Many a time I went broke on his account, but I didn't mind, for he was worth saving, for the sake of his mother and sister, if not for himself. He's all right now, I believe, and thoroughly ashamed of himself." "Thanks to you," put in Madge Tyler. "Oh, I think you were perfectly splendid, Mr. Henderson!" cried Ruth Clinton, with shining eyes. Mabel Harrison did not say what she thought, but the look from her blue eyes was enough for Sid. He held her hand, and--Oh, well, what's the use of telling on a chap, anyhow? You'd have done the same, I guess, if you had been there. There was a little pause after Sid had finished his story, and all about sounded the victorious yells and songs of the exulting Randallites. "Well, are you ready for those plates of cream, now?" asked Phil. "Talking is dry work. So that was your secret, Sid?" "That was it, and hard enough it was to keep, too, at times, let me tell you," and the second baseman sighed. A little later a jolly party sat in an ice-cream parlor, and their merry laughter and jests brought smiles to more than one countenance, as the other guests looked on and listened. "Why do you suppose Mr. Langridge sent that false clipping from the newspaper to you--I mean the one about Sid?" asked Ruth of Mabel. "Oh, I--I don't know--exactly," answered the blue-eyed girl, but I suspect that she did know, but did not want to say, for she was done with Langridge forever. "Now for college, and a procession in honor of our victory, the loving cup, and Sid Henderson--with bonfires and feasting on the side," remarked Captain Tom, a little later, when reluctant good-bys had been said to the girls. And the celebration in Randall that night was marked for years afterward in prominent letters in the college annals. Dr. Churchill made a thrilling speech, and even Professor Tines condescended to smile. The loving cup was carried at the head of a triumphant procession, the light from many gala-fires glinting from its polished surface. "Well, it's all over," remarked Tom, several hours later when he, Phil and Sid were together in their room. "My, but it has been a baseball season, though!" "A great one," commented Phil. "We've got a corking good team. I only hope we have as good a one when it comes time to kick the pigskin." "Oh, I guess we will," spoke Sid slowly. They did, as will be related in the next volume of this series, to be called "The Winning Touchdown," a tale of college football in which we shall meet all our old friends again. "Well," went on Sid, after a pause, "I don't know what you fellows are going to do, but I'm going to turn in. I'm dead tired after my long tramp," and he began to get ready for bed, while Tom and Phil, sitting by the open windows, listened to the shouts of the revelers out on the campus, for many had not yet had enough of the joys of victory. Then, as the captain threw himself on the old couch, and Phil curled up in the easy chair, the fussy alarm clock went off with a whirr, the bell jangling discordantly. "Time to get up, Sid, instead of going to bed," remarked Phil with a laugh, as he silenced the racket, and then the three chums--the inseparables--stood and looked at each other, while the clock resumed its interrupted ticking, and the shouts of the celebrators came in faintly on the night wind. THE END THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES BY LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Mr. Chadwick has played on the diamond and on the gridiron himself._ 1. THE RIVAL PITCHERS _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons, a "hayseed," makes good on the scrub team of Randall College. 2. A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK _A Story of College Football_ A football story, told in Mr. Chadwick's best style, that is bound to grip the reader from the start. 3. BATTING TO WIN _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons and his friends Phil and Sid are the leading players on Randall College team. There is a great game. 4. THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN _A Story of College Football_ After having to reorganize their team at the last moment, Randall makes a touchdown that won a big game. 5. FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL _A Story of College Athletics_ The winning of the hurdle race and long-distance run is extremely exciting. 6. THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS _A Story of College Water Sports_ Tom, Phil and Sid prove as good at aquatic sports as they are on track, gridiron and diamond. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York SEA STORIES FOR BOYS BY JOHN GABRIEL ROWE _Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Colored jacket_ _=Price per volume, $1.00 Net=_ [Illustration] _Every boy who knows the lure of exploring and who loves to rig up huts and caves and tree-houses to fortify himself against imaginary enemies will enjoy these books, for they give a vivid chronicle of the doings and inventions of a group of boys who are shipwrecked and have to make themselves snug and safe in tropical islands where the dangers are too real for play._ 1. CRUSOE ISLAND Dick, Alf and Fred find themselves stranded on an unknown island with the old seaman Josh, their ship destroyed by fire, their friends lost. 2. THE ISLAND TREASURE With much ingenuity these boys fit themselves into the wild life of the island they are cast upon in storm. 3. THE MYSTERY OF THE DERELICT Their ship and companions perished in tempest at sea, the boys are adrift in a small open boat when they spy a ship. Such a strange vessel!--no hand guiding it, no soul on board,--a derelict. 4. THE LIGHTSHIP PIRATES Modern Pirates, with the ferocity of beasts, attack a lightship crew;--recounting the adventures that befall the survivors of that crew,--and--"RETRIBUTION." 5. THE SECRET OF THE GOLDEN IDOL Telling of a mutiny, and how two youngsters were unwillingly involved in one of the weirdest of treasure hunts,--and--"THE GOLDEN FETISH." _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE JACK RANGER SERIES BY CLARENCE YOUNG _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Lively stories of outdoor sports and adventure every boy will want to read._ 1. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL DAYS _or The Rivals of Washington Hall_ You will love Jack Ranger--you simply can't help it. He is bright and cheery, and earnest in all he does. 2. JACK RANGER'S WESTERN TRIP _or From Boarding School to Ranch and Range_ This volume takes the hero to the great West. Jack is anxious to clear up the mystery surrounding his father's disappearance. 3. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL VICTORIES _or Track, Gridiron and Diamond_ Jack gets back to Washington Hall and goes in for all sorts of school games. There are numerous contests on the athletic field. 4. JACK RANGER'S OCEAN CRUISE _or The Wreck of the Polly Ann_ How Jack was carried off to sea against his will makes a "yarn" no boy will want to miss. 5. JACK RANGER'S GUN CLUB _or From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail_ Jack organizes a gun club and with his chums goes in quest of big game. They have many adventures in the mountains. 6. JACK RANGER'S TREASURE BOX _or The Outing of the Schoolboy Yachtsmen_ Jack receives a box from his father and it is stolen. How he regains it makes an absorbing tale. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York _Everybody will love the story of_ NOBODY'S BOY By HECTOR MALOT [Illustration] The dearest character in all the literature of child life is little Remi in Hector Malot's famous masterpiece _Sans Famille_ ("Nobody's Boy"). All love, pathos, loyalty, and noble boy character are exemplified in this homeless little lad, who has made the world better for his being in it. The boy or girl who knows Remi has an ideal never to be forgotten. But it is a story for grownups, too. "Nobody's Boy" is one of the supreme heart-interest stories of all time, which will _make you happier and better_. _4 Colored Illustrations. $1.50 net._ _=At All Booksellers=_ CUPPLES & LEON CO. Publishers New York THE KING OF THE MOUNTAINS (_Le Roi des Montagnes_) By EDMOND ABOUT _Translated by Florence Crewe-Jones_ _Illustrated by George Avison_ _12mo. Illustrated. 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WEBSTER [Illustration] Mr. Webster's style is very much like that of the boys' favorite author, the late lamented Horatio Alger, Jr., but his tales are thoroughly up-to-date. Cloth. 12mo. Over 200 pages each. Illustrated. Stamped in various colors. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. Only A Farm Boy _or Dan Hardy's Rise in Life_ The Boy From The Ranch _or Roy Bradner's City Experiences_ The Young Treasure Hunter _or Fred Stanley's Trip to Alaska_ The Boy Pilot of the Lakes _or Nat Morton's Perils_ Tom The Telephone Boy _or The Mystery of a Message_ Bob The Castaway _or The Wreck of the Eagle_ The Newsboy Partners _or Who Was Dick Box?_ Two Boy Gold Miners _or Lost in the Mountains_ The Young Firemen of Lakeville _or Herbert Dare's Pluck_ The Boys of Bellwood School _or Frank Jordan's Triumph_ Jack the Runaway _or On the Road with a Circus_ Bob Chester's Grit _or From Ranch to Riches_ Airship Andy _or The Luck of a Brave Boy_ High School Rivals _or Fred Markham's Struggles_ Darry The Life Saver _or The Heroes of the Coast_ Dick The Bank Boy _or A Missing Fortune_ Ben Hardy's Flying Machine _or Making a Record for Himself_ Harry Watson's High School Days _or The Rivals of Rivertown_ Comrades of the Saddle _or The Young Rough Riders of the Plains_ Tom Taylor at West Point _or The Old Army Officer's Secret_ The Boy Scouts of Lennox _or Hiking Over Big Bear Mountain_ The Boys of the Wireless _or a Stirring Rescue from the Deep_ Cowboy Dave _or The Round-up at Rolling River_ Jack of the Pony Express _or The Young Rider of the Mountain Trail_ The Boys of the Battleship _or For the Honor of Uncle Sam_ CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK _The Boy Hunters Series_ _By Captain Ralph Bonehill_ 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid. [Illustration] FOUR BOY HUNTERS _Or, The Outing of the Gun Club_ A fine, breezy story of the woods and waters, of adventures in search of game, and of great times around the campfire, told in Captain Bonehill's best style. In the book are given full directions for camping out. GUNS AND SNOWSHOES _Or, The Winter Outing of the Young Hunters_ In this volume the young hunters leave home for a winter outing on the shores of a small lake. They hunt and trap to their heart's content, and have adventures in plenty, all calculated to make boys "sit up and take notice." A good healthy book; one with the odor of the pine forests and the glare of the welcome campfire in every chapter. YOUNG HUNTERS OF THE LAKE _Or, Out with Rod and Gun_ Another tale of woods and waters, with some strong hunting scenes and a good deal of mystery. The three volumes make a splendid outdoor series. 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The Saddle Boys are to the front in a manner to please all young readers. THE SADDLE BOYS ON THE PLAINS _or After a Treasure of Gold_ In this story the scene is shifted to the great plains of the southwest and then to the Mexican border. There is a stirring struggle for gold, told as only Captain Carson can tell it. THE SADDLE BOYS AT CIRCLE RANCH _or In at the Grand Round-up_ Here we have lively times at the ranch, and likewise the particulars of a grand round-up of cattle and encounters with wild animals and also cattle thieves. A story that breathes the very air of the plains. THE SADDLE BOYS ON MEXICAN TRAILS _or In the Hands of the Enemy_ The scene is shifted in this volume to Mexico. The boys go on an important errand, and are caught between the lines of the Mexican soldiers. They are captured and for a while things look black for them; but all ends happily. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK Transcriber's Notes: --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_); text in bold by "equal" signs (=bold=). --Printer, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. 
59645	----	OUR BASE BALL CLUB. [Illustration: "YOUR FATHER, THE JUDGE, SAYS YOU SHOULD COME TO BREAKFAST RIGHT AWAY, MISS."--Frontispiece.] OUR BASE BALL CLUB AND _HOW IT WON THE CHAMPIONSHIP_ BY NOAH BROOKS _Author of "The Fairport Nine," "The Boy Emigrants," etc._ _WITH AN INTRODUCTION_ BY AL. G. SPALDING OF THE CHICAGO BASE BALL CLUB New York E.P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 39 West 23d Street 1884 Copyright, 1884, By E.P. DUTTON & CO. _St. Johnland Stereotype Foundry, Suffolk Co., N.Y._ _Press of J.J. Little & Co. 10 Astor Place, N.Y._ INTRODUCTION. When we consider how strong a hold the pastime of base ball playing has upon our people, it is a little surprising that more frequent use of the game, as a framework, has not been made by writers of fiction. There are very few Americans, certainly very few of the younger generation, who are not only familiar with the nomenclature and rules of base ball, but are enthusiastic lovers of the sport. Even among the gentler sex, who may be regarded as spectators only of the game, there is to be found much sound information and an intelligent acquaintance with the details of base ball playing; while every hearty and wholesomely taught boy knows everything worth knowing about the game, the famous players, the historic contests, and the notable features of the sport, as practiced in various sections of the republic. To write an introduction to a story whose slender plot should be threaded on a base ball match seems to be an almost superfluous work. But I am glad that Mr. Brooks has undertaken to illustrate "The National Game" by a story of outdoor life, founded on fact and incidentally introducing personages which are not wholly creatures of his imagination. The tale here told very cleverly gives the reader a glimpse of the ups and downs, the trials and the triumphs of a base ball club. It is written by one who is thoroughly well informed of the things concerning which he gives such vivid pictures, and, while nothing is really needed to popularize the game, I am sure the story will commend itself to every lover of pure and wholesome literature. A.G. SPALDING. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. GREAT EXPECTATIONS 9 CHAPTER II. "A SCRUB GAME" 16 CHAPTER III. AFTER THE BATTLE 36 CHAPTER IV. REORGANIZATION BEGINS 41 CHAPTER V. NOTES OF PREPARATION 51 CHAPTER VI. AN INTERESTING EPISODE 59 CHAPTER VII. IN THE FIELD 69 CHAPTER VIII. A TURN OF THE TIDE 86 CHAPTER IX. HOPE AND SUSPENSE 93 CHAPTER X. HOW THE GOOD NEWS CAME 102 CHAPTER XI. IN A NEW FIELD 117 CHAPTER XII. AFTER THE VICTORY 139 CHAPTER XIII. PRIDE HAS A FALL 146 CHAPTER XIV. A STRANGE MESSAGE FROM HOME 167 CHAPTER XV. MIKE COSTIGAN'S DISCOVERY 175 CHAPTER XVI. THE CONSPIRACY LAID OPEN 181 CHAPTER XVII. A FAMOUS VICTORY 188 OUR BASE BALL CLUB, _AND HOW IT WON THE CHAMPIONSHIP_. CHAPTER I. GREAT EXPECTATIONS. Alice Howell was flattening her pretty nose against the window pane as she looked ruefully out into the misty atmosphere that surrounded her father's house in North Catalpa. It was eight o'clock in the morning, and the great base ball match was set for two o'clock, that afternoon. As soon as she had risen, Alice had run to the window to see what were the signs of the sky, for Alice was an ardent lover of the American game, and her heart was set on the great match that was to come off on the Agricultural Grounds, near Catalpa, that day. The sky was dull and lowering, and there was little chance that the game would be called. "Your father, the Judge, says you should come to breakfast right away, miss," said the little handmaid of the house. Alice turned from the window with an impatient sigh, saying "Oh dear, Jessie, do you suppose the Jonesville Nine will come up to play the Catalpas, this afternoon?" "'Deed I don't know, miss. I hope so, for Miss Anstress has promised me that I shall go over to see the game if it is played, and goodness only knows when I shall get off again to see a base ball match if I don't go to-day." "But look at the weather! It's as dark as a pocket, and it looks as if it might rain at any moment. Oh dear! oh dear! it's too bad, so it is. And this is to be the last game of the season, and the decisive one, too." And so, more talking to herself than to the small servant who trotted behind her, with a sympathetic air, the pretty Miss Alice went to the breakfast-table where her father waited for her with an aspect of amused dignity. "One cannot see across the river for the fog, papa," said the girl, with a disconsolate tone, as she seated herself. "The fences are dripping with moisture, and the dam roars just as it always does when there is a rain-storm coming up. How very provoking!" "Well, and has my little girl forgotten that it was the day before yesterday that Farmer Boggs was in here from Sugar Grove and said that unless they had more rain before the frosts set in, it would be a hard year for winter wheat? And wasn't it my little girl who said that she wanted Stone River running full, this fall, in order that she might enjoy her new club skates when the ice came?" "But, papa, the crops can wait a day or two for the fall rains, I am sure, and I should be willing to give up a whole winter's skating if the Catalpas would only beat the Jonesville Nine--the horrid fellows! And I am sure they would beat them, if they only played them to-day, for they are in capital form now." "Hush! hush! my daughter," said Judge Howell, with a little shudder, "that is slang that you are using, and I shall have to curtail your base ball amusement if you are so ready to pick up the jargon of what they call, I believe, 'The Diamond Field,' for I do not want my daughter to mingle the slang of the game with her mother's mode of speech." The Judge was somewhat prosy and not at all in love with the noble game which his daughter, in common with all of the girls of Catalpa, and of the whole Stone River country, for that matter, followed with so much enthusiasm. The base ball club of Catalpa was made up of some of the finest young fellows in the town. Catalpa was situated on both sides of Stone River, in northern Illinois. It was a busy manufacturing and milling community, and from its homes had gone many a stalwart young chap to fight his country's battles in the southwest. The survivors of the company that went out and came back, decimated as to numbers and not all sound in body, founded the first base ball club of the region. The members of the club called themselves "The Catalpas," after their town. Most of the players lived on the north side of the river, and were soon dubbed "The North Catalpas" by their rivals who, living on the other side of the stream, and in the main portion of the town, and forming another club, arrogated to themselves the title of "Catalpa's Champions." Gradually, the membership of the two organizations changed. The old soldiers retired in favor of their sons and nephews. The club on the south side of the river was reorganized and an entirely new set of young men came into it. The name of "The Dean County Nine," was given to the southside club, and, as it was largely composed of young men who worked in the flouring mills and the lumber-yards along the river front, it was famous for the brawn and muscle of its players. The Catalpa Nine, on the other hand, was made up of students in the Seminary, young fellows in the law and county offices of the town, and sons of gentlemen of leisure. There was a chasm as wide as Stone River fixed between the Dean County Nine and the Catalpa Nine, so far as social relations were concerned. The Dean County players called the Catalpas "Aristocrats" and the Catalpas retorted with the epithet of "Stalwarts" applied to their town rivals. When it is added that the finest residences were built on the north side of the river dividing the town, and that the men of more moderate means dwelt on the business side of the stream, the reason for the imaginary line of separation betwixt the two ball clubs will be more apparent. After repeated and not always friendly matches between the rival clubs, they were drawn together by the appearance of a common enemy. From the little town of Jonesville, situated eighteen miles down the river, came the Jonesvillians, as they called themselves, a powerful and well-trained nine. They had challenged and vanquished the nine of Dry Plains, the Blue Falls Nine, and their own Home Club, commonly known through the Stone River region as "The Jonesville Scrubs." Flushed with victory, the Jonesvillians had challenged and played two games with the Catalpas, contesting the championship of northern Illinois. It must be admitted that the record of neither of the two Catalpa clubs was one of which the people of the town had any right to be proud. Both clubs, while closely contesting with each other, had been repeatedly beaten by visitors from the surrounding region. Naturally the sympathies of the "Stalwarts" was with the "Aristocrats" when an out-of-town club came to try conclusions. Every true son and daughter of the town of Catalpa was hotly enlisted for the home nine in any contest that might be fought out for the championship. It was aggravating that the Jonesville Nine, most of whom were rough and loud-talking fellows, should conquer the whole country, from the Wisconsin line to Lasalle, and from Chicago to the Mississippi River. That was the reason why Miss Alice Howell, the only daughter and the spoiled child of the eminent and widowed district Judge, should be downcast and fidgety when she looked out and saw, on this fateful morning, that the weather gave signs of being unfit for the decisive game for the championship. The Jonesville Nine had won the first game. The Catalpas were victors in the second game. To-day, if all went well, would give the championship to the Catalpas. The Catalpas had regularly "whitewashed" the Dean County Nine, in spite of their stalwart strength. But they had failed to hold their own against many another club from other portions of the country roundabout. In the first game for the championship, the Catalpas had beaten the Jonesvillians by a score of 24 to 13--an overwhelming defeat for the down-river club. But the Jonesville men had carried off the second game with a score of 14 to 13, which was a close game, and was lost by the Catalpas, as their friends all said, by the Catalpas being in bad condition. Albert Heaton, the catcher, was afflicted with blistered hands and could do very little effective work behind the bat; and George Buckner, center fielder, had been obliged to leave the field just before game was called, on account of a sudden sickness in his own home; and this necessitated sundry changes that demoralized the Nine, and disarranged their plans. "And after all," said Alice, exultingly, as she recounted these facts to her father, on the morning of the fateful day, "after all, the Jonesvillians only beat by one run. To-day, the Catalpas are in splendid form--condition, I mean, and if it only would clear off, I am sure they will send the Jonesville fellows down the river with what Ben Burton calls 'a basket of goose eggs,'--I beg pardon, papa, for this bit of slang; but you will observe that it is a quotation." "Yes, from a favorite author," said the Judge, rising from the breakfast table, with a shrewd smile. Alice flushed, a little angrily, perhaps, for she did not like Burton, although he was her cousin and was said to be a suitor for her favor. CHAPTER II. "A SCRUB GAME." Notwithstanding the gloom of the morning, the day came off bright and fine, and by the time the train was due from the West, bringing the Jonesville boys, the weather was perfect. A serene October sky bent over Catalpa, and the bright river flowed rippling toward the Mississippi, its banks red and yellow with autumnal foliage. Crossing the bridge from North Catalpa and from the farming settlements to the north were strings of buggies, lumber-wagons and other vehicles; and not a few sight-seers jogged along on horseback, all with their faces set toward the Agricultural Fair Grounds, just above the town and lying to the southward. Catalpa is built on a slope that descends from the rolling prairie to the bank of Stone River. Once out of the town, one reaches a lovely stretch of undulating ground skirted by a dead level plain, admirably adapted for a base ball field. The original use of the Fair Grounds had almost been forgotten when the ball clubs of Catalpa began to practice within the enclosure. The Northern District fair had gone farther North, and the grounds were left to chance comers--a travelling circus, or an occasional amateur racing match. To-day, the blue and white flag of the Catalpas floated proudly from what had once been the Judges' stand, while the pale green colors of the Jonesvillians hung lazily from a staff driven into the ground to the westward of the track. For more than an hour before the time set for the calling of the game, a steady stream of people poured into the enclosure. The battered and rickety seats had been patched up to bear the weight of those who were willing to pay the small fee exacted for the privilege; but the mass of the spectators were grouped together in the open spaces to the westward and southward of these, and farther around the ring was a thin line of vehicles of various descriptions. Men and women on horseback, young girls crowded into wagon-boxes, and boys ramping around on scrubby mustangs, filled up the background. It was a pretty sight. And while the crowd waited for the hour to arrive, much scientific base ball gossip drifted about the enclosure. Village lads who had worked hard or had teased with uncommon assiduity to secure the "two bits" needed to gain admission to the grounds, chaffed each other vociferously and exchanged learned comments on the playing and the qualities of the combatants. "Oh you should have seen John Brubaker play right field that day when the Catalpas sent the Jonesvillers home with a big headache," said one of these small critics, as he viewed with admiration Brubaker's stalwart form reclining at ease in the shade of the judges' stand. "Why he just everlastingly got away with the ball every time one of the Jonesvillers gave him one. Then there was Lew Morris, there's no player in the Jonesvillers, 'cept it is Larry Boyne, that can catch a ball like Lew, and why the Catalpas keep him in the left field, I don't know." "Oh you talk too much with your mouth, you, Bill, you," cried a bigger base ball connoisseur. "What do you know about the game? Why, I saw the Jonesvillians, three years ago, when they first played the old Catalpas, I mean the soldier boys. That was playing, now I tell you. Hurrah! There comes the Nine!" Pretty Alice Howell, sitting in her father's carriage and accompanied by the Judge and her severe-looking aunt, Miss Anstress, clapped her hands at the sight, for the two Nines drew near to each other and the game was called. The dignified Judge smiled at the girl's enthusiasm, but, as he looked around, he saw that multitudes of other young ladies, as well as ladies no longer young--mothers and aged spinsters, watched the preliminaries of the game with absorbing interest. The Jonesville Nine were not so well developed, physically, as the Catalpas. They were mostly farmer's sons, born and bred on the low prairies to the westward of Stone River. It is a region long famous for its prevailing fever-and-ague epidemic. The sallow faces of some of the Jonesville players suggested quinine and "cholagogue," just then a favorite specific among the ague-smitten population of Northern Illinois. Nor were the members of the visiting Nine as uniform in size and appearance as the Catalpas. The breadth of chest and vigorous outline of the home nine were not repeated in the forms of the Jonesville boys. [Illustration: "PRETTY ALICE HOWELL, SITTING IN HER FATHER'S CARRIAGE, AND ACCOMPANIED BY THE JUDGE AND HER SEVERE LOOKING AUNT, MISS ANSTRESS, CLAPPED HER HANDS AT THE SIGHT."--Page 18.] The Catalpas were well chosen with an eye to symmetry and uniformity. They were all brawny and athletic young fellows. As they were mostly men of leisure, they had had plenty of time to practice, and they were apparently ready to give good account of themselves. Chiefly on Al Heaton, the stalwart catcher, did the eyes of the multitude rest with favor. He was a tall, shapely young fellow, with a ruddy and oval face, bright brown eyes, a keen glance, and a sinewy length of limb that gave him pre-eminence in the field. The batting game of the Catalpas was better than that of the Jonesvillians, as all previous encounters had shown. But the fielding of the Jonesville boys was far better than that of any other nine with whom they had measured their strength and skill. And Larry Boyne, a fresh-faced and laughing young man from Sugar Grove, but a member of the Jonesville Nine, was the champion catcher of the whole region. So long as the Jonesville Nine held on to Larry, they felt sure of victory. Larry Boyne was a trifle shorter than the average of his comrades. His round and well-poised head was covered with a shock of curly flaxen hair, and his sturdy legs, muscular arms and ample chest gave token of a large stock of reserved power. "That's the best looking Jonesvillian of them all" was the secret thought of many an observant girl and the open criticism of many a loud-talking spectator. This is the manner of placing the two Clubs:-- _Catalpas._ Lewis Morris, L.F. Charlie King, P. Hart Stirling, 2d B. Will Sprague, 3d B. John Brubaker, R.F. Hiram Porter, 1st B. George Buckner, C.F. Albert Heaton, C. Ben Burton, S.S. _Jonesvilles._ Studley, 2d B. Larry Boyne, C. Morrison, 1st B. Ellis, P. Wheeler, C.F. Martin, L.F. Simpson, 3d B. Berthelet, R.F. Alexander, S.S. The Catalpas won the toss and went to the field, with due consideration for the improvement of their chances in the final innings, and the game began with a comfortable feeling pervading the champions of the home nine. The winning of the toss was a good omen, everybody thought. A buzz of half-suppressed excitement swept over the field as Studley, of the Jonesville Nine, went first to the bat. He sent a low ball to second base which Hart Stirling failed to hold, and Studley got to first base. Larry Boyne followed and sent up a sky-high ball, and Studley, having stolen to second and third base, got safely home, while Larry reached second base. Morrison sent a good right fielder, on which he got half-way around, while Larry, with a rush, made the home run, adding one more to the score of the Jonesvilles. Alice bit her lip with vexation, but some of the more magnanimous of the townspeople commented, under their breath, "Good for the red-cheeked Irishman!" Great things were expected of Ellis, the champion pitcher of the Jonesvillians, who went next to the bat, and who was reckoned as nearly as good with the bat as with the ball; but he made a poor strike, and, with a long-drawn "Oh-h-h!" from the sympathetic friends of the home club, the ball dropped near the home base and the young champion of Jonesville went out on his first. Next, Morrison, in his haste to get to third base, was put out by Will Sprague, and the fortunes of the visitors visibly waned. Wheeler, who went next to the bat, provoked a murmur of approbation from the spectators, who were now warming up to the game, and who admired the handsome proportions and springy movements of the center fielder of the Jonesvillers. He sent a resounding ball safely to the right field, got to first base, but, overrunning the second base, was neatly put out by Hart Stirling, the second base man of the Catalpas. Thus closed the innings--two runs for the visiting Nine. "Not much to brag of," remarked Bill Van Orman, the big pitcher of the Dean County Nine. "Not much to brag of, and I don't think that the Jonesvillians are feeling first rate over this. Let them wait until Al Heaton and Charlie King get after them. Then they'll sing small, I allow." "Hush up, you, there goes Lew Morris to the bat for the Catalpas. He'll show them something. Look at that chist of his! Golly! don't I remember him, though!" remarked Hank Mitchell. Lew Morris, tall, handsome and sinewy, deserved the praises lavished upon him, as he stood, modestly but confidently, to open the innings for the Catalpas. But, to the great disappointment of his admirers, he failed to make a hit and was sent to first base on three called balls. Charlie King justified the expectations of his friends by striking a tremendous ball to right field, on which Lew Morris tallied one, but in trying to get to second base, was put out by Studley in excellent style. Hart Stirling followed, making the first quarter, and Will Sprague went to second base on a strong hit to right field, which brought Stirling home. John Brubaker next went to the bat, with an air of serene confidence, but he failed to satisfy the expectations of the on-lookers, and went out on a foul tip. "Your champions do not seem to be in good condition, to-day, Alice," said the Judge, demurely. "I am just beginning to become interested in the game, and I must say that I shouldn't like to see the Catalpas beaten." "Thank you, papa," said Alice, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "I thought you would get waked up if you once saw the play and realized how much depends on the game to-day." "It's the championship of the Northern District, is it not, my child?" "Yes, and if the Catalpas don't win now, I am afraid--well, I don't know what I am afraid of. But they will be dreadfully discouraged." "So shall I be," said the Judge, gravely turning his eyes to the stand, where Hiram Porter, the first base man of the home nine, and an honor man in his class at Ann Arbor, had taken up the bat. Hiram retrieved the failing fortunes of the Catalpas by a powerful ball to center field on which he reached the first base. George Buckner, who followed, sent a high ball which was beautifully caught by Studley, on second base, amidst murmurs of applause, as if the townsmen and townswomen of the Catalpas were half-ashamed to give full expression to their extorted admiration of the visitors' good play. "That was well done, anyway," remarked Hank Mitchell, "and that winds up the first inning with three outs and three runs to two for the Jonesvillians. Come, you must wake up, Catalpas, or we shall get licked again." "Wait until the Catalpas come in on the last innings, and then you'll see some fun. They are laying low for black ducks, and don't you forget that. We've tried them too many times, Hank, and you know it." This was Van Orman's shrewd comment, as the second inning began with Martin, the Jonesville left fielder, at the bat. He should not have made the first base "by rights" as the observant Hank remarked, under his breath, but Charlie King and Hiram Porter fumbled the ball, and he got safely to first. Simpson struck the ball straight into the pitcher's hands and went out ignominiously. Then Berthelet went out on three strikes, and the spirits of the sympathetic spectators rose perceptibly. Two out and no runs for the visitors. "Things are looking dark for your friends from Jonesville," said the Judge. "And, by the way, isn't there danger of their getting what you call 'a goose-egg' in this game, Alice?" "O yes, papa," she answered, "I shouldn't wonder the least bit if they should be whitewashed in this inning, but there are so many chances against it that I wouldn't like to boast too much beforehand. Those Jonesville boys are awful sly!" "That's Sam Alexander at the bat now, trying in vain to strike the ball." And, as Alice spoke, Alexander walked to first base on called balls, and Martin cleverly made his home run, scoring one for the Jonesvillians. "So they will not be whitewashed, at all events," said Alice, with a little sigh. Studley now made his second base by a ground ball to third base which Will Sprague failed to stop, and by which also Alexander came home. Larry Boyne, smiling, but keenly alive to the critical condition of affairs, now went to the bat, made a magnificent ball to center field and went to first base whither he was quickly followed by Morrison, and Studley scored another run for the Jonesville Nine. Next, amidst great excitement, for the play was now waxing hot, Ellis struck a splendid right fielder, by which Larry and Morrison easily reached the home plate and Studley got to second base. The spectators trembled with excitement as Wheeler made a capital safe hit to center field, Studley got in, Wheeler reached the second base, stole to third, and, by the wild throwing of the Catalpas, got home on a passed ball. Next, Martin got to first base on a slow ball to right field, and then home on passed balls. He was followed by Simpson, after two strikes, on which he got to first base and came dangerously near being put out by Hart Stirling, who made a fine one-handed catch amidst the ringing applause of the spectators, Alice Howell's small handmaid exciting much mirth by her shrill exclamation of "isn't he grand!" when Hart, with a tremendous leap, secured the ball as it was flying far above his head. Berthelet then went out on a foul tip leaving Simpson on the base and closing the innings for the Jonesvillians. Al Heaton having gone to the bat for the Catalpas, made his first base on called balls, and when Ben Burton, who succeeded him at the bat, made a good hit, he reached third base. Burton then got to second base, and Al Heaton reached the home plate, while Larry Boyne was attempting to throw Burton out at second base. Lew Morris next got to first base through the muffing of Studley, but was forced out by Charlie King, who sharply followed him to the first. Will Sprague sent the ball well up into the sky, but Berthelet, the agile and keen-eyed young Frenchman in the right field, caught it handsomely, and Will retired in good order. John Brubaker went to first base, and then Ellis, the Jonesville pitcher, made a muff with his ball, giving the Catalpas one tally. Hiram Porter followed with a safe hit, but George Buckner went out on a foul ball and the inning closed with a score of ten for the Jonesville boys and eight for the Catalpas. The Jonesvilles opened the third inning by sending Alexander to the bat. He was sent to first base on called balls, and was followed by Studley, who sent a ball to Ben Burton at short stop, but which Ben muffed, and Studley got safely to first base. Larry Boyne followed with a winged ball which he sent flying to the right field and which enabled him to reach second base and brought Alexander and Studley home. Morrison sent an air ball to left field, by which he reached first base, and Larry came home. Then Ellis hit a ground ball to Ben Burton at short stop, which Ben muffed again, allowing Larry to come home and Ellis to get to first base. Wheeler made first base on a ground ball to left field, and Martin sent a slow ball to center field which reached the first base before him. During the passage of the ball, however, Morrison came home, and Ellis subsequently tallied on a passed ball. Simpson went to the bat and was struck out, and Berthelet, who followed, was neatly caught out on a foul fly by Ben Burton, who thus partially retrieved his reputation and the inning was closed for the Jonesvilles. The showing for the Catalpas was now pretty dark, and it did not improve during their next inning. Al Heaton, who led for the home nine, was put out in attempting to steal from first to second base, and Ben Burton, who followed him, met with a similar disaster. Lew Morris went to first base on a ball to short stop which Alexander overthrew to first base. Next, Charlie King hit an air ball which was caught by Alexander at short stop, leaving three out with Morris dead on the second base. The score then stood, Jonesvilles, 15; Catalpas, 8. "A whitewash!" cried Hank Mitchell, uncertain whether he ought to exult as an old adversary of the home club, or be downcast as a citizen of the town of Catalpa. But, his patriotism rallying in time, he cried to Andrew Jackson Simis, a Jonesville spectator, "I s'pose you think your boys are going to get away with us, this time? Just you wait till the last innings, and then you will see them come up with a rush." "They'd better begin to rush pretty quick, then," was the sneering answer. "I guess your goose is cooked." There was a stir among the Dean County Nine, who, with their friends, sat together at the end of the range of seats, when this unfriendly remark was flung out. There were threatening glances and clenched fists in the group of Catalpa boys. "Here! here! no squabbling!" cried Deputy Sheriff Wheeler, hurrying up, as his vigilant eye fell on the angry-looking knot of lads. "These men are visitors; can't you behave yourselves?" But the Catalpas were in nowise cast down. Lew Morris, their captain, went among the boys and impressed on them something of his own cheerful courage and roused them to the importance of making a tremendous effort in the next inning. Perhaps the Jonesvillians were unduly elated. Their first man at the bat, Alexander, was put out by sending the ball almost directly into the hands of Hiram Porter at first base. Then Studley sent a good ball to center field, on which he went to first base, and went to second while Larry Boyne was batting. Larry tipped a foul fly which Al Heaton caught, and Morrison, who succeeded him, was caught out in a precisely similar manner, and the inning closed with Studley left on the second base and a "whitewash" for the visitors. There was great uproar in the crowd around the field, as soon as the Catalpas went in their turn to the bat. The townsfolk forgot all decorum in their delight over the semblance of victory thus snatched from defeat. They cheered the Catalpas as they came in from the field, and by their noise, at least, showed that no impartial judgment could be expected from the majority of the spectators. Judge Howell critically looked over the crowd and remarked to Alice that he thought it was bad mannered in the townspeople to exult over the defeat or reverses of their visitors. "But it is because they know that the Catalpas are going to be beaten, after all," said Alice, with a tone of great despondency. "Going to be beaten?" asked the Judge, with surprise. "Why, haven't they just given the Jonesvilles a whitewash, as I think you call it, and the score is 15 to 8, with your favorites going to the bat?" "Yes, papa, that is so; but you see that the Jonesvillians play a much better fielding game than the Catalpas, and I am sure that our club will never be able to regain what they have lost." Miss Alice soon began to think that she had lost hope too soon, for the Catalpas scored three runs in their inning, Hart Stirling having made a home run on a tremendous ball sent to left field where it was muffed shamefully, first by Martin and then by Simpson. Will Sprague and John Brubaker followed him successfully, and Hiram Porter, who had made his first base, was put out by Morrison. The same fate overtook George Buckner and Al Heaton, who were put out by the active and vigilant first base man of the Jonesvilles. Nevertheless, the inning closed with a decided gain for the home nine, the score being 15 for the Jonesvilles, 11 for the Catalpas. There was intense but suppressed excitement all around the field, as the visitors sent Ellis to the bat, and he was at once caught out by Hart Stirling on a fly sent to second base. Wheeler made first base, and Martin, who followed him, was put out on first base, while Wheeler came home on a ball balked by Charlie King. Simpson was put out on first base, and the Catalpas took their inning, sending Ben Burton to the bat. He was caught out by Studley; then Lew Morris was put out at first base by a ball sent by Alexander to Morrison; next Charlie King went out on called balls, and, amidst cries of "another whitewash!" the inning closed with a score of 16 to 11, in favor of the visitors. In the sixth inning, the Jonesvilles added eight to their score, and the Catalpas gained seven, thus making the home nine a little more hopeful, although the relative distance of the two nines was not changed. The feature of this inning was a grand hit to the center field made by Larry Boyne, on which he made first base and brought home Alexander and Studley, who were on the second and third bases, respectively. The score stood thus: Jonesvilles, 24, Catalpas, 18. And there was no exultation in the ranks of the townsfolk. Larry Boyne went to the bat in the next inning, for the visiting Nine. He sent a magnificent air ball so high that it seemed lost in the misty blue of the October sky. But it descended straight into the hands of John Brubaker in the right field, and a chorus of "ah-h-h's" went up from the assembled multitude. Morrison was caught out on a foul fly; Ellis shared his fate, and Wheeler was put out on first base. Great was the exultation among the citizens of Catalpa. The Jonesvillers had been again whitewashed. The short October day was wearing on apace, but the chances of the Catalpas were improving as the light went down in the west. The home nine added three to their score in the inning, home runs being made by John Brubaker, Hiram Porter, and George Buckner. Al Heaton and Ben Burton were both put out by foul flies. Charlie King was put out on first base, leaving Lew Morris on third base. But as the score stood 24 for the Jonesvilles and 21 for the home nine, the spirits of the majority of the spectators, whose sympathies were all one way, began to rise. Perhaps the Jonesvillers would be sent home without the championship. But these hopes were dashed by the next inning, which was the eighth, the Jonesvilles having gained one run, while the Catalpas were ignominiously "whitewashed." The visitors showed their good qualities in the field by a fine double play in their inning. Hart Stirling being on the first base, Will Sprague hit short to Ellis, who sent the ball to Studley at second base, cutting off Stirling; and John Brubaker, in attempting to steal from first to second base, was run out by Studley and Morrison. Nobody stirred from the field, although the day was dying slowly and the simple habits of the Catalpa women called them home to their household duties. The decisive inning was near at hand, and as Alice stood up in her father's carriage, in order to get a better view of the game, the hitherto orderly crowd closed in around the players. Spectators and players drew a long breath as Larry Boyne went to the bat for the Jonesvilles. He wielded the bat with great skill and dexterity; but Charlie King's pitching was wonderfully clever, and Larry went out on a foul tip to Al Heaton, catcher. Morrison made third base on a safe hit; Ellis made first base and Morrison came home on a ball muffed by Charlie King, and then Martin, on a center field ball hit, brought Ellis and Wheeler home. Simpson now made first base on a hit to the right field, and an overthrow brought Martin home and gave second base to Simpson. Berthelet was caught out on a foul fly by Al Heaton, and Simpson, in attempting to steal home, was run out by Al Heaton and Will Sprague. "Three out on the last inning!" roared two or three of the Dean County Nine, great hulking fellows, who stood near the carriage of the Judge. Alice looked at them reproachfully, although her cheeks were ruddy with half-suppressed excitement. "It's real mean of them, isn't it, papa?" she said. "They will not seem to consider that we should be very angry if we were treated thus in Jonesville." Now went Hiram Porter, big and handsome Hiram, to the bat for the Catalpas. Hiram looked as tall as a giant in the gathering twilight, and he stood up in manly fashion. But Hiram was put out on first base by a ball sent by Studley to Morrison, and George Buckner, who followed him, had great ado to save himself. But he made first base, and Al Heaton next sent a singing ball to center field, on which he went to second base and Buckner to third. Ben Burton then undertook to bat Buckner home, but he was, himself, put out on first base. Lew Morris then took the bat, sent a high ball to center field and secured the first base. Charlie King followed to the first, and amidst despondent cries of "Three out!" the game and the inning ended with a score of 29 for the Jonesville Nine and 23 for the Catalpas. Deputy Sheriff Wheeler, forgetting for the time his official dignity, stood up in what was once the judges' stand and shouted, "Three cheers for the champions of Northern Illinois! Now, then! Hip! Hip! Hip!" The cheers were given with a pretty good will, considering how great was the disappointment of the townspeople. The captain of the Catalpas set a laudable and manly example to his comrades by going straight to Larry Boyne, the captain of the Jonesville Nine, and, grasping him warmly by the hand, congratulating him on the victory so honorably and handsomely won. "Of course you can't expect that a fellow can say that he is glad to have lost the day; but you have worked hard for the pennant, and it belongs to you without any grumbling." Larry, with his ruddy face still ruddier than before, responded in frank fashion and then the crowd began to melt away, for the darkness was coming on. Passing by the Judge's carriage, yet entangled in the throng of vehicles, Larry glanced up at the pretty girl whom he had noticed with distant admiration. The Judge intercepted his glance, and leaning over with what was meant to be a gracious smile, said, "This is Larry Boyne, the famous catcher of the down-river nine? Well, I congratulate you, young man, on your well-won victory and on your own beautiful playing." Larry very much taken aback by this unexpected condescension from the great man of Catalpa, touched his cap, blushed and stammered and gladly rejoined his comrades. "Fine young man, that," said the Judge, sententiously, as his carriage slowly drew out of the crowd and moved toward the gate. "If a few such players as he were in the place of some of the muffs in the Catalpa Nine," said Alice, "I think that the championship of the whole State would belong in this town." "Why I do believe my little daughter is crying!" cried the Judge. "I am not crying," said Alice stoutly. "But I confess that I am mad enough to cry. Are we always going to be beaten by every scrubby nine that comes here, I'd like to know?" Dr. Selby, the staid and dignified village town apothecary, who was walking by the carriage, heard the indignant outburst, and looking up, said with a smile, "We've got the timber here for a first-class nine, Miss Alice, but the thing is to get the timber together." Judge Howell, with his grandest manner, said, "If there is any movement to retrieve the honor of Catalpa in the base ball field, please count on my assistance and support." CHAPTER III. AFTER THE BATTLE. To say that the town of Catalpa was very deeply mortified by this latest and most signal defeat of the favorite Nine would be a mild way of putting the case. For weeks afterwards, nothing was talked of in the place but the disgraceful overthrow of the Catalpa Nine. Very soon, so high did the debate run, there were two sides formed among the townspeople, one party blaming the Catalpas for their lack of training and practice, and the other excusing them for their evident inability to cope with the sturdy farmer boys from "down the river." "I tell you it is not mere brute muscle that our fellows want," said Squire Mead, one of the great lights of the town, "it's not brawn, but skill, that they must acquire before they can stand up against the base ball players of this part of the country. Let them pay more attention to work, and less to frills, and they will come out all right." But Dr. Selby, whose son was one of the rising players in the less aristocratic Dean County Nine, would have none of this sort of argument. Tom Selby was not only a wiry and agile player in the field, but he was the best oarsman on the river, and he could lift a barrel of flour, properly slung, "without turning a hair." He had done it often. His father believed in muscle. "Now there's Bill Van Orman, the Dean County Nine's catcher," Dr. Selby would say, "who is like an ox in appearance, and I really believe could stave in the panel of that door with one blow of his fist, but who gets about the bases as spry as a cat, and who has got down the curve to such a fine point that nobody can pitch like him in half a dozen counties. Sam Ellis, the champion pitcher of the Jonesvilles, cannot hold a candle to Van's pitching. And do you pretend to tell me that any light-waisted young fellow, like Will Sprague, for instance, could ever, by all the training in the world, make such a catcher or such a pitcher as Bill?" It was the old question over again--skill against muscle. But Judge Howell, whose opinions on all subjects whatever commanded respect, probably gave voice to the average public judgment when he said, "What we want, gentlemen, is muscle _and_ training. I am confident that in this good town of Catalpa there are more than nine young men who can give time to the practice necessary for the purpose, and who are endowed by nature with the requisite powers for the development of first-rate base ball players." "Good for you, Jedge!" It was Tony May, an aged and disreputable loafer in the store where this debate was taking place, who spoke. Tony was usually called "Rough and Ready" because of his frequent use of that phrase as applied to himself. Having applauded the Judge's remark, he drew back, a little confusedly, and murmured "'Scuse me, Jedge, I didn't mean to be interruptious, but you know I'm rough and ready, rough and ready, Jedge, and that 'ere remark of yourn does seem to be about the fust sensible thing I've hearn in this 'ere jag of words. 'Scuse me, Jedge, fer sayin' so; you know I'm rough and I'm ready." And the speaker subsided into a corner pulling his 'coonskin cap down over his shaggy brows. Judge Howell, with an additional stiffness perceptible in his manner, waved his hand towards the dry goods boxes in the angles of which "Rough and Ready" had dropped and said, "Our friend here is enthusiastic. He has a right to be. His son Fremont has certainly distinguished himself, before now, as the right fielder of the Dean County Nine. But does anybody know if that handsome young Irish lad, Larry Boyne, could be drawn from the Jonesville Nine, in case we should desire to reinforce our home nine by drafts on foreign material, so to speak?" Nobody knew; but Jason Elderkin, the storekeeper, leaned over his counter, pausing in his occupation of measuring off a yard of Kentucky jean, and said: "I tell you what it is, Judge, that's the likeliest young fellow in these parts. He lives with his mother over to Sugar Grove, and started in to read law with 'Squire Welby, over to Dean Center; but he had to give it up on account of his father's being killed by being crushed under a tree that he was felling. Awful blow to the boy, likewise to his ma. The Jonesvilles pay him something for playing with them; so I've hearn tell." [Illustration: "WHAT WE WANT, GENTLEMEN, IS MUSCLE _AND_ TRAINING."--Page 37.] This suggestion created a momentary stir in the congress, for the gathering had by this time assumed such a character. Two or three of the speakers did not see how anybody could think of making a professional club out of an amateur, such as the Jonesville Nine pretended to be. If Larry Boyne was paid a salary, why were not others? And if salaries were paid to the men, it was a professional club, wasn't it? "I don't know enough about what we may call the etiquette of the game to decide what is an amateur and what a professional club," remarked Judge Howell, in slow and dignified accents. "But if we are in earnest in this proposition to organize a really creditable base ball club in Catalpa, and I take it that we are,"--and here he glanced at "Rough and Ready," who had slid forward into sight again,--"and I take it that we are, I say, we may as well make up our minds to put our hands into our pockets and help the boys a little, otherwise we shall go down again." "Right as a trivet, Jedge," cried Rough and Ready. "Right as a trivet; for unless we take hold all together, we shell go down to where flour is nine dollars a bar'l and no money to buy it at that; 'scuse me, gen'lemen, but I'm rough and ready, you know. I allow that the Jedge here speaks the senterments of the community." And the old man retreated into the depths of his 'coonskin cap. The oracle of the grocery store was right in saying that Judge Howell spoke the sentiments of the community in regard to the necessity of taking hold in earnest and organizing a base ball club, if anything serious was to be accomplished. The project took definite shape at once. "Why," said Weeks, the bridge-tender, who, from his position, came into contact with half of the townspeople, nearly every day, as they crossed and recrossed the river. "Why, every town north of Bloomington, as far as I know, has got a champion base ball nine, and why should Catalpa be behind the rest? That's what I want to know. And if we are to have champions, we have got to take hold and help the boys, like they do in other towns. And the very first thing I want to see done is the licking of them Jonesvilles. They are so everlastingly set up by their carrying off the pennant that they are ready to challenge all creation. So I'm told." Around many an evening fire and in many a lounging-place in the town, the question was animatedly discussed, as autumn waned into winter, and most outdoor sports became a little unseasonable. It was decided, in that informal and irregular way with which a western community settles its internal affairs, that there must be in Catalpa a first-rate base ball nine, and that it must be organized before the spring opened. CHAPTER IV. REORGANIZATION BEGINS. "Where now, Larry?" asked 'Squire Mead, meeting Larry Boyne, on Stone River bridge, one wintry day in November. Cold weather had set in early, and huge cakes of ice had already formed on the edge of the dam, and a light fall of snow gave promise of sleighing for Thanksgiving week, then not far off. Larry was mounted on a sorry-looking nag, borrowed from a Sugar Grove neighbor, and he carried behind him a big bundle of knitted mittens, the handiwork of his mother and sisters, to be exchanged for goods at one of the stores in town. "Oh, I'm just going to town to trade a bit, and I have a message from Al Heaton that he and his father want to see me about joining a new base ball club to be gotten up here. Know anything about it, 'Squire?" "Well, yes," replied the 'Squire, "I'm told that there is something of a stir in town about the matter." The crafty old lawyer did not say how much the stir was indebted to him for its existence. "Quite a stir, Larry, and they do say that they will get up a new nine; even if they have to hire players to go into it." Larry's cheeks flushed even deeper red as he replied, "There is no disgrace in hiring players to help out, I suppose, 'Squire? I was paid a share of the gate money while I was with the Jonesville Nine, and they have offered me a regular salary if I go with them next season. But I wouldn't touch a penny of it if I thought it was the least bit off-color for a fellow to take pay for his services." "No, no," said the 'Squire, warmly, "there is nothing in that that an honorable and high-toned young fellow like you are could object to; and if I were you, I would make the very best terms I could for next year. You have been obliged to give up studying law, I hear, on account of the death of your father. If you do well in the ball-field, next summer, you might save up enough to set you right next year, so far as studying is concerned. And, between you and me and the gate-post, Al Heaton and his father are bound to have you in the new nine. So make as good a bargain for yourself as you can. Al can't play next season." "Why, what is the matter with Al? Why can't he play any more?" "It's mighty cold standing here talking on the bridge, Larry, and I don't know that I have any right to give Al's reasons, but I have a notion that his mother objects to his going around the country playing base ball. She's got high and mighty airs since her Uncle George was elected to Congress from the Sangamon District, and I reckon that that is what is the matter with Al's base ball business. Pity 'tis, too, for Al is a first-rate catcher. Nobody like him, unless it is Larry Boyne," he added with a kindly smile. Larry thanked the 'Squire, and, with a hearty "good-bye," went thoughtfully on his way across the bridge. As his steed climbed Bridge Street, Larry was conscious that he had several new ideas in his head. And when, his little errands done, he found his way to Mr. Heaton's counting-room in the mills near the dam, he had made up his mind that Jonesville had no claim on him and that he belonged no more to Jonesville than he did to Catalpa. In other words, he was in the market for employment. The mortgage on the farm must be paid off; his sisters and the little brother must be kept at school, and he had his own way to make in the world. To take one season's compensation as a base ball player would help matters at home very much. It was a gleam of hope in an otherwise gloomy outlook for the young man. "Glad to see you, Larry," said Mr. Heaton, heartily. "Al's been waiting for you this some time, and we may as well go right to business. The boys are talking of getting up a first-class nine, and as my son cannot very well go into it, next year, he has coaxed me to turn in and help the others. And so I will, for I want to see old Catalpa come out ahead at the end of the season." Young Heaton, with evident regret, told Larry that he would be unable to play in the Catalpa nine, but that it was his dearest wish that the club should be the champion club of the state. "So," said he, "with my father's consent, I have agreed to give my monthly allowance for the benefit of the club, and that will help make up a pool to pay expenses. We can't get good players (I mean players to compete with Chicago and Springfield, and other large cities), without paying them something--gate-money anyhow, and perhaps more." Larry said not a word. It was yet a new proposition, this of earning money as a professional ball player. Somehow it did not strike him pleasantly. But he listened respectfully while Mr. Heaton unfolded the plans that had been slowly matured since the signal defeat of the Catalpas, last October. They must organize a new nine. Some of the old players must be dropped, and two, Al and Lewis Morris, had already declined to play any longer. New men must be found to take their places. Would Larry join the new nine? Did he recommend any other players in the vicinity? Larry's ruddy face glowed as he walked up and down the little counting-room, thinking over the situation. Mr. Heaton watched the young man's well-knit and graceful figure with admiration, and winked at Albert, as if to say, "That is your man. Get him if you can." "I'll consider any offer that you make in behalf of the new nine, Mr. Heaton," said Larry, "and if I were to suggest any other players from the Jonesvilles, I should like to say a good word for Sam Morrison and Neddie Ellis. Morrison is our first base man, and Neddie is as good a pitcher as there is in the country, unless it is Charlie King. I hope your men don't think of letting out Charlie?" "Oh, no," replied young Heaton, "they want him to stay, and he says that he'll not only stay but will give in his share of the gate-money for the use of the club. Oh, Charlie's clear grit, he is, and he'll stand by the club," said the young man, with friendly warmth, dashed with a little regret, perhaps, that family complications forbade him a similar sacrifice. The details of the bargain could not be settled at once. Mr. Heaton and his son were the representatives of a company of public-spirited citizens who were bent on getting up a good base ball club. They could only secure Larry's promise to wait for terms from them before accepting any other engagement, and to give them some hint as to what compensation he should expect. This last, however, Larry resolutely declined to do; and, after some debate, young Heaton exclaimed, "Well, hang it all, Larry! What's the use beating round the bush! I think our folks have made up their minds that they will give you a share of the gate-money, say one eighth, and a salary of a thousand dollars for the season. Does that strike you favorably?" Larry's eyes shone as he said, "It strikes me as being more than I am worth." "Well, this is all informal and entirely between us, you know," said Mr. Heaton. "You will keep the matter to yourself until we have reported to the rest of the committee, for there is a committee," he added with a smile. And so the matter was concluded, and Larry, mounting his horse, with a cheery salutation to father and son standing in the mill-door, rode across the bridge into the November twilight, with a light heart. The next day, Lewis Morris rode over to Sugar Grove to expostulate with Larry. He had heard that the Heatons had offered Larry one thousand dollars and one-eighth of the gate-money. "Now," said he to Larry, "I cannot play with the nine, next season, neither can Al Heaton, and the chances are that Will Sprague will drop out, too. Charlie King does not need any pay or any income from the playing to induce him to go. So he will not want any gate-money. Geo. Buckner says he will go along as an extra man, and he will take neither salary nor gate-money. If we get Sam Morrison and Neddie Ellis, we shall have to pay them gate-money at least. But there will be, according to my figuring, only seven out of ten to draw on the gate-money, for Hiram Porter, I am sure, will decline to take anything for his services." Larry expressed his entire satisfaction with the terms offered him by Mr. Heaton, on behalf of the new club. He was willing to do what he could, short of any great sacrifice, to make up a strong nine. He would take less salary, or less of the income of the club, if that were necessary to induce the best men to join it. "That's very good of you, Larry, old boy," said Morris, heartily, "but you can't afford to waste your summer playing base ball for nothing. I want them to take Bill Van Orman from the Dean County boys. How do you think he would do?" "First-rate! First-rate!" cried Larry, with enthusiasm. "I do not think of another fellow on the river as good as he is as catcher, unless it is Al Heaton, and he is out of the question." "Unless it is Larry Boyne," said Morris, reproachfully. "You are a great sight better catcher than Bill Van Orman, and I should hope you would take that place if you were to go into the new Catalpa Nine." Larry protested that he had watched Van Orman's catching for two seasons, and had made up his mind that he was the best man in that position that could be got, now that Al Heaton was out of the field. Would Van Orman serve at all? "Oh, yes," replied Morris. "All of the Dean County boys are just wild to get into the new nine. They are willing to play for Catalpa, and they don't care whether they are in their own nine or in a new one. They drop all thoughts of rivalry, so far as the future is concerned." As Lewis Morris cantered back from his visit to Sugar Grove, he met Cyrus Ayres, driving homeward from town, his lumber-wagon making a great din as it rattled and rumbled over the rough, frozen road. The two young men exchanged greetings as they passed, and Cyrus call out to Lewis something which the noise of the wagon drowned; so, turning back, he said, "What was that you were saying about Bill Van Orman?" "Oh, I only said that Bill is to be catcher in the new nine. I was in Jase Elderkin's store, just now, and he allowed that Bill would take anything the boys had a mind to give him. But Charlie King and Ben Burton said that Larry Boyne wouldn't want to serve as catcher, if he did go into the new nine, and that Bill would be the next best man, and Larry would go on one of the bases. Say first base. How's that, think ye?" "I don't like it," said Lewis, "but we'll see what we shall see. I am willing, so far as I am concerned, to leave it all to Larry. He has got a level head, and don't you forget it." "Right you are," responded Cyrus, as, giving the reins to his impatient team, he rattled noisily down the river road. As he passed Judge Howell's handsome house, Lewis looked up and caught the glance of Miss Alice, who was sitting in the window-seat, curled up on a big cushion, and scribbling something that seemed to puzzle her very much. The girl wrote, re-wrote, erased and wrote again. Finally she held her work, somewhat blurred and scratchy as it was, at arm's length, and said in soliloquy, "I really think that is the very best thing that could be done! But I wonder what I put that young Irishman's name at the head of the list for?" With a faint pink tint suffusing her cheek, she drew a line through the name at the top of the page, wrote it at the bottom, and then laughed softly to herself. Just then Lewis Morris rode by, gallantly taking off his cap as he passed the house. If Mr. Lewis could have looked over Alice's shoulder, he would have read this list of names: S. Morrison, L.F. Neddie Ellis, C.F. Charlie King, P. Hart Stirling, 2d B. John Brubaker, R.F. Hiram Porter, 1st B. Ben Burton, S.S. Wm. Van Orman, 3d B. Lawrence Boyne, Catcher. Alice concealed the paper in her pocket, as she saw her father drive up the road from the bridge. Then she took it out again with a pretty little air of determination, saying to herself. "My papa knows that I am so much interested in the new nine scheme, why shouldn't I tell him that this is what I think about the re-organization?" So, when the Judge, that night, drew his motherless child to his knee, she brought to him the list of players which she had made out. "Perhaps you will think it mannish in me, papa," she said, "but I have made out a list of the players in the new Catalpa nine. I have a whim that this is about the way they will be placed." The Judge took the crumpled and blurred paper, and running his eyes over it, said, "That is a good cast, as they say in the theaters, Alice; but don't you think you are a little premature? The new nine is not yet formed, and until they begin to practice they can hardly tell where each player should be placed. I don't pretend to know much about the game; not so much as my little daughter does, for example, but isn't that about the way it strikes you?" Alice admitted that her father was right. But she had given a great deal of thought to the matter. Everybody in the town was discussing this absorbing topic. And, out of all that she had heard, she had evolved this cast of characters, so to speak. Anticipating the story of the Catalpa nine a little, it may be said that Alice Howell's list, although its features were known only to herself and her father, was adopted with two exceptions, Larry Boyne was chosen to the third base and Bill Van Orman took the position of catcher. But this was not done until far later in the winter, when the new nine was finally organized for the summer campaign. CHAPTER V. NOTES OF PREPARATION. On the ridge above the town of Catalpa stands a huge building known as "The Fair Building." When the Northern District Agricultural Fair was held in Catalpa, this structure was used for displays of mammoth squashes, women's handiwork, exhibits of flax, wheat, flour, and the other products of the fertile region of Northern Illinois. Now it was given over to desolation and neglect. The men who had helped to pay for its erection were not willing to signify by tearing it down that they had given up all hope of ever winning back to Catalpa the institution that had moved away up to the northern part of the state. Some of these days, they said, the Fair would come back to Catalpa, and then the building would be ready for the show, as of old. The promoters of the new base ball club scheme had no difficulty in securing permission for the players to practice in the building. Accordingly, when the leisure days of winter came on, the lads betook themselves to the lonesome and barnlike structure and warmed themselves with the exercise that pitching, catching and running made needful. "If we had had this old ark built for us," said Hiram Porter, whose father was one of the Directors of the Agricultural Society, "it couldn't have been better planned. Suppose we call a ball sent up there where Marm Deyo used to spread out her wonderful bed-quilts a foul ball? And then we might imagine that the lower gallery is full of girls looking on at Larry's scientific pitching. Gals--gallery; see?" and the boys all laughed at Hiram's small joke, for their spirits rose as they warmed to their work. Thither went, also, occasionally, a favored few of the townspeople who were very much waked up now over the work of the Nine that was to be the champion of the region, if not of the State. To such an extent had the men, women and children of Catalpa been aroused by what was going on, that a stranger coming into town and hearing the gossip around the street corners and in the more comfortable stores and shops, would have supposed that Catalpa was devoting itself exclusively to the practice of base ball. It was the dead of winter, and, except a few teams slowly pulling in from the outlying country, with a few farmers in quest of the necessaries of life from the town stores, very little life was visible about the place. Occasionally, a fierce snow storm would sweep over the town, blocking the streets, and cutting it off from all communication except by railroad. The main street would be desolate, and the bridge show only a solitary passenger whom dire necessity brought out in such a cold and wintry gale as the "blizzard" proved to be. At such times, however, up in the big Fair Building whose yawning cracks let in the driving snow, and on whose roof the shingles rattled merrily, a party of hardy and stalwart young fellows was sure to be found practicing arduously for the work of the coming summer. Around the hot stoves in the lounging-places, down town, grown men were talking of base ball, and small boys, hanging eagerly on the outer edges of the groups, drank in with silent intelligence the words of wisdom that dropped from the lips of their elders. For a time, at least, it looked as if nothing would ever be done in that town but to prepare for the base ball season of the next year. But the winter wore away and the regular industries of the Stone River Valley began to revive. The ice went out of the river with the usual rush, and people wondered, as they always had, if the bridge would stand the pressure of the ice-flood. The roads were once more channels of bottomless mud, and eastern people, whom business errands brought out into that part of the country, sourly berated a country "in which everything depended on the state of the roads." The blue jays were calling from the tree-tops and the meadow larks were whistling along the fences. The prairies were gradually growing green, and the low places and hollows where the snow lately lingered became shining pools reflecting the tender blue of the spring sky. One day, Bill Van Orman, after carefully going over the Agricultural Fair Grounds in company with Al Heaton, reported that it was about time to begin practicing out of doors. For months, the members of the new nine had been wishing for the day to come when they could get out into the open air and put some of their indoor practice into actual work. So, with the assistance of a few of their associates who were not members of the new club, they organized two nines and went to work in earnest. The long winter had borne its fruit. The talk and gossip of the town had run almost altogether to base ball. There was nobody in Catalpa, unless it was poor old Father Bickerby, who was stone deaf, who had not heard the smallest particulars of the progress of the new nine discussed. Did Larry Boyne make a particularly fine running, one-hand catch in the practice of a winter's afternoon? It was minutely described that night over a hundred tea-tables in Catalpa. Did Charlie King bewilder everybody, some day, by the dexterity and rapidity of the balls that he delivered, so that even the players, always reluctant to praise each other, applauded him? Sage old men hanging over the open fire in the drug store would say that Charlie King "would warm those Jonesvillers, next summer." And, what was of more immediate importance, the financial arrangements necessary to start the club prosperously on its way were perfected while the dull times of a western winter pervaded the town of Catalpa. Judge Howell, himself, with an air of great condescension, headed a list of gentlemen who agreed to give a certain sum to enable the club to carry out their campaign. Others followed the great man of the town, according to their ability. And others, again, pledged themselves to lend any sum that might be required to make up a possible deficiency. But, so many who were able to give outright to what they called "the good cause" came forward with their gifts, there was no chance for any deficiency. Since the outbreak of the war, when everybody was scraping lint, making "comforts" for the soldiers, or marching to the front, there had not been so hot a fever of enthusiasm in Catalpa. The soldiers of this new campaign were the lusty young heroes up in the Agricultural Fair Grounds who were doing battle, every day, with imaginary foes and making ready to face the real antagonists who could not now be very far off; for the base ball season would open in a few weeks. There was a little jealousy over the choice of a captain. Gradually, the place of each man in the nine had been settled without much debate. As we have seen, the list that Alice Howell had made up, in the privacy of her own solitude, became that which the players finally fixed upon, except that Larry Boyne went to third base and Bill Van Orman took the place of catcher, instead of the positions which the fair Alice had assigned them in her draft of an ideal nine. Ben Burton was supported for the captaincy of the club by several of the members, all of the new players, except Larry Boyne, being in favor of choosing him. Ben was a warm champion of his own claims to the place. Larry, on the other hand, modestly, but very decidedly, supported Hiram Porter for the post of Captain. He was in every way fit for it, and he and his father had done more for the new club than any others. Besides all that, the Porters held a first-rate social position in Dean County and that would count for something in the organizing of the campaign. The young men considered the withdrawal of Al Heaton, and the cause of his loss to them, and they laughed at the thought. Ben Burton was very savage at the suggestion that his family was not just as good as the Porters. What had family to do with base ball, anyway? The discussion grew warm, after a while, and Larry and Ben were brought into sharp antagonism. There had been rumors that Larry Boyne had dared to show to Miss Alice Howell some of the little attentions with which the young swains of the region were wont to manifest their admiration for a young lady of their choice. He had even gone so far as to ask her to allow him to drive her to a little dancing party given in Darville, one of the numerous rivals of Catalpa, a little prairie town on the Rush River Railroad, twelve miles distant. Alice, warned by a suggestion from her father, who exhibited a species of panic at the bare idea of the invitation, had declined the young man's kindly offer, and had staid at home to murmur at her hard fate. Ben Burton could not seriously cherish a belief that Larry Boyne was "paying attention" to the Judge's daughter; but he felt that he, somehow, owed him a grudge. The impending storm, if any really did impend, blew over when it was ascertained by ballot that Hiram Porter was the choice of the club. And Hiram, who was tall, dark, strong, long of limb, handsome and skillful, was accordingly chosen captain of the Catalpa nine. Ben Burton, with some show of generous magnanimity, clapped Hiram on the back and boisterously congratulated him on his having secured the coveted honor of the captaincy. But Larry, with a manly air, said, "You'll find that all the boys will take orders from you, Hi, with as much cheerfulness as if we were soldiers in the field and you were leading them to battle. Isn't that so, fellows?" The rest of the young men noisily and heartily asserted their allegiance to their chief, and the new club began their final preparations for the field with enthusiasm and harmonious good-will. By the evening lamp, that night, in Judge Howell's house, the matter was discussed by the Judge and his daughter. "It is an excellent choice, Alice, my child, don't you think so?" "Certainly, papa, but it is not of very great importance, after all, who is captain of the nine. 'The play's the thing,' as Hamlet says; isn't it Hamlet, papa?" "I don't know about that, my little girl, I am somewhat rusty in my Shakespeare; but the play is the thing, I suppose. Nevertheless, since social rank does not go for much in base ball, I should have been glad to see Larry Boyne made the captain of the new nine." "Oh, papa, that was not to be thought of. He is a new recruit. Who knows how he may turn out? He may be a secret emissary from Jonesville to 'throw the game,' some day." "Bless my life!" cried the Judge, "I never thought of that." CHAPTER VI. AN INTERESTING EPISODE. Although the stock of the Catalpa Base Ball Club was divided among many share-holders in the town of Catalpa, it was evident that the mere holding, or non-holding, of shares made no difference with those who were engaged in the active duties of playing. To be sure, the nine had not yet begun their summer campaign. The first of April was early enough for the beginning of outdoor practice, and active work in the field would not open until the first of May; but enough had been done, in the preliminary organization and preparing for the summer's work, to test the temper of the members of the club. It was not a purely business-like venture into which these young men had gone for the purpose of making capital or money for themselves. They were burning to retrieve the reputation of "Old Catalpa" as they called their town, albeit it was one of the youngest in Northern Illinois. And so, as Larry Boyne and Al Heaton were sitting on the rail fence that encloses the Court House of Dean County, in Catalpa, discussing the future prospects of the club, both were confidential and intimate in their exchange of opinions concerning the members of the nine. "No, I tell you that you are wrong, Al, in your estimate of Ben Burton," said Larry, earnestly. "I do not think that I could be prejudiced against Ben; and I try to judge him fairly; and so I cannot bring myself to believe that he would be tricky, or that he would undertake to play any foul game on me, or on anybody else, for that matter. He is sullen and moody, at times, and I know that he took to heart his defeat as candidate for captain of the club. I know that he don't like me, although I don't know why he should dislike me, as he certainly does." "Pooh! Larry," was Albert's frank reply, "you know well enough that he fancies that you are in his way as a suitor for the hand of a certain young lady, whose name shall not be mentioned even in this very select society. He knows that that young lady smiles on you in the most bewitching way, and he knows--" "Oh, see here, Al," interrupted Larry, with flaming cheeks, "you are riding your horse with a free rein, don't you think so? I have no right to think of any young lady with the seriousness you seem to put into the matter. I am young, poor, and without friends or influence." "Hold on there, Larry," cried young Heaton, warmly. "You have no right to say that. You will never want for friends. You have a town-full of them, and when you need any one to stand by and back you up in anything you undertake, you can just put out your hand, without getting off of this rail, to find one friend that will be the man to stand right there as long as he is wanted." Larry laid his hand on Albert's knee as he said, "I know that, Al, and it is good to know it and to have you say it in that straightforward way of yours, and I will say too, that your father called me into the mill, the other day, and said pretty much the same thing to me; and he told me that he should consider it a favor, or something of that sort, if I would allow him to have a fatherly lookout for the folks at home, while I am off, this summer, in case anything should happen." And Larry's honest blue eyes filled with moisture as he looked far off over the outlying prairie, in the vain effort to conceal how deeply he had felt the kindness showed to him. "That was very good of the Governor, I'm sure," said Albert, stoutly, "and I don't care if he is my father of whom I am saying it. But it's nothing more than fair for him, and for the rest of us who stay at home, to do what we can to keep your mind at ease about your folks while you are out in the ball field for the summer. But what I was getting at is this: Ben Burton is down on you; he will try to get the advantage of you, if he can; and, what is of more consequence to all of us, he would not scruple to bring the whole club into disgrace for the sake of gratifying any selfish purpose that he might happen to have in view." "But what evil purpose could he have?" demanded Larry. "As I said before, I don't know. I don't want to do Ben an injustice, but I do know that he is underhanded and mean. So you look out for him. As far as his relations to you are concerned, I might say, if you were not so everlastingly toploftical about it, that he is jealous of you on account of your supposed good standing with Alice Howell--" "Oh, hush-h-h-h!" cried Larry, looking around in unfeigned consternation, to see if there were listeners near. "You really must not mention that young lady's name in that manner, nor in any manner connected with my own. It would be almost insulting to her, it would fill the Judge with wrath (and I shouldn't blame him for being angry), to know that gossiping young fellows like us were using his daughter's name in this light fashion." "And why, I should like to know?" answered Albert. "He need not put on any high and mighty airs. I have heard my father say that when the Howellses came here from Kentucky, when the Stone River country was first settled, and old man Hixon was running his ferry across the stream here, they were so poor that they wore bed-ticking clothes, went barefoot, and lived on hog and hominy for many a year afterwards. Side-meat was good enough for them then. The fat of the land is not good enough for them now. It just makes me sick! Such airs!" And honest Albert got down from the fence to give freer expression to his deep disgust. Larry went away from this casual meeting with his stanch friend Albert with a sense of depression. His nature was unsuspicious and he chose to think that all men were as honest and as frank as he certainly was. Young Heaton's talk had shaken his faith in human nature as far as that was represented in one man--Ben Burton, the open-eyed and bluff Ben Burton. No wonder Larry repelled Al Heaton's notion that Ben "was not altogether square" and should be watched. Larry was to stop at Armstrong's blacksmith shop, on the north side, on his way home, to have his horse shod. So, as he was leading the animal across the bridge, lost in thought and dwelling somewhat darkly on his conversation with Al Heaton, he did not notice that a young lady, very charmingly dressed and daintily booted and gloved, was tripping along toward him from the opposite side of the river, in the foot-walk that skirted the lower side of the rickety old wooden bridge. He did not look up until his steed, never very easily startled out of a heavy and slouching gait, jumped wildly at a sudden flash from a sky-blue parasol which the young lady deliberately shook at him. "Whoa, Nance!" cried Larry, astonished at the beast's unprecedented skittishness, "you old fool!" but here he stopped, for his eyes fell on the bewitching apparition on the other side of the timbered rail, and he colored deeply red as he beheld Miss Alice ready to giggle at his confusion. "Good day, Mr. Boyne," said the girl, "I am glad I have met you. I wanted to ask you how the club is getting along, and if you think you will be in good condition for the coming season. To be sure, papa tells me that he has every confidence in your success; but then, papa is hardly a judge in base ball matters, you know, although he has learned a great deal lately, and so have many other people, and they all seem very confident; but the wish is father to the thought, you know, and so I thought I would like to see some one in whose judgment and candor I could put a great deal of confidence, a very great deal, you know, and see what he thinks about the prospect before us. I say 'us,' you see, because it is a sort of town matter. Now isn't it?" The young lady had rattled on in a random manner, as if she was giving time for Larry to recover himself. Certainly, he needed time. He was covered with blushes, not altogether becoming, for his natural color was quite deep enough for all artistic considerations. But as he stood there, cap in hand, the river breeze lightly lifting his brown curls and fanning his hot cheeks, the maiden's bright eyes rested on the picture with a certain sense of satisfaction, and she said to her most secret and hidden inner self that there were very few handsomer young men in the region than he who stood before her. [Illustration: "I WANTED TO ASK YOU HOW THE CLUB IS GETTING ALONG."--Page 64.] Larry, laying his brown hand on the timber guard that capped the railing betwixt them, said, "You startled me so, Miss Alice, that I almost forgot my manners; and I haven't much. Oh, you wanted to know about the prospects of the Catalpa Nine? Well, I do not think it would be wise to build many hopes on the future until we have met at least one of the best nines of the country about us. Some of our friends think we are going to sweep the deck. Excuse the expression. And some are even talking of our being the champion nine of the state." "Why," said the girl, "don't you hope for the championship? Is not that what you are going out to get?" "Of course, Miss Alice, we hope for everything that is in sight, as the saying is; but we cannot expect, with any sort of reason, for so great success as that during our very first season. The matches are now nearly all made up for the coming season, and if we were never so good players, we should have no chance for the championship, I am afraid." "I never thought of that," said Alice. "What an awful lot you know about base ball. But then that is because you are a man. My papa says that girls have no business learning about base ball. Now what do you think, Mr. Boyne?" "I am not used to being called 'Mr. Boyne' for one thing," replied Larry, gallantly, "and I should feel very much honored indeed if Miss Howell would remember that I am only 'Larry' the new third base man of the Catalpa Nine." The heavy rumble of a farm wagon driving up on the town end of the bridge at that moment warned Larry that he must get out of the way. So, with a few concise words as to the all-absorbing topic of the day, he bowed, replaced his cap, and passed on to North Catalpa. Sal Monnahan drove the sorrel horses that now came pounding along the wooden way. When she reached her home in Oneosho Village, that evening, she informed her nearest neighbor that she had seen "Larry Boyne lallygagging with that high-strung darter of Judge Howell's, on the North Catalpa bridge, that arternoon, and then when the gal came off she looked as if she had been talking with her sweetheart, her eyes were so shiny, just like dimonds, and her cheeks were as red as a poppy in the corn. It do beat all how that young Irish feller gets on with folks in town. Gals and fellers--all the same." As for Larry, he went across the bridge, leading his nag, and walking so lightly that it seemed to him that his steps were in the air. While Armstrong was shoeing the horse and chatting the while with Larry, he thought within himself that this was a particularly fine young fellow, and that it was a pity that he was poor. Presently his thoughts took shape and he said: "Don't you think you are too smart a chap, Larry, to waste your time playing base ball?" "I am not going to waste much time playing, Tom. I know enough about base ball to know that a player doesn't last as a good player more than ten or twelve years. He is too young to play before he is seventeen years old, and he is done for and is dropped out by the time he is thirty. So if I had any notion of making ball-playing my calling in life, I should have that fact in view to warn me. Oh, no Tom, I am only making this a bridge to carry me over a hard place." "That's good sense. I was afraid you were going off with the base ball fever, and so never be fit for anything else. That's what will become of some of those young kids over in town who don't think of anything, from morning till night, but base ball. I always thought you had more sense into you than most of the boys around here. You are older than your years, Larry," and the plain-speaking blacksmith looked admiringly in the young man's face, "older than your years." "Older than your years." These words rang in Larry's ears as he swung himself lightly into his saddle and ambled down the river road to Sugar Grove. The blacksmith looked after him and muttered to himself, "He is smart enough to be anything in the way of a lawyer that there is in these parts. And if he were to cast sheep's eyes on the Judge's daughter, or on anybody else's daughter, for that matter, I just believe he would win her in time. He's got such a taking way with him." And honest Thomas Armstrong resumed his work with a mild glow of pleasure stealing through him as he thought of Larry Boyne and his possibilities. CHAPTER VII. IN THE FIELD. It was an impressive occasion when the Catalpa club started on their first pilgrimage. They had arranged a practice game with the Black Hawk Nine, of Sandy Key, in the central part of the State, to begin the season with. Other games were arranged for later work, but this match, which was partly for practice, and partly to test the material of the new nine, was felt to be one of the most important. From Sandy Key the Nine were to go to Bluford to play the famous "Zoo-zoo Nine," as they called themselves, of that city, and then they were to begin a struggle for the championship of Northern Illinois with the Red Stockings of Galena. How much depended on the result of the meeting of the Black Hawks and the Catalpas, you who have followed the career of a base ball nine can best reckon. In Catalpa, at least, the game would be watched with great, although distant, interest and absorption. Two or three of the more active promoters of the Base Ball scheme were to go down to Sandy Key, which is on the Illinois Central Railroad, to witness the struggle of their favorite champions with the strangers. The Black Hawks were renowned as fielders. They had acquired a reputation that inspired terror among the base ball players of the southern portion of the state; and when it was noised abroad that a new nine from Dean County, heretofore unknown in the Diamond Field, had actually challenged the Black Hawks, experienced amateurs and professional players made remarks about the assurance of the new men from the North that were not intended to be complimentary or encouraging. The Catalpas had adopted blue as their standard color, and a uniform of blue and white, with a pennant of white, edged and lettered with blue, carried the colors of the club into new and untried fields. Great was the enthusiasm of the townspeople when the club, packed into two big omnibuses, with their friends, finally departed for the railway station, which was on the outer and upper edge of the town. A vast number of sympathizing friends and well-wishers attended the party to the station, and those who remained in town watched with a certain impressiveness the coming train as it skirted North Catalpa, crossed the tall trestle work that spanned the river below the town and finally disappeared in the grove of trees near the depot. It had been told all abroad that the new nine was to make its first sally on that train, and the jaded and dusty passengers from the North looked from the windows with languid interest as the lusty young fellows made a final rush for the cars, followed by the irregular cheers of the bystanders and accompanied by a goodly number of their old associates who were "going to see fair play." The conductor, with an affectation of indifference that he did not feel, disdained to look at the surging and animated crowd, but turned his face toward the engine, waved his hand, and shouted "all aboard!" just as if he did not carry Catalpa and its fortunes with him. The train rolled away, innumerable handkerchiefs and caps waving from its windows, and hearty and long resounding cheers flying after it. A cloud of yellow dust, a hollow rumble of the train on the culvert beyond, a tall column of blackness floating from the engine over the woods, and the Catalpa Nine were gone. "I never felt so wrought up in all my life," said Alice Howell, confidentially, to her friend Ida Boardman, as they descended the hill toward the town. "It seems, sometimes, as if I was sure that our Nine would win, and then, again, I am almost certain that they will be beaten by the Black Hawks. I saw the Black Hawks play the Springfields, last summer, and they were glorious players; such fielding! Oh, I am almost sure they will out-field our boys." "If our nine were all like that Larry Boyne; why, isn't he just splendid? If they were all like him, I should have no fears for Catalpa. And then there's Hiram Porter, how beautifully he does handle the bat! Don't you think Larry Boyne is the handsomest young fellow in the Nine, Alice?" Alice colored, she knew not why, as she made answer: "I don't see what good looks have to do with playing. You are so illogical, Ida. What do you think of Ben Burton, for example. Don't you think he is handsome enough to make a good player?" "Ben Burton! why he is perfectly horrid, and so disagreeable and high and mighty in his ways. I detest him, and if anybody loses the game, to-morrow, I hope it will be he. No, I take that back, for I cannot bear to think that anybody will lose the game for our Nine. Do you, Ally?" Alice agreed most heartily with her friend that it would be a strange and lamentable catastrophe if the game at Sandy Key should be lost by the Catalpas. "But I am afraid, I am afraid," the girl repeated as the twain slowly paced down the plank walk leading to the town. Her words were re-echoed, that day, many times by the people of Catalpa who would have given a great deal if "the boys" could have been thereby assured of success on the morrow. Meantime, as the train was speeding onward, the nine were in high spirits and full of fun. For a time, at least, their thoughts were with those left behind rather than with the unknown adversaries that were before them. They were too young and buoyant to borrow trouble. Their spirits rose as they plunged forward into new scenes, and all suggestions of possible defeats were left unheeded for to-day. Only Larry, "older than his years," felt a little foreboding at the entrance of this most important crisis of his young life. But his cheery face showed no sign of distrust or anxiety. He was, as usual, the center of a lively and talkative group of his comrades. He wore in his button-hole a delicate knot of flowers which had come there so mysteriously that none of the noisy fellows about him could guess who had put it there. "Who is she? Why didn't we see her?" queried the laughing boys as they pressed around Larry, affecting to sniff great delight from his nosegay. Larry's face beamed as he told them that this was a reminder that every Irishman must do his duty, and that he was going to carry the little bouquet to the field of victory for the Catalpas. "Those pansies grew in Judge Howell's garden," said Ben Burton, surlily, from his seat. Larry's eyes flashed at the covert insult that he thought he saw under Ben's sneer. But he said not a word. "For shame, Ben Burton!" cried Al Heaton, "for shame to call names like that!" There was a little cloud over the sun for a fleeting moment. But Larry's bright face and cheery voice soon dispelled the transient shadow, and the talk was turned into merrier channels. Ben Burton grumbled to himself, and, as he saw how his fellows clustered around Larry, whose brown and shining curls were only now and again visible among the lads who pranced about him, he said to Bill Van Orman, "Thinks he's the biggest toad in the puddle; don't he, Bill?" Bill, whose nickname was "The Lily," because he was so big, and red, and beefy, only opened his eyes in surprise. The telegraph office in Catalpa was in the second story of Niles's building, a brick structure on the main street of the town and chiefly occupied by lawyers and doctors. The narrow stairway was found too narrow for the throngs of people who flocked thither, next day, to learn the news from the contest in Sandy Key. Arrangements had been made by _The Catalpa Leaf_, the only daily paper in the place, to publish bulletins from the base ball ground, as fast as received. To all inquirers, Miss Millicent Murch, "the accomplished lady operator," as the local newspapers called her, stiffly replied that the telegraph office had no news to give away and that the editor of _The Leaf_ would distribute his intelligence as soon as received. Even to so great a personage as Judge Howell, who early appeared in search of information, the young lady gave her one unvarying answer. But public excitement ran high when, about two o'clock in the afternoon, a despatch from Al Heaton was received by his father, saying that the game had been called and that "the boys were in tip-top condition." Mr. Heaton signified his intention of staying at the office or thereabouts, until the game was over, in order to receive Al's despatches. "Is Albert going to send despatches from the ball ground, all day, Mr. Heaton?" asked Alice Howell, who, with sparkling eyes, was eagerly waiting for news from the absent company. "Indeed he is, Alice," said Mr. Heaton. "That is what he went down to Sandy Key for, and I think you know my boy well enough to believe that he will keep us informed. Al is as much of an enthusiast in base ball matters as you and I are, my dear, and if he is alive and well we will hear from him until the fortunes of the day are decided." Mr. Heaton smiled in a kindly way as he looked down into the bright face of the young lady, and added, "And I believe and hope that he will send us a pleasant message before the day is done. Depend upon that." "I hope so too, Mr. Heaton," Alice replied, with a slight cloud passing over her countenance, "but somehow, I feel as if we were to be defeated this time. I don't know why. But that is my superstitious notion about it." Meantime, the telegraph machine had been industriously ticking and Miss Millicent writing as industriously, while the bystanders were talking in low tones. "A message for Mr. Heaton," said the operator, with perfect composure, as she folded and placed in an envelope, duly addressed, a telegraph despatch which she handed to Mr. Heaton. "Hateful old thing!" murmured Miss Ida Boardman, "she has had that message all the time and said nothing about it until she got good and ready." "Hush!" said Alice, in a sort of stage whisper, "let us hear the news." Mr. Heaton, having glanced hurriedly over the despatch, cried, "Good news from the boys! Hear this!" A dead silence prevailed in the office as the beaming miller read:-- _Hurrah for our side! First two innings over. Catalpas score two. Black Hawks none. Great excitement in Sandy Key. Everything lovely._ _ALBERT._ "Hooray!" broke from many lips, and the waiting crowd below the windows, hearing the cry, took it up and a fusillade of irregular and scattering hurrahs scattered along the street. Judge Howell, who had lingered during the noonday recess of his court, admonished the crowd that the lady at the telegraph desk would be embarrassed by the confusion, whereupon the company went out and added their joy to that of the assemblage that crowded around a bulletin that was at once posted by the door of _The Catalpa Leaf_ office. "What did I tell you, Alice," said Miss Ida, regardless of the fact that she had told her nothing. "Didn't I say that the Catalpas would win?" "But the game has only just begun," said Alice. "I am still hoping and fearing, and I am not going to be put off of my base, so to speak, by the first news which happens to be good. Only two innings, Ida; remember that." The cheering of the small boys and the excited comments of the still smaller girls, however, proved infectious. One would think that a great battle had been fought, and that victory was already assured to the household troops. The dry-goods man laid down his yard-stick; the carpenter dropped his plane, and even the old bridge-tender forsook his post long enough to stroll into the nearest barber-shop and ask for the news from "the boys" in Sandy Key. "Another bulletin!" cried Hank Jackson, the burly short stop of the Dean County Nine, as the tall form of Mr. Heaton emerged from the telegraph office. This time, the face of the ardent champion of Catalpa's prowess was not illuminated by a smile. Mounting a convenient dry-goods box, he announced that two more innings had been played and that the score then stood two and two, the Black Hawks having made two runs, and the Catalpas having added nothing to their score. A blank silence fell on the assemblage and Henry Jackson vengefully planted his big fist, with a tremendous thud, upon the short ribs of a side of beef that hung from the doorway of Adee's butcher shop. "That for the Black Hawks," he muttered, with clenched teeth. But a great triumph was in store for the friends of the absent sons of Catalpa. Even while Alice Howell was trying to cheer her despondent friend Ida with the suggestion that the game was "yet young," the Editor of _The Leaf_, whose despatches were sent to him across the street in a flying box attached to a wire, put his dishevelled head out of his office window and excitedly cried, "Three cheers for the Catalpa Nine! Fifth inning, Catalpas, five; Black Hawks, one!" There was something like a little groan for the discomfited Black Hawks and then a wild yell broke out for the home nine. The small boys hurrahed shrilly and lustily, and even the street dogs, sharing in the general joy, barked noisily and aimlessly around the edges of the crowd. Miss Anstress Howell, scanning the joyful mob from the windows of her brother's office, remarked to herself, with aggravated sourness, that it was perfectly ridiculous to see Alice mixing herself up there in the street with a lot of lunatics who were making themselves absurd over a pesky base ball game, away down in Sangamon County. It was unaccountable. Judge Howell, sitting on his judicial bench in the court-house on the hill, heard the pother in the town below and covertly smiled behind his large white hand to think that the home nine was undoubtedly doing well in Sandy Key. Once more the traditional enterprise of the daily press vindicated itself with the earliest news, and Editor Downey put out of his office window his uncovered head, every hair of which stood up with excitement, as he bawled, "Sixth inning, Catalpas, none; Black Hawks, two. Seventh inning, no runs scored." "Now you yoost keep your big fists out of my beef!" said Jake Adee, with his wrathful eye fixed on Hank Jackson, who was looking around for some enemy to punch. There was depression in the crowd, but Alice Howell smiled cheerfully in the rueful face of Mr. Heaton and said that she felt her spirits rising. She was getting more confident as the rest of the party became despondent. [Illustration: "THREE CHEERS FOR THE CATALPA NINE."--Page 78.] The innings had been made rapidly. Scarcely an hour had passed, and, so intense was the interest in the game, that everybody thought the despatches had trodden upon each other in their hurry to tumble into Catalpa. It was a warm, bright day, and the prairie wind blew softly down the hill above the town. To look into the knots of people standing about the street corners, one would suppose that it was an August noon. Everybody was perspiring. It was a warm engagement down there in Sandy Key where the boys were vigorously doing battle for the honor of old Catalpa. But it seemed even hot in the town where the people waited for the news. So when Mr. Heaton, radiant with joy, and without waiting to come down the stairs of the telegraph office, put his leg and his head out of the window of the building and cried "Good news again!" everybody stood breathless. As Miss Anstress Howell afterwards remarked, with disdain, one might have heard a pin drop. _Victory! victory! Eighth inning, Catalpas, nine; Black Hawks, none. Glory enough for one day. Your loving son,_ _ALBERT_. Then went up a shout that reached the jury in the case of the County of Dean against Jeremiah Stowell, shut up in the close room provided in the court-house for jurors and other criminals, and which startled Judge Howell, who, looking out of the window from his private room, beheld his daughter, flushed and almost tearful with joy, hurrying across the court-house green, eager to tell her father the good news. The solitary horse-thief in the jail heard that hurrah and wondered if relief was coming to him from his long-delayed accomplices. Dr. Everett, reining his sturdy steed at the next street corner above the telegraph office, asked a wandering small boy what had happened, but got no answer, for the urchin was off like a shot to tell his mates who were bathing prematurely down under the mill dam. And careful housewives, making ready their early suppers, in houses beyond the railroad track, heard the yell of triumph, and softly laughed to be told in this far-off way that the Catalpa nine were victorious over their adversaries in Sandy Key. The game was virtually decided. The ninth and last inning showed one run for the Catalpas and a "goose egg" for the Black Hawks. There was more cheering in the street under the windows of the telegraph office. Somebody suggested that the flag should be hoisted on the Court House, but fears of Judge Howell's displeasure and veto prevailed, and the proposition fell dead. Hiram Porter's father, however, raised the stars and stripes over the Catalpa House of which he was proprietor. Editor Downey flung out from his third story window the red bunting with the white Catalpa Leaf that symbolized his standard sheet to the world below. Later on, when the wild shower of despatches from Al Heaton, Hiram Porter, and others of the home nine, had ceased for a time, this bulletin appeared on the board of _The Catalpa Leaf_. A GLORIOUS VICTORY FOR OUR NINE! OLD CATALPA TO THE FRONT! 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Catalpas 2 0 0 0 5 0 0 9 1=17. Black Hawks 0 0 0 2 1 2 0 0 0= 5. _First Base by errors_, Catalpas, 8; Black Hawks, 1. _Earned Runs_, Catalpas, 7; Black Hawks, 1. _Struck out_, Catalpas, 2; Black Hawks, 5. _Our esteemed fellow citizen, Benjamin F. Burton, especially distinguished himself with his fine play at short stop, and Larry Boyne, of Sugar Grove, did some of the most brilliant work in the game, having made the highest number of runs of any man in the Nine, and being 'like lightning' as a third base man. Great excitement prevails in Sandy Key, but our men have been treated with distinguished courtesy by the citizens. The receipts at the gate were nearly $1,000._ When Al Heaton came home, next day, he was the hero and oracle of the hour. By reflection, he was shining with the honors of the Catalpa Nine. Wherever he went about the town, he was sure to become the center of an admiring knot of fellow-citizens and small boys, eager to learn how the absent ball-players bore themselves in the arena at Sandy Key. "I tell you what it is, fellows," said Albert, "you should have seen 'The Lily,' as they call Bill Van Orman, get on the home base in the fifth inning. He never stopped to look for the ball. He seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, and just as he was on the point of being caught out, when he was at least ten feet from the home base, he gave a lunge and threw himself flat on his stomach, ploughed up the turf as he plunged forwards, and, reaching out, grabbed the bag with his hands before he could be put out. Ten feet did I say? Well, I should say it was nearer fifteen feet. And you should have seen 'The Lily's' track where he scooted along that turf." "The _Leaf's_ correspondent telegraphed that Ben Burton covered himself all over with glory," remarked Jason Elderkin. "How was that?" "Well, you see that Ben, being at short stop, had many opportunities to do good work, and he put in some very fine licks at different times. For instance, in the first play he put out Harris, the Black Hawk's pitcher, after having muffed the ball, and then picked it up on the run. Everybody said it was one of the best in-field plays of the day. And in the eighth inning, he made a beautiful run, stealing two bases just as easy as falling off a log. Oh, I tell you, Ben is a first-rate player, and they say that the Captain of the Chicago Calumets was down there and wanted to know if Ben would go into their Nine, next season. Ben was very high and mighty about something, and I guess that that was what was the matter with him. He was very much set up about something." The mention of the famous Calumets evoked much enthusiasm among the base ball connoisseurs of Catalpa, and it was noised about the town that that club might be induced to accept a challenge from the Catalpa Nine. Albert Heaton, when asked what he thought of the possibility of such an event, shook his head. "I tell you what, Doctor," he said to Dr. Selby, "we all thought it pretty cheeky in our boys to accept a challenge from the Black Hawks, and it is astonishing that we got out of the scrape as well as we did. To be sure, we came off with flying colors, and we have made a great reputation, that is to say, the boys have, for I am not in the Nine. But the Calumets are the champions of the State, and I suppose they will be to the end of the season; to the end of the chapter, unless something very unexpected happens. I guess our boys had better be contented with the laurels they will win outside of Chicago, this year, at any rate." But that very day while Albert was strolling across the bridge with Miss Alice Howell, and pouring into her ear a glowing account of Larry Boyne's prowess in the field at Sandy Key, he told her, in the strictest confidence, that the Catalpas would never be satisfied until they had measured their strength with the famous Chicago nine, the Calumets. Alice's eyes sparkled, whether with the excitement stirred by Albert's narrative of Larry's exploits, or at the prospect of so bold a dash for fame as that proposed by the Catalpas, it is not easy to say. The young girl's ardor cooled when she considered the chances against the success of the Catalpas in so unequal a contest. "I did not believe that we should beat the Black Hawks," said she. "I was almost sure that we should be defeated, and when the tide began to turn in favor of the Catalpas, I could not bring myself to believe that we were actually going to carry off the honors of the day. It was a famous victory, to be sure, and I hope that the Nine will be able to do as well through the season, and then, if all goes well, another season may see them pitted against the best nine in the state, even the best in the country; who knows? They have made a glorious beginning, haven't they, Albert?" Of course this was conceded by so fast a friend of the absent Nine as Al Heaton certainly was, and it was also clear to even an impartial observer that the Nine had made something of a name for themselves, at the very outset of their career, by defeating the Black Hawks, a Nine of established reputation, victors in many fields. "What would you think if our nine were to play the Calumets, papa?" asked Alice that night, as they lingered over the tea-table. "Think?" said the Judge. "I should think that it was a great piece of assurance." "So should I!" replied Alice; "but I wish they could do it." CHAPTER VIII. A TURN OF THE TIDE. Defeat, utter and overwhelming, followed the Catalpas to Bluford, where they played the "Zoo-Zoo Nine" of that city. The "Zoo-Zoos" were picked players, the lineal descendants of a company of Illinois Zouaves renowned in the Civil War for their bravery, dash, and skill as skirmishers. The original founders of the club had long since disappeared from the field of action, but their successors bore up the banner of their illustrious namesakes with infinite credit. None of the Catalpa people had gone to Bluford to witness the game, Al Heaton being sick at home and the other immediate friends of the Nine being too busy with their farms and merchandise. And so it happened that the only news that came to the town from Bluford dribbled in from the Keokuck evening papers, sent by wire to the editor of _The Catalpa Leaf_, late at night. Mr. Downey did not think it worth while to post on his bulletin board the discouraging news that the "Zoo-Zoo Nine" had beaten the Catalpas by a score of eleven to one. But the news got out, of course, for the whole town was on the alert to hear the result from Bluford. Albert Heaton was sitting up in bed, alternately shaken with ague and parched with fever, when his little sister brought him the unwelcome tidings. He groaned aloud and asked if Alice Howell had heard the news. Mrs. Heaton, a motherly woman who had no patience with base ball players that go about the country, like circus-riders, remarked, with some asperity, that she should suppose that Judge Howell would put a stop to Alice's giving so much time and attention to base ball. For herself, if she had a grown-up daughter, she would try and put something else into her head than base ball and such mannish and vulgar doings. If Alice's mother was alive, it would be mighty different in the Howell family. As it was, the Judge allowed Alice to do just about as she pleased, and it was a shame, so it was, for a nice young girl like Alice to be permitted to make a tom-boy of herself. Flirting with that young Irish fellow from Sugar Grove! Did anybody ever hear of the like? "Oh, mother," sighed poor Albert. "If you only knew how sick and sore I am for the boys, you would let up on Larry. If you had let me go with the Nine, perhaps I might have helped them out of the defeat. At any rate, it might have been less of a clean-out than it is. Dear me! How cold I am! Cover me up and let me be." With a pang of remorse at having added unwittingly to Albert's sufferings, his mother soothed the sick boy and left him to sorrowful meditations. "And I was fool enough to think that the boys would be able to challenge the Calumets." With these repentant meditations, Albert sunk into a feverish and uneasy sleep. He might have dreamed (perhaps he did) that at that very moment, Alice Howell was looking out into the gloom of the moist summer night and lamenting with bitterness the defeat of "our nine." Next day, when _The Leaf_ came out, and fuller particulars of the game were made known in a despatch from Charlie King, there was nothing to mitigate the gloom of the friends of the Catalpas. Singularly enough, some of the Dean County Nine, who had been among the most enthusiastic "boomers" of the Catalpa Nine, now assumed a most discouraging attitude. They were sure, so they said, that the Catalpas would be defeated all along the line. They had won the game at Sandy Key by a scratch. They had found their true level in Bluford. They would be beaten along the river, for it was well known that the nines in the river towns were far ahead of those in the interior of the state. Something of this talk reached the ears of Al Heaton, who was still suffering from fever-and-ague. He took up his bottle of cholagogue and shook it at his terrified little brother (who had retailed the gossip of the drug store, where he had been sent on an errand), and said, "If you hear any such infernal nonsense as that, down town, Dan, you go and tell Tom Selby that I want him to lick the first fellow that says anything against our nine. Do you mind me?" Little Dan promised stoutly that he would give Tom the message. Whether he did or not, it came to pass that Henry Jackson and Thomas Selby had a discussion, that very night, and that Dr. Selby sent his son home with strict injunctions to cover his face with brown paper and vinegar, while the big-fisted Henry went to bed with a bit of raw beef on his eye. There is nothing like news from the field of battle to bring out the partisan feelings of a community far from the scene of strife. Catalpa was stirred to its very depths by the ill tidings brought from Bluford. Those who disapproved of base ball asserted themselves in the most unexpected and exasperating manner. Nobody had suspected that there were in Catalpa so many who sympathized not with the home nine and who secretly wished that they might be defeated. But the fact that the nine had met with disaster only stimulated their friends to new courage and stronger hopes for the future. This was a time, they said, for the friends of the nine to show themselves. Mr. Heaton sent an encouraging despatch to Larry Boyne, assuring him that the temporary reverse had only strengthened the confidence of home friends of the club. Even Judge Howell, who was greatly concerned lest the nine should be unduly depressed by their reverses, authorized Lewis Morris to write to Hiram Porter, as Captain of the club, and say to him that the club must be prepared for occasional defeats and that the next news from "the front" would undoubtedly be inspiring to the many supporters of the Catalpas. "The Judge is a brick!" said Larry Boyne, when this message was read to the members of the club, as they lounged in one of the bed-rooms of Quapaw House, in Galena, where the boys were waiting to begin the championship series of games with the Red Stockings. "That's just what he is!" exclaimed "The Lily," bringing his somewhat battered fist down with emphasis on a convenient pillow. Bill had had hard luck in the late contest. His fingers had been badly sprained and twisted, and he had played with infinite difficulty on account of the battering that he had received in a game played with the Fulton City Nine, when the Catalpas were on their way to Bluford from Sandy Key. But he was still confident and determined. "I suppose some of the folks at home think that we are going to get beaten right along, every day from this out," he continued, with a scornful laugh. "They don't know us, do they, Larry? They don't know what we had to contend with in Bluford, what with being used up with that hard ride on the strap-iron railroad and the lame fingers of your humble servant. Oh, yes, I suppose there is downheartedness among the boys at home." "But I know one chap who is not downhearted," said Larry Boyne, cheerfully, "and that is Al Heaton. He will never get discouraged, whatever happens. And then there is his father, his despatch shows where he stands. Al is clear grit and so is his father; you may depend on that, boys." Ben Burton, who had virtually lost the game in Bluford by his repeated muffing of the ball, as well as by his failure at the bat, sneered as he said, "I suppose a certain young lady in North Catalpa prompted the Judge's despatch, didn't she, Larry?" Larry, with reddening cheeks, protested that he had no idea that Judge Howell needed any prompting from anybody to send a good word to the boys when they were away from home; he was too kind-hearted a man, although a little stiff, to require any hint from outsiders to do the fair thing by the Base Ball Club in whose welfare he had already shown great interest. "I didn't say 'outsiders,' Larry," replied Burton, persistently. "I said that he was probably prompted by a young lady." At this, Larry deliberately rose and walked out of the room, without a word. "I say, Ben, can't you quit your everlasting nagging of Larry," broke in Hiram Porter, as the door closed with a bang behind that indignant young man. "What's the use of your getting into a debate, every day or two, about some mysterious young lady that you two fellows are thinking about? Let up! I wish you would." Ben muttered something about the Captain's showing his little brief authority in matters that did not concern the club, when, by general consent, the meeting was broken up for the more important business of practice on the Galena Base Ball Grounds, placed at the disposal of the visitors by the managers of the championship series. CHAPTER IX. HOPE AND SUSPENSE. It was the custom in Catalpa for the storekeepers to hang out at their doors a little blue flag when they wanted the services of an errand boy. Seeing this signal at the door of Jason Elderkin's dry-goods store, Rough and Ready, wearing in the heats of summer as in winter his 'coonskin cap, shambled in and asked what was wanted. Jason lifted his spectacles from his nose and said, jocularly: "Why, Rough and Ready, I thought you had gone up to Galena to see the match between the boys and the Galena Club." "No sir-ee," replied the old man, "I have staid at home to keep the town in order. Me and Jedge Howell, we have to look after the boys at home, you know, or some of these frisky young colts like Jase Ayres would get away with the town whilst we were gone." And the old man chuckled as he added, "Cap. Heaton, he and his boy Al have gone together, and they do say that Mrs. Heaton is just wild because she can't keep the old man at home when base ball is going on. Well, it does beat all natur', don't it? Here's Al kept out of the Nine because it isn't high-toned enough for Mrs. Heaton; and here's father and son gone a-galivanting up to Galena to see the show." "I hear that Al has sent a despatch to the Judge's daughter saying that the Catalpas are going to carry off the honors this time, and no mistake," said the storekeeper. "How's that, Rough?" "Seein' as how this bundle is going over to Boardman's, I'll jest drop in at the Jedge's house on my way back, and see if Miss Ally has got any news from the seat of war, as it were, and if she has, she'll be sure to tell me. Oh, she's clear grit, too, is that gal, and she knows that I set a heap by Larry. Larry! why, it was him what give my boy all the points he has got in the game, and you may lay your bottom dollar that that boy is goin' to be the all-firedest batter in the Stone River country; and you put that down to remember." The garrulous old man shouldered his bundle as he spoke and plodded down Bridge Street and so across to the north side of the town. It was the day for the first game of the championship at Galena. The hot sun poured down into the Stone River Valley with great power, and the bleached surface of the old wooden bridge shimmered with undulating lines of heat as Rough and Ready toiled on his way. The roar of the dam had a cooling sound, and the group of cotton-woods and willows on the little island above were green and refreshing to the eye. But no breeze drew up the river, and all of the north side was steeped in liquid sunshine, the trees standing motionless and the yellow road glaring in the blinding light. The toll-keeper's dog panted in the shade of the toll-house, lolling his tongue as old Rough and Ready passed by, without stopping for a word of gossip with the keeper who dozed within the doorway. The old man paused, when half-way across the bridge, to lift his furry cap from his head and wipe the servile drops from off his burning brow. While he rested his bundle on the guard rail of the bridge, Miss Anstress Howell, the Judge's aged sister, came mincing along from the North Catalpa side, cool and fresh as if she had never before been outside of a bandbox. "I wonder ef it will be safe to tackle her for news from Galena?" muttered the old man to himself. "She's a dangerous team to fool with. Mebbe she'll get away with me, but I'll try it." "Good arternoon, Miss Howell. Fine hot day. Good growin' weather, as the farmers say. Hev you heerd that any of your folks got a despatch from Galena givin' any account of how the ball opens?" Miss Howell's manner stiffened a little as she said, with a slight toss of her head, "Judge Howell, my brother, is holding court in Pawpaw, to-day, for Judge Sniffles, and nobody else but the Judge would be likely to have any despatches concerning base ball." "Well, Miss Howell, I heerd over in town that Miss Ally had a message of some kind, no offence to you, marm, and I want to hear from the boys powerful bad, you see, and so I make bold to ask if Miss Alice mayn't hev a despatch, or something from Larry, I mean Al." "There is altogether too much nonsense about this base ball business in Catalpa, Mr. Rough,--excuse me, I forget your other name. It does seem to me as if the people had gone crazy, and the weather so hot too! Excuse me, I don't know anything about what is going on in Galena, no more than a child, I may say, and if any grown people want to begin over again and make children of themselves with playing ball, they have my sympathy." So saying, and flirting off an imaginary fleck of dust from her gown with a spotless handkerchief, Miss Howell resumed her deliberate walk across the bridge. Rough and Ready replaced his cap, and looking after her said, "Sarves me right! I might hev knowed that I should get the worst on it in a talk with her. My grief! But she is a teaser. Has forgot all about the time when she was a young gal, it's so long ago. P'raps she never was young." With this, the old man shouldered his bundle and slowly made his way northward. But Alice had received a telegram from Galena, and as Rough and Ready climbed the slope by the Judge's house, a sunny head was popped from one of its upper windows and Alice's cheerful voice cried, "Oh, Roughy,--excuse me for calling you Roughy, but I'm so glad!--Albert Heaton has telegraphed to me that the Catalpas have made ten runs in the first three innings and the Galenas only one! Isn't that perfectly splendid? Does anybody over in town know anything about it?" [Illustration: "GOOD ARTERNOON, MISS HOWELL. FINE HOT DAY."--Page 95.] "Bless your bright eyes! Miss Ally, no; the whole town's asleep. It's a hot day, you know, and there's nobody stirring. All the farmers are busy with their crops, and the streets are as lonesome as a last year's bird's nest. Ten to one, did you say? By the great horn spoon! I must go back and wake up the folks." Suiting the action to the word, the old man tossed Mrs. Boardman's bundle of sheeting over the fence and made his way back to town as fast as his rheumatic legs would carry him. Half way across, he met Lewis Morris who was on his way over to verify the rumor that he had caught concerning the early success of the Catalpas in Galena. "Hooray for our side!" cried Rough and Ready, exultingly. "I have heard it from the gentle Miss Ally. Our boys have made ten runs in the first three innings, and the Galena fellows have made one--one whole one." "Then I'll turn right around and tell the news in town!" said Lewis, with excitement. "I'll have to stir the people up, for the whole town has gone to sleep, except Dr. Selby, and he was sweating at every pore, as I came by the drug store, for thinking of another defeat for the Catalpas." Rough and Ready gazed after the rapidly retreating form of the young man who turned and stepped swiftly across the bridge. Then, putting his hand to his 'coonskin cap, as if trying to recall something to his mind, he murmured, "If I didn't go and leave that ther bundle of sheetin' in the Judge's dooryard! 'Pears to me as if that pesky base ball had knocked my wits clean out." And, smiling at his own feeble joke, he retraced his steps to the North Catalpa side of the river. When Lewis Morris reached the center of the town, he saw a knot of men and boys gathered around the bulletin board of _The Leaf_. "Just my luck," he muttered. "Downey has got the news out, and they have taken the edge of it off before I could get back." But Lewis forgot his little disappointment when he eagerly scanned the bulletin which the editor had posted during his brief run across the bridge. This was what he read: _An overwhelming victory for our nine! In the contest to-day, the Catalpas were the victors by a score of 13 to 3. Great enthusiasm prevails and the visiting nine are now being cheered by the excited populace. The result has astonished everybody, none more so than the defeated nine and their immediate friends. Our esteemed fellow townsman, Mr. Albert Heaton, Senior, has telegraphed to_ The Leaf _the score by innings, as follows:_ 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 _total._ Catalpas 5 4 1 0 0 2 1 0 0 13. Galenas 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 3. _Errors_, Galenas, 13; Catalpas, 1. "Here's Lew Morris!" cried brawny Hank Jackson, "Glory enough for one day! hey, Lew? Everybody in Galena was astonished, they say, and so was everybody in Catalpa, for that matter. Why, I was just coming along the street with Andy Brubaker, and we was a-talking about the chances of our nine's giving up the season if they got cleaned out in Galena, when I heard Mr. Downey tell Dr. Selby that the home nine had beat the Galenas on the first six innings, and says I to him, 'If that's so, Mr. Downey, why don't you put it on the bulletin?' Sure enough, he went up them stairs, five at a time, to have it done, and no sooner had he got up there than he put his head outen the winder and screeched, 'The Catalpas have won the game by thirteen to three!' Gosh! you should have heerd the whoop that the boys gave! And there it is, as big as life." And Hank regarded the bulletin board with an affectionate interest. The fact was that the community of Catalpa was unprepared for any such victory as that which had dropped in upon them, as it were, like a bolt out of a clear sky. The defeat at Bluford had unnerved all but a few faithful and undaunted spirits, and the usual dull current of town life had resumed its sluggishness until the unexpected news from the north had startled the townsfolk into new alertness. It was a great achievement, as the Galenas were famed for their prowess in the Diamond Field. They were reckoned as first in the number of batters in their nine. One of them, Devoy, stood very near the head of the list of champion batters in the state, and another, Shallcross, was not far behind him in his general average. Yet the Catalpas had "got away with" the famous players. It was marvellous how the news flew through the town and out upon the prairie, so that by the time the moon rose, red and full, over the bluffy banks above Catalpa, in innumerable cabins and farm-houses, far out on the distant wheat-farms, and over many an evening meal, the details of the triumph and its probable effect on the fortunes of "our nine" were discussed with a glow of pride, or with a lively curiosity. "The boys," in Galena, resting from their labors, and withdrawn from the admiring attention of the citizens of the town, lounged in a big bedroom in the Quapaw House, and told, over and over again, the stirring incidents of the day--incidents on which so much depended that they now became almost like ancient history in importance. They were not too tired to play another game right then, so exhilarated were they by their unwonted success. There was no murmuring, no jealousy, and no "nagging" in the party now. Every man was elated and flushed with a sense of his own value as a factor in the game that had been played, as well as in that which was to be played on the morrow. "Somehow, boys, I feel it in my bones that we are going to beat to-morrow," said Larry Boyne, who had won fresh laurels in the field, that day. And Larry's bright eyes sparkled anew as he spoke. "Well, that's a new rôle for you to play, Larry," said Al Heaton who was admiringly hanging over Larry, whom he regarded as the rising player of the country. "You always were a croaker, you know, Larry, old boy, and for you to say that you feel confident of victory now, makes me almost shudder. It seems as if you were losing your head; only I know you are not." "No, old chap, I am not losing my head. But you know I am rather superstitious; at least, my mother says so, and I have a queer notion, to-night, that we are going to do as well to-morrow as we did to-day." "That's an encouraging sign, Larry," broke in Captain Hiram Porter. "But you fellows must all do your level best, all the same, and we mustn't let any notion of our superiority run away with us, for we are not superior, perhaps except that I do think that we are better fielders than the Galena boys." "Whatever happens to-morrow, Al," said Larry, as they broke up their sitting for the night. "Put it down that I said that we were to win the second game in this championship series." "And if we lose, you will charge it to some adverse fate, won't you, Larry?" "In the bright lexicon--you know the rest, Al." By a singular coincidence, at that very hour, Miss Alice Howell, writing to her father the glad news, added a postscript thus: "You will think me overconfident, but I am sure the Catalpas will win the championship." CHAPTER X. HOW THE GOOD NEWS CAME. Catalpa was wide awake, next day, although the weather was hotter than ever and the little breeze that drew in from the prairie was laden with heat. The unexpected result of yesterday's game had set everybody to speculating on the issue of this day's contest. Some scandal was created by the appearance of Hank Jackson on the street with a roll of bills, offering to make bets on the game. It had never been the custom of anybody in Catalpa to wager anything on a base ball game, and there was some frowning now on the part of conservative and upright people; and those who were not specially conservative, but who disapproved of gaming, did not hesitate to reprove Hank in terms more forcible than elegant. Hank had spent some days in Bloomington, where he had frequented pool rooms and had acquired a taste for betting, and his brief experience was regarded by the younger portion of Catalpa with much awe and interest. He was followed about by the smaller boys of the town who listened while he bantered some of his cronies into making bets. But public opinion in Catalpa was not yet educated to the point of engaging in gambling on the uncertain result of a base ball game. Added to this, it should be said, was Hank's persistence in offering bets on the defeat of the home nine. That was an unpopular side. Almost everybody wanted the Catalpas to win the game. It would decide the championship; and, although it was almost too much to hope for, there was a feeling of confidence through the town that was quite inexplicable. So, Hank, after making a swaggering tour of the shops and stores, but without receiving much popular countenance, quietly dropped out of the throngs which gathered at the street corners and in other public places. It was in vain that he argued with rude logic that it was just as safe to bet on a base ball game as on a horse race. Very few who listened to him cared to encourage this new sort of gambling. This time, it was Al Heaton who fired the heart of Catalpa with the first intelligence from the Diamond Field. It was nearly three o'clock when his first despatch arrived, and the game had been called at two o'clock. There was much grumbling in the main street of the town, where numerous groups stood in the shade of awnings and tall buildings, waiting for the news. The windows of _The Leaf_ office opened on this street, as well as on the side street on which the telegraph office was situated. Editor Downey had announced that he had made arrangements with Albert to send news directly from the base ball grounds in Galena, and that he would display a bulletin from his office windows. Accordingly, when there was hung out a big white sheet of paper, with black lettering thereon, the assembly below was hushed in expectation. The despatch ran thus: _Everybody confident. Larry Boyne says our nine will win the game. Weather hot, and the dust intolerable. Look out for fun._ _ALBERT HEATON._ "What does he mean by looking out for fun; and who cares what Larry Boyne thinks?" growled Hank Jackson. "I should think he might send us something more bracing than that by this time." But the straggling cheer that greeted Albert's encouraging message drowned Jackson's grumbling, and the crowd showed by their excitement that they were ready to accept the slightest omen as proof positive that the Catalpa nine would carry the day. So, when Judge Howell's carriage drove up and halted under the shade of the huge catalpa tree that grew in front of Dr. Selby's drug store, from which the fair Alice could see the throng and watch for the bulletin from the newspaper office, there was a little hurrah from some of the younger lads. They seemed to think that the young lady, in some fashion, represented the absent Judge, who was now recognized as one of the steadfast friends of the band of heroes. "That's a good sign! I'll swear to gracious!" said Rough and Ready, in a low and hoarse whisper, as he saw the Judge's handsome bays, champing their bits, and prancing uneasily under the shade of the spreading catalpa. "It's a good sign, for that gal never went back on the nine, and her coming will bring good luck. Mark my words, Jake!" Jake, the big butcher, nodded his head and only said "yaw," when the bulletin was again flung out from the window of the printing-office. The magical black letters were read in silence broken only by the stamping of the horses tethered along the street and worried by the flies. This is what the eager spectators read: _First inning--Catalpas, 1; Galenas, 0._ "A big round goose egg!" screamed Lew Morris, with delight. Then he raised a hurrah, and the small boys took up the yell. Horses jumped and tore at their halters and vagrant dogs barked madly about the street. Then there were smiles and even broad laughter among the devoted supporters of the home nine. Almost everybody looked pleased, and Dr. Selby, with the easy confidence of an old friend, went to the side of the Judge's carriage and shook hands heartily with Miss Alice who was waving her parasol with a vague notion that it was necessary to celebrate the auspicious opening of the game. "I didn't tell you, did I, doctor, that I dreamed, last night, that we had won the game? Well, I did. Aunt Anstress says that dreams go by contraries and that that means our nine will be defeated. But I don't believe that; do you, doctor?" "Well, I don't believe in dreams, anyhow, Miss Alice, and so I hardly think that that counts. But we will keep on thinking that the boys will beat, to-day, and even if we are disappointed, we have yet one more chance." The doctor, accepting Alice's invitation, took a seat in the carriage from which advantageous point he looked over the gathering throng, now reinforced by arrivals from the region roundabout the town, for the news had gone forth that despatches were coming in from Al Heaton, and every man, woman and child who had the least interest in the game (and these were many) and could leave the labors and duties of the day, was there to hear. "It looks as it did in the war, when the news from Shiloh and Vicksburg was coming in; doesn't it, doctor?" "I don't know about that, Alice. I was in the war, myself, you know; was at Port Hudson and Vicksburg. You were a baby then, and I believe your father was in Congress. Yes, I guess it does look like war times. But see! There comes another bulletin!" Editor Downey had rigorously excluded from his office all outsiders, and was devoting his personal attention to the all-important business of the day. With his own hands, he hung out the paper sheet bearing these words: _2d inning,--Catalpas, 0; Galenas, 1; 3d inning, Catalpas, 0; Galenas, 0._ "Not so good as it might be," remarked Dr. Selby, cheerfully, "but it will grow better, by and by." A little cloud passed over the face of Alice, and she bit her lip with vexation as Hank Jackson bawled with a rough voice, "Ten to five on the Galenas!" "If I were a man, I'd like to take that offer," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, no, you wouldn't, Alice," cried her friend Ida. "You wouldn't encourage gambling on base ball, I'm sure." "Perhaps not; but if I were a man, I would like to thrash that big ruffian." Better news came, after a little while. The bulletin for the fourth inning showed four for the Catalpas and a big round "0" for their opponents. At this, there was a general and apparently concerted hurrah from the company in the street below. Editor Downey, as if thinking the cheer a personal compliment, put his frowsy head out of the window and bowed with as much grace as was possible under the circumstances. "Mr. Downey's hair looks as if he was laboring under great excitement," said the apothecary, blandly smiling at the editor's somewhat towseled appearance. "Every individual hair is standing on end, as if he were charged with electricity." Alice laughed joyously and seemed glad to find something under which she could cover her great elation at the good news from the North. Miss Ida uttered sarcastic remarks about the editor's exuberant comments in the morning paper regarding the coming contest in Galena. She declared that she did not think the game nearly as important as any one of the decisive battles of the war. And she was sure that _The Leaf_ would be perfectly ridiculous, next day, if the Catalpas were to win the championship. Her remarks were cut short by the display of another bulletin announcing the result of the fifth inning in these terms:-- _Hurrah for our nine! Fifth inning--Catalpas, 0; Galenas, 0._ "What in thunder does that mean?" asked Lew Morris, angrily. "Why does the numbskull tell us to hurrah for our nine when both sides have a zero?" A yell of derision went up from the crowd, and the editor, hearing groans and cat-calls in the street below, put out his head and, with much trepidation, cried, "It was a mistake. I forgot to put on the sixth inning. Catalpas, one; Galenas, nix!" A loud laugh greeted this sally, and the crowd good-humoredly proposed three cheers for _The Catalpa Leaf_, which were given in a random fashion, mingled with laughter. Mr. Downey, now well-smeared with ink, and perspiring with excitement, acknowledged the salute with gravity. "Six innings played and the Catalpas are six to the Galena's one!" exclaimed Alice, who was keeping the score with an assiduity that seemed to come from a belief that exactness in the figures would, somehow, affect the final result. Scraps of paper, on which observers had marked the score and had set down their prognostications of the innings yet to come, were circulated through the crowd. The Catalpas now had the lead, and it would be difficult for their adversaries to come up with them. Lew Morris, leaning on the door of the carriage, chatted with Alice, drawing on his vivid imagination for pictures of the nine as they were probably looking now, away up there in Galena. He could see, he thought, Hiram Porter devouring the ground as he made his bases with a giant's stride, his handsome face glowing with mingled heat and determination. He could even hear Larry's voice, in a stage whisper, crying, "Go it, Hiram!" And he could see Larry, at third base, when the Catalpas were in the field, making one of those superb running catches of his, Ben Burton looking on, "as if he would eat him up," added Lewis, jocularly. "Why should Ben want to eat Larry up?" asked Dr. Selby, innocently. "Does he love him so?" "On the contrary, quite the reverse," laughed Lewis. "Larry is showing himself to be the best player in the nine, and as Ben thought that _he_ was the best, and is finding out that he is not, he loves Larry accordingly. Besides that, he is jealous of Larry for other reasons," and the young man fixed a bold look on the blushing face of Miss Alice. She turned away to see if another bulletin were not ready, and the doctor shook his head deprecatingly at Lewis. There was much time for talk, however, before another despatch from the seat of war appeared. The impatient crowd, panting in the heat that was more and more oppressive as the sun approached the west, flung all sorts of appeals upwards to the windows of the office of _The Leaf_. There was no response, although Mr. Downey, as if to contradict Hank Jackson's loud jeer that the editor had gone to sleep, showed his shaggy head at the window and made a negative motion with the same. There was no news. Finally, just as some of the less patient were beginning to make their way homewards, like a banner of victory, the sheet of paper again appeared. This time, it was blazoned with these returns:-- _7th inning--Catalpas, 1; Galenas, 0; 8th inning--Catalpas, 0; Galenas, 1._ "An even thing for the two innings!" cried Lew Morris triumphantly. "The Galenas cannot possibly pull up in the last inning! The game is ours! The game is ours!" Lew's jubilant shout was taken up by the crowd, which now grew denser again, and the excitement mounted to fever heat as the sun sank behind the cotton-woods below the town. Satisfied that the game and the championship were virtually won, some of the elder citizens, after exchanging congratulations with everybody that had a word of joy on their lips, walked homewards. But some of them stopped on the road and turned a listening ear towards the main street to hear the rousing cheer that soon went up, telling the town and all the Stone River Valley that the game was won and that our nine had captured the pennant of Northern Illinois. A grimy and inky young imp, on the roof of _The Leaf_ building, hoisted a particularly inky and grimy flag as the editor hung out from his window this bulletin:-- _The victory is complete! Old Catalpa to the front! Glory enough for one day! Following is the score by innings:_ 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 _total._ Catalpas 1 0 0 4 0 1 1 0 1 8. Galenas 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 3. _The Galenas will banquet the Catalpas at the Quapaw House, this evening, when a right royal time is expected._ _ALBERT HEATON._ "And now for the championship of the State, dad?" shouted Tom Selby, exultingly, as his father descended from the carriage of the Judge. Alice, who was beaming with delight, could hardly speak her joy. The great contest was over, and the home nine would come back covered with glory. But she shook her head at Tom's vain-glorious remark. The league games were all made up for the season, she knew, and it would be difficult, if not impossible, to secure a challenge from any club in the league. Oh, no, she couldn't think of it. Tom must not think of it, at least, not until another summer. The good doctor smiled at the lad's enthusiasm and said that glory enough for one day meant glory enough for one season. There were other contests before the home nine, and they could be content, or they should be, to wear the laurels already won, whatever happened to them hereafter. They could not lose any prestige by any manner of means. When Judge Howell arrived by the early evening train from Pawpaw, he was surprised to see the dingy flag of _The Catalpa Leaf_ drooping lazily from its staff. He had not forgotten that the second game in the Northern District Championship was to have been played that afternoon; and he remembered his daughter's prediction of success. But it seemed incredible that this should have actually come to pass. As he alighted from the train, his judicial dignity a little soiled by travel and perspiration, he was met by Rough and Ready, who, with a slight touch of his 'coonskin cap, the only recognition of high station of which he was ever capable, said, "Any baggage, Jedge? carry it as cheap as anybody. Our nine has flaxed out the Galenas--eight to three! Big thing, Jedge! Lemme take that grip-sack. Great day for old Catalpa, Jedge. Your darter, she said as how she allowed that you mought like to get the news straight, so I told her I'd come up and tell you quick. Thank you, Jedge." And, dropping a silver quarter into his pocket, Rough and Ready turned and collared a stranger from whom he wrested his valise and marched triumphantly down into the town. When the Judge, clothed once more in the dignity of cleanliness and his home headship, heard that night from the animated lips of his daughter the story of the winning of the championship, he said, with an air of graceful condescension, "It was a famous victory, Alice. We have reason to be proud of our nine; and I will venture to say that when we get the full particulars of the game, we shall find that that fine-looking young fellow, Lawrence Boyne, contributed the largest share to the triumph." When the details of the game were brought to Catalpa, next day, in a letter to _The Leaf_, it was found that the Judge knew just what he was talking about. But greater news than this came with Larry Boyne and Hiram Porter, a week or two later. The nine had been playing a few games along the river towns and had rested for a day or two in Rock Island, after playing the Dacotahs of that city. Several of the nine took advantage of a lull in their engagements to visit Catalpa. Mr. Heaton and Albert had returned home, and Larry and Hiram had gone to Chicago on some mysterious errand, nobody knew just what. Neddie Ellis was one of those who had come back to Catalpa while the time was passing before they should play the new series of games beginning with the Moline club. Neddie looked very wise when asked where Larry and Hiram had gone, and Albert Heaton assumed a most important air whenever he said anything about the doings of the two absent members of the nine. But it all came out in due time. Captain Porter and his trusty lieutenant arrived by the noon train, and before the sun had set everybody in Catalpa knew that a match had been arranged between the Catalpa nine and the Calumet club for the State Championship. It was indeed wonderful news, and nothing since the war had happened to stir the population of that region as the intelligence. There were divers opinions regarding this unexpected development. Many thought that it was indiscreet for so young and green a club as the Catalpas to challenge the Calumets--the famous and renowned Calumets. Then there were others who thought that it was presumptuous for the Catalpa boys even so much as to ask any leading club to play them merely because a triumph had been unexpectedly achieved in Galena. But all agreed that it was a great feather in the cap of "our nine" that the Chicago club should have accepted the challenge, or should have agreed to meet them on any terms whatever. "I am not certain whether I am glad or sorry that our nine will play the Calumets, papa," said Alice Howell. "I mean that I cannot tell yet whether I shall be disappointed if they lose. I depend a great deal on my impressions, you know, and I haven't any as yet." The Judge smiled at his daughter's odd notion of waiting for impressions, and replied, "I do not wait for any inspiration on the subject, my child. I am sure that the Catalpa nine will be badly beaten. I don't know much about base ball, but I do know enough to know that the Calumet club has been in the newspapers for a long time as the great base ball club of the northwest." "That's so, papa," sighed Alice, "and I have dreadful forebodings when I think of the risk that they have undertaken." "Nothing venture, nothing have, Alice, and it will be no disgrace if our nine are defeated by the Calumets. Unless they are very badly beaten indeed, and that is not improbable, to be sure, they will bring some new honors off the field." The Judge's conservative and moderate view of the case was that of the average of Catalpa. To play the Calumets was in itself an honor. Henry Jackson represented the most discouraging element in Catalpa public opinion. And when Ben Burton returned to town for a day's holiday, and became at once unusually familiar with Hank, Larry's face clouded and Alice Howell confidentially informed her friend Ida Boardman that she never could abide Ben Burton, and that now she knew he was a man who would consort with mean companions. Nothing could be lower, she thought, than the course that Henry Jackson had taken during the late contest between the Catalpas and the Galenas. It was only by a lucky accident that the Calumets had been able to find a place in their later engagements for a championship series of three games with the Catalpas. The sudden sickness of several members of the Osceola club, engaged to play the Calumets, had made it necessary to cancel all the engagements of the former club for the season. The Osceolas had been overtaken by a contagious disease that had made sad havoc that summer, as many will remember, among strangers who visited the lower portion of the State, which had been under water from late in February until the beginning of May. But the ill-luck of the Osceola club was the means of opening a way for the Catalpas to play the Calumets; and that was felt to be something almost providential--at least, in the town of Catalpa. CHAPTER XI. IN A NEW FIELD. "I wish so many of the Catalpa folks had not come in to see the game, to-day," said Larry Boyne, discontentedly, on the morning of the first of the championship series of games in Chicago, late in the following October. "It is bad enough to feel like a cat in a strange garret as I do here, without the feeling added of being watched by our friends from home, who will be so awfully cut up if we do not win." "But you are not afraid of our losing, are you, Larry? And I am sure there is one young lady, at least, whose smiles will encourage you," said Hiram Porter, with a grin that was meant to be sly and also cheery. "It is pretty generally understood among the boys (and as long as we are alone together, there is no need of our being shamefaced about it) that you and Miss Alice have come to an understanding, as the saying is. You needn't say whether that is so or not, Larry, my boy. But, if I were in your place, I would be glad to have those beautiful and sympathetic eyes watching my play. It would make me put in my very best licks, you may be sure of that." Larry murmured something about there being a difference in people, and turned the subject to the preparations to be made for the day's event. The Catalpas had had only a little opportunity to make themselves familiar with the Chicago base ball grounds. At the end of a game played on the previous day, they had a little practice at pitching, and had taken in the situation of the arena sufficiently to enable them to be not entirely strangers to the place. They found themselves inside of a complete enclosure, skirted by a grand stand at one end and uncovered and open seats at the other. A high board fence bounded the grassy lawn on which the Diamond Field was laid, and the seats for spectators rose above this fence, so that the players were securely left to their own devices while the game should be in progress. A breeze from the lake, tempered by the October sun, swept over the grounds, and was broken, when the wind arose, by the screen formed by the board enclosure. When the nine, with beating hearts and quickened pulses, entered the grounds on the day so fraught with importance to them, they were a little dumbfounded to see that an immense crowd of people, perhaps ten thousand, all told, occupied the vast array of seats that lined the amphitheater. A brass band blared and brayed in a tall stand set apart for them, and the entrance of the Catalpa nine was the signal for a burst of kindly applause that helped to reassure the lads composing that now well-known club. Since the matches played in the river towns, the nine had met some of the best-known clubs in the State, and in Iowa. With varying success, but generally doing credit to their own native place, the Catalpas had attracted attention by their uniformly excellent play, their manly bearing, and by their steady habits. They had made no enemies. So, when the young fellows, clad in their blue and white uniform, came into the range of vision of the throngs in the grand stand and boxes, a round of applause greeted them, and one enthusiastic citizen from Catalpa, no less a person than the deputy sheriff of Dean County, ventured to propose three cheers for the Catalpa nine. The proposition fell very flat, and, covered with confusion, the deputy sheriff sat down and mopped his manly brow. As Hiram Porter threw up the penny for the toss, Larry's eye involuntarily sought a curtained box to which his attention had been directed, the day before, as he had inspected the grounds in company with Miss Ida Boardman, Miss Alice Howell and two other ladies from Catalpa. The party was under the guidance of Mr. Heaton. Albert was never long in one place. He was too highly excited to be depended upon as an escort for the young ladies, and he divided his time between his old companions of the Catalpa nine and the pitcher of the Calumets, Samuel Morse, an old school chum, who had helped signally in arranging the present contest. So, as Larry's glance lighted on the first box to the right of the grand stand, it caught an answering smile from Miss Alice, and Albert Heaton, who was momentarily fluttering about the box, waved his hand to the favorite third base man of the Catalpas and said, under his breath, "Sail in, old boy!" "You don't imagine that Mr. Boyne heard that, do you, in all this noise?" asked Alice, with rosy face and sparkling eyes. "No, I don't suppose that Larry heard or saw anything but what he saw and guessed at in that telegraphic look of yours, Miss Ally," replied Albert, mockingly. "Larry, the dear boy, knows well enough what I would be saying to him; and I hope he knows what you would be telegraphing him by way of encouragement. Hurrah! Hiram has won the toss! He'll send the Calumets to the bat, see if he don't." Albert was right. The home club were sent to the bat, and Thomas Walsh, of the Black Hawks, took his place as umpire. This was the order in which the two clubs were named and stationed on that eventful day:-- _Catalpas._ Larry Boyne, 3d B. Samuel Morrison, L.F. Neddie Ellis, C.F. Charlie King, P. Hart Stirling, 2d B. John Brubaker, R.F. Hiram Porter, 1st B. (Capt.) Ben Burton, S.S. Wm. Van Orman, C. _Calumets._ Darius Ayres, 1st B. (Capt.) Samuel Morse, P. John Handy, 3d B. Rob Peabody, R.F. Thomas Shoff, C.F. Glenn Otto, S.S. James Kennedy, 2d B. Charlie Webb, C. James McWilliams, L.F. The Catalpa boys thought there should have been breathless silence in the enclosure as Hiram Porter, having carefully placed his men, called to the umpire "play!" Play was accordingly called, but there was silence, by no means, in the grounds. The clatter of late comers reaching their seats, the buzz of conversation that yet arose from the crowds in the amphitheater, and the cry of boys selling score-cards disturbed the serenity of the ardent champions of the Catalpa Nine. They wondered why people should talk when so momentous a game was about opening. And Alice, with a feverish sigh of impatience, said to Miss Ida that she should think that the Chicago people had very little manners. Whereupon Miss Anstress, with great severity, said that the spectators were not so much in love with the players that they cared a pin whether either side won. This unkind remark was turned aside by Mr. Heaton who said that there were not a few among the on-lookers who had bet money in the gambling rooms outside and who did care very much which side won the game. All this talk was brought to an end when Darius Ayres, the captain of the Calumets, stood up at the bat and made ready for the first play. Darius was a tall and shapely young fellow, renowned for his long-field hits, and a swift runner. He had an evil look in his eyes, as some of the Catalpa visitors thought, and when he struck a straight ball, like a cannon shot, to right field, there was a little shudder in one of the private boxes. But John Brubaker, always alert, captured it on a hard run. This put the Catalpas in good spirits at once. The game had opened well for them. "Two good signs, Alice," said Ida Boardman. "Won the toss and caught out the first man!" John's clever catch did not pass unnoticed, for the numerous supporters of the Catalpas raised a little cheer which was taken up and continued around the enclosure as Sam Morse went to the bat for the home club. But Samuel fared no better than his captain, and retired on a short and easy fly to Ben Burton. The first half of the inning was ended by John Handy, who hit a hot grounder to Larry Boyne at third base. Larry mastered it in fine style and made a lightning throw to Hiram Porter on first base. The eyes of the visitors and their friends fairly sparkled as the Catalpas came in from the field. They had made a good beginning. But no sooner had the nine reached the players' bench than Ben Burton began to criticise the manner in which honest John Brubaker had been rewarded for capturing what Ben was pleased to call "a two-old-cat fly." Larry, politely requesting Burton to be civil, picked up his bat and faced the pitching of the renowned Sam Morse. He made two ineffectual plunges at the ball, and, while the catcher of the Calumets was adjusting his mask so as to enable him to come up closer to the player, Larry stole a glance at his comrades and was mortified and annoyed to see a derisive smile on the blonde face of Ben Burton, while the other seven occupants of the bench wore an uneasy expression. Ben Burton was evidently making them uncomfortable. Larry moistened his hands, and, carefully gauging one of Morse's favorite in-shoots, hit the ball with all his might. The flying sphere went swiftly into the left field and yielded the stalwart third base man of the Catalpas two bases. Alice involuntarily clapped her hands, happily unmindful of the sour looks of her observant aunt. Sam Morrison next stood up before the redoubtable Morse, and hit an easy grounder to Glenn Otto, at short stop, and Samuel was retired at first base. His shot, however, advanced Larry to third base, and Neddie Ellis took up the bat. But Neddie could not yet understand the puzzling curves of the Calumet's pitcher, and, having wildly struck the air three times, went out. This made two out for the Catalpas, with Larry Boyne anxiously waiting on the third base. Not long did he wait, however, for Charlie King, long of limb and keen of eye, came to the bat with great expectations on the part of the sons of Catalpa. Charlie thought favorably of the first ball pitched at him by Morse and he sent it flying to the center field for one base, and allowed Larry to come home amidst a little round of applause from the Catalpa section of the spectators. During the cheer that greeted the successful play, Charlie attempted to steal to second base but was thrown out by Billy Webb, and the ardor of the spirits of Catalpa was consequently soon dampened. The Calumets now went to work with a will at the beginning of their second inning, and, after receiving some hints from Jamie Kennedy, who assumed to know a little about the mysteries of King's curves, Robert Peabody, the Calumet's right fielder, a Michigan University man and a famous athlete, handled the bat and called for a low ball from the pitcher of the Catalpas. This was delivered, but not where Rob had asked for it, and he politely refused to strike at it, muttering to Captain Darius, "I won't strike until I get one just knee-high." Charlie King overheard this little byplay and continued to put the ball in the vicinity of Peabody's shoulder until the umpire called "six balls." It was now about time for King to give the Chicago player a good ball, but Peabody could not be tempted to strike at it, after being ordered by his captain to try and take his base on called balls. The result was that tricky Charlie King delivered three balls in rapid succession just where the dissatisfied right fielder of the Calumets had requested them, and the umpire called, "One strike!" "Two strikes!" "Three strikes!" "Striker out!" The ashen stick was then taken up by Tom Shoff, who sent the ball in the direction of Ben Burton at short stop, and who fumbled it, dropping it several times as if it were a hot potato, allowing Tom to reach first base in safety. Next, Glenn Otto hit a ball to Hiram Porter who fielded it handsomely, putting out the striker but allowing Shoff to go to second base. While Jamie Kennedy was at the bat, a passed ball allowed Shoff to complete three quarters of his homeward journey. With two out and a man on third base, Captain Porter naturally felt alarmed. He cautioned his men to be cool and careful, "especially cool," he added. After two strikes were called on Kennedy, he solved one of Charlie King's in-shoots and, to the delight of the Chicago on-lookers, sent the ball rolling in center field while Shoff sped swiftly homewards; and the score stood 1 and 1. The Calumet's half of the inning was ended by the retiring of Webb on a foul fly to "The Lily," as Bill Van Orman was now universally called. The Catalpa boys were not disheartened; they had confidence in each other, and they went to work again with a determination to try and recover what they had lost. In the second inning, however, they found themselves unsuccessful. Hart Stirling was fielded out at first base by Jamie Kennedy; John Brubaker, following him, met with the same fate, being thrown out at first by Glenn Otto; and Hiram Porter ended the inning by hitting a sky-scraper to James McWilliams at left field. There was intense depression in the Catalpa section and among the nine of that famous town; only the face of Larry Boyne still bore any semblance of contentment. Larry smiled with his attempt to infuse a little more hopefulness into the Catalpa bosom. And looking to the box where Mr. Heaton's tall white hat towered conspicuously, he caught an answering smile from the young lady who carried a blue parasol. The score now stood even at even innings, and the faces of the Chicago players wore a broad smile of complacency in place of the gloomy look that had previously been their characteristic expression. Full of confidence, James McWilliams picked out his favorite bat and faced "Tricky Charlie," as they had already dubbed the pitcher of the visitors. King was determined to retire this particular player, as "Mac" had often expressed a desire to "take the conceit out of that chap from Catalpa." Charlie did some of his fine work for the occasion and his friend McWilliams threw down his bat in disgust, after hearing the third strike called by the umpire; and Captain Darius Ayres, with a look of vengeful determination, took the place vacated by his club mate. He hit a sharp grounder between first and second bases and reached the first bag. At this point of the game, the boys from Catalpa had lost some of the hope that they had cherished at the beginning of the contest; and they were not cheered in the least by a sarcastic smile that adorned the face of their short stop, Ben Burton, who appeared to be almost glad that the chances of his own club were diminishing, instead of increasing. Even from her distant point of vantage, Alice Howell, scanning Ben's sour face through her field glass, saw with uneasiness that forbidding look and said, in a tragic whisper to her companion, "Ida, if that scamp could throw the game, I believe he is mean enough to do it." Sam Morse made a base hit to the right field, and Ayres went safely home to third base, while Morse stole to second base. With second and third bases occupied and but one man out, the Catalpas did not feel in jovial mood, and the deputy sheriff of Dean County looked around upon the bright faces of the local spectators with the air of one who is indignant at an outrage which he is powerless to abate. The next man to the bat was John Handy, who had the reputation of being "a slugger," and as he called out in a stern voice, "Give me a low ball, and I'll knock it's cover off," some of the excitable players quaked in their shoes; but Hiram Porter quieted his men by saying, in a low tone of voice, "Keep cool, fellows! keep cool and we will double them up yet!" Handy hit the ball, the first that was delivered him, and it went like a rocket to Larry Boyne at third base. That young gentleman was ready to receive it, and by making a difficult one-hand catch, he succeeded in making a double play as Ayres had vacated third base without once dreaming that Larry would be able to capture the ball. Ben Burton came now to the bat for the Catalpas, in this inning; but Ben had not established a very good reputation as a batsman, and his speedy retiring on a foul ball excited no remark. "The Lily" took his place at the bat and at once gave evidence of his prowess by hitting the ball for two bases which he made with neatness and despatch. Larry Boyne followed him and gently tipped the sphere for a single base-hit, without ado, whereat "The Lily" slipped to third base. The spectators eyed Sam Morrison as he swung his bat over his shoulder and strode to the home plate. Sam was a stocky, well-built young fellow, with a well-shaped head and shoulders, and a fine pair of very long arms. He was anxious to do something to send up the score of the Catalpas, but he sent up nothing but a small fly to Morse, and he was at once succeeded by Neddie Ellis, the rather diminutive center fielder of the Catalpa Nine. Neddie owed the club three base hits, as he thought, and was falling behind in his batting record as the season had advanced. He moistened his hands and, with the avowed intention of losing the ball, he made a plunge, and, as Al Heaton from his perch remarked, "hit the ball on the nose" and sent it flying over the center fielder's head. After Larry and "The Lily" had cleared the home plate, Neddie tried his best to make a home run. Tommy Shoff, however, handled the ball in clever fashion, and by fielding it quickly, caught Neddie at the home plate, ending the inning and making the score three to one in favor of the Catalpas. A murmur of applause, mingled with the little buzz which always follows the close of an inning, like a sigh of relief, went around as the Catalpas went to the field with light hearts. Two or three of the baser sort of the gambling on-lookers jeered the visitors with derisive remarks, but this indiscretion was speedily suppressed. "Fair play for the visitors" was the watchword of the day. The Catalpa boys disposed of their opponents at the opening of the fourth inning without allowing them to send a man around the circuit. In fact, not a player of the Calumet club reached first base in safety during this inning. Rob Peabody secured first base on called balls, and was followed at the bat by Shoff who hit a grounder to Hart Stirling, at second base, and who delivered the ball in fine style to his captain on first base, after making a neat pick-up. Glenn Otto managed, by great craftiness, to send the ball outside of the diamond with tremendous force, but he lifted it too high and he fell a victim to Sam Morrison's alertness in the left field. Jamie Kennedy, who succeeded at the bat, also gave the ball a tremendous whack, but he, too, lifted it too high, and Neddie Ellis, in center field, captured it without serious difficulty. The Catalpa club, in this inning, was obliged to be contented with a zero, and Ben Burton's face was a puzzling study to Alice Howell and her friend Ida, who scanned the unconscious Benjamin through their glass, as if his tell-tale countenance were an indicator of the progress of the game. This time, they could not make out whether the Catalpa short stop was pleased by the ill fortune of his own club, or dismayed by the advancing prospects of the Chicago boys. They gave up the riddle with disgust. There was yet no real occasion for dismay, although there was when Charlie King began the work of going out by hitting a slow ball to Darius Ayres at first base, and Hart Stirling followed his example by a foul tip to Charlie Webb. John Brubaker, "Honest John," as he was called, hit the ball with all his might and had covered half the circuit before he realized that the sphere had gone outside of the foul flags. He made a second attempt, however, and was retired without hitting the ball, Sam Morse's out-curves being more intricate than anything that he had yet encountered. Honest John's inglorious withdrawal closed the inning. The Calumets sent Webb first to the bat at the opening of the next inning, but Charlie was not fortunate. He hit the ball several times, and it went high in air, and escaped the vigilance of the Catalpas. But Webb sent up one foul too many and the watchful and agile Larry Boyne captured it, after a hard run. James McWilliams for the second time faced Charlie King's pitching, and as he left his seat, said, "Boy's, I'll eat clover for a week if I don't hit him safely this time." Mac had fire in his eye, and his look and his remark did not escape the attention of Charlie King, who, turning to his captain, slyly promised to give the Chicago man an opportunity to make good his promise. King kept his word, and, by cunning pitching, retired McWilliams on strikes after six balls were charged against him. Captain Darius Ayres hit safely to the left field, but it was too late, as Sam Morse ruined all chances of the scoring of the Calumets by sending a fly which was neatly caught by Hart Stirling at second base. The Catalpas also failed to add any runs to their score in the fifth inning. At this point, Sam Morse was pitching in admirable style and it was with difficulty that the visitors could hit the ball at all. Morse had a very effectual out-curve, and he had made good use of it during the last two innings. Captain Hiram Porter went to the bat with some of the confidence that he had tried to inspire in the breasts of his comrades, but he failed to accomplish his dearest desire, and went out on the strikes successively called by the umpire. He was followed by Ben Burton, who walked up to the batsman's position with a lazy and indifferent manner, hit the ball in an off-hand fashion, and had the pleasure of seeing it fielded by Glenn Otto, and was retired at first base. Here "The Lily" made a desperate attempt to achieve a home run, and he probably would have been successful if he had hit the ball far enough into the out-field, judging from the manner in which he "sprinted" to first base on a slow ball which was readily fielded by Jamie Kennedy. "This is our lucky inning," said Captain Ayres to John Handy, as the latter started to face the pitching of Charlie King in the sixth inning. "Here, take my bat for luck," he added, "and see if you can't use it to advantage." Handy accepted the offer of the captain's club and used it with good effect. He called for a high ball, caught King off his guard as he struck, and so secured a good hit on the very first ball, and made first base. Rob Peabody followed and hit a liner to Neddie Ellis who misjudged the distance, and the ball went over his head and allowed Rob to make two bases, while Handy got safely home. This put the figures three to two in favor of the Catalpas and seemed to inspire the Calumets with new confidence, their captain remarking with glee, "I told you this was our lucky inning." Right here, however, Tommy Shoff went out on a fly to Larry Boyne, and "The Lily" caught a sharp foul tip from the bat of Glenn Otto, which left Peabody on second base and two men out. The prospects of the home nine were not brightening. Next to the bat came Jamie Kennedy, who tried his best to make a short right field hit that should send his colleague safely home, as Peabody was a good base runner and needed only "half a chance" to make a home run. Jamie hit the ball in the right direction, but his blow was a trifle too hard and the ball was cleverly caught by John Brubaker at right field, and this left the game still three to two in favor of the Catalpas. The latter did not, however, feel safe with so small a lead, and they thought it prudent to send several more men around the circuit of the bases, if possible. Larry Boyne was the first man to the bat for the Catalpas in the sixth inning, and he secured his base on called balls, but fell before Charlie Webb's throwing, while trying to steal to the second bag. Sam Morrison struck out, and Neddie Ellis ended the inning by sending up a sky-scraper which was nicely nipped, just in the nick of time, apparently, by Rob Peabody. In the seventh inning, both clubs failed to score. Webb hit a ball in the direction of Ben Burton who made an overthrow to first base. McWilliams followed and hit a short one to Hart Stirling at second base, who, with the aid of Hiram Porter, made a very pretty double play. Darius Ayres secured his base on called balls, stole to second base, but was left there, as Sam Morse retired on strikes. Not one of the Catalpa players reached first base. Charlie King and Hart Stirling both went out on flies, the former to Tom Shoff and the latter to Glenn Otto. John Brubaker failed to hit the ball and was consequently called out on strikes. "The Calumets have everything to gain and nothing to lose," remarked Mr. Heaton, sagely, as he regarded the field from the box from which the little party of interested Catalpans overlooked the beautiful scene below. The yellow sun, now declining westward, tinted the woodwork of the stands and enclosures with a golden hue, and a breeze from the lake flaunted the many-colored flags that adorned the structure. The yellow light only intensified the brilliant greenness of the lawn, on which the Diamond Field was laid, and the brilliant costumes of the players were tricked out with a new and strange luster as the sunshine rained down through veiling mists. But the absorbed spectators, as well as the intensely engrossed players in the field below, had no eyes for the picture. Every eye was fixed on John Handy, as he went to the bat for the Calumets. It was felt that they would take desperate chances. On the next few plays might turn the issue of the game. Silence as complete as if there was not a soul in the vast enclosure reigned as Handy took his place at the bat. He placed the ball safely in the center field and was followed by Peabody who also gained a single hit, sending the ball into the left field. The next ball was hit to Ben Burton by Shoff. Ben was unable to handle the ball properly, and Hart Stirling came to his rescue and as Ben dropped it out of his hands, Stirling picked it up and sent it to first base in time to head off Shoff. At this point in the game, only one man was out and the second and third bases were occupied. A trifling error would tie the game. A single base hit would give the Calumets the lead. The attention with which the play was now regarded from the seats was something almost painful in its tenseness. Glenn Otto stood before Charlie King's pitching with a look of resolution and defiance. He had been ordered not to strike at a ball until it was put where he asked for it, and to take the chances of the catcher of the Catalpas having a passed ball charged to him. In this little scheme there was one error. King very well knew the purpose of his opponent, and he managed his own points so well that, before Otto could realize what was about to happen, King had him out on strikes. Jamie Kennedy was the next man to fall before the destructive tactics now followed by the Catalpas. Jamie hit a sharp ball to Larry Boyne, who, with characteristic skill, retired him at first base. This clever bit of play took a load from the hearts of the Catalpas, and, in the excitement of the moment, Deputy Sheriff Wheeler ejaculated "Gosh all hemlock!" whereupon everybody in that region laughed, as if glad of a pretext to slacken their attention from the play for an instant. But the riveted intentness of the spectators was at once resumed as the boys of Catalpa went to the bat in the eighth inning, and succeeded in placing another run to their credit. Hiram Porter hit to Kennedy at second base, and was retired at first base. Ben Burton followed his example and "The Lily" finally secured the home run which he had been looking for ever since he had left Catalpa. "The Lily" had many strong points, but base-running was not one of them. He had two strikes called on the first two balls pitched, and then made ready for the third, and, as the ball curved in, he stepped backwards a few inches and hit it with all his might, which was a great deal, for "The Lily" was a man of brawn and muscle. The ball flew over the center fielder's head like a rifle-shot and Bill covered the entire circuit with ease, winning an irrepressible and resounding burst of applause from the multitudes that crowded the amphitheater. "Splendid, Bill! perfectly splendid!" cried Alice Howell, wholly oblivious of the fact that there were other people than herself in the circle about her. Mr. Heaton looked around with admiration at the impulsive girl, while the dignified maiden aunt glanced into the next box to see if anybody had caught the words of her erratic ward and niece. While this little byplay went on, Alice's eyes were fixed on Larry Boyne who ended the eighth inning by sending a fly ball to McWilliams and so going out. The score now stood four to two in favor of the Catalpas. To his infinite chagrin, Captain Ayres saw defeat staring him in the face. Hastily calling his men about him, he held a hurried consultation, as they came in from the field. He said, "Boys, we must take all the chances this time. They lead us two runs, and, in order at least to tie them, you must trust to errors, and, above all things, do not hug the bases." Captain Darius was right in this particular, and the men obeyed his instructions to the letter in regard to hugging the bases; but it was impossible for them to show any sign of insubordination, as not a man went beyond the first base. Every member of the Calumet club was retired as fast as he went to the bat. Charlie Webb gayly faced "tricky Charlie," and hit the first ball pitched. It went sailing out of the Diamond and into the hands of Sam Morrison. The second victim was McWilliams who failed to take down the pride of King, as he had promised himself that he would; and Charlie felt prouder than ever as he sent his formidable antagonist to the players' bench, put out on strikes. Darius Ayres made several ineffectual attempts to hit the sphere, and at last struck the ball fairly, but Larry Boyne was prepared for its coming his way. Running backwards, with his eye fixed on the little black speck that dropped out of the clouds with lightning-like swiftness, Larry moved over the turf without seeming to move. Ida Boardman so far forgot herself as to cry out, at this critical juncture, "Catch it! catch it!" The sphere fell into Larry's hardened hand with a resounding thud, and with a fervent "Heaven bless you!" the young lady sunk back into her seat, while a prodigious cheer, frightening to flight the sparrows that twittered on the edges of the structure, and faintly heard far out by sailors on the lake, proclaimed the contest ended with a famous victory for the Catalpa Nine. [Illustration: "IDA BOARDMAN SO FAR FORGOT HERSELF AS TO CRY OUT AT THIS CRITICAL JUNCTURE: 'CATCH IT! CATCH IT!'"--Page 136.] The band broke forth into a pæan of triumph, and while the majority of the spectators began to shuffle out with eager haste, a few, other than the delighted visitors from Catalpa, remained to gaze with undisguised admiration on the stalwart and handsome young fellows who had so unexpectedly won the day. The two captains, as the game was concluded, advanced towards each other with outstretched hands. "Your men are capital players," said Hiram Porter, a glow suffusing his cheek, "and I consider it a great honor to have defeated them." "Aye, aye," said Captain Ayres, not without a wince. "It is a little hard for our boys to be defeated after playing a game without errors; but your victory was due to lucky batting, and it does not signify that your men are the better players. We will try and turn the tables to-morrow." The visitors gave three cheers and a tiger for their opponents, and then retired from the field. It would be useless to attempt to describe the thrill and the suppressed exultation with which they read on the bulletin boards of the city newspaper offices, as they went to their lodgings, the following score:-- 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Calumets 0 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0=2. Catalpas 1 0 2 0 0 0 0 1 0=4. _Runs earned_--Calumets, 0; Catalpas, 4. _Base hits_-- " 5, " 6. _Errors_-- " 0, " 3. _Umpire_, Mr. Thomas Walsh. _Time of game, two and a half hours._ CHAPTER XII. AFTER THE VICTORY. "The boss says he would be obliged to you if you would make less noise." It was a tall and red-faced young man who brought this message to the Catalpa Nine, as they were gathered in the room of Captain Hiram Porter, in their lodging-house, after the great match game. Al Heaton had hurried to join the boys, as soon as he had sent to Catalpa his despatch announcing the result of the contest in the most glowing terms consistent with the rate of telegraph tolls and the needed conciseness of a despatch. All hands were in that flow of animal spirits that might have been expected from nearly a dozen young fellows who are elated over a great victory and who have laboriously repressed their jubilation until they are alone. "There! I told you, boys, that your skylarking would bring up the landlord. Oh, I say, Neddie, quit your fooling. You can't throw 'The Lily,' if you try all night; and we are making such a racket that the whole house is disturbed." This was Captain Porter's admonition. "Besides," said Larry Boyne, who was panting with the unwonted exertion of boosting Charlie King over the headboard of the bedstead, where Charlie was determined he would not go, "besides all that, it's time for you and me, Hi, to get ready to go out to dinner." "Where are you two fellows going to dinner?" demanded half a dozen voices at once. "Are you going to throw off on us in that way?" Captain Hiram explained that he and Larry had accepted an invitation to take dinner with Judge Morris, with whose family Mr. Heaton and Albert were staying during the progress of the games in Chicago. The Morrises, he added, lived on the north side of the river, and he and Larry should be ready to start, instead of "cutting up" to show how tickled they were with their recent victory. "But 'twas a famous victory," quoted Larry, "for all that, and I would just as soon stay with the boys and celebrate it as go out to dine with Judge Morris, who, they say, is a heavy swell." "I happen to know that Miss Alice Howell and her friend Miss Ida are stopping with the Morrises, Larry," said Ben Burton, with an unpleasant leer, "and you and Hiram will be in clover; so you can afford to shake us until the next game." Larry grew very red in the face at this, and there was a dangerous gleam in Hiram Porter's eye as he noted the ill-natured scowl on Burton's countenance. He restrained himself, however, and said, "Why do you continually harp on the Judge's daughter, Ben? The young lady is from our own town, and she is more interested in the success of the Catalpas than some of its members, I reckon; at least, I think so, judging from appearances." "What do you mean by that, Hi Porter?" demanded Ben, hotly. "You have insinuated that sort of thing too many times in my hearing. And I want you to understand that you can't put on any captain's airs over me, now that we are off the field. I am my own master for to-night anyway." "Come, come, boys," interposed Larry, soothingly. "Don't let us mar the enjoyment of this evening by lugging in any old quarrels or little differences. We shall all have to pull together to-morrow, if we are to beat the Calumets. They are going to give us a stiff brush, and you may depend on that. Come, Hiram, let's be off." Burton said something, sullenly and indistinctly, about the certainty of the defeat of the Catalpas, to-morrow, which caught the ear of "The Lily," who, still puffing with the effects of his tussle with Neddie Ellis, was regarding the malcontent Ben with an expression of wonder on his good-natured face. He slowly dropped out a few words of comment, in his usual fashion, upon Burton's unfriendly attitude and then added: "I say, I wonder why you don't give up playing base ball, since you find so little fun in it. 'Pears to me you are all the time out 'o sorts--like. You don't enjoy good health, Ben, and that's what is the matter along of you. Now, why do you think that the Calumets are going to get away with us, to-morrow?" But before Ben could form a reply and cover the confusion that crept over his face, Neddie Ellis, who was the universal favorite of the club, broke in with, "Oh, I say, boys, do you know what these Chicago people call us? why they call us 'The Cats.' That's short for Catalpas, I suppose. We ought to call the Calumets 'The Cads,' and I guess that would be getting even." Under cover of the laugh which this sally raised, Hiram, Larry, and young Heaton departed to fulfil their engagement on the north side, Ben Burton looking after them with a darkened countenance. "Ben is angry because he is not invited to Judge Morris's," said Larry, as the three young fellows stepped lightly off in search of a street car. "He has a jealous temper, and the least thing that looks like a slight sets him off." "Well," said Albert, "Alice said that the Judge would have liked to have invited the whole nine, if he had had room to entertain them properly; but he hadn't, and so he invited only those with whom the governor was most acquainted." "To say nothing of Miss Alice?" added Hiram, slyly. Albert admitted that Miss Alice's wishes were consulted in the matter, and that it was only natural that she, being a visitor, should indicate her preferences in the matter. "What does it signify, anyhow?" said Larry, a little impatiently. "It seems to me that Ben Burton is ready to fly out at the least provocation. I almost wish we had never thought of going over to Judge Morris's. I am sure I have tried my level best to keep the peace with Ben, but he seems to grow more and more cantankerous every day. To think of raising a breeze over such a trifle as this of our going out to dinner without him! It makes me ashamed of my companionship with him." The conversation was stopped by their entering a street car where they were entertained by the audible comments of the passengers on the wonderful game that had been played that afternoon. Base ball in Chicago is one of the favorite pastimes of the people. But there was so much of the element of unexpectedness in the result of that day's game that it set the tongues of everybody to wagging. Unknown and in silence, the champions of the Catalpa Nine heard themselves and their playing discussed with great freedom and animation. The general verdict was that "The Cats" would, next day, receive their reward in the shape of a "basket of goose eggs" with which they would depart for home, sadder and wiser for their visit. "What do you think of that for an opinion, Larry?" asked Hiram, laughingly, as they alighted from the car, one block from their destination. "What do you think of the woman in the corner who said that the Calumets were only encouraging us on to our defeat?" Larry replied that that was precisely what Ben Burton thought, and Hiram ejaculated, "Oh, he does, does he? Then it seems that our short stop and our adversaries, or the friends of our adversaries, agree as to what is going to happen to-morrow." "Perhaps they are right," said Albert, cheerily. "But here we are," and stopping before a handsome house, he darted up the steps and rang the door bell. While the lads waited for admission, Larry turned and looked westward, with wistful eyes, and said, "I wonder how they are taking the news in Catalpa, about now?" Albert's reply that they were probably having a jollification really described what was at that moment taking place. Tom Selby was the happy recipient of early telegrams from Larry, and the editor of _The Leaf_ sustained his reputation by putting out bulletins from Al Heaton and his father, at frequent intervals during the progress of the game. The excitement waxed high as the contest proceeded, and when the final result was reached, the town was fairly mad with joy. The event had eclipsed everything of the kind that had happened during the season. Every man who had a flag hung it out to the breeze. Jedediah Van Orman, "The Lily's" father, took up a collection from the willing shopkeepers and bought a supply of powder, with which he proceeded to fire a salute from four anvils, the only artillery then accessible in the town. Victory brooded over Catalpa, and in every house as the red sun went down, that night, there was but one theme of conversation--base ball. CHAPTER XIII. PRIDE HAS A FALL. Fog and dampness covered the city of Chicago, next day, when the Catalpa nine, shivering in the chilly air, loitered the time away before the hour came for their little preliminary practice in the base ball grounds. Somebody said, while Captain Hiram was marshalling his men, that the day was a bad one for Catalpa. At this Larry laughed heartily. "As if," he said, "the gloom of a foggy day was not just as ominous for the Chicago boys as for the Catalpas." "Oh they are used to it," said Ben Burton, gruffly. Soon after, when the hour for play had arrived, Ben was nowhere to be found. Vainly they looked for him in various nooks and corners of the structure, and they were beginning to ask if he had not been spirited away when he hurried in, looking very flushed and red. When asked somewhat tartly by his captain where he had been, Ben made no answer but took up his bat and marched in with the rest. "He has been visiting some of those confounded pool rooms, I'll be bound," whispered Sam Morrison, who cordially disliked and actively suspected the Catalpa short stop. But there was no time for discussion. The nine now emerged into the arena. The sky was brightening as the two nines met, and the crowds in the vast amphitheater, largely reinforced since yesterday, in consequence of the fame of the visiting nine being spread abroad, gave "The Cats" a cheery round of applause as they made their appearance at the entrance to the field. "Keep a stiff upper lip, Larry, old boy," was Albert's heartening injunction as the two friends parted at the doorways. Larry smiled brightly and his eye involuntarily sought the upper box from which he had seemed to draw so much inspiration, the day before. It was empty, and he felt a little pang of disappointment. The momentary feeling of depression was soon dissipated, however, for the serious work of the day was now to begin, and sentimentalities were out of place. The Catalpas failed to win the toss, whereat Neddie Ellis gave a comical little groan of pain and whispered, facetiously, to Ben Burton, "Another evil sign, Bennie!" "Yes," replied Ben, gloomily, "the worst yet." He paid no attention to Neddie's mocking laugh, but took his place on the player's bench, as Larry Boyne took up his bat and advanced to the position in obedience to orders. For the scorer had shouted, "Larry Boyne to the bat, and Sam Morrison on deck!" As Larry, with an elastic movement of his manly figure, placed himself squarely before Sam Morse, the Calumet's pitcher, he said, "Give me one of your favorite high balls, and I'll try to put it over that netting." Morse, in his turn, squared himself and at once began to deliver a series of hot balls, but all of them too low for the Catalpa player to strike at. But he gave one ball at the desired height, however, and, to use the expression of "The Lily," Larry "hit it squarely on the nose," and placed a base hit to his credit. Sam Morrison profited by his example and put the ball safely in the left field. Neddie Ellis then came up, with a beaming smile on his face, and justified the expectations of the Catalpa delegation in the seats, now largely increased by new arrivals. He hit the ball a resounding thwack which was good for three bases, and sent in two runs, Larry and Morrison reaching the home plate with ease. Charlie King was the first man to be put out; he hit the ball, which was a sharp one, to John Handy at third base, and that active young man mastered it in fine style and retired Charlie at first base. The hit, however, proved to be of value as it sent Neddie Ellis safely across the goal and was the means of tallying the third run for the visiting nine. Hart Stirling went out on a foul ball to Charlie Webb, and John Brubaker sent up a sky-scraper which was captured by McWilliams in the left field. This ended the first half of the first inning, and, with light hearts and radiant faces, the Catalpas went to the field. As Larry took his position at third base, he glanced furtively toward the draped box on the right of the grand stand. At that moment, a blue parasol was unfurled, for the sun now broke forth from the clouds and mist. One glance was all that he could spare, but it was enough. "She has come," he said to his secret heart. The Calumets, on the other hand, were coming in from the field with looks of consternation which did not escape the attention of the coldly critical young ladies in the upper box. Scanning them through her glass, Alice declared that they looked as if they were going to a funeral, and Deputy Sheriff Wheeler, far around on the other side of the enclosure, in the more democratic open seats, said very much the same thing. "Never mind, boys," said Captain Ayres, trying to instil a bit of courage into his men. "Perhaps that is a lively ball and we may bat it all over the field." The gallant captain took his place at the bat, and hit a line ball which was neatly captured by John Brubaker, who received a round of applause, and Ida Boardman waved at him her parasol, with the involuntary cry of "Good, John!" More fortunate than his captain was Sam Morse, the next at the bat. He solved the mysteries of Charlie King's in-shoot and hit the ball over Hart Stirling's head for one base. John Handy then handled the ashen stick and sent a slow ball to Ben Burton who fumbled it and allowed the striker to reach first base, even so far forgetting himself as to neglect to throw the ball to Stirling who stood ready and impatient at second base to head off Sam Morse. Stirling grew red in the face, clearly losing his temper, and, judging from the look he wore, the low murmur in which he gave a word to the short stop was no pleasant one to hear. The fourth man at the bat for the Calumets was Rob Peabody, who sent up a short fly which fell into the willing hands of the second base man, making two out for the Calumets with two of the bases occupied, when Tom Shoff went to the batsman's square. "Ah, this is my Jonah!" said Charlie King, beckoning to the fielders to move backward, knowing Shoff's ability as a batter. In this judgment Charlie was correct, for Shoff hit the first ball pitched, and sent it sailing into the right field, out of the reach of the anxious fielder there, and bringing in two runs and allowing Thomas himself to gain the third base in safety, greatly to the comfort of the Calumets who grinned among themselves as they saw all this from the bench. Glenn Otto now took his turn at the bat, and it was evident that King was out of humor, as he sent the sphere with such vehemence that he nearly paralyzed big Bill Van Orman's hands. In spite of the heavy gloves he wore, the unfortunate catcher's hands began to swell until, as the Dean County deputy sheriff, from his distant post remarked, "They looked like canvassed hams." But Otto calmly waited for a good ball and when he got it, he gently tapped it, sending it to left field for a single sending in, and Shoff made the score even at three and three. Jamie Kennedy finished the first inning by hitting a short fly to King. "Hurrah for the Calumets!" shouted some of the more excitable spectators. "Three cheers for Tom Shoff and Glenn Otto!" cried another, and the enthusiasm did not abate until these two complimented gentlemen turned themselves about and doffed their caps. "I don't think that that was very smart," said Ida Boardman, with as much asperity as she was capable of showing. "Our boys have done much better playing than that without making any fuss about it." "Pretty good playing, though," said Albert Heaton, as he darted out to send off a despatch to the anxious people in Catalpa. "We could be worse off," was Hiram Porter's remark, who was preparing to face Morse's curves. "Boys," he continued, "we are on even terms and stand the same chance of winning that they do." "Provided we are as good players as they are," put in Ben Burton, with a little laugh. Porter hit a swift grounder to Handy who failed to master it in time to head off the swift base runner, who reached the first bag in safety. Ben Burton behaved as if he were afraid of injuring the ball and the result was that he was sent back to the players' bench by hitting an easy ball to Glenn Otto. "The Lily" next essayed his skill and hit the sphere with all his great might, but Jamie Kennedy handled it finely and retired the striker at first base. Larry Boyne, whose turn came next, was hailed by the champions and friends of the Catalpas as the man who would put in a safe hit; but he was caught out by Peabody in the right field. In putting him out, Peabody made a brilliant running catch, the ball, apparently being certain to go over his head. The profound stillness of the arena was immediately broken by a ringing cheer saluting the successful catch. The first striker in this inning for the Calumets was Charlie Webb, who was known as "the chance hitter," but who invariably gave the ball, when he did hit it, such a tremendous blow that it whistled through the air as if it had been belched forth from a cannon. Charlie moistened his hands and swung his bat over his shoulder, as he strode up in front of Charlie King, calling in a big voice, "Now give me a high ball!" He hit the ball, hit it just where he aimed to hit it, and for a moment it was lost in the misty blue above. But Neddie Ellis, flying for the center field fence, gave the watchful spectators an inkling of the whereabouts of the vanished sphere. Charlie Webb, meanwhile, was clearing the bases at a tremendous gait, and, before the ball could be returned to the Diamond Field, he had crossed the home plate and had put his club in the lead. There was another rumble of applause from the sympathetic Chicago on-lookers, and Alice Howell's peachy cheek fairly paled. But she said not a word. Now McWilliams hit a grounder to Larry Boyne who managed, by dint of a hard struggle, to get it to first base in good season, and Mac went out. Ayres, the gallant captain, met with the same fate in his turn, sending a fly to Larry; and Sam Morse ended the second inning by being fielded out at first base by Stirling. At this, there was a sigh of relief from the Catalpa section, and no audible cheer among the friends of the home club. In the third inning, the Catalpas managed to gain some of their lost ground by making the single run necessary to put them even with their antagonists. Sam Morrison hit a sharp ball to Handy, who attempted to field it, but the sphere went through his hands and bounded over the foul line. Morrison was about to return to the home plate, thinking that the ball was "foul." But Larry Boyne impetuously cried, "Hold your base!" Instantly, the crowds were all excitement. Men and boys rose to their feet shouting "Foul!" "Foul!" All was confusion, and Mr. Heaton, Albert, and the young ladies in the upper box looked on speechlessly as the pandemonium raged below. The umpire seemed dazed, and the hooters, who are ever present, yelled "Foul ball!" "Foul ball!" as if their noise would determine the question. Ben Burton, with an expression of mixed amazement and chagrin, watched Larry, who approached the puzzled umpire with Spalding's official guide-book of base ball. The umpire glanced over the open page and his countenance cleared at once. Bowing with cold politeness, he said, "You are right, Mr. Boyne. I am glad to see that you prairie players are well informed as to all the points in the national game." Larry acknowledged the compliment with a manly salutation and returned to the players' bench. But the spectators would have no such result, and howled on vociferously. The umpire called the game and playing was stopped until silence was restored. When he could be heard, the umpire read the rule in a stentorian tone of voice, whereupon there was some grumbling, but the generous majority, seeing the justice of the position taken for the visitors, cheered "The Curly-headed Cat." Larry acknowledged the dubious compliment. Alice Howell hid her blushing face behind her parasol, and the game went on. But it was evident that this episode had shaken the Calumets a little, as the next two strikers secured their bases by errors. Ellis won his by a misplay by Glenn Otto, and King took his by an error on the part of Handy. This left the three bases occupied and nobody put out--a capital chance for the Catalpas to get in some telling work. Stirling was retired at first base by Handy, but his being out allowed Sam Morrison to cross the marble plate in safety, by skillful base-running. John Brubaker hit a fly to Peabody in the right field; the latter captured the ball and also made a fine double play as Neddie Ellis tried to come home on it, forgetting the reputation which Peabody had won as a long thrower. And then the Catalpas again took the field. "I tell you what, boys, it's mighty tough work to beat these prairie roosters," said the good-natured captain of the Calumets, as his associates took their seats once more on the players' bench. "If we could only once get a good lead on them," remarked Jamie Kennedy, "I am sure they would be so badly demoralised that we should get away with them. But they don't seem to scare worth a cent. They hold on like grim death." This conversation was brought to a close by the umpire shouting, "John Handy to the bat!" and John convinced the spectators, as the Dean County Sheriff remarked, that he was "not handy at batting," for he was struck out; and Peabody, who followed, went out on a foul to Captain Porter. Tom Shoff then proved that he was not wholly "The Jonah" that Charlie King had feared him to be by merely going out on a long fly to left field. This ended the third inning, with the contestants neck and neck, each being credited with four runs. As he took his position before the pitcher, Captain Hiram Porter expressed to his comrades his conviction that the Catalpas were to do some good work in that inning. He felt it "in his bones," he said, whereat Ben Burton laughed contemptuously, and said to "The Lily," who sat next him, that if the bones of Captain Hiram were to be the barometer of the game, the Catalpas would be in hard luck. He had no faith in the Porter family bones, he said. But Hiram justified his faith in his own impressions by hitting with all his might the first ball pitched and thereby securing one base. Ben Burton, who followed him, also took one base, but this was through the error of Captain Ayres, who muffed a ball thrown to him by Jamie Kennedy. "The Lily" came next to the bat. He had previously made a small wager with Ben Burton that he would make a safe hit, and, in order to defeat Burton and at the same time benefit the club, he kept perfectly cool, waiting for his opportunity, refusing to strike at any of "Morse's coaxers," as the boys styled the Calumets' pitcher's work. When he got a ball waist-high over the plate, he hit it with sufficient power to fell an ox. The sphere traveled on a right line as though it were shot out of a cannon's mouth, and gave "The Lily" two bases, at the same time sending Porter and Burton over the home plate and giving the Catalpas a lead of two runs. A broad smile adorned the countenance of "The Lily," and, with cap in hand, he stood ready to fly to third base as soon as the ball was hit. But his ardent desires were not to be gratified; the next three men went out in "one-two-three" order, Larry Boyne on a fly to Glenn Otto, Sam Morrison on a grounder to Handy, and Neddie Ellis on strikes. Third base was the nearest Van Orman came to the home plate, much to his grief; and, as he adjusted his gloves for the next turn behind the bat, he muttered, "Well, I made that ball whistle, anyhow!" Buttoning his hand protectors, with a series of wrenches, he jerked out, "The next one--that Bill hits--will never be found." Glenn Otto was the first man at the base for the Calumets in the fourth inning; and he secured his base by Neddie Ellis's muff of an easy ball, and Jamie Kennedy reached first base on called balls. Both of these men, however, were left waiting, as the three players who succeeded them at the bat failed to place the ball out of the reach of the Catalpas. Charlie Webb went out on a fly to Larry Boyne, and McWilliams hit an easy fly to Charlie King; then Darius Ayres was thrown out at first base by Larry Boyne. The inning ended without adding a run to the score of the home nine, but they kept at their work with the steadiness and coolness of men who had a high reputation as players and the consciousness of great strength to support them under adversity. Elation reigned among the friends of the Catalpa nine. In the high box from which the fair delegation from Catalpa surveyed the field, Miss Alice expressed her complete satisfaction with the condition of affairs, although Miss Ida pretended to entertain feelings of distrust. "Why," she said, "at the end of the fourth inning, yesterday, the Catalpas were three to the Calumets' one--just leading them two, as they are to-day. Do you suppose that the Catalpas will keep this up all through the game?" "You are as much of a doubting Thomas as Ben Burton is, Ida," answered Alice. "According to Mr. Boyne, Ben is croaking all the while. If the wish were father to the thought, he could not be more skeptical, it seems to me. Isn't he perfectly horrid?" But words could not be wasted now. The Catalpas went to the bat again, and every eye was riveted on the tall form of Charlie King, who, with his club on his shoulder, sauntered in leisurely and confident fashion to the square. He lifted the ball too high, however, and it was captured by Tom Shoff in the center field. Hart Stirling was deceived by a few sharp inward curves from the pitcher of the Calumets and retired to his seat without hitting a ball. John Brubaker hit the ball, but was thrown out from Otto to Ayres. The Calumets now came in with a look of determination on their faces. "Steady, lads, steady!" said Captain Darius. "Wait for good balls; and, above all things, keep steady." Sam Morse, who was first at the bat, strictly obeyed orders and waited for what he considered a good ball. He struck an easy one to Ben Burton, but Ben muffed it, and Morse reached first base before the ball did. A dark cloud passed over the face of Captain Hiram as he anxiously stood at first base, and something like a cloud darkened Alice Howell's fair cheek, far up above the brightly-lighted field, now illuminated by the afternoon sun. A deep sigh went around among the Catalpa contingent in the open seats, as Stirling, having received a hot ball from Rob Peabody, failed to pick it up with his accustomed skill, and had the mortification of seeing the agile base runner get to the first bag in safety. It was clearly evident now that the Catalpas were a little nervous. "We have them rattled," whispered the Calumets among themselves, as they sat expectantly on the players' bench. Even Charlie King, who never lost his equipoise, appeared to have left some of his skill behind him, for he did not twirl the ball with that bewildering dexterity that had been, all along, the envy and the terror of the Calumets. There was a woe-begone expression on the faces of the Catalpa players--save one, and that was Ben Burton, who wore a settled smile of derision. He seemed to be congratulating himself on the possible coming true of his prophecies. Any misplay on the part of the Catalpas was the signal for what Hart Stirling termed "one of Ben Burton's contemptible laughs." Shoff again faced the pitching of Charlie King and the two players exchanged a grin, a half-defiant recognition of their friendly antagonism. Thomas repeated his hit of the first inning, sending the ball to the left field fence for three bases and sending in Morse, Handy and Peabody, and putting his club in the coveted position of a good lead. Next, Glenn Otto hit a lively grounder to Boyne who caught it safely and retired the base runner; but Tom Shoff went triumphantly home. After this, "The Cats" seemed to regain something of their old vigor and spirit. A few words of warning, impressing on them the need of keeping cool, and reminding them that they now had everything to gain, and nothing to lose, were dropped by their captain, as they braced themselves for a good strong play. King neatly fooled Jamie Kennedy with his deceptive in-shoots and the batsman of the Calumets was called out on strikes. Charlie Webb was the last man at the bat in this inning, and he went out on a fly to Hart Stirling. "That ends the fifth inning!" shouted the scorer. "Score, eight to six in favor of the Calumet club," an announcement which was not very comforting to the gentlemen from Catalpa, whether they were in the Diamond Field or in the boxes. Al Heaton dashed his hat down over his eyes and went solemnly down to send a despatch which, a few minutes afterwards, was read in the streets of Catalpa with great consternation. In the sixth inning, the Calumets played with the good luck that usually seems to follow a club which has the lead in the score. Perhaps it was their self-confidence, natural and fitting, that inspired them now. At any rate, they retired the Catalpa representatives of the national game without allowing one of them to reach the first base. Captain Porter was thrown out at the first base by Jamie Kennedy, Ben Burton went out on a fly to McWilliams, and "The Lily" hit an easy ground ball to John Handy, who made a lightning throw to first base in time to head off the deeply disappointed William. But the Catalpa players showed that they were not out of heart, for their playing was remarkably strong in this part of the inning. Burton threw McWilliams out at first base; then Darius Ayres hit a "liner" to the left field which was very cleverly caught by Sam Morrison; and the inning was then brought to an end by Sam Morse who struck out; and the sentiment of the spectators was reflected by an irrepressible small boy who cried, "Now 'The Cats' will get a run!" Larry Boyne, who went to the bat for the visiting club, was the fortunate man who was to make good the small boy's prediction. He opened the inning in magnificent style by hitting the ball fairly and the flying sphere almost struck the left field foul line. It was "a tight squeeze," as one of the Catalpa on-lookers observed, and the umpire's decision was invoked by the captain of the Calumets. The umpire justly gave the ball as fair, whereupon some of the baser sort in the amphitheater began to hoot and cry "Foul!" as if they would thus reverse the decision of the umpire. That gentleman coolly ordered the game to stop until the noise had ceased; there were counter cries of "Shame!" from some of the more orderly of the spectators, and then, quiet having been restored, the contest was resumed, Sam Morrison being at the bat. Samuel went out on a fly to Ayres. While Neddie Ellis was at the bat, a passed ball allowed Larry to get around to third base. Neddie retired on a foul tip to Charlie Webb, and it looked as if the chances for the Catalpas to make a run were very slender indeed. But Charlie King came to the rescue. He hit a ball to Glenn Otto at short stop, which, luckily for the Catalpas, went through his legs and allowed King to take his base and brought Larry Boyne to the home plate amidst the cheers of his many admirers. But Hart Stirling dashed the hopes of his comrades for this inning by sending up a fly to Jamie Kennedy at second base. Alice Howell's little hand was drumming nervously on the rail of her box, as she regarded in dejected silence the scene, when the Calumets came to the bat with a feeling of confidence readily manifest in their faces. But their opponents played a fine fielding game, and the home nine were presented with the figurative "goose egg" which had been so often referred to during the contest. Handy struck three times the unsubstantial air, and Peabody went out disastrously also on a fly to Hiram Porter. Shoff reached the first base on called balls, but only to be left there, as Jamie Kennedy failed to strike the ball after making three terrific lunges at it. The Catalpas were still hopeful, but not sanguine. They had only one run to make in order to tie their competitors, and they went to work now with a will. They were not nearly so badly off as they might have been, was the cheery comment of Larry Boyne, as they went to the bat once more. But fate was against them, and they were retired in "one-two-three order," as the Calumets played a winning game. John Brubaker hit a ball to Kennedy who sent it to first base in a manner that won the plaudits of the crowds intently watching the contest from the seats around the huge amphitheater. Captain Porter hit a fly to left field which was captured by McWilliams in wonderfully fine style, and Ben Burton struck out. The Calumets were very fortunate at the bat. In this inning they made another run and again placed themselves two runs in the lead. Kennedy made a base hit, and went to second base on a passed ball, and then reached third base on Burton's error of Webb's in-field hit. Jamie finally scored on McWilliams's out at first base. Next Darius Ayres hit a fly to Sam Morrison and was retired, and Morse ended the inning by striking out, leaving the score nine to seven in favor of the Calumets. "Small chances for our taking the championship this season," was Ben Burton's gleeful remark, as the Catalpas took their places on the bench. "And you seem to be mightily tickled about it," replied "The Lily," with an angry glare in his eyes. "If I were as pleased as you seem to be at the drubbing we are likely to get from these chaps, I should expect to be fired out of the club for treachery." Van Orman did not stop to hear the reply which Burton, white with wrath, made to this taunt. Seizing his bat, he hurried to the square and faced the pitching of the redoubtable and confident Morse. He waited patiently for a good ball and finally received one. With all his might--which was a great deal--"The Lily" hit the sphere and sent it flying to the left field, where the lithe and agile McWilliams captured it, after a hard run which called forth an involuntary burst of applause from the rapt spectators. "Hang it all! Just my luck!" muttered Van Orman, as, throwing down his bat, he returned to his seat. But Larry Boyne, as cool and calm as a spring morning, came next, reassuring his friends and comrades by the mere poise of his handsome figure as he took his place in the batter's square. Not a word had he said for the past half-hour, and it was plain to see that he keenly felt the defeat that now stared the Catalpas in the face. But he showed no white feather, bearing himself as if it were an every-day occurrence to find himself in so difficult a predicament. Two strikes were called on him in rapid succession; the third ball he struck at and missed and he was consequently retired for the first time during the day for having failed to hit the ball. The tide seemed to be irretrievably running against the visitors, and many of the less interested spectators began to make their way to the exits, saying as they went, that the game was over. But a little diversion in favor of the Catalpas now took place. Sam Morrison made a long line hit to center field for three bases, and a slight glimmer of hope dawned in the breasts of the sons of Catalpa. The friendly champions of the club, bunched together in the seats, yelled themselves hoarse over this little turn in the game, encouraging their fellow-townsmen in the Diamond Field with all sorts of cheering cries and remarks. Alice Howell, red and white by turns, and sometimes not seeing the field for the unwonted moisture that gathered in her eyes, waved her handkerchief at the boys below, never trusting herself to say a word. With breathless interest, Neddie Ellis was watched as he ran to the bat and squared himself for a decisive stroke of business. Even the umpire, carried away by the unwonted crisis, forgot everything but the trembling balance of the result of the game. He was brought to his senses by a shouting from the grand stand when he considered a ball was too low to be called a strike, although there were only a few persons who thought to the contrary. Neddie was made a little nervous, naturally enough, by the commotion and the stress of the exigency. He knew that there were some chances of winning now depending on his making a good hit. It was a critical point in the closely contested struggle. He made a desperate lunge at the ball, but Jamie Kennedy was at his post and before the hapless Neddie could realize what had happened, Kennedy had retired him at first base and the game was won for the Calumets. Then a mighty shout went up from the throats of the assembled multitudes, for, although many had slipped out in time to avoid the press of the departing throngs, those who remained were sufficiently numerous and enthusiastic to create a vociferous uproar. In the midst of this, the two captains met in mid-field and shook hands cordially with a few complimentary words from each, as their respective clubs gathered around. Then, the promiscuous cheering in the seats having subsided, the victors gave a rousing cheer, more or less inspired by their own exultant spirits, for their antagonists; and the Catalpas, nothing abashed by their defeat, returned the cheer with great heartiness. "Meet us at Catalpa," said Captain Hiram Porter to the captain of the Calumet club. "Meet us at Catalpa, and we will try hard to retrieve the ill fortune of this day." It had been agreed that the third and concluding game of the championship series should be played at Catalpa, in case the Calumets should win the second game. So, with a few hurried words relating to a friendly meeting of the captains of the two nines, on the morrow, the players dispersed from the field. This was what might have been read on the bulletin boards as they went along their homeward way:-- BASE BALL TO-DAY. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Catalpas 3 0 1 2 0 0 1 0 0 7. Calumets 3 1 0 0 4 0 0 1 0 9. _Runs earned_, Catalpas, 4; Calumets, 2. _Base hits_, Catalpas, 7; Calumets, 7. _Errors_, Catalpas, 5; Calumets, 7. _Umpire_, Mr. Mark B. Redmond. _Time of game, two hours and ten minutes._ CHAPTER XIV. A STRANGE MESSAGE FROM HOME. "Well," cried Neddie Ellis, cheerily, as the nine filed into Captain Hiram Porter's room, which had been used as a rallying-place, as it was the largest assigned to any member of the club, "well, we have one more chance at the Calumets, and there is hope while there's life. Hey, Larry?" Larry did not immediately reply. He was regarding Ben Burton with suspicion. That individual had received a telegram from the hands of a messenger, as he came into the house, which, having read, he tore into very small pieces and threw away with a disturbed expression of countenance. Ben's eyes were now fixed on Hiram, who, on coming into the room, had noticed on the mantel-piece a telegram addressed to himself. Ben Burton's face grew white as his captain, tearing open the envelope, read the despatch with astonishment and wrath depicted on his usually pleasant visage. "Read her out, Captain," cried "The Lily." "Read her out and let us divide the bad news with you. I'm sure it's bad news, isn't it, Neddie?" Without stopping to consider whether it were discreet or not to divulge the message that was causing him so much perturbation, Hiram, casting a sharp glance at Ben Burton, said, "It is bad news, boys, for it accuses one of our number of treachery. It is from Tom Selby, and it reads thus:-- "'_Look out for Ben Burton; he has sold the game._'" "It's an infernal lie!" shouted Ben, passionately, and very red in the face, and shaky in the limbs. "What does Tom Selby know about the game, and how could I sell the game in Catalpa? I'll thrash Tom Selby as quick as I get home; see if I don't!" "No you won't," said Albert Heaton, who entered the room at this moment. "No you won't. Hear this, Mr. Burton. It's a despatch from Dr. Selby, dated at Catalpa, 5:20 P.M. You see they had then got the news that the game was lost:-- "'_I am afraid you did not get Tom's despatch to the captain, for we hear that the game is gone. Hunt up despatch to Hiram, sent to lodgings._'" "What's that despatch you've got there Hi? Is it Tom's?" "Yes," answered the captain. "It is from Tom. Read it." [Illustration: "READ HER OUT, CAPTAIN," CRIED "THE LILY."--Page 167.] Albert read the despatch deliberately and said: "I see it all now. My despatch was sent to Judge Morris's office, where I found it when I stopped in there on my way back from seeing the ladies on board of a street-car for the north side. Your despatch should have been sent to the ball grounds, and the idiots here have kept it until it was too late. Oh, this is too bad!" and Albert fairly groaned. "They couldn't tell what was in the despatch, Al," said Larry, soothingly. "There's no use crying over spilt milk. But what I should like is an explanation from Mr. Burton." All eyes were now turned on Burton, who defiantly faced his accusers. He was evidently determined to brave out the charge made against him from Catalpa. His cheek grew red and pale by turns, and he failed to keep the serenity that he attempted. "See him shake," said "The Lily," with bitter contempt. "Did any man ever shake like that when he was innocent. Oh, no, Bennie did not play a muffing game, this afternoon, for nothing!" "I tell you that's a lie?" roared Ben, furious with rage. "Any man who says I threw the game is a slanderer and I'll fight him. Any man would show feeling and shake, as you call it, Bill Van Orman, if accused of doing such a mean thing as selling out his club, and you know it." More in sorrow than in anger, Captain Hiram ordered the boys to drop the matter for the present. It could not be determined, in the absence of specific testimony, what amount of truth would be found in the startling charge made against a member of the club. They must wait until they reached home, he said, before it would be worth while to take any steps in the matter. Meantime, he would advise (but not order) that the members of the club drop the business and say nothing about it, especially not to any outsider. It was good advice that the captain gave, and the members of the club all followed it so far as speaking of the matter to outsiders was concerned. It was asking too much that they should not talk it over among themselves. By common consent, however, Ben Burton was avoided by all hands. He stood about the house until after supper, then, without leaving any word as to his intentions, he quietly disappeared and was seen no more. "What a wretched streak of luck!" murmured Larry Boyne to Neddie Ellis. "If that despatch had been sent to Al Heaton, or to Hiram at the ball grounds, all would have been well. We could have withdrawn Ben Burton and put Will Sprague, or Al Heaton, in his place, before the game began. Oh, why did Tom do such a foolish thing as to send the message here?" "Tom is an idiot!" said Neddie, indignantly. "He's a feather-head; always was, and always will be! Let's look at that despatch again, captain." Critical examination of the message showed that it was received in Chicago at half-past one o'clock. It had left Catalpa at half-past eleven o'clock in the forenoon. "Two hours to send that little message!" almost shrieked Neddie Ellis. "It's that giddy, flirting girl that works the telegraph office in Catalpa! That's what's the matter with the message. Now you just remember that, boys." "Softly! softly! Neddie," said Larry. "You mustn't accuse the operator. Perhaps the line was down, or somebody else blundered. At any rate, the mischief is done. We'll wait until we get home before we try to find out what it all means." "Aha!" cried "The Lily," as if he had seen a sudden burst of light. "Now we know why Ben was late in the field. Don't you remember he stole out after we had got through practicing, this noon, and was gone half an hour, or so? Where was he? Why, he looked as if he had been stealing sheep when he came back. I'll tell you where he had been. He had been to the telegraph office on the corner below the grounds, telegraphing to some confederate in Catalpa." "Smart boy, Bill; but why should he go to the next block below the grounds when there is an office in the building? And how could his telegram to his confederate, if he has one, get back here in Tom Selby's message?" "That's more than I know, Cap, but I should say that he wouldn't dare to send any crooked message from the ball grounds, where he is known." "There is good sense in that, Billy boy," said Charlie King, who had joined the party while the discussion was going on. "There is plausibility in it, too, for I remember seeing Ben go into that office and make some inquiries, as we were going to the grounds, day before yesterday, to practice." Meanwhile, Mr. Heaton was trying to comfort the young ladies in Judge Morris's family, but his well-meant efforts were discouragingly received by the fair champions of the Catalpa club. Miss Alice was perfectly certain, she averred, that Ben Burton had purposely "thrown" the game. She had watched him narrowly, and had been, at times, half inclined to send down word to Mr. Boyne, or to the captain, rather (and this was said with a blush), that Burton was playing false. The players could not see it, but she could, and she knew him so well that she could not keep her eyes off him while he was playing, whether it was in the field, at the bat, or base-running. Later in the evening, Albert came in with two or three of the Catalpa men, bearing the doleful news from Tom Selby. "Didn't I tell you so?" demanded Alice, with animation. "Didn't I tell you, Larry Boyne, to beware of that young man?" "You did indeed, Miss Howell," replied Larry, with mock dejection. "And we would have looked out for him, as you suggested, if we had had any tangible suspicion, or any proof whatsoever, that he was 'crooked.' But how could we make a stand against one of our own number, merely on so vague a hint as that which we had?" "If _I_ were a member of the Catalpa club," said the girl, with spirit, "I would not have so evil a young man as Ben Burton in it, evidence or no evidence." "Miss Alice is right," said Neddie Ellis, "I always did dislike Ben Burton, and I would have voted against him, if it had not been that he was such a good man at short stop that I couldn't think of putting my little prejudices against what seemed to be the good of the nine." Once more it was agreed that it was useless to discuss the matter until the party had reached home, when the charges against Burton, and the evidence, if there were any, would be brought up in due form. By the time the players and their friends had embarked on the west-bound train, next day, they had recovered somewhat their usual high spirits. The buoyancy of youth and the natural hopefulness of healthy young fellows like these came to their relief, and the gay, chattering party that took possession of one end of a railway car, that morning, could hardly have been compared with the depressed and angry knot of youngsters that had discussed defeat and treachery, the night before. If they had been sold out, they argued to themselves, and had still fairly held their own against the famed Calumets, what was not possible for the team when purged of an unworthy member? So they neared home with hearts lightened of a grievous burden and were once more cheered with the reflection that they had achieved one notable victory, at least, since their departure for Chicago, although a defeat counterbalanced that triumph. And when the train drew up before the Catalpa depot, the returning adventurers were gladdened by the sight of innumerable flags flying over the town in the distance. They were to be received with congratulations, after all, not as humiliated captives. "That is because we come home neck and neck, I s'pose," said "The Lily," as the notes of a brass band startled his ample ear. "It's because we are not so badly off as we might be, Billy boy," replied Larry Boyne. CHAPTER XV. MIKE COSTIGAN'S DISCOVERY. Meantime, strange things had happened in Catalpa. The town was in a ferment on the morning of the great day when the Catalpa nine were to play their second game with the Calumets. The glory of the first day's victory shone brightly to encourage the friends of the club as they loitered towards the telegraph office and clustered under the windows of the office of _The Leaf_, when the time for calling the game drew near. In the office of that influential sheet there was much commotion, as every printer at the case and every member of the slender editorial staff, even down to the young lady who wrote fashion articles out of the Chicago newspapers, was in some way interested in base ball. Those who were not members of a nine were in training, or were represented by men who were active players. Therefore, while the expectant crowd in the street below was hungry for news from the Diamond Field, the smaller convocation in the printing office above was even hungrier for the opportunity to hang out the banner of victory which all were sure would wave from the roof of _The Leaf_ before the day was done. A few despatches, vague and dealing only in glittering generalities, as the editor said, were sent early by Albert Heaton and were duly bulletined by "The Leaflet," as Mr. Downey's office boy was generally called. There were many inquiries at the telegraph office for news, but "the lady operator," with needless asperity, referred all applicants to the editor of _The Leaf_. Mike Costigan, the telegraph messenger, and Hank Jackson, the ex-champion of the Dean County Nine, were the greatest trials which the long-suffering lady at the telegraph desk had to endure. Mike had put his whole soul, which was large for his small body, into the base ball championship, and he was ready to weep if the Catalpas should not return with what he called "the skelps of them Chicago fellers" at their belts. As for Hank, he pretended to be in momentary expectation of a telegraphic despatch. As early as nine o' clock in the morning, he had begun to haunt the telegraph office and demand a message that did not come. Mike was sure that Jackson would have early news from the seat of war, and, wisely fearing Hank's heavy hand and rough tongue, he followed him at a respectful distance, waiting to hear something to encourage his fond hopes of the Catalpa club. The lad had been hurrying out with a message to Heaton's flouring mills, and he bounced up the stairs of the telegraph office, three at a time, and flew into the room where the hard-worked operator was rattling at the instrument. A swift look from Mike took in the whole situation. Henry Jackson was seated on a bench in a corner of the office, with his back to the door, puzzling over a little book and a telegraphic despatch. He inspected the pages of the book, then scanned the message, and then, licking the end of a lead-pencil, wrote something on the paper containing the despatch. "Here, hurry with this message, Mike," said the lady in the office, "and be quick about it; you are always loitering about the corner when you are wanted." Almost wild at being sent out before he could get an opportunity to extract a bit of news from Hank Jackson, Mike flew out on his errand, astonished the receiver of the message by telling him to hurry up with his signature, and then went back to the office on the wings of the wind. Alas! when Mike re-entered the room, breathless and hot, Hank had departed without leaving any trace of the quality of the news that he might have received. No, not quite so bad as that, thought Mike, as he ruefully surveyed the empty bench, for there in a corner, tossed under the bench on which Henry had been sitting, was a wad of crumpled paper which the boy's experienced eyes told him was from the telegraph company's stores of stationery. Pouncing upon the ragged ball with the hunger of a small boy in pursuit of information concerning a base ball match, Mike drew forth a "receiving blank," torn and crumpled, on which was written an incomprehensible message. Kneeling on the floor, his stubby hands shaking with excitement, Mike smoothed out the torn despatch, joining the two larger fragments so as to get the meaning of the words. And this, after some botheration, was what was revealed to Mike's distended eyes:-- [Illustration: Form 2. MUTUAL UNION TELEGRAPH CO Errors can be guarded against only by repeating a message back to the sending station for comparison, and the company will in transmission or delivery of Unrepeated Messages, beyond the amount of tolls paid thereon, nor in any case where the sixty days after sending the message. This is an UNREPEATED MESSAGE, and is delivered by request of the sender, under the conditions named above. JOHN G. MOORE, President. ======================================================================== Get all the bet you can against Catalpas they lose game sure ======================================================================== READ THE NOTICE AT THE TOP.] "Gosh all hemlock!" this was Mike's extreme of profanity, "if Ben Burton hasn't gone and sold the game!" The lad, who was shrewd beyond his years, carefully put the pieces of paper inside of his jacket, buttoned it up tightly, and, after ascertaining that no message was coming over the wires, and that he might decamp without fear, bolted out of the office, threw himself downstairs, and darted into Dr. Selby's shop like a shot. [Illustration: "MIKE SMOOTHED OUT THE TORN DESPATCH."--Page 178.] "Here! here! Tom," he gasped, almost beside himself with anxiety and alarm. "Ben Burton's goin' to sell the game! Leastways, here's somethin' crooked! Look at it!" Thomas, who was keeping shop while his father was absent for a moment, took the paper, with a puzzled look at Mike, then spreading it out on the counter, scrutinized it carefully, and, as he felt a cold chill running down his back at the revelation of an unsuspected rascality, he smote the walnut plank of the counter and cried, "By ginger!" This was Tom's extreme of profanity. "Where did you get this?" he demanded of the excited Mike. "In the office, under the bench there by the stove, where Hank throwed it. I seen him readin' it, and then lookin' into a little book--one of them books that has the meanin' of words into 'em." "Dictionary?" suggested Tom. "Yes, dictionary, that's what it is. And he'd get a word outen that, then put it down. I had to get out on a message to 'Squire Dewey, and when I got back he was gone; but I got the message. Don't you think it's crooked?" "Of course I do; and be sure you don't let on to a living soul what you have seen. We'll circumvent him yet." Mike rushed back to his post, sober with a sense of the important secret that he carried under his ragged jacket. As soon as Dr. Selby returned, Tom laid the matter before him. The old gentleman was astounded and grieved. No time was to be lost. Tom must hasten to the telegraph office and send a warning message to Captain Hiram Porter. The lad hurried away, stopping on the sidewalk below the office long enough to note Hank Jackson offering "two to one," as he phrased it, against the Catalpas. The despatch was sent and Tom sauntered back, half-tempted to take up one of the offers of the presumptuous and boastful Hank; but he refrained. He knew that the game of the conspirators had been circumvented. It would be his day's delight to stand by and see the dishonest scheme recoil upon the heads of its promoters. But as the day wore on and despatches from the ball ground (at first favorable and conclusive proof to the Selbys that they had nipped the conspiracy in the bud) grew more and more discouraging, Tom became desperate; he longed for wings that he might fly to Chicago and reveal the depth of infamy into which one of the club had fallen. Later in the day, when defeat seemed certain, yielding to the boy's importunities, Dr. Selby sent a message to Albert Heaton, in care of Judge Morris. "Where did you send Hiram's despatch to?" he asked of Tom, suddenly, as if a new suspicion crossed his mind. "To the Lavalette House, of course. They all stop there!" "Oh, you idiot!" groaned his father. "They had gone to the ball ground before your despatch could reach Chicago!" CHAPTER XVI. THE CONSPIRACY LAID OPEN. The Selbys kept their own counsel, although Tom burned to tell everybody whom he met not to bet with Hank Jackson on the base ball match; but, after pondering the matter in his mind, he came to the conclusion that if people would bet on a base ball game, they must run their own risks and chances. It would serve them right, he thought, if they did lose their money in this foolish fashion. The League, he knew, had enacted severe rules against gaming, and the influence of that example should be strengthened even if by the misfortunes of those who laid wagers. So there would have been no suspicion of Hank's complicity in any plot, if Mike had been able to keep a secret, but Mike adored "the lady operator" secretly and from afar. He submitted in silence and uncomplainingly to her rebuffs and scoldings for the sake of winning her regard. In a moment of confidence, he imparted to the object of his dumb worship the information that the cipher message which she had received for Jackson was "crooked." The young lady was shocked. She had heard that Hank was going about town offering to bet against the Catalpa nine, and now she instantly divined what was going on, and was indignant accordingly. The fact that she had been the unconscious channel of communicating with the culprit did not lessen her wrath. Unhappily for Henry, he came to the office in the course of the afternoon, and the operator, as soon as she saw him, "gave him a piece of her mind," to his great discomfiture. Hank, unlike his co-conspirator, did not attempt to deny anything, but tacitly admitted all that was charged against him by the irate young lady. After turning over in his mind the circumstances of the scrape into which he had been drawn, Master Jackson coolly sat down and wrote the following despatch to Ben Burton: _The thing is blown. Look out for yourself._ _HENRY J. JACKSON._ It was this warning, received by Burton after the game was over, that put him on his guard when he was confronted with the despatch sent to Hiram Porter. Next day, when the town was alive with enthusiasm over the reception to the returning base ball club, Henry Jackson did not appear in any of the excited groups that accompanied the players from the depot to their club-rooms. The hilarity of the day was somewhat dampened by the fact that one of the nine was a traitor, and that he must be disciplined, if the charge were proven against him. The evidence shown to the boys on their arrival was tolerably conclusive, but it was needful, as they thought, to secure an admission from either Ben or Henry that there had been collusion between them. Burton's father, a worthy and honest miller, sought out Captain Hiram, and, with much grief, told him that Ben had written to him from Chicago, saying that he was going to Indiana on unexpected business, and that he would not be in Catalpa for some weeks to come. This, to the old gentleman, who had heard the flying reports to his son's discredit, was a suspicious circumstance. He did not like to believe that Benjamin had done anything wrong, he said, but he was "afeard," yes, he was "afeard." Judge Howell sent for Hank Jackson, and that young man, although at first disposed to be stubborn, finally broke down before the majesterial bearing of the Judge and told all that was needful to convict himself and Ben of having combined to make money by betting on the game between the Calumets and the Catalpas. Ben, he said, had suggested the trick, agreeing to "throw the game," if Hank, and any other confederate whom he might select, would get the bets secured in Catalpa. Henry also thought that Ben had arranged to have a similar scheme at the same time played in Sandy Key, where he had a boon companion. The story of the despatches was now clearly unravelled. Ben had sent a despatch to Henry Jackson directly after leaving the Chicago lodgings of the club, on the morning of the second day; subsequently, he had remembered that his friend in Sandy Key might be utilized as a fellow conspirator, and, just before the game was called, he had hurried off a despatch to him, also. Inquiries subsequently developed the fact that this was exactly what had been done. While Henry was undergoing an examination in Judge Howell's private office, the nine were in consultation. Presently, the door opened and the Judge and his unwilling prisoner appeared. "Henry has decided to make a clean breast of this unhappy business, Captain Porter," said the Judge. "Speak up like a man, Henry, and tell the gentlemen what you have told me." With downcast eyes and a sullen manner, Hank fumbled with his cap, and mumbled his story, but without omitting anything relevant to the case. He was heard in silence, although "The Lily," whose eyes glared vengefully at the culprit, with difficulty restrained himself. And when the door closed behind the Judge and the criminal, the ungentle William gave a roar of rage that astonished first, and then set the club off into fits of laughter, in spite of the solemnity of the occasion. "Well, what is the result of your deliberations, Mr. Boyne?" asked a brisk and somewhat seedy young man, as the boys came down from their club-room. Pulling out a note book and moistening a pencil at his lip, as he spoke, he continued, "Shocking case of depravity on the part of young Burton. Quite a small sensation, on my word. Small, small for a big city, but really sensational for Catalpa, you know. Ha! ha!" and the young gentleman laughed at his little sally. "Great powers!" was Larry's exclamation. "You are not going to print anything about this disgraceful business in _The Leaf_, are you?" "Why, certainly, Mr. Boyne. I have a lovely article written up. We only want the action of the club to round it off, give it completeness as it were, and there you are." "Oh, that would be very bad!" cried Larry. "I don't mind your saying in the paper that Mr. Burton has been obliged to leave the club, and that we have supplied his place by placing Mr. Albert Heaton at short stop, Mr. William Sprague being unable to play, on account of having sprained his thumb while practicing with the club. But don't let us disgrace the town and the club by making public Ben Burton's treachery!" A new light seemed to dawn on the reporter's mind, and he sucked his pencil reflectively. Finally, he brightened up and said, "Well, you must go and see Mr. Downey. He was reckoning that we would have a first-class story out of this. I have no authority in the premises. I am only an humble scribbler, a mere local-items, so to speak. But a word from you to the editor-in-chief, Mr. Boyne, will have its effect. Yes, it will have its effect. But that is a lovely story spoiled, Mr. Boyne." Mr. Downey, when sought in the office of _The Leaf_, was deeply chagrined to learn that the members of the base ball club were unwilling that anything should appear in next morning's paper regarding the unfortunate affair in which Ben Burton was involved. News was news, he said, and, what was more, news was very scarce at this season of the year. Harvesting was not wholly completed. No shooting matches had been yet arranged, and there was a frightful dullness throughout the county. His hated rival, _The Dean County Banner_, would be almost certain to get hold of the affair, and, as _The Banner_ was a semi-weekly, instead of a daily, like _The Leaf_, he would have time to work it up into that dime novel sensation to which _The Banner_ was so addicted. And the editor of _The Leaf_ curled his lip with fine contempt for his rival. But the arguments of the young men overwhelmed the generous mind of the editor, who, on condition that similar persuasion should be brought to bear on the editor of _The Banner_, consigned to the waste-basket, but with a pang, the highly-seasoned narrative which his reporter had prepared. The substitution of Albert Heaton for the derelict Ben Burton was not effected without a struggle. His mother, firm in her conviction that base ball was not an aristocratic game, held out against the arguments of her husband and her son, until Judge Howell, accidentally meeting her on the street, one day, craftily won her over by informing her that he wished that he had a son big enough to play base ball. He was sure that the honor and the glory of defeating the crack base ball club of the State would now fall to the Catalpa nine. It would be a great day for Catalpa when this happened. The good lady surrendered. What Judge Howell thought and said seemed to her like law and gospel, social and moral. Albert joyfully received consent to play with the nine--"just for this once." CHAPTER XVII. A FAMOUS VICTORY. It was a great day for base ball when the far-famed Calumet club came to Catalpa to play the home nine. The visitors arrived by the evening train and were met at the station by the greater part of the Catalpa club, who escorted their friends to the hotel in which quarters had been engaged. To say that the strangers were objects of curiosity to the youths and lassies of the town would only faintly describe the enthusiasm with which they were received by the people of Catalpa. The morrow was to witness the final game of the struggle, already made sufficiently notable by the narrowness of the margin left for the two contestants, and by the notoriety given to it by the treachery of Ben Burton, now town-talk, but (thanks to the discretion of the players) not known outside of Catalpa. So high ran the excitement that there were many sleepless youngsters in Catalpa, that night, although the seasoned veterans who were the actors in the drama slept as soundly as though the next day would not dawn, big with the fate of rival base ball clubs. Tom Selby, as his father reported, arose at frequent intervals through the night, looked out on the cloudless sky across which the harvest moon was riding, and went back to his bed with a deep-drawn sigh of satisfaction at the prospect of another fine day for the great match. It was a beautiful day that lighted up the valley of Stone River; and the mellow October sun flooded the scene with splendor, when the crowds began to flow towards the Agricultural Fair Grounds, now re-furbished with great care, and decorated with every available bit of bunting in the place. An enormous throng greeted the sight of the players as they entered the enclosure and made their way directly to the officers' old rooms, now set apart for the use of the members of the two nines. Special trains had been run on the two railroads entering the town, and from the country round about came long lines of farm-wagons filled with rustic belles and beaux, stalwart young fellows from the rural districts, elder people from outlying villages, and small boys who had heard from afar the news of the great event that was about to happen, and had trudged into town from distant homes, carrying their frugal luncheons with them--all bound to see the sport. There was Judge Howell's carriage, you may be sure, with the Judge, his pretty daughter, and his prim sister, eager for the sight, even Miss Anstress grimly admitting, as if under great mental pressure, that she did hope that the Catalpas would beat and so have done with what she thought a long and very unnecessary contest for the championship of the State. There, too, was old Rough and Ready, alert and spry as a lad of nineteen, making himself very busy trimming the flags, inspecting the grounds, and running of errands for the players, conscious that but for him the game could not go on. There was a great and tumultuous cheer when the two nines, clad in their uniforms, finally emerged from the unpainted little buildings near the judges' stand in which they had made ready for the game. Hank Jackson, with what some thought was unparalleled impudence, under the circumstances, but which may have been prompted by a spasm of repentance, stood up on his seat and proposed "three rousing cheers for the Catalpa nine" as that famous organization filed into the Diamond Field. Whereupon, Mr. Heaton, fixing his fond paternal eye on his son, now wearing the uniform of the home club, waved his tall hat and asked for three cheers for the visitors, and these were given with a will. "Ah!" sighed Alice, as the Catalpas lost the toss and went to the bat at the direction of their antagonists, "that is a bad sign; but I have made up my mind not to notice any more signs, good, bad, or indifferent." "A sensible conclusion, child," said the aunt. "I have heard that base ball players are as superstitious as sailors, and that is one reason why I think that the game must be debasing to the morals of the players." Alice laughed loud and long at this, and even the Judge relaxed his face into a smile as he heard the sage observation of the elderly lady before him. "Pay attention, Alice," said her friend Ida, "there goes that handsome Larry to the bat!" But it was needless to direct attention to the player. Every eye was fixed on the favorite as he lifted his bat jauntily and took his position with a knowing smile to Sam Morse, the Calumets' pitcher, as if in recognition of their former contests. But Larry, and Sam Morrison, who succeeded him, failed to hit the ball safely. And Neddie Ellis, who came next to the bat, secured his base only by an error on the part of Captain Ayres, at first base. There was then a chance for the Catalpas to score, but this was destroyed by Charlie King's going out on a fly. Equally unsuccessful were the Calumets, who now came to the bat with high hopes. Darius Ayres hit a fly to John Brubaker, in the right field, and that vigorous young man neatly captured the ball amid the plaudits of his fellow townsmen, who were plainly glad of the least occasion for hilarity. Sam Morse was retired at first base, and John Handy hit a sky-scraper to Neddie Ellis, ending the first inning without a run. Again both clubs, watching each other with rigid scrutiny, failed to score a run. Each of the nines played a model fielding game and the result was that not a player reached first base in safety. For the Catalpas, Hart Stirling struck out; John Brubaker hit a slow ball to Jamie Kennedy who fielded him out at first base, and Hiram Porter went out on a fly to James McWilliams. The Calumets were retired with equal precision and celerity, Rob Peabody being thrown out at first base by Albert Heaton, Tom Shoff meeting his fate at the same point at the hands of Hart Stirling, while Glenn Otto failed to hit the ball, although he made three mighty strokes at it. The third inning began without a run to the credit of either club, and it ended in like manner. The Catalpas went to work with a will that promised to achieve something for their success, but they were forced to yield to the strong fielding game played by the visitors. Al Heaton made his first appearance at the bat, and a little rustle of applause ran around the crowded seats as he stepped lightly to his position. He had been "a little shaky," as he expressed it confidentially to his friend Larry, but the welcome he received from the spectators gave him a bracing of the muscles, and he hit a hard ball to the right field, where it was captured neatly by Rob Peabody. "The Lily" next tried his best to hit the ball, but he could not send it out of the diamond, and, as Deputy Sheriff Wheeler remarked, "he died at first base." Larry Boyne fared no better than his predecessors, as he hit up a very easy fly which fell to the lot of Shoff. It was the work of a few minutes to dispose of the Calumets. Jamie Kennedy struck out; Charlie Webb was retired at first base, after hitting a hot ball to Hart Stirling, and McWilliams went down before the deceptive curves of the Catalpas' pitcher. "Three innings and not a run yet!" was the exclamation of Miss Ida Boardman. "Why, both clubs seem to be watching each other as a cat would watch a mouse! I wonder if either will score a run in this game? If they don't, I shall feel as if my time was wasted, shan't you, Alice?" But Miss Alice, with a demure glance at her aunt, who beheld the field with a listless manner, declared that the playing was simply splendid, and she pitied anybody who could not appreciate the wonderful fielding of the two clubs. She wished victory for the home nine; but she could not withhold her generous praise for the fine playing of the visitors. When Sam Morrison went to the bat for the Catalpas, there was on his face a look of determination that indicated mischief, as his admirers said among themselves. "The Lily" said, "It is high time that something was done, and we must be the first to send a man across the plate." Sam hit a difficult grounder to Handy, who allowed the base runner to reach the first bag in safety, by making a poor throw to Ayres, after accomplishing a first-rate stop, at third base. Neddie Ellis made his first base hit of the game, and this advanced Morrison to third base. The next two strikers, Charlie King and Hart Stirling, threw a gloom over the spirits of the Catalpas and their allies sitting in rapt silence in the benches around, by going out at first base. As John Brubaker, the redoubtable, handled his bat in this inning, the attention of the spectators was fixed on him when he took his position. The eyes of Sam Morrison and Neddie Ellis were also riveted on John; the former was on third base, and Neddie had succeeded in reaching the second bag in safety. Anxiously did they wait to be sent around homewards. John hit a ball over the head of Tom Shoff which secured him two bases and his club the same number of runs, as Morrison and Neddie finished the circuit of the bases on this timely hit of the right fielder of the home nine. A great roar of applause went up from the assemblage, and the moisture gathered in the eyes of some of the more impressionable of the fair ones among the spectators. It was an auspicious moment for the Catalpas. The spirits of the on-lookers were slightly dampened, however, by Captain Hiram's being put out, which ended this half of the inning. Nor was the scoring of runs to be confined to one club. The Calumets, in their half of the inning, also "broke the ice," as Rob Peabody expressed it to Shoff. Captain Darius hit the first ball pitched and it yielded him a base hit. Sam Morse struck up an easy fly which fell before the skillful fielding of Sam Morrison. Next to the bat came John Handy, who imitated the example of John Brubaker, sending home his captain on a two-base hit. Rob Peabody took his base on called balls, but was put out by a neat double play. Tom Shoff hit a ball to Al Heaton who threw it to Stirling, who put out Peabody and then threw it to first base in time to head off Thomas; and the fourth inning was closed with the Catalpas two to one for their competitors. Whereat there was a thundering round of applause from the partial spectators. Inspired by this token of their success, the sons of Catalpa went cheerily to the bat and began what proved to be a fruitless attempt to increase the lead of their club. Albert Heaton, their first striker, made a base hit and reached second base on a bad throw by Charlie Webb, but he was left there, as "The Lily," Larry Boyne, and Sam Morrison were all retired at first base. Here the Calumets played a first-rate game and ran the bases in fine style, taking advantage of two errors committed by their opponents, which allowed them to score the single run needed to put them on even terms. Glenn Otto, the first striker, went out on a fly to Larry Boyne. The next man to the bat was Jamie Kennedy, who hit a line ball to Sam Morrison, who fumbled it and allowed the base runner to reach the first bag safely. Kennedy then succeeded in reaching the second base by a passed ball, and was sent across the home plate by Charlie Webb, who struck the ball for a base hit. McWilliams went out on a foul fly to "The Lily," and Darius Ayres ended the inning, being fielded out at first base. In the sixth inning, the Catalpas once more took the lead. Neddie Ellis led off with a base hit and was followed by Charlie King, who secured his base by an error on the part of Glenn Otto. Hart Stirling went out on a fly to Rob Peabody and was followed at the bat by John Brubaker, who hit safely and so sent in Neddie Ellis amidst the cheers of the excited spectators, now fairly alive with enthusiasm. Hiram Porter was thrown out at first base, and Al Heaton hit a long fly to McWilliams, which the latter deftly captured, and the crowd, apparently anxious to seem impartial, loudly applauded the catch. The Calumets failed to tally one in their half of this inning. Sam Morrison made a base hit and Peabody went to first on a trifling error by Captain Porter, but Handy, Shoff and Glenn Otto were retired in quick succession, the first-named at first base and the other two on high flies to the out-fielders. Once more the Catalpas added to their score, the glory of making a home run falling this time to "The Lily." Coming to the square, he swung his ashen bat over his shoulder, and selecting a "drop ball," he hit with a will and with all his might, and the sphere flew far over the center fielder's head, giving the gratified catcher of the home nine the first and only home run of the game. Before the ball could be returned to the diamond, Van Orman had cleared the circuit of the bases, and, as he seated himself breathlessly on the players' bench, he was greeted with a hearty round of cheers from the excited throng. Cries of "Good for 'The Lily' of Catalpa!" burst from the multitude, and Ida Boardman waved her scarf at the bashful William, who detected the compliment from his post on the opposite side of the amphitheater. "Get up, Bill, and show yourself proud!" cried Neddie Ellis. "You have won an encore." At this, Bill heaved up his burly form, doffed his cap and grimly bowed to the spectators, who cheered him more wildly than ever. But Larry, who now took his bat to the square, was the cynosure of all eyes. Somehow, the confidence of the great assembly was with him always, even as their affection seemed lavished on peachy-cheeked Neddie Ellis. But Larry failed to win the plaudits that would have readily followed the least pretext for a burst of applause. He made a single hit, but did not score a run, as Sam Morrison, Neddie Ellis and Charlie King were rapidly retired, one after another. In this inning, the Calumets succeeded in keeping themselves within one run of their opponents. Jamie Kennedy made a two-base hit, and, after Charlie Webb and James McWilliams were retired at first base, they scored a run which was achieved by Captain Darius Ayres making a base hit. Sam Morrison ended the inning by going out on a "liner" to Larry Boyne. The score now stood four to three in favor of the Catalpas, and as "The Lily" sagely remarked, "It's anybody's game." The home club tried every possible maneuver to increase their lead; but all was in vain. The contest was now drawing to a close, and the least bit of luck falling into the hands of the visiting nine would carry them so far ahead that defeat would be inevitable for the Catalpa club. Hart Stirling, John Brubaker, and Hiram Porter, the first three strikers for the home club, went out very quickly in the order named. Then the Calumets came to the bat with high hopes of securing at least the one run needed to bring them up to an even score with their adversaries. But they, too, were doomed to disappointment. John Handy, Rob Peabody, and Tom Shoff were put out in "one-two-three order," so skillful was the fielding and so accurate the throwing of Larry Boyne, Hart Stirling, and Al Heaton. "The last inning! The last inning!" cried Miss Alice, gleefully clapping her hands, "and the Catalpas are first at the bat with a lead of one to their credit! Oh, I do hope that Albert will make a run! I know he will! Look at him where he stands! Isn't he handsome, Aunt Anstress?" Miss Anstress Howell turned her cool glance in the direction of the Diamond Field, and looking at Albert, said that she was not sure whether a young man could be called good-looking in those singularly ill-fitting and peculiar clothes that ball-players wore; but she was interested in the game, as a whole, she said, without any special interest in the players as individuals. She took in the performance without any thought for the men who carried it forward. "You are a kind of overseeing providence, Anstress?" said the Judge. While they were talking, a murmur, only a murmur, of conversation swept around the crowded enclosure, and everybody seemed to be saying to his neighbor that this was the conclusive and crucial moment in the struggle. All eyes were intent on Al Heaton, and even grown men held their breath, as, with close tension of every nerve, they watched the movements of the players in the field. Tom Selby, attended by his faithful satellite, Mike Costigan, who had a holiday, gazed with admiring eyes at his demi-god, Albert Heaton, and so still was the air, now soft and warm and dimmed by the lustrous October haze, that one might have heard a leaf drop, as Bill Van Orman eloquently expressed it, afterwards. Albert patiently waited for a good ball, and when he saw one come, at last, he sent the sphere out of the reach of Glenn Otto and placed a base hit to his credit. Next came "The Lily" who hit the very first ball pitched, for two bases, and, with a volley of ah-h-h-s following him, sent in Al Heaton to the home plate. Larry came next in order, and pretty Alice Howell felt a quickening of her pulse and her color glowing as she saw the resolute and sturdy figure of the favorite of the club shouldering his bat and striding to position. Larry made a safe hit to the right field, sending in "The Lily," and securing his own base. Sam Morrison was put out at first while Larry shot to second base. Then Neddie Ellis went out on a fly to Rob Peabody, and Charlie King ended the inning for the Catalpas, by striking out, leaving Larry on third base, to which he had stolen meanwhile. The Catalpas now had a lead of three, and the Calumets came to the bat with lugubrious faces. "But I have seen sicker children than this get well," was Captain Ayres's philosophical remark, as Glenn Otto went to the bat for the visiting club. The Catalpas went to the field with an elation which they could hardly conceal, and with a tolerably firm belief in their victory. They handled the ball with a dexterity almost unexampled, even for them, and speedily put a damper on any hopes that the Calumets might have cherished. Glenn Otto went out on a fly to John Brubaker. Jamie Kennedy was thrown out at first base by Hart Stirling, and Charlie Webb ended the game by hitting a hot ball to Larry Boyne who made a lightning throw to first base, before any of the spectators could see what had become of the ball, so swift and agile were his motions. A great cheer burst forth from the multitude. The umpire superfluously cried "Game" in the midst of a deafening uproar, and, as the two captains advanced towards each other to clasp hands, the Catalpas, relieving their pent-up enthusiasm with a wild yell, swooped down upon Larry Boyne, whose brilliant play had terminated the game, and, seizing him bodily, carried him above their heads, shouting "Hurrah for the 'Curly-headed Cat!'" as they swung around and round the Diamond Field. Men and boys whooped and shouted, women waved handkerchiefs and parasols, and numberless small boys shrilly added to the din. Truly it was a great day for Catalpa. For a moment, Alice could not trust herself to speak. And when, with unsteady voice, she responded to her father's delighted comments, he looked at her with surprise and said, "Why, Alice, my child, I believe you are crying!" "For joy, papa," was all she said. Just then, the lads, still carrying Larry, with flushed face and sparkling eyes, his curly hair ruffled by his unwonted treatment, surged towards the Judge's carriage. Alice extended her hand, and their eyes met with one swift glance of unspeakable elation. The Judge looked on with benignant approbation, an unusual lump rising in his throat as he regarded with unaffected admiration the young athlete who had carried off the honors of the day. [Illustration: "HURRAH FOR THE CURLY-HEADED CAT!"--Page 200.] "You are to be congratulated very heartily, Mr. Boyne," he said. "Our club has won a famous victory, and it is a proud thing for you that your associates fix upon you as the noblest warrior of them all." With more cheers and congratulations, the assembly slowly dispersed, the booming of an anvil salute falling on their ears as the men, women and children of Catalpa descended the hill to the town. And in the records of that proud community was written this score:-- 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 _total._ Catalpas 0 0 0 2 0 1 1 0 2= 6. Calumets 0 0 0 1 1 0 1 0 0= 3. _Runs earned_--Catalpas, 3; Calumets, 2. _Base hits_-- " 10; " 5. _Errors_-- " 3; " 4. _Umpire_, Mr. John E. O'Neill. * * * * * All these things happened years ago. It would be difficult for any inquiring stranger to gather the threads of the narrative herein set forth. Even the name of the Calumet base ball club disappeared from the roll of the League, after that once-famous organization had been reconstructed, merged, and re-reconstructed. The title of the Catalpa Base Ball Club has survived time's changes, but the founders of the club are now sedate upholders of the dignity and credit of their city, with little time or inclination for athletic sports. Their successors cherish with just pride the traditions of the early achievements of the club, and the titles of the original nine are carried with due respect for those who first wore them. The visitor in Catalpa would note many changes in the busy western town from which the famous base ball club went forth to conquer. Judge Howell has left the bench; and he and his daughter Alice have taken to themselves a partner, whose name appears on a signboard bearing the inscription-- Howell & Boyne, _Attorneys at Law_. Of a summer afternoon, when the cares of business may be laid down for a while, 'Squire Boyne, as he is called by his fellow-townsmen, may sometimes be found seated in the outer rim of the well-appointed amphitheater of the Catalpa grounds, with other battle-scarred veterans around him, watching the mimic combat in the field below, and telling once more How our Base Ball Club won the Championship. 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40105	----	[Illustration: "GOOD-BYE, JOE!"] Baseball Joe at Yale OR Pitching _for the_ College Championship _By_ LESTER CHADWICK AUTHOR OF "BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS," "BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE," "THE RIVAL PITCHERS," "BATTING TO WIN," "THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN," ETC. _ILLUSTRATED_ [Illustration] NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY =BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK= =THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES= =12mo. Cloth. Illustrated= BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS Or The Rivals of Riverside BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE Or Pitching for the Blue Banner BASEBALL JOE AT YALE Or Pitching for the College Championship (_Other Volumes in Preparation_) =THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES= =12mo. Cloth. Illustrated= THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK A Story of College Football BATTING TO WIN A Story of College Baseball THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN A Story of College Football THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS A Story of College Water Sports (_Other Volumes in Preparation_) =CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York= Copyright, 1913, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY =Baseball Joe at Yale= Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I JUST IN TIME 1 II A HOME CONFERENCE 15 III ONE LAST GAME 23 IV A SNEERING LAUGH 30 V OFF FOR YALE 37 VI ON THE CAMPUS 48 VII A NEW CHUM 55 VIII AMBITIONS 66 IX THE SHAMPOO 73 X A WILD NIGHT 84 XI THE RED PAINT 93 XII JOE'S SILENCE 100 XIII EARLY PRACTICE 107 XIV THE SURPRISE 116 XV HIS FIRST CHANCE 126 XVI JOE MAKES GOOD 135 XVII ANOTHER STEP 144 XVIII PLOTTING 158 XIX THE ANONYMOUS LETTER 164 XX THE CORNELL HOST 170 XXI EAGER HEARTS 178 XXII THE CRIMSON SPOT 185 XXIII JOE'S TRIUMPH 193 XXIV HARD LUCK 200 XXV AT WEST POINT 210 XXVI A SORE ARM 216 XXVII THE ACCUSATION 223 XXVIII VINDICATION 230 XXIX BUCKING THE TIGER 236 XXX THE CHAMPIONSHIP 239 BASEBALL JOE AT YALE CHAPTER I JUST IN TIME "Joe Matson, I can't understand why you don't fairly jump at the chance!" "Because I don't want to go--that's why." "But, man alive! Half the fellows in Riverside would stand on their heads to be in your shoes." "Perhaps, Tom. But, I tell you I don't think I'm cut out for a college man, and I don't want to go," and Joe Matson looked frankly into the face of his chum, Tom Davis, as they strolled down the village street together that early September day. "Don't want to go to Yale!" murmured Tom, shaking his head as if unable to fathom the mystery. "Why I'd work my way through, if they'd let me, and here you've got everything comparatively easy, and yet you're balking like a horse that hasn't had his oats in a month. Whew! What's up, Joe, old man?" "Simply that I don't believe I'm cut out for that sort of life. I don't care for this college business, and there's no use pretending that I do. I'm not built that way. My mind is on something else. Of course I know a college education is a great thing, and something that lots of fellows need. But for yours truly--not!" "I only wish I had your chance," said Tom, enviously. "You're welcome to it," laughed Joe. "No," and the other spoke half sadly. "Dad doesn't believe in a college career any more than you do. When I'm through at Excelsior Hall he's going to take me into business with him. He talks of sending me abroad, to get a line on the foreign end of it." "Cracky!" exclaimed Joe. "That would suit me down to the ground--that is if I could go with a ball team." "So you haven't gotten over your craze for baseball?" queried Tom. "No, and I never shall. You know what I've always said--that I'd become a professional some day; and I will, too, and I'll pitch in the world series if I can last long enough," and Joe laughed. "But look here!" exclaimed his chum, as they swung down a quiet street that led out into the country; "you can play baseball at Yale, you know." "Maybe--if they'll let me. But you know how it is at those big universities. They are very exclusive--societies--elections--eating clubs--and all that sort of rot. A man has to be in with the bunch before he can get a show." "That's all nonsense, and you know it!" snapped Tom. "At Yale, I warrant you, just as at every big college, a man has to stand on his own feet. Why, they're always on the lookout for good fellows on the nine, crew or eleven, and, if you can make good, you'll be pitching on the 'varsity before the Spring term opens." "Maybe," assented Joe with rather a moody face. "Anyhow, as long as I've got to go to college I'm going to make a try for the nine. I think I can pitch a little----" "A little!" cried Tom. "Say, I'd like to know what sort of a showing we'd have made at Excelsior Hall if it hadn't been for your pitching! Didn't you win the Blue Banner for us when it looked as if we hadn't a show? Pitch! Say if those fellows at Yale----" "Spare my blushes," begged Joe, with a laugh. "Don't worry, I'm going to college for one reason, more than another, because mother wants me to. Dad is rather set on it, too, and so I've said I'll go. Between you and me," whispered Joe, as if he feared someone would overhear him, "I have a faint suspicion that my respected mother wants to make a sky pilot of me." "A minister!" cried Tom. "That's it." "Why--why----" "Oh, don't worry!" laughed Joe, and then his face grew a bit sober as he continued: "I'm not half good enough--or smart enough. I'm not cut out for that sort of life. All I want is baseball and all I can get of it. That's my one ambition." "Yes, it's easy to see that," agreed Tom. "I wonder you don't carry a horsehide about with you, and I do believe--what's this?" he demanded, pulling a bundle of papers from his chum's pocket. "Some dope on the world series, or I'm a June bug!" "Well, I was only sort of comparing batting averages, and making a list of the peculiarities of each player--I mean about the kind of balls it is best to serve up to him." "You're the limit!" exclaimed Tom, as he tried unsuccessfully to stop Joe from grabbing the papers away from him. "Do you think you might pitch to some of these fellows?" "I might," replied Joe calmly. "A professional ball player lasts for some time, and when I come up for my degree on the mound at some future world series I may face some of these same men." "Go to it, old man!" exclaimed Tom enthusiastically. "I wish I had your hopes. Well, I suppose I'll soon be grinding away with the old crowd at Excelsior, and you--you'll be at--Yale!" "Probably," admitted Joe, with something of a sigh. "I almost wish I was going back to the old school. We had good times there!" "We sure did. But I've got to leave you now. I promised Sis I'd go to the store for her. See you later," and Tom clasped his chum's hand. "That reminds me," spoke Joe. "I've got to go back home, hitch up the horse, and take some patterns over to Birchville for dad." "Wish I could go along, but I can't," said Tom. "It's a fine day for a drive. Come on over to-night." "Maybe I will--so long," and the two friends parted to go their ways, one to dream over the good fortune of the other--to envy him--while Joe himself--Baseball Joe as his friends called him--thought rather regretfully of the time he must lose at college when, if he had been allowed his own way, he would have sought admission to some minor baseball league, to work himself up to a major position. "But as long as the folks want me to have a college course I'll take it--and do my best," he mused. A little later, behind the old family horse, he was jogging over the country road in the direction of a distant town, where his father, an inventor, and one of the owners of the Royal Harvester Works, had been in the habit of sending his patterns from which to have models made. "Well, in a few weeks I'll be hiking it for New Haven," said Joe, half talking to himself. "It's going to be awful lonesome at first. I won't know a soul there. It isn't like going up from some prep school, with a lot of your own chums. Well, I've got to grin and bear it, and if I do get a chance for the 'varsity nine--oh, won't I jump at it!" He was lost in pleasant reflections for a moment, and then went on, still talking to himself, and calling to the horse now and then, for the steed, realizing that he had an easy master behind him, was inclined to slow down to a walk every now and then. "There are bound to be lessons, of course," said Joe. "And lectures on things I don't care any more about than the man in the moon does. I suppose, though, I've got to swallow 'em. But if I can get on the diamond once in a while it won't be so bad. The worst of it is, though, that ball playing won't begin until April at the earliest, and there's all winter to live through. I'm not going in for football. Well, I guess I can stand it." Once more Joe was off in a day-dream, in fancy seeing himself standing in the box before yelling thousands, winding up to deliver a swiftly-curving ball to the batter on whom "three and two" had been called, with the bases full, two men out and his team but one run ahead in the final inning. "Oh! that's what life is!" exclaimed Joe, half aloud, and at his words the horse started to trot. "That's what makes me willing to stand four years at Yale--if I have to. And yet----" Joe did not complete his sentence. As he swung around a bend in the road his attention was fully taken by a surprising scene just ahead of him. A horse, attached to a carriage, was being driven down the road, and, just as Joe came in sight, the animal, for some unaccountable reason, suddenly swerved to the left. One of the wheels caught in a rut, there was a snapping, cracking sound, the wheel was "dished," and the carriage settled down on one side. "Whoa! Whoa!" yelled Joe, fearing the horse would bolt and that perhaps a woman might be in the carriage, the top of which was up. The lad was about to spring from his own vehicle and rush to the aid of the occupant of the other, when he saw a man leap out. With one bound the man was at the head of his steed, holding him from running away, but there was no need, for the horse, after a calm look around, seemed to resign himself to his fate. "Jove!" ejaculated Joe. "That was quick work. That fellow is in training, whoever he is." Following his original plan, even though he saw no need of going to the rescue, Joe leaped from his seat. His steed, he knew, would stand without hitching. He approached the stranger. "A bad break," murmured Joe sympathetically. "Indeed it is, young man," replied the other in quick, tense accents. "And it comes at a particularly bad time, too." Joe looked at him. The man seemed about thirty-five, and his face, though stern, was pleasant, as though in the company of his friends he could be very jolly. He was of dark complexion, and there was that in the set of his figure, and his poise, as he stood at the head of the horse, that at once proclaimed him an athlete, at least if not one in active training, one who could get into condition quickly. "A bad break, and at a bad time, too," the man went on. "I never knew it to fail, when I was in a hurry." "I guess that wheel is past fixing," spoke Joe. "You might get one at the barn here," and he nodded toward a farmhouse not far distant. "I haven't time to make the try," said the man. "I'm in a great hurry. How far is it from here to Preston?" "About five miles," replied Joe. "Hum! I never could make that in time to catch the train for New York, though I might have run it at one time. A little too heavy now," and he seemed referring to himself. "I might ride the horse, I suppose," he went on dubiously. "He doesn't look much like a saddle animal," ventured Joe. "No, and there isn't a saddle, either. I must get to New York though--it's important. I don't suppose you are going to Preston; are you?" he asked of Joe quickly, referring to the nearest railroad station. "Well, I wasn't," replied the youth, "but if you're in a hurry----" "I am--in a very great hurry. I just had about time to get the New York train, when, most unfortunately, I got into that rut. At the same time the reins got caught, and I must have pulled on the wrong one. I'm not much of a horseman, I'm afraid. The animal turned too quickly, and the wheel collapsed." "It wasn't very strong, anyhow," remarked Joe, as he looked critically at it. "But if you want to get to Preston I can take you." "Can you--will you? It would be a very great accommodation. I really can't afford to miss that train. I came out here on some business, and hired this rig in Preston. I thought I would have ample time to get back, and I believe I would. But now, with this accident--I wonder if I could leave this outfit at the farmhouse, and hire another there?" he asked musingly. "I don't believe Mr. Murchison has a horse now," said Joe, nodding toward the farmhouse. "He has about given up working his place. But you could leave this rig here to be called for, and----" "Yes--yes!" interrupted the man, quite impatiently. "I beg your pardon," he added quickly. "I'm all upset over this accident, and I really must reach New York to-night." "I'll drive you in!" offered Joe. "But it will be out of your way, will it not?" "That doesn't matter. I'm in no hurry, and going to Preston will not take me many miles off my road. I'll be glad to help you." "Thank you. Then I'll take advantage of your offer. Shall I----?" he made a move as though to lead the horse up to the farmhouse. "I'll attend to that," spoke Joe. "Just get in my carriage, and I'll be with you in a few minutes." The stranger obeyed, and Joe, unhitching the horse from the broken carriage, quickly led the steed to the stable, stopping on his way to explain to Mrs. Murchison, whom he knew slightly, the circumstances. She readily agreed to let the animal stay in their stall. Then Joe pulled the tilted carriage to one side of the road, and a few minutes later was sending his steed ahead at a pace not hitherto attained that day. "Think we can make that train?" asked the man, who seemed immersed in his own thoughts. "I'm going to make a big try," answered Joe. "Do you live around here?" came the next question. "At Riverside--about eight miles away." The man lapsed into silence, and as Joe was rather diffident with strangers he did not press the conversation. They drove on for several miles, and suddenly the silence of the country was broken by a distant whistle. "Is that the train?" exclaimed the man nervously, looking at his watch. "Yes, but it's about three miles away. You can always hear it plainly here. We'll be in Preston in a few minutes now, and I'll have you at the station in time." "I hope so," murmured the man. "I must get to New York--it means a great deal to me." Joe urged the horse to even faster speed, and when he reached the quiet streets of Preston more than one person turned to look at the carriage, which went along faster than vehicles usually did in that quiet community. Once more the whistle sounded, and the man exclaimed: "We'll never make it!" "Yes, we will," said Joe quietly. "The station is only another block." "I'm sure I can't thank you enough," went on the man, and his hand sought his pocket. "You say you'll notify the livery keeper?" "Yes, I'll tell him where his horse is, and he can send for it." "That's very kind of you. I wish you'd let me give you something--reward you for this service." "No--no!" exclaimed Joe. "I couldn't think of it!" He saw a roll of bills in the man's hand. "But you don't know, young man, what it means for me to catch this train. I wish you'd let me pay for your time and trouble----" "No, indeed!" exclaimed the young pitcher. "I would do as much for anyone, and I hope he'd do the same for me." "That's a nice way of looking at it. But are you sure you won't let me make you----" The man again held out some bills, but the look on Joe's face must have told him he was getting on dangerous ground, for he suddenly withdrew them and said: "Well, I can't thank you enough. Some day--is that the train?" he cried, as a puffing was heard. "I mustn't miss it now." "Here we are!" cried Joe, swinging around a corner. Down a short street was the depot, and as they came in sight of it the train pulled in. "I--er--I wish--I must run for it!" exclaimed the man. "Wait. I'll drive you right up!" called Joe. "I'll take your valise. You get right out and run. Have you a ticket?" "Yes. This is exceedingly good of you. I----" But he did not finish. Joe drove the horse up to the platform edge as the train came to a stop with a grinding of the brake shoes. The man leaped out almost before the horse had ceased running, and Joe was not a second behind him with the valise. "Go on!" exclaimed the youth, as the man hesitated. He fairly flung himself up the car steps, and the train began to move, for Preston was little more than a flag station for the New York express. "Thank you a thousand times!" cried the man as Joe handed up the valise. "I wish--I didn't ask your name--mine is--I ought to have a card--I--er----" he began fumbling in his pocket, and Joe half feared he was going to offer money again. But the man seemed to be hunting for a card. However his search was unsuccessful. He waved his hand to Joe, and called: "Thank you once more. Perhaps I may meet you again. I meant to ask your name--too much occupied--mine is----" But just then the train gathered speed and the engineer, opening the exhaust, effectually drowned out all other sounds in the puffing of the locomotive. Joe saw the man's lips moving, and realized that he was calling out his name, but he could not hear it. Then, with a wave of his hand the stranger went inside the car. He had caught the train just in time. CHAPTER II A HOME CONFERENCE "Well, I wonder if I'll ever see him again," mused Joe, as the train swung out of sight around a curve in the track. "It sure was a hustling time. I wonder who he was? Seemed like some sort of an athlete, and yet he didn't talk sports--nor much of anything, for that matter. "I'm glad I could help him get his train. Funny he should want to pay me, and yet I suppose he isn't used to having favors done him. He seemed like a nice sort of fellow. Well, I've got to get over with these patterns. I'll be late getting home, I expect." Joe's first visit was to the livery stable, where he told the proprietor of the accident. "Hum! Well, I s'pose he was driving reckless like," said Mr. Munn, who hired out old horses and older vehicles to such few of the townspeople as did not have their own rigs. "No, he was going slowly," said Joe. "I guess that wheel was pretty well rotted." "Mebby so. I'm glad I charged him a good price, and made him pay in advance. Yes, I'll send out and get the rig. Much obliged to you, Joe. Did he pay ye for bringin' him back?" "No, I didn't want anything," and with this parting shot the young pitcher went on his way. And, while he is jogging along to Birchville, musing over the recent happenings, I will, in a paragraph or two, tell you something more about our hero, since he is to occupy that place in these pages. Those of you who have read the previous books in this series, need no introduction to the youth. But to those who pick up this volume to begin their acquaintance, I might state that in the initial book, called "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars," I related how he first began his upward climb as a pitcher. Joe Matson lived with his father and mother, Mr. and Mrs. John Matson, in the town of Riverside, in one of our New England states. Mr. Matson was an inventor of farming machinery, and after a hard struggle was now doing well financially. Joe's ambition, ever since he began to play baseball, had been to become a pitcher, and how he made the acquaintance of Tom Davis, the boy living back of him; how they became chums, and how Joe became a member of the Silver Stars nine is told in my first book. The nine was a typical one, such as is found in many country towns, though they played good ball. After an upward struggle Joe was made pitcher, and helped to win some big games. He made many friends, and some enemies, as all boys will. In the second volume, called "Baseball Joe on the School Nine," I told how our hero and his chum, Tom Davis, went to Excelsior Hall, a boarding institution just outside of Cedarhurst, about a hundred miles from Riverside. At school Joe found that it was more difficult to get a chance at his favorite position than he had imagined it would be. There, too, he had his enemies; but Joe was a plucky fighter, and would not give up. How finally he was called on to pitch in a great game, and how he, more than anyone else, helped to win the Blue Banner, you will find set down in my second book. Three years passed, all too quickly, at Excelsior Hall, with Joe doing the twirling for the school nine at all the big games. And now, with the coming of Fall, and the beginning of the new term, he was not to go back, for, as I have intimated, he was to be sent to Yale University. The course at Excelsior Hall was four years, but it was found that at the end of the third Joe was able to take the Yale entrance examinations, which he had done successfully. He did not enter with flying colors, for Joe was no great scholar, but he was by no means at the foot of the ladder. So he was to plunge at once into the turmoil of university life--his one regret being, as I have said, that he could not join the ranks of the professional baseball players. But he was willing to bide his time. Another regret, too, was that he would be very much of a stranger at Yale. He did not know a soul there, and he wished with all his heart that Tom Davis could have gone with him, as he had to Excelsior Hall. But Tom's parents had other views of life for him. "It doesn't seem like three years ago that I first started for Excelsior," mused Joe, as he drove along. "I sure was nervous then, and I'm in a worse funk now. Well, there's no help for it. I've got to stick it out. No use disappointing dad and momsey. I only hope I make out half way decently." His errand accomplished, he drove back home, arriving rather late, and, to his mother's anxious inquiries as to what kept him, he related the happening of the broken carriage. "And you don't know who he was?" asked Clara, Joe's sister, curiously. "No, sis. Say, but you're looking pretty to-night! Got your hair fixed differently, somehow. Somebody coming?" and playfully he pinched her red cheeks. "Yes, Mabel Davis is coming to call," replied Clara, pretending to be very busy arranging some articles on the mantle. "Oh, ho! So that's how the wind blows!" exclaimed Joe, with a laugh. "But I'll wager someone besides Mabel is coming over. Tom Davis told me to come and see him, Mabel is going out, you're all togged up--say, sis, who's the lucky chap?" "Oh, don't bother me!" exclaimed the blushing girl. "That's all right. Tom and I will come around later and put a tic-tac on the window, when you and Mabel, and the two chaps, are in the parlor." "I thought you had gotten all over such childish tricks--and you a Yale Freshman!" exclaimed Clara, half sarcastically. "Well, I suppose I will have to pass 'em up--worse luck!" exclaimed her brother, with something like a groan. "Have your fun, sis. It'll soon be over." "Oh, my! What a mournful face!" laughed the girl. "There, run along now, little boy, and don't bother me." Joe looked at her for a moment, and the conviction grew on him that his sister was prettier than ever, with that blush on her face. "Little sister is growing up," thought Joe, as he turned away. "She'll be a young lady soon--she's growing up. Well, I guess we all are," and our hero sighed as though he could scarcely bear the weight of responsibility on his own shoulders. This was after supper, and as Joe left the room, and Clara hastened to her apartment, there to indulge in further "prinking," as Joe called it, Mr. and Mrs. Matson looked at each other. "What's getting into Joe, I wonder?" spoke his father. "He's acting rather strange of late." "Oh, I expect the responsibility of college life is making itself felt," said Mrs. Matson. "But I'm proud that I have a son who is going to Yale. It is good you can afford it, John." "Yes, Ellen, I am too. Education is a great thing, and a college course does a lot for a young fellow. I never had the chance myself, but perhaps it's just as well." "I am determined that Joe shall have all the advantages we can give him--and Clara, too," went on the wife. "I think Joe should be very proud and happy. In a short time he will be attending one of the best colleges in the world." "Yet he doesn't seem very happy," said Mr. Matson, musingly. "And I wonder why," went on his wife. "Of course I know he wasn't very keen about going, when I proposed it, but he gave in. I'm sure it's baseball that made him want to stay on at Excelsior Hall." "Probably. Joe eats, sleeps and dreams baseball." "I do wish he would get that idea of being a professional baseball player out of his mind," went on Mrs. Matson, and her tone was a trifle worried. "It is no career to choose for a young man." "No, I suppose not," said her husband slowly. "And yet there are many good men in professional baseball--some rich ones too, I guess," he added with a shrewd laugh. "As if money counted, John!" "Well, it does in a way. We are all working for it, one way or another, and if a man can earn it throwing a ball to another man, I don't see why that isn't as decent and honorable as digging sewers, making machinery, preaching, doctoring, being a lawyer or a banker. It all helps to make the world go round." "Oh, John! I believe you're as bad as Joe!" "No, Ellen. Though I do like a good game of baseball. I don't think it's the only thing there is, however, as Joe seems to, of late. I don't altogether uphold him in his wish to be a professional, but, at the same time, there's nothing like getting into the niche in life that you're just fitted for. "There are too many square pegs in round holes now. Many a poor preacher would be a first-class farmer, and lots of struggling lawyers or doctors would do a sight better in a shop, or, maybe even on the ball field. Those sentiments aren't at all original with me," he added modestly; "but they are true just the same. I'd like to see Joe do what he likes best, for then I know he'd do that better than anything else in the world." "Oh, John! surely you wouldn't want to see him a professional ball player?" "Well, I don't know. There are lots worse positions in life." "But I'm glad he's going to Yale!" exclaimed Mrs. Matson, as the little family conference came to an end. CHAPTER III ONE LAST GAME "Say, Tom, do you know what I've got a good notion to do?" "Indeed I haven't, Joe, unless you're going to go out West and shoot Indians, or some such crazy stunt as that." "Forget it! But you know I've got to start for Yale in about another week." "That's right. The time is getting short. Excelsior opens four days from now, but I'm not going to drill in with the first bunch. I don't have to report quite so soon. I'm a Senior now, you know." "So you are. I almost wish I was with you." "Oh, nonsense! And you going to Yale! But what was it you started to say?" "Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Say, why can't we have one last game before we have to leave town? One rattling good game of baseball to wind up the season! I'd just love to get into a uniform again, and I guess you would too. Can't we pick up enough of the old Silver Stars to make a nine, with what we can induce to play from among the lads in town?" "I guess so." "Then let's do it. The Resolute team is still in existence, isn't it?" "Yes, but I haven't kept much track of them. I've been away most all Summer, you know." "And so have I, but I think we could get up a game for Saturday. I believe we could get quite a crowd, but we wouldn't charge admission. What do you say?" "I'm with you. It would be sport to have a game. I wonder how we can arrange for it?" "I've got to go over to Rocky Ford for dad to-day," went on Joe, "and I'll see if I can't get in touch with some of the Resolutes. It may be that they have a game on, and, again, they may have disbanded. But it's worth trying. Then you see as many of the fellows here as you can, and get up a nine. There ought to be five or six of the old Silver Stars around." "I'll do it! Wow! It will be sport to get on the diamond again before we have to buckle down to the grind." "I hope I haven't forgotten how to pitch," went on Joe. "Let's get a ball and do a little practising out in the lots." The two chums, somewhat older, more experienced and certainly better players than when we first met them, three years before, were soon tossing the ball back and forth, Joe warming up to his accustomed work as a twirler. "That was a beaut!" exclaimed Tom, who was catching. "Did the curve break well?" "Couldn't have been better. You'll fool 'em all right with that twist." "I'm a little stiff yet. Well, let's see what we can do toward getting up a game." Joe went to Rocky Ford that afternoon, and was fortunate in finding the new manager of the Resolutes, the one-time rivals of the Silver Stars. The team had greatly changed, and had been strengthened by some new players. They had not yet broken up for the season, and, as they had no game on for Saturday, the manager readily agreed to come to Riverside with his lads, and take on the Silver Stars in a sort of exhibition contest. "I suppose you'll pitch?" spoke the manager, as Joe was about to leave for home. "Yes, I want to. Why?" "Nothing, only maybe we better handicap your team, or else you'd better allow us half a dozen runs to start with," was the laughing answer. "I'm not as formidable as all that," retorted Joe. "Are any of the old boys playing yet?" "Oh, yes, quite a few. There's Art Church, Lew Entry, Ted Neefus and Hank Armstrong." "I'll be glad to see 'em again," spoke Joe. When he reached Riverside late that afternoon Tom met him and gleefully informed his chum that he had been able to get up a nine. "Then we'll have a game!" cried Joe. "Will you catch for me?" "If you think I can." "Sure you can. Wow! We'll have some fun." The news of the coming game between the Silver Stars--or a team somewhat representing them--and the Resolutes aroused considerable enthusiasm in Riverside and the neighboring towns. There was a prospect of a large throng, and when Saturday came--with as fine a specimen of weather as heart could wish--there was a great outpouring of "fans." The Silver Stars were first on the field, and though the team as then constituted had never played together, still after a little practice they got acquainted with each other, and were soon working in unison. Joe and Tom formed the battery, and they seemed an effective combination as they warmed up outside the diamond. Then the Resolutes arrived and they, too, began their practice. "We're going to have a big crowd," remarked Joe, as he saw the stands filling, for Riverside boasted of a fairly good field, where the semi-professional team held forth in the Summer. But the season was about over now. "It's like old times," remarked Tom. "Come on, now some hot ones to finish up with, and then it'll be most time to call the game." The details were arranged, the umpire chosen, the batting orders submitted, and the teams came in off the field. The Silver Stars were to bat last, and as Joe walked out to the mound to do the twirling, he was greeted by many friends and acquaintances who had not seen him since the Summer vacation had started. Some news of his prospective leaving for Yale must have gotten around, for he was observed with curious, and sometimes envious eyes. "Joe's getting to be quite a boy," remarked Mr. Jacob Anderson, one of Riverside's enthusiastic baseball supporters, to his friend, Mr. James Blake. "Yes, he's a wonderful pitcher, I hear. Seems sort of queer how the boys grow up. Why, only a few years ago he was a small chap, playing around the vacant lots." "Yes, time does manage to scoot along," spoke the other. "Well, I guess we'll see a good game." As Joe and Tom paused for a brief consultation before opening the performance, the catcher, glancing toward the grandstand, uttered a surprised exclamation. "What's the matter?" asked Joe. "That fellow with my sister--I meant to tell you about him. He was over to your house the other night, when he and sis, and Charlie Masterford called on your sister." "Oh, ho! So it was Charlie that Clara was fixing up for!" exclaimed Joe. "I'll have some fun with her. I guess she's at the game to-day. But what about the fellow with your sister?" "He's a Yale man." "A Yale man--you mean a graduate?" "No, he goes there now--Sophomore I heard sis say. She was boasting about him, but I didn't pay much attention. I meant to tell you, but I forgot it." "A Yale man," mused Joe. "Yes, that's him, with the flower in his coat. Sort of a sport I guess. Sis said he was on the nine, but I don't know where he plays. Like to meet him? I don't know him myself, but I can get sis to present us. She met him at some dance this Summer, and found he had relatives here he intended to visit. She asked him to call--say, isn't it great how the girls do that?--and he did--the other night. Then he must have made a date with her. Like to meet him? Name's--let's see now--I did have it. Oh, I remember, it's Weston--Ford Weston. Want to meet him after the game?" "No--I--I don't believe I do," said Joe slowly. "He may think I am sort of currying favor. I'll wait until I get to Yale, and then, if I get the chance, I'll meet him. He looks like a decent chap." "Yes, Mabel is crazy about him," said Tom; "but all girls are that way I guess. None for mine! Well, shall we start?" The batter was impatiently tapping his stick on the home plate. "Play ball!" called the umpire, and, as Joe walked to his place he gave a glance toward where Mabel Davis sat with a tall, good-looking chap. "A Yale man," mused Joe, "and on the nine. I wonder what he'll think of my pitching?" and, somehow, our hero felt a bit nervous, and he wished he had not known of the presence of the collegian. As he began winding up to deliver the ball he fancied he detected an amused smile on the face of Ford Weston. CHAPTER IV A SNEERING LAUGH "Come on now, Art! Line one out!" "A home run, old man! You can do it!" "Slam one over the fence!" "Poke it to the icehouse and come walking!" "We've got the pitcher's goat already! Don't mind him, even if he is going to college!" These were only a few of the good-natured cries that greeted Art Church as he stood at the home plate, waiting for Joe Matson to deliver the ball. And, in like manner, Joe was gently gibed by his opponents, some of whom had not faced him in some time. To others he was an unknown quantity. But even those newest members of the Resolutes had heard of Joe's reputation, and there was not a little of the feeling in the visiting nine that they were doomed to defeat through the opposing pitcher. "Come on now, Art, it's up to you." "Give him a fair chance, Joe, and he'll knock the cover off!" "Play ball!" snapped the umpire, and Joe, who had been exchanging the regulation practice balls with the catcher signalled that he was ready to deliver the first one of the game. The catcher called for a slow out, but Joe shook his head. He knew Art Church of old, and remembered that this player fairly "ate 'em up." Joe gave the signal to Tom that he would send a swift in-shoot, and his chum nodded comprehendingly. "Ball one!" yelled the umpire, and Joe could not restrain a start of surprise. True, Art had not swung at the horsehide, but it had easily clipped the plate, and, Joe thought, should have been called a strike. But he said nothing, and, delivering the same sort of a ball the next time, he had the satisfaction of deceiving the batter, who swung viciously at it. "He's only trying you out!" was shouted at Joe. "He'll wallop the next one!" But Art Church did not, and waiting in vain for what he considered a good ball, he struck at the next and missed, while the third strike was called on him without his getting a chance to move his bat. "Oh, I guess the umpire isn't against us after all," thought Joe, as he threw the ball over to first while the next batter was coming up. "How's that?" yelled Tom in delight. "Guess there aren't going to be any home runs for you Resolutes." "Oh, it's early yet," answered the visiting captain. But the Resolutes were destined to get no runs in that half-inning. One man popped up a little fly, which was easily taken care of, and the next man Joe struck out cleanly. He was beginning to feel that he was getting in form again. All that Spring he had pitched fine games at Excelsior Hall, but, during the Summer vacation, at the close of the boarding school, he had gone a bit stale. He could feel it himself. His muscles were stiff from lack of use, and he had not the control of the ball, which was one of his strong points. Neither could he get up the speed which had always been part of his assets, and which, in after years, made him such a power in the big league. Still Joe felt that he was doing fairly well, and he knew that, as the game went on, and he warmed up, he would do better. "We ought to win," he told Tom Davis, as they walked to the bench. "That is if we get any kind of support, and if our fellows can hit their pitcher. What sort of a chap is he?" "Don't know much about him. He's been at it all Summer though, and ought to be in pretty good practice. We'll soon tell. Len Oswald is first up." But that was all Len did--get up. He soon sat down again, not having hit the ball. "Oh, I guess we've got some pitcher!" yelled the Resolutes. "Even if he isn't going to college!" added someone, and Joe felt his face burn. He was not at all puffed up over the fact that he was going to Yale, and he disliked exceedingly to get that reputation--so unjustly. But he did not protest. When the second man went out without getting to first base, it looked as if the contest was going to be a close one, and there began to be whispers of a "pitchers' battle." "'Pitchers' battle' nothing!" exclaimed Joe in a whisper to Tom. "That fellow can't curve a ball. I've been watching him. He's got a very fast straight delivery, and that's how he's fooling 'em. I'm going to hit him, and so can the rest of us if we don't let him bluff. Just stand close up to the plate and plug it. Who comes next?" "Percy Parnell." "Oh, wow! Well, unless he's improved a whole lot he won't do much." But Percy had, for the next moment he got the ball just where he wanted it, and slammed it out for a three bagger amid enthusiastic howls. Then the other Silver Star players became aware of the opposing pitcher's weakness and began hitting him, until three runs had come in. Then, in response to the frantic appeals of the "rooters" and their own captain, the Resolutes took a brace and halted the winning streak. But it had begun, and nothing could stop it. Joe, much elated that his diagnosis of his opponent had been borne out, again took his place in the box. He determined to show what he could do in the way of pitching, having done some warming-up work with Tom during the previous inning. He struck out the first man cleanly, and the second likewise. The third hit him for two fouls, and then, seeming to have become familiar with Joe's style, whacked out one that was good for two bases. "We're finding him! We're finding him!" yelled the excited Resolutes. "Only two down, and we've got a good hitter coming." Joe saw that his fellow players were getting a little "rattled," fearing perhaps that he was going to pieces, so, to delay the game a moment, and pull himself together, he walked toward home, and pretended to have a little conference with the catcher. In reality they only mumbled meaningless words, for Tom knew Joe's trick of old. But the little break seemed to have a good effect, for the young pitcher struck out the next man and no runs came in. "Oh, I guess yes!" cried the Silver Star crowd. The home team got two runs the next inning, and with goose eggs in their opponents' frame it began to look more like a one-sided contest. "Boys, we've got to wallop 'em!" exclaimed the visiting captain earnestly, as they once more came to bat. Joe's arm was beginning to feel the unaccustomed strain a trifle, and to limber up the muscles he "wound-up" with more motions and elaborateness than usual as he again took the mound. As he did so he heard from the grandstand a loud laugh--a laugh that fairly bubbled over with sneering, caustic mirth, and a voice remarked, loud enough for our hero to hear: "I wonder where he learned that wild and weird style of pitching? He'll fall all apart if he doesn't look out!" He cast a quick glance in the direction of the voice and saw Ford Weston, who sat beside Mabel Davis, fairly doubled up with mirth. Mabel seemed to be remonstrating with him. "Don't break your arm!" called Ford, laughing harder than before. "Hush!" exclaimed Mabel. Joe felt the dull red of shame and anger mounting to his cheeks. "So that's a Yale man," he thought. "And I'm going to Yale. I wonder if they're all like that there? I--I hope not." And, for the life of him, Joe could not help feeling a sense of anger at the youth who had so sneeringly laughed at him. "And he's a Yale man--and on the nine," mused Joe. CHAPTER V OFF FOR YALE "We've got the game in the refrigerator--on ice." "Take it easy now, Silver Stars." "Let 'em get a few runs if they want to." Thus spoke some of the spectators, and a number of the members of the home team, as the last half of the seventh inning started with the score ten to three in favor of the Silver Stars. It had not been a very tight contest on either side, and errors were numerous. Yet, in spite of the sneering laugh of the Yale man, Joe knew that he had pitched a good game. They had hit him but seldom, and one run was due to a muffed ball by the centre fielder. "Well, I guess you haven't forgotten how to pitch," exulted Tom, as he sat beside his chum on the bench. Behind them, and over their heads, sat the spectators in the grandstand, and when the applause at a sensational catch just made by the left fielder, retiring the third man, had died away the voices of many in comment on the game could be heard. "Oh, I'm not so very proud of myself," remarked Joe. "I can see lots of room for improvement. But I'm all out of practice. I think I could have held 'em down better if we'd had a few more games to back us up." "Sure thing. Well, this is a good way to wind up the season. I heard a little while ago that the Resolutes came over here to make mince-meat of us. They depended a whole lot on their pitcher, but you made him look like thirty cents." "Oh, I don't know. He's got lots of speed, and if he had the benefit of the coaching we got at Excelsior Hall he'd make a dandy." "Maybe. I'm going over here to have a chin with Rodney Burke. I won't be up for a good while." "And I guess I won't get a chance this inning," remarked Joe, as he settled back on the bench. As he did so he was aware of a conversation going on in the stand over his head. "And you say he's going to Yale this term?" asked someone--a youth's deep-chested tones. "I believe so--yes," answered a girl. Joe recognized that Mabel Davis was speaking. "He's a chum of my brother's," she went on. "They're talking of me," thought Joe, and he looked apprehensively at his companions on the bench, but they seemed to be paying no attention to him, for which he was grateful. They were absorbed in the game. "Going to Yale; eh?" went on the youth's voice, and Joe felt sure he was Ford Weston. "Well, we eat his kind up down there!" "Hush! You mustn't talk so of my friends," warned Mabel, and yet she laughed. "Oh, if he's a friend of yours, that's different," came the retort. "You're awful strong with me, Mabel, and I'd do anything you asked." The girl laughed in a pleased sort of way, and Joe, with a wild feeling in his heart, felt a certain scorn for both of them. "Yes, he and my brother are chums," resumed Mabel. "They went to boarding school together, but Joe is going to Yale. He is just crazy about baseball--in fact Tom is, too, but Joe wants to be a great pitcher." "Does he think he's going to pitch at Yale?" "I believe he does!" "Then he's got a whole lot more thinks coming!" laughed the Yale man. "He's about the craziest specimen of a tosser I ever stacked up against. He'll never make the Yale scrub!" "Hush! Haven't I told you not to talk so about my friend?" insisted the girl, but there was still laughter in her tones. "All right Miss Mabel. I'll do anything you say. Wow! That was a pretty hit all right. Go it, old man! A three-bagger!" and in the enthusiasm over the game the Yale man dropped Joe as a topic of conversation. Our hero, with burning cheeks, got up and strolled away. He had heard too much, but he was glad they did not know he had unintentionally been listening. The game ended with the Silver Stars winners, but the score was not as close as seemed likely in the seventh inning. For the Resolutes, most unexpectedly, began hitting Joe, though he managed to pull himself together in the ninth, and retired his opponents hitless. The last half of the ninth was not played, as the home team had a margin of two runs. "Well, we did 'em," remarked Tom, as he and Joe walked off the field. "But they sort of pulled up on us. Did they get on to your curves?" "No," spoke Joe listlessly. "I--er--I got a little tired I guess." "No wonder. You're not in trim. But you stiffened up at the last." "Oh, yes," but Joe knew it was not weariness that accounted for his being hit so often. It was because of an inward rage, a sense of shame, and, be it confessed, a bit of fear. For well he knew how little it would take, in such a college as Yale, to make or mar a man. Should he come, heralded perhaps by the unfriendly tongue of the lad who had watched him pitch that day--heralded as one with a "swelled head"--as one who thought himself a master-pitcher--Joe knew he could never live it down. "I'll never get my chance--the chance for the 'varsity--if he begins to talk," mused Joe, and for a time he was miserable. "Come on over to grub," invited Tom. "Sis and her latest find will be there--that Yale chap. Maybe you'd like to meet him. If you don't we can sneak in late and there'll be some eats left." "No, thanks, I don't believe I will," replied Joe listlessly. "Don't you want to meet that Yale fellow? Maybe he could give you some points." "No, I'd rather not." "All right," assented Tom quickly. Something in his chum's tones made him wonder what was the matter, but he did not ask. "I've got some packing to do," went on Joe, conscious that he was not acting very cordially toward his old schoolmate. "I may see you later." "Sure, any time. I'll be on hand to see you off for Yale, old man." "Yale!" whispered Joe, as he swung off toward his own home, half-conscious of the pointing fingers and whispered comments of a number of street urchins who were designating him as "dat's de pitchin' guy what walloped de Resolutes!" "Yale!" thought Joe. "I'm beginning to hate it!" And then a revulsion of feeling suddenly came over him. "Hang it all!" he exclaimed as he stumbled along. "This is no way for a fellow to feel if he's going to college. I've got to perk up. If I am to go to Yale, I'm going to do my best to be worth it!" But something rankled in his heart, and, try as he might he could not help clenching his teeth and gripping his hands as he thought of Ford Weston. "I--I'd like to fight him!" murmured Joe. "I wonder if they allow fights at Yale?" Several days later you might have heard this in the Matson home. "Well, Joe, have you got everything packed?" "Don't forget to send me a flag." "You've got your ticket all right, haven't you?" "Write as soon as you get there." "And whatever you do, don't go around with wet feet. It's coming on Winter now----" "Mother! Mother!" broke in Mr. Matson, with a laugh at his wife and daughter on either side of Joe, questioning and giving advice by turns. "You're like hens with one chicken. Don't coddle him so. He's been away before, and he's getting big enough to know his way around by this time." Well might he say so, for Joe had grown fast in the past three years, and, though but nineteen, was taller than his father, who was not a small man. "Of course he's been away," agreed Mrs. Matson, "but not as far as New Haven, and going to Yale is some different from Excelsior Hall, I guess." "I _know_ so," murmured Joe, with a wink at his father. "I'm going to the station with you," declared Clara. "Here comes Tom. I guess he's going, too." "Well, I'll say good-bye here," said Mrs. Matson, and her voice trembled a little. "Good-bye, my boy. I know you'll do what's right, and make us all proud of you!" Joe's answer was a kiss, and then, with her handkerchief much in evidence, Mrs. Matson left the room. "Come! Come!" laughed Mr. Matson. "You'll make Joe sorry he's going if you keep on." "The only thing I'm sorry about," replied the lad, "is that it'll be a good while until Spring." "Baseball; eh?" queried his father. "Well, I suppose you'll play if you get the chance. But, Joe, just remember that life isn't all baseball, though that has its place in the scheme of things. You're not going to Yale just to play baseball." "But, if I get a chance, I'm going to play my head off!" exclaimed the lad, and, for the first time in some days there came a fierce light of joy into his eyes. "That's the spirit, son," exclaimed Mr. Matson. "And just remember that, while you want to win, it isn't the only point in the game. Always be a gentleman--play hard; but play clean! That's all the advice I'm going to give you," and with a shake of his hand the inventor followed his wife from the room. "Well, I guess I'm going to be left alone to do the honors," laughed Clara. "Come on now, it's almost train time. Oh, hello, Tom!" she added, as Joe's chum entered. "Did you bring any extra handkerchiefs with you?" "Say I'll pull your hairpins out, Clara, if you don't quit fooling!" threatened her brother. Joe's baggage, save for a small valise, had been sent on ahead, and now, calling a good-bye to his parents, but not going to them, for he realized that it would only make his mother cry more, the young collegian, escorted by his sister and chum, started for the station. Our hero found a few of his friends gathered there, among them Mabel Davis. "And so you're off for Yale," she remarked, and Joe noticed that she too, like his sister, seemed to have "grown up" suddenly in the last year. Mabel was quite a young lady now. "Yes, I'm off," replied Joe, rather coldly. "Oh, I think it's just grand to go to a big college," went on Mabel. "I wish papa would let Tom go." "I wish so myself," chimed in her brother. "I know one Yale man," went on Mabel. "I met him this Summer. He was at the game the other day. I could write to him, and tell him you are coming." "Please don't!" exclaimed Joe so suddenly that Mabel drew back, a little offended. "Wa'al, I want to shake hands with you, an' wish you all success," exclaimed a voice at Joe's elbow. He turned to see Mr. Ebenezer Peterkin, a neighbor. "So you're off for college. I hear they're great places for football and baseball! Ha! Ha! 'Member th' time you throwed a ball through our winder, and splashed Alvirah's apple sass all over her clean stove? 'Member that, Joe?" "Indeed I do, Mr. Peterkin. And how you told Tom and me to hurry off, as your wife was coming after us." "That's right! Ha! Ha! Alvirah was considerable put out that day. She'd just got her stove blacked, an' that sass was some of her best. Th' ball landed plump into it! 'Member?" and again the old man chuckled with mirth. "I remember," laughed Joe. "And how Tom and I blackened the stove, and helped clean up the kitchen for your wife. I was practising pitching that day." "Oh, yes, you _pitched_ all right," chuckled the aged man. "Wa'al, Joe, I wish you all sorts of luck, an' if you do pitch down there at Yale, don't go to splattering no apple sass!" "I won't," promised the lad. There were more congratulations, more wishes for success, more hand shakings and more good-byes, and then the whistle of the approaching train was heard. Somehow Joe could not but remember the day he had driven the man to the station just in time to get his train. He wondered if he would ever see that individual again. "Good-bye, Joe!" "So long, old man!" "Don't forget to write!" "Play ball!" "Good-bye, Joe!" Laughter, cheers, some tears too, but not many, waving hands, and amid all this Joe entered the train. He waved back as long as he could see any of them, and then he settled back in his seat. He was off for Yale--for Yale, with all its traditions, its mysteries, its learning and wiseness, its sports and games, its joys and sorrows--its heart-burnings and its delights, its victories--and defeats! Off for Yale. Joe felt his breath choking him, and into his eyes there came a mist as he gazed out of the window. Off for Yale--and baseball! CHAPTER VI ON THE CAMPUS Joe Matson gazed about him curiously as the train drew into the New Haven station. He wondered what his first taste of Yale life was going to be like, and he could not repress a feeling of nervousness. He had ridden in the end car, and he was not prepared for what happened as the train drew to a slow stop. For from the other coaches there poured a crowd of students--many Freshmen like himself but others evidently Sophomores, and a sprinkling of Juniors and the more lordly Seniors. Instantly the place resounded to a din, as friends met friends, and as old acquaintances were renewed. "Hello, Slab!" "Where have you been keeping yourself, Pork Chops!" "By jinks! There's old Ham Fat!" "Come on, now! Get in line!" This from one tall lad to others, evidently from the same preparatory school. "Show 'em what we can do!" "Hi there, Freshies! Off with those hats!" This from a crowd of Sophomores who saw the newly-arrived first-year lads. "Don't you do it! Keep your lids on!" "Oh, you will!" and there was a scrimmage in which the offending headgear of many was sent spinning. Joe began to breathe deeply and fast. If this was a taste of Yale life he liked it. Somewhat Excelsior Hall it was, but bigger--broader. Gripping his valise, he climbed down the steps, stumbling in his eagerness. On all sides men crowded around him and the others who were alighting. "Keb! Carriage! Hack! Take your baggage!" Seeing others doing the same, Joe surrendered his valise to an insistent man. As he moved out of the press, wondering how he was to get to the house where he had secured a room, he heard someone behind him fairly yell in his ear: "Oh ho! Fresh.! Off with that hat!" He turned to see two tall, well-dressed lads, in somewhat "swagger" clothes, arms linked, walking close behind him. Remembering the fate of the others, Joe doffed his new derby, and smiled. "That's right," complimented the taller of the two Sophomores. "Glad you think so," answered Joe. "Well?" snapped the other Sophomore sharply. "Glad you think so," repeated our hero. "Well?" rasped out the first. Joe looked from one to the other in some bewilderment. He knew there was some catch, and that he had not answered categorically, but for the moment he forgot. "Put the handle on," he was reminded, and then it came to him. "Sir," he added with a smile. "Right, Freshie. Don't forget your manners next time," and the two went swinging along, rolling out the chorus of some class song. The confusion increased. More students poured from the train, overwhelming the expressmen with their demands and commands. The hacks and carriages were being rapidly filled. Orders were being shouted back and forth. Exuberance was on every side. "Oh ho! This way, Merton!" yelled someone, evidently a signal for the lads from that school to assemble. "Over here, Lisle!" "There's Perk!" "Yes, and who's he got with him?" "Oh, some Fresh. Come on, you goat. I'm hungry!" Joe felt himself exulting, after all, that he was to be a part of this throbbing, pulsating life--part of the great college. He hung back, friendless and alone, and it was borne on him with a rush just how friendless and alone he was when he saw so many others greeted by friends and mates. With all his heart Joe wished he had come up from some preparatory school, where he would have had classmates with him. But it was too late now. He made up his mind that he would walk to his rooming house, not because he wanted to save the carriage hire, but he would have to get in a hack all alone, and he was afraid of the gibes and taunts that might be hurled at the lone Freshman. He had engaged the room in advance, and knew it would be in readiness. Later he intended to join one of the many eating clubs for his meals, but for the present he expected to patronize a restaurant, for the rooming house did not provide commons. "I'll walk," decided Joe, and, inquiring the way from a friendly hackman, he started off. As he did so he was aware of a tall lad standing near him, and, at the mention of the street Joe designated, this lad started, and seemed about to speak. For a moment Joe, noticing that he, too, was alone, was tempted to address him. And then, being naturally diffident, and in this case particularly so, he held back. "He may be some stand-offish chap," reasoned Joe, "and won't like it. I'll go a bit slow." He swung away from the station, glad to be out of the turmoil, but for a time it followed him, the streets being filled with students afoot and in vehicles. The calling back and forth went on, until, following the directions he had received, Joe turned down a quieter thoroughfare. "That must be the college over there," he said after he had swung across the city common, and saw looming up in the half mist of the early September night, the piles of brick and stone. "Yale College--and I'm going there!" He paused for a moment to contemplate the structures, and a wave of sentimental feeling surged up into his heart. He saw the outlines of the elms--the great elms of Yale. Joe passed on, and, as he walked, wondering what lay before him, he could not help but think of the chances--the very small chances he had--in all that throng of young men--to make the 'varsity nine. "There are thousands of fellows here," mused Joe, "and all of them may be as good as I. Of course not all of them want to get on the nine--and fewer want to pitch. But--Oh, I wonder if I can make it? I wonder----" It was getting late. He realized that he had better go to his room, and see about supper. Then in the morning would come reporting at college and arranging about his lectures--and the hundred and one things that would follow. "I guess I've got time enough to go over and take a look at the place," he mused. "I can hike it a little faster to my shack after I take a peep," he reasoned. "I just want to see what I'm going to stack up against." He turned and started toward the stately buildings in the midst of the protecting elms. Other students passed him, talking and laughing, gibing one another. All of them in groups--not one alone as was Joe. Occasionally they called to him as they passed: "Off with that hat, Fresh.!" He obeyed without speaking, and all the while the loneliness in his heart was growing, until it seemed to rise up like some hard lump and choke him. "But I won't! I won't!" he told himself desperately. "I won't give in. I'll make friends soon! Oh, if only Tom were here!" He found himself on the college campus. Pausing for a moment to look about him, his heart welling, he heard someone coming from the rear. Instinctively he turned, and in the growing dusk he thought he saw a familiar figure. "Off with that hat, Fresh.!" came the sharp command. Joe was getting a little tired of it, but he realized that the only thing to do was to obey. "All right," he said, listlessly. "All right, what?" was snapped back at him. For a moment Joe did not answer. "Come on, Fresh.!" cried the other, taking a step toward him. "Quick--all right--what?" "Sir!" ripped out Joe, as he turned away. A moment later from a distant window there shone a single gleam of light that fell on the face of the other lad. Joe started as he beheld the countenance of Ford Weston--the youth who had laughed at his pitching. "That's right," came in more mollified tones from the Sophomore. "Don't forget your manners at Yale, Fresh.! Or you may be taught 'em in a way you won't like," and with an easy air of assurance, and an insulting, domineering swagger, Weston took himself off across the campus. CHAPTER VII A NEW CHUM For a moment Joe stood there, his heart pounding away under his ribs, uncertain what to do--wondering if the Sophomore had recognized him. Then, as the other gave no sign, but continued on his way, whistling gaily, Joe breathed easier. "The cad!" he whispered. "I'd like to--to----" He paused. He remembered that he was at Yale--that he was a Freshman and that he was supposed to take the insults of those above him--of the youth who had a year's advantage over him in point of time. "Yes, I'm a Freshman," mused Joe, half bitterly. "I'm supposed to take it all--to grin and bear it--for the good of my soul and conscience, and so that I won't get a swelled head. Well," he concluded with a whimsical smile, "I guess there's no danger." He looked after the retreating figure of the Sophomore, now almost lost in the dusk that enshrouded the campus, and then he laughed softly. "After all!" he exclaimed, "it's no more than I've done to the lads at Excelsior Hall. I thought it was right and proper then, and I suppose these fellows do here. Only, somehow, it hurts. I--I guess I'm getting older. I can't appreciate these things as I used to. After all, what is there to it? There's too much class feeling and exaggerated notion about one's importance. It isn't a man's game--though it may lead to it. I'd rather be out--standing on my own feet. "Yes, out playing the game with men--the real game--I want to get more action than this," and he looked across at the college buildings, now almost deserted save for a professor or two, or small groups of students who were wandering about almost as disconsolately as was Joe himself. "Oh, well!" he concluded. "I'm here, and I've got to stay at least for mother's sake, and I'll do the best I can. I'll grin and bear it. It won't be long until Spring, and then I'll see if I can't make good. I'm glad Weston didn't recognize me. It might have made it worse. But he's bound to know, sooner or later, that I'm the fellow he saw pitch that day, and, if he's like the rest of 'em I suppose he'll have the story all over college. Well, I can't help it." And with this philosophical reflection Joe turned and made his way toward his rooming house. It was a little farther than he had thought, and he was a bit sorry he had not selected one nearer the college. There were too many students to permit all of them to dwell in the dormitories proper, and many sought residences in boarding places and in rooming houses, and dined at students' clubs. "I suppose I'll have to hunt up some sort of an eating joint," mused Joe, as he plodded along. "I'd be glad to get in with some freshmen who like the baseball game. It'll be more sociable. I'll have to be on the lookout." As he rang the bell of the house corresponding in number to the one he had selected as his rooming place, the door was cautiously opened a trifle, the rattling of a chain showing that it was secure against further swinging. A rather husky voice asked: "Well?" Joe looked, and saw himself being regarded by a pair of not very friendly eyes, while a tousled head of hair was visible in the light from a hall lamp that streamed from behind it. "I--er--I believe I'm to room here," went on Joe. "Matson is my name. I'm a Freshman----" "Oh, that's all right. Come in!" and the tone was friendly at once. "I thought it was some of those sneaking Sophs., so I had the chain on. Come in!" and the portal was thrown wide, while Joe's hand was caught in a firm grip. "Are you--er--do you run this place?" asked Joe. "Not yet, but I'm going to do my best at it as soon as I get wise to the ropes. You can help--you look the right stuff." "Aren't you the--er--the proprietor?" asked our hero, rather puzzled for the right word. "Not exactly," was the reply, "but I'm going to be one of 'em soon. Hanover is my name--Ricky Hanover they used to call me at Tampa. I'll allow you the privilege. I'm a Fresh. like yourself. I'm going to room here. Arrived yesterday. I've got a room on the first floor, near the door, and it's going to be so fruity for those Sophs. to rout me out that I got a chain and put it on. The old man said he didn't care." "The old man?" queried Joe. "Yes, Hopkins, Hoppy for short--the fellow that owns this place--he and his wife." "Oh, yes, the people from whom I engaged my room," spoke Joe understandingly. "I think I'm on the second floor," he went on. "Wrong guess--come again," said Ricky Hanover with a grin, as he carefully replaced the chain. "There's been a wing shift, so Mrs. Hoppy told me. She's expecting you, but she's put you downstairs, in a big double room next to mine. Hope you won't mind. Your trunk is there, and your valise just came--at least I think it's yours--J. M. on it." "Yes, that's mine." "I had it put in for you." "Thanks." "Come on, and I'll show you the ropes. If those Sophs. come----" "Are they likely to?" asked Joe, scenting the joy of a battle thus early in his career. "They might. Someone tried to rush the door just before you came, but the chain held and I gave 'em the merry ha-ha! But they'll be back--we'll get ours and we'll have to take it." "I suppose so. Well, I don't mind. I've been through it before." "That so? Where are you from?" "Excelsior Hall." "Never heard of it. That's nothing. I don't s'pose you could throw a stone and hit Tampa School?" "Probably not," laughed Joe, forming an instinctive liking for this new chap. "Right. Tampa hardly knows it's on the map, but it isn't a half bad place. Ah, here's Mamma Hoppy now. You don't mind if I call you that; do you?" asked Ricky, as a motherly-looking woman advanced down the hall toward the two lads. "Oh, I guess I've been at this long enough not to mind a little thing like that," she laughed. "You college men can't bother me as long as you don't do anything worse than that. Let me see, this is----" "Matson, ma'am," spoke our hero. "Joe Matson. I wrote to you----" "Oh, yes, I remember. I have quite a number of new boys coming in. I'm sorry, but the room I thought I could let you have isn't available. The ceiling fell to-day, so I have transferred you downstairs. It's a double room, and I may have to put someone in with you. If you think----" "Oh, that's all right," interrupted Joe good-naturedly, "I don't mind. I'll be glad to have a room-mate." "Thank you," said Mrs. Hopkins, in relieved tones. "I can't say just now who it will be." "Never mind!" broke in Ricky. "Have you grubbed?" "No," replied the newcomer. "I was thinking of going to a restaurant." "Come along then. I'm with you. I haven't fed my face yet. We'll go down to Glory's place and see the bunch." Joe recognized the name as that of a famous New Haven resort, much frequented by the college lads, and, while I have not used the real designation, and while I shall use fictitious names for other places connected with the college, those who know their Yale will have no difficulty in recognizing them. "Come on to Glory's," went on Ricky. "It's a great joint." "Wait until I slip on a clean collar," suggested Joe, and a little later he and Ricky were tramping along the streets, now agleam with electric lights, on their way to the famous resort. It was filled with students, from lordly Seniors, who scarcely noticed those outside of their class, to the timid Freshmen. Joe looked on in undisguised delight. After all, Yale might be more to him than he had anticipated. "Like to go a rabbit?" suggested Ricky. "A rabbit?" asked Joe. "I didn't know they were in season?" "The Welsh variety," laughed Ricky. "They're great with a mug of ale, they say, only I cut out the ale." "Same here," admitted Joe. "Yes, I'll go one. It's made of cheese, isn't it?" "And other stuff. Great for making you dream. Come on, this is the Freshmen table over here. I was in this morning." "Do they have tables for each class." "They don't--I mean the management doesn't, but I guess it would be as much as your hair was worth to try to buck in where you didn't belong. Know anybody here?" "Not a soul--wish I did." "I didn't when I came this morning, but there are some nice fellows at the Red Shack." "Red Shack?" Joe looked puzzled. "Yes, that's our hang-out. It's painted red." "Oh, I see." "There are a couple of 'em now," went on Ricky, who seemed perfectly at ease in his comparatively new surroundings. He was a lad who made friends easily, Joe decided. "Hi, Heller, plow over here!" Ricky called to a tall lad who was working his way through the throng. "Bring Jones along with you. They're both at our shack," he went on in a low voice to Joe. "Shake hands with Matson--he's one of us chickens," he continued, and he presented the newcomers as though he had known them all their lives. "You seem at home," remarked Jones, who was somewhat remarkable for his thinness. "I am--Slim!" exclaimed Ricky. "I say, you don't mind if I call you that; do you?" he asked. "That's what the other fellows do; isn't it?" "Yes. How'd you guess it?" asked Jones, with a laugh. "Easy. I'm Ricky--Richard by rights, but I don't like it. Call me Ricky." "All right, I will," agreed Slim Jones. "I'm Hank Heller, if you're going in for names," came from the other youth, while Joe had to admit that his appellation was thus shortened from Joseph. "Well, now we know each other let's work our jaws on something besides words," suggested Ricky. "Here, do we get waited on, Alphonse?" he called to a passing waiter. Joe thought he had never been in such a delightful place, nor in such fine company. It was altogether different from life at Excelsior Hall, and though there were scenes that were not always decorous from a strict standpoint, yet Joe realized that he was getting farther out on the sea of life, and must take things as they came. But he resolved to hold a proper rein on himself, and, though deep in his heart he had no real love for college life, he determined to do his best at it. The meal was a delightful one. New students were constantly coming in, and the place was blue with smoke from many cigars, pipes and cigarettes. Ricky smoked, as did Hank Heller, but Slim Jones confessed that it was a habit he had not yet acquired, in which he was like Joe. "Say, we're going to have some fun at our joint," declared Ricky on their way back, at a somewhat late hour. "We'll organize an eating club, or join one, and we'll have some sport. We'll be able to stand off the Sophs. better, too, by hanging together. When the Red Shack gets full we'll do some organizing ourselves. No use letting the Sophs. have everything." "That's right," agreed Joe. As they passed along the now somewhat quiet streets they were occasionally hailed by parties of hilarious Sophomores with the command: "Take off your hats, Freshies!" They obeyed, perforce, for they did not want to get the name of insurgents thus early in the term. "Come in and have a talk," invited Ricky, as they entered the rooming house. "It's early yet." "Guess I'll turn in," confessed Hank. "I'm tired." "I'll go you for awhile," agreed Slim. "How about you, Joe?" "No, I want to unpack a bit. See you in the morning." "All right. We'll go to chapel together." As Joe entered his new room, and turned on the light, he saw a figure in one of the beds. For a moment he was startled, having forgotten that he was to share the room with someone. The youth turned over and gazed at Joe. "Oh!" he exclaimed with a rather pleasant laugh. "I meant to sit up until you came back, to explain, but I guess I fell asleep. Mrs. Hopkins said you had no objections to a partner, and this was the only place available." "Not at all!" exclaimed Joe cordially. "Glad you came in. It's lonesome rooming alone." "You're Matson; aren't you?" asked the youth in bed. "Yes." "My name is Poole--Burton Poole." Then, for the first time Joe recognized the lad he had seen standing all alone on the depot platform--the one to whom he had been inclined to speak--but from which impulse he had held himself back. CHAPTER VIII AMBITIONS "Shake hands!" exclaimed Joe, as he stepped over to the bed, on which the other raised himself, the clothes draping around him. Then Joe saw how well built his new room-mate was--the muscles of his arms and shoulders standing out, as his pajamas tightened across his chest. "Glad to know you," greeted Poole. "You are sure you don't mind my butting in?" "Not at all. Glad of your company. I hate to be alone. I wish you'd come in a bit earlier, and you could have gone down to Glory's with us." "Wish I had. I've heard of the place, but as a general rule I like a quieter shack to eat." "Same here," confessed Joe. "We're talking of starting a feeding joint of our own--the Freshmen here--or of joining one. Are you with us?" "Sure thing. Do you know any of the fellows here?" "Three--in our shack. I just met them to-night. They seem all to the good." "Glad to hear it. I'll fill in anywhere I can." "Well, I'm going to fill in bed--right now!" asserted Joe with a yawn. "I'm dead tired. It's quite a trip from my place, and we've got to go to chapel in the morning." "That's so. Are you a sound sleeper?" "Not so very. Why?" "I am, and I forgot to bring an alarm clock. I always need one to get me up." "I can fix you," replied Joe. "I've got one that would do in place of a gong in a fire-house. I'll set it going." And from his trunk, after rummaging about a bit, he pulled a large-sized clock, noiseless as to ticking, but with a resonant bell that created such a clamor, when Joe set it to tinkling, that Ricky Hanover came bursting in. "What's the joke?" he demanded, half undressed. "Let me in on it." "The alarm clock," explained Joe. "My new chum was afraid he'd be late to chapel. Ricky, let me make you acquainted with Mr. Poole." "Glad to know you," spoke Ricky. "Got a handle?" "A what?" "Nickname. I always think it's easier to get acquainted with a fellow if he's got one. It isn't so stiff." "Maybe you're right. Well, the fellows back home used to call me 'Spike'." "What for?" demanded Joe. "Because my father was in the hardware business." "I see!" laughed Ricky. "Good enough. Spike suits me. I say, you've got a pretty fair joint here," he went on admiringly. "And some stuff, believe me!" There was envy in his tones as he looked around the room, and noted the various articles Joe was digging out of his trunk--some fencing foils, boxing gloves, a baseball bat and mask, and a number of foreign weapons which Joe had begun to collect in one of his periodical fits and then had given up. "They'll look swell stuck around the walls," went on Ricky. "Yes, it sort of tones up the place, I guess," admitted Joe. "I've got a lot of flags," spoke Spike. "My trunk didn't come, though. Hope it'll be here to-morrow." "Then you will have a den!" declared Ricky. "Got any photos?" "Photos?" queried Joe wonderingly. "Yes--girls? You ought to see my collection! Some class, believe me; and more than half were free-will offerings," and Ricky drew himself up proudly in his role of a lady-killer. "Where'd you get the others?" asked Spike. "Swiped 'em--some I took from my sister. They'll look swell when I get 'em up. Well, I'm getting chilly!" he added, and it was no wonder, for his legs were partly bare. "See you later!" and he slid out of the door. "Nice chap," commented Joe. "Rather original," agreed Spike Poole. "I guess he's in the habit of doing things. But say, I'm keeping you up with my talk, I'm afraid." "I guess it's the other way around," remarked Joe, with a smile. "No, go ahead, and stick up all the trophies you like. I'll help out to-morrow." "Oh, well, I guess this'll do for a while," said Joe a little later, when he had partly emptied his trunk. "I think I'll turn in. I don't know how I'll sleep--that Welsh rabbit was a bit more than I'm used to. So if I see my grandmother in the night----" "I'll wake you up before the dear old lady gets a chance to box your ears," promised his room-mate with a laugh. And then our hero crawled into bed to spend his first night as a real Yale student. Joe thought he had never seen so perfect a day as the one to which the alarm clock awakened him some hours later. It was clear and crisp, and on the way to chapel with the others of the Red Shack, he breathed deep of the invigorating air. The exercises were no novelty to him, but it was very different from those at Excelsior Hall, and later the campus seemed to be fairly alive with the students. But Joe no longer felt alone. He had a chum--several of them, in fact, for the acquaintances of the night before seemed even closer in the morning. The duties of the day were soon over, lectures not yet being under way. Joe got his name down, learned when he was expected to report, the hours of recitation, and other details. His new chums did the same. "And now let's see about that eating club," proposed Ricky Hanover, when they were free for the rest of the day. "It's all right to go to Glory's once in a while--especially at night when the jolly crowd is there, and a restaurant isn't bad for a change--but we're not here for a week or a month, and we want some place that's a bit like home." The others agreed with him, and a little investigation disclosed an eating resort run by a Junior who was working his way through Yale. It was a quiet sort of a place, on a quiet street, not so far away from the Red Shack as to make it inconvenient to go around for breakfast. The patrons of it, besides Joe and his new friends, were mostly Freshmen, though a few Juniors, acquaintances of Roslyn Joyce, who was trying to pay his way to an education by means of it, ate there, as did a couple of very studious Seniors, who did not go in for the society or sporting life. "This'll be just the thing for us," declared Joe; and the others agreed with him. There was some talk of football in the air. All about them students were discussing the chances of the eleven, especially in the big games with Harvard and Princeton, and all agreed that, with the new material available, Yale was a sure winner. "What are you going in for?" asked Joe of Ricky, as the five of them--Joe, Ricky, Spike, Slim Jones and Hank Heller strolled across the campus. "The eleven for mine--if I can make it!" declared Ricky. "What's yours, Joe?" "Baseball. But it's a long while off." "That's right--the gridiron has the call just now. Jove, how I want to play!" and Ricky danced about in the excess of his good spirits. "What are you going in for?" asked Joe of Hank Heller. "I'd like to make the crew, but I don't suppose I have much chance. I'll have to wait, as you will." "If I can get on the glee club, I'm satisfied," remarked Slim Jones. "That's about all I'm fit for," he added, with a whimsical smile. "How about you, Spike? Can you play anything?" "The Jewsharp and mouthorgan. Have they any such clubs here?" "No!" exclaimed Ricky. "But what's the matter with you trying for the eleven? You've got the build." "It isn't in my line. I'm like Joe here. I like the diamond best." "Do you?" cried our hero, delighted to find that his room-mate had the same ambition as himself. "Where do you play?" "Well, I have been catching for some time." "Then you and Joe ought to hit it off!" exclaimed Ricky. "Joe's crazy to pitch, and you two can make up a private battery, and use the room for a cage." CHAPTER IX THE SHAMPOO Football was in the air. On every side was the talk of it, and around the college, on the streets leading to the gridiron, and in the cars that took the students out there to watch the practice, could be heard little else but snatches of conversation about "punts" and "forward passes," the chances for this end or that fullback--how the Bulldog sized up against Princeton and Harvard. Of course Joe was interested in this, and he was among the most loyal supporters of the team, going out to the practice, and cheering when the 'varsity made a touchdown against the luckless scrub. "We're going to have a great team!" declared Ricky, as he walked back from practice with Joe one day. "I'm sure I hope so," spoke our hero. "Have you had a chance?" "Well, I'm one of the subs, and I've reported every day. They kept us tackling the dummy for quite a while, and I think I got the eye of one of the coaches. But there are so many fellows trying, and such competition, that I don't know--it's a fierce fight," and Ricky sighed. "Never mind," consoled Joe. "You'll make good, I'm sure. I'll have my troubles when the baseball season opens. I guess it won't be easy to get on the nine." "Well, maybe not, if you insist on being pitcher," said Ricky. "I hear that Weston, who twirled last season, is in line for it again." "Weston--does he pitch?" gasped Joe. It was the first time he had heard--or thought to ask--what position the lad held who had sneered at him. "That's his specialty," declared Ricky. "They're depending on him for the Yale-Princeton game. Princeton took the odd game last year, and we want it this." "I hope we get it," murmured Joe. "And so Ford Weston pitches; eh? If it comes to a contest between us I'm afraid it will be a bitter one. He hates me already. I guess he thinks I've got a swelled head." "Say, look here, Joe!" exclaimed Ricky, with a curious look on his face, "you don't seem to know the ropes here. You're a Freshman, you know." "Sure I know that. What of it?" "Lots. You know that you haven't got the ghost of a show to be pitcher on the 'varsity; don't you?" "Know it? Do you mean that Weston can so work things as to keep me off?" "Not Weston; no. But the rules themselves are against you. It's utterly impossible that you should pitch this year." "Why? What rules? I didn't know I was ineligible." "Well, you are. Listen, Joe. Under the intercollegiate rules no Freshman can play on the 'varsity baseball nine, let alone being the pitcher." "He can't?" and Joe stood aghast. "No. It's out of the question. I supposed you knew that or I'd have mentioned it before." Joe was silent a moment. His heart seemed almost to stop beating. He felt as though the floor of the room was sinking from under his feet. "I--I never thought to ask about rules," said Joe, slowly. "I took it for granted that Yale was like other smaller universities--that any fellow could play on the 'varsity if he could make it." "Not at Yale, or any of the big universities," went on Ricky in softened tones, for he saw that Joe was much affected. "You see the rule was adopted to prevent the ringing in of a semi-professional, who might come here for a few months, qualify as a Freshman, and play on the 'varsity. You've got to be a Sophomore, at least, before you can hope to make the big team, and then of course, it's up to you to make a fight for the pitcher's box." Once more Joe was silent. His hopes had been suddenly crushed, and, in a measure, it was his own fault, for he had taken too much for granted. He felt a sense of bitterness--bitterness that he had allowed himself to be persuaded to come to Yale against his own wishes. And yet he knew that it would never have done to have gone against his parents. They had their hearts set on a college course for him. "Hang it all!" exclaimed Joe, as he paced up and down, "why didn't I think to make some inquiries?" "It would have been better," agreed Ricky. "But there's no great harm done. You can play on the Freshman team this coming season, and then, when you're a Soph., you can go on that team, and you'll be in line for the 'varsity. You can play on the Junior team, if you like, and they have some smashing good games once in a while." "But it isn't the 'varsity," lamented Joe. "No. But look here, old man; you've got to take things as they come. I don't want to preach, but----" "That's all right--slam it into me!" exclaimed Joe. "I need it--I deserve it. It'll do me good. I won't be so cock-sure next time. But I hoped to make the 'varsity this season." "It'll be better for you in the end not to have done so," went on his friend. "You need more practice, than you have had, to take your place on the big team. A season with the Freshmen will give it to you. You'll learn the ropes better--get imbued with some of the Yale spirit, and you'll be more of a man. It's no joke, I tell you, to pitch on the 'varsity." "No, I imagine not," agreed Joe, slowly. "Then, I suppose there's no use of me trying to even get my name down on a sort of waiting list." "Not until you see how you make out on the Freshman team," agreed Ricky. "You'll be watched there, so look out for yourself. The old players, who act as coaches, are always on the lookout for promising material. You'll be sized up when you aren't expecting it. And, not only will they watch to see how you play ball, but how you act under all sorts of cross-fire, and in emergencies. It isn't going to be any cinch." "No, I can realize that," replied Joe. "And so Weston has been through the mill, and made good?" "He's been through the mill, that's sure enough," agreed Ricky, "but just how good he's made will have to be judged later. He wasn't such a wonder last season." "There's something queer about him," said Joe. "How's that?" "Why, if he's only a Soph. this year he must have been a Freshman last. And yet he pitched on the 'varsity I understand." "Weston's is a peculiar case," said Ricky. "I heard some of the fellows discussing it. He's classed as a Soph., but he ought really to be a Junior. This is his third year here. He's a smart chap in some things, but he got conditioned in others, and in some studies he is still taking the Soph. lectures, while in others he is with the Juniors. He was partly educated abroad, it seems, and that put him ahead of lots of us in some things. So, while he was rated with the Freshmen in some studies last year, he was enough of a Sophomore to comply with the intercollegiate rules, and pitch on the 'varsity. He did well, so they said." "I wish fate handed me out something like that," mused Joe. "If I had known that I'd have boned away on certain things so as to get a Sophomore rating--at least enough to get on the big nine." "Why, don't you intend to stay at Yale?" asked Ricky. "A year soon passes. You'll be a Sophomore before you know it." "I wish I was in Weston's shoes," said Joe softly. Since that meeting on the campus, when the Sophomore had not recognized Joe, the two had not encountered each other, and Joe was glad enough of it. "I'm glad I didn't meet him in Riverside," thought Joe. "It won't make it so hard here--when it comes to a showdown. For I'm going to make the nine! The 'varsity nine; if not this year, then next!" and he shut his teeth in determination. Meanwhile matters were gradually adjusting themselves to the new conditions of affairs at Yale--at least as regards Joe and the other Freshmen. The congenial spirits in the Red Shack, increased by some newcomers, had, in a measure, "found" themselves. Recitations and lectures began their regular routine, and though some of the latter were "cut," and though often in the interests of football the report of "not prepared" was made, still on the whole Joe and his chums did fairly well. Joe, perhaps because of his lack of active interest in football, as was the case with his room-mate, Spike, did better than the others as regards lessons. Yet it did not come easy to Joe to buckle down to the hard and exacting work of a college course, as compared to the rather easy methods in vogue at Excelsior Hall. Joe was not a natural student, and to get a certain amount of comparatively dry knowledge into his head required hours of faithful work. "I'm willing to make a try of it--for the sake of the folks," he confided to Spike; "but I know I'm never going to set the river on fire with classics or math. I'm next door to hating them. I want to play baseball." "Well, I can't blame you--in a way," admitted his chum. "Of course baseball isn't all there is to life, though I do like it myself." "It's going to be my business in life," said Joe simply, and Spike realized then, if never before, the all-absorbing hold the great game had on his friend. To Joe baseball was as much of a business--or a profession if you like--as the pulpit was to a divinity student, or the courts to a member of the law school. The Yale football team began its triumphant career, and the expectations of the friends of the eleven were fully realized. To his delight Ricky played part of a game, and there was no holding him afterward. "I've got a chance to buck the Princeton tiger!" he declared. "The head coach said I did well!" "Good!" cried Joe, wondering if he would have such fine luck when the baseball season started. Affairs at the Red Shack went on smoothly, and at the Mush and Milk Club, which the Freshmen had dubbed their eating joint, there were many assemblings of congenial spirits. Occasionally there was a session at Glory's--a session that lasted far into the night--though Joe and his room-mate did not hold forth at many such. "It's bad for the head the next day," declared Spike, and he was strictly abstemious in his habits, as was Joe. But not all the crowd at the Red Shack were in this class, and often there were disturbances at early hours of the morning--college songs howled under the windows with more or less "harmony," and appeals to Joe and the others to "stick out their heads." "I think we'll get ours soon," spoke Spike one night, as he and Joe sat at the centre table of the room, studying. "Our what?" "Drill. I heard that a lot of the Freshmen were caught down the street this evening and made to walk Spanish. They're beginning the shampoo, too." "The shampoo--what's that?" "An ancient and honorable Yale institution, in which the candidate is head-massaged with a bucket of paste or something else." "Paste or what?" "You're allowed your choice, I believe. Paste for mine, it's easier to get out of your hair if you take it in time." "That's right. I'm with you--but--er--how about a fight?" "It's up to you. Lots of the Freshmen stand 'em off. It's allowed if you like." "Then I say--fight!" exclaimed Joe. "I'm not going to be shampooed in that silly fashion if I can help it." "Then we'll stand 'em off?" questioned Spike. "Sure--as long as we can," declared Joe. "Though if they bring too big a bunch against us we'll probably get the worst of it." "Very likely, but we can have the satisfaction of punching some of the Sophs. I'm with you." "Where'll they do it?" "No telling. They may catch us on the street, or they may come here. For choice----" Spike paused and held up his hand for silence. There was a noise in the hall, in the direction of the front door. Then came the voice of Ricky Hanover saying: "No, you don't! I've got the bulge on you! No monkey business here!" "Get away from that door, Fresh.!" shouted someone, half-angrily; "or we'll bust it in!" "Give him the shampoo--both of 'em!" yelled another. "You don't get in here!" cried Ricky. "I say----" His voice was drowned out in a crash, and a moment later there was the sound of a struggle. "Here they come," said Spike in a low voice. "Let's take off our coats," proposed Joe, in the same tone. "If we're going to fight I want to be ready." CHAPTER X A WILD NIGHT "Say, Ricky is sure putting up a great fight!" "Yes, and he's as wiry as they make 'em!" "He'll make 'em wish they'd let him alone--maybe." "And maybe not," returned Spike. He and Joe had passed these remarks after a grim silence, followed by a resumption of the crashing struggle in the hall near the front door. "There are too many of 'em for him," went on Joe's room-mate. "Wait until I take a peep," proposed the young pitcher. He advanced to the door, rolling up his sleeves as he went. "Don't!" snapped Spike. "They'll be here soon enough as it is, without us showing ourselves. I'd just as soon they'd pass us up this trip--it's an unpleasant mess." "That's right. Maybe we can stand 'em off." "No such luck. I think they're coming." The noise in the hall seemed redoubled. Ricky could be heard expostulating, and from that he changed to threats. "I'll make you wish you hadn't tried this on me!" he shouted. "I'll punch----" "Oh, dry up!" commanded someone. "Stuff some of that paste in his mouth!" ordered another voice. "A double shampoo for being too fresh!" "No, you don't! I won't stand----" "Then take it lying down. Here we go, boys!" "I--Oh----" and Ricky's voice trailed off into an indistinct murmur. "He's getting his," said Spike in a low tone. "And I guess here is where we get ours," said Joe, as the rush of feet sounded along the corridor, while someone called: "Come on, fellows. More work for us down here. There are some of the Freshies in their burrows. Rout 'em out! Smash 'em up!" The tramping of feet came to a pause outside the door of our two friends. "Open up!" came the command. "Come in!" invited Joe. They had not turned the key as they did not want the lock broken. Into the room burst a nondescript horde of students. They were wild and disheveled, some with torn coats and trousers, others with neckties and collars missing, or else hanging in shreds about their necks. "Ricky put up a game fight!" murmured Joe. "He sure did," agreed Spike. "Hello, Freshmen!" greeted the leader of the Sophomores. "Ready for yours?" "Sure," answered Spike with as cheerful a grin as he could muster. "Any time you say," added Joe. "The beggars were expecting us!" yelled a newcomer, crowding into the room. "Going to fight?" demanded someone. "Going to try," said Joe coolly. "Give 'em theirs!" was the yell. "What'll it be--paste or mush?" Joe saw that several of the Sophomores carried pails, one seemingly filled with froth, and the other with a white substance. Neither would be very pleasant when rubbed into the hair. "Maybe you'd better cut 'em both out," suggested Joe. "Not on your life! Got to take your medicine, kid!" declared a tall Sophomore. He made a grab for Joe, who stepped back. Someone swung at our hero, who, nothing daunted, dashed a fist into his antagonist's face, and the youth went down with a crash, taking a chair with him. "Oh, ho! Fighters!" cried a new voice. "Slug 'em, Sophs.!" Joe swung around, and could not restrain a gasp of astonishment, for, confronting him was Ford Weston, the 'varsity pitcher. On his part Weston seemed taken aback. "Jove!" he cried. "It's the little country rooster I saw pitch ball. So you came to Yale after all?" "I did," answered Joe calmly. It was the first he had met his rival face to face since that time on the campus when Weston had not known him. "Well, we're going to make you sorry right now," sneered Weston. "Up boys, and at 'em!" "Let me get another whack at him!" snarled the lad Joe had knocked down. There was a rush. Joe, blindly striking out, felt himself pulled, hauled and mauled. Once he went down under the weight of numbers, but he fought himself to a kneeling position and hit out with all his force. He was hit in turn. He had a glimpse of Spike hurling a tall Sophomore half way across the room, upon the sofa with a crash. Then with a howl the second-year men closed in on the two Freshmen again. Joe saw Weston coming for him, aiming a vicious blow at his head. Instinctively Joe ducked, and with an uppercut that was more forceful than he intended he caught the pitcher on the jaw. Weston went backward, and only for the fact that he collided with one of his mates would have fallen. He clapped his hand to his jaw, and as he glared at Joe he cried: "I'll settle with you for this!" "Any time," gasped Joe, and then his voice was stopped as someone's elbow caught him in the jaw. "Say, what's the matter with you fellows?" demanded a voice in the doorway. "Can't you do up two Freshmen? Come on, give 'em what's coming and let's get out of this. There's been too much of a row, and we've got lots to do yet to-night. Eat 'em up!" Thus urged by someone who seemed to be a leader, the Sophomores went at the attack with such fury that there was no withstanding them. The odds were too much for Joe and Spike, and they were borne down by the weight of numbers. Then, while some of their enemies held them, others smeared the paste over their heads, rubbing it well in. It was useless to struggle, and all the two Freshmen could do was to protect their eyes. "That's enough," came the command. "No, it isn't!" yelled a voice Joe recognized as that of Weston. "Where's that mush?" "No! No!" expostulated several. "They've had enough--the paste was enough." "I say no!" fairly screamed Weston. "Hand it here!" He snatched something from one of his mates, and the next instant Joe felt a stream of liquid mush drenching him. It ran into his eyes, smarting them grievously, and half blinding him. With a mad struggle he tore himself loose and struck out, but his fists only cleaved the empty air. "Come on!" was the order. There was a rush of feet, and presently the room cleared. "Next time don't be so--fresh!" came tauntingly from Weston, as he followed his mates. "Water--water!" begged Joe, for his eyes seemed on fire. "Hold on, old man--steady," came from Spike. "What is it?" "Something in my eyes. I can't see!" "The paste and mush I expect. Rotten trick. Wait a minute and I'll sponge you off. Oh, but we're sights!" Presently Joe felt the cooling liquid, and the pain went from him. He could open his eyes and look about. Their room was in disorder, but, considering the fierceness of the scrimmage, little damage had been done. But the lads themselves, when they glanced at each other, could not repress woeful expressions, followed by laughs of dismay, for truly they were in a direful plight. Smeared with paste that made their hair stand up like the quills of a fretful porcupine, their shirts streaked with it, they were indeed weird looking objects. Paste was on their faces, half covering their noses. It stuffed up their ears and their eyes stared out from a mask of it like burned holes in a blanket. "Oh, but you are a sight!" exclaimed Spike. "The same to you and more of it," retorted Joe. "Let's get this off." "Sure, before it hardens, or we'll never get it off," agreed Spike. Fortunately there was plenty of water in their room, and, stripping to their waists they scrubbed to such good advantage that they were soon presentable. The removal of their coats and vests had saved those garments. "They went for you fierce," commented Spike. "Who was that fellow who came in last?" "Weston--'varsity pitcher." "He had it in for you." "Seemed so, but I don't know why," and Joe related the little scene the day of the Silver Star-Resolute game. "Oh, well, don't mind him. I say, let's go out." "What for?" "It's going to be a wild night from the way it's begun. Let's see some of the fun. No use trying to study, I'm too excited." "I'm excited too. But if we go out they may pitch onto us again." "No, we can claim immunity. I want to see some of the other fellows get theirs. We'll get Ricky and the other bunch and have some fun." "All right; I'm with you." They dressed, and, having made their room somewhat presentable, they called for Ricky. He was busy trying to get rid of his shampoo, which had been unusually severe. He readily fell in with the notion of going out, and with Hank Heller and Slim Jones in the party the five set out. They swung out into Wall street, up College, and cut over Elm street to the New Haven Green, where they knew all sorts of tricks would be going on. For the Sophomores had started their hazing in earnest. It was indeed a wild night. The streets about the college buildings were thronged with students, and yells and class-rallying cries were heard on every side. "Let's go over to High street," proposed Joe, and they ran up Temple, to Chapel, and thence over to High, making their way through throngs. Several times they were halted by groups of Sophomores, with commands to do some absurdity, but an assertion that they had been shampooed, with the particulars, and the evidence yet remaining in spots, was enough to cause them to be passed. High street was filled with even a greater crowd as they reached it, a party of Freshman pouring out from the college campus endeavoring to escape from pursuing enemies. Through Library street to York they went, with shouts, yells and noises of rattles and other sound-producing instruments. "Let's follow and see what happens," proposed Ricky. "I want to see some other fellow get his as long as I had mine." Just then Joe saw several figures come quietly out from behind a building and start up York street, in an opposite direction from that taken by the throng. Under the glare of an electric light he recognized Weston and some of the crowd who had shampooed them. Some sudden whim caused Joe to say: "There's the fellows who shampooed us. Let's follow and maybe we can get back at 'em. There are only five--that's one apiece." "Right you are!" sang out Ricky. "I want to punch someone." "Come on then," signalled Spike. "I'm out for the night. It's going to be a wild one all right." And truly it seemed so. CHAPTER XI THE RED PAINT Pursuing those who had given them the shampoo, Joe and his chums found themselves trailing down a side street in the darkness. "I wonder what they're up to," ventured Spike. "Oh, some more monkey business," declared Ricky. "If they try it on any more Freshmen though, we'll take a hand ourselves; eh?" "Sure," assented the others. "There they go--around the corner--and on the run!" suddenly exclaimed Slim Jones. "Get a move on!" Our friends broke into a trot--that is, all but Joe. He tried to, but stepping on a stone it rolled over with him, and he felt a severe pain shoot through his ankle. "Sprained, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "I'm glad it isn't the baseball season, for I'm going to be laid up." He halted, and in those few seconds his companions, eager in the chase, drew ahead of him in the darkness, and disappeared around another corner. "I can't catch up to 'em," decided Joe. "Wonder if I can step on the foot?" He tried his weight on it, and to his delight found that it was not a bad sprain, rather a severe wrench that, while it lamed him, still allowed him to walk. "Guess I'll go back," he murmured. "If there's a row I can't hold up my end, and there's no use being a handicap. I'll go back and turn in. I can explain later." He turned about, walking slowly, the pain seeming to increase rather than diminish, and he realized that he was in for a bad time. "If I could see a hack I'd hail it," he thought, but the streets seemed deserted, no public vehicles being in sight. "I've got to tramp it out," Joe went on. "Well, I can take it slow." His progress brought him to Wall street, and he decided to continue along that to Temple, and thence to the modest side-thoroughfare on which the Red Shack was located. But he was not destined to reach it without further adventures. As he came around a corner he heard the murmur of low voices, and, being cautious by nature, he halted to take an observation. "If it's my own crowd--all right," he said. "But if it's a lot of Sophs., I don't want to run into 'em." He listened, and from among those whom he could not see he heard the murmur of voices. "That's the house over there," said someone. "Right! Now we'll see if he'll double on me just because I wasn't prepared. I'll make him walk Spanish!" "Got plenty of the magoozilum?" "Sure. We'll daub it on thick." "They can't be after Freshmen," mused Joe. "I wonder what's up?" He looked across the street in the direction where, evidently, the unseen ones were directing their attention. "A lot of the profs. live there," mused Joe. "I have it! Some one's going to play a trick on 'em to get even. I'll just pipe it off!" He had not long to wait. Out of the shadows stole two figures, and, even in the dimness he recognized one of them as Ford Weston. The other he did not know. "Come on!" hoarsely whispered the 'varsity pitcher to his chum. "I'll spread it on thick and then we'll cut for it. Separate streets. I'll see you in the morning, but keep mum, whatever happens." The two figures ran silently across the street, and paused in front of a detached house. One seemed to be actively engaged at the steps for a few minutes, and then both quickly ran off again, the two separating and diving down side streets. "Huh! Whatever it was didn't take them long," thought Joe. "I wonder what it was? Guess I'll----" But his half-formed resolution to make an investigation was not carried out. He heard shouting down the street, and thinking it might be a crowd of Sophomores, he decided to continue on to his room. "They might start a rough-house with me," mused Joe, "and then my ankle would be more on the blink than ever. I'll go home." He started off, rather excited over the events of the night, and found that even his brief spell of standing still had stiffened him so that he could hardly proceed. "Wow!" he exclaimed, as a particularly sharp twinge shot through him. He had gone about two blocks when he heard someone coming behind him. He turned in apprehension, but saw only a single figure. "Hello! What's the matter?" asked a young man as he caught up to Joe. "Twisted my ankle." "So? What's your name?" "Matson--I'm a Freshman." "Oh, yes. I think I saw you at Chapel. Kendall's my name." Joe recognized it as that of one of the Juniors and a member of the 'varsity nine. "How'd it happen?" "Oh, skylarking. The Sophs. were after us to-night." "So I heard. You'd better do something for that foot," he went on, as he noticed Joe's limp. "I'm going to as soon as I get to my room." "Say, I tell you what," went on Kendall. "My joint's just around the corner, and I've got a prime liniment to rub on. Suppose you come in and I'll give you some." "Glad to," agreed Joe. "I don't believe I've got a bit at my shack, and the drug stores are all closed." "Come along then--here, lean on me," and Kendall proffered his arm, for which Joe was grateful. "Here we are," announced Kendall a little later, as they turned into a building where some of the wealthier students had their rooms. "Sorry it's up a flight." "Oh, I can make it," said Joe, keeping back an exclamation of pain that was on his lips. "We'll just have a look at it," continued his new friend. "I've known a strain like that to last a long while if not treated properly. A little rubbing at the right time does a lot of good." Joe looked in delight at the room of his newly found friend. It was tastefully, and even richly, furnished, but with a quiet atmosphere differing from the usual college apartment. "You've got a nice place here," he remarked, thinking that, after all, there might be more to Yale life than he had supposed. "Oh, it'll do. Here's the stuff. Now off with your shoe and we'll have a look at that ankle. I'm a sort of doctor--look after the football lads sometimes. Are you trying for the eleven?" "No, baseball is my stunt." "Yes? So's mine." "You catch, don't you?" asked Joe. "I've heard of 'Shorty' Kendall." "That's me," came with a laugh. "Oh, that's not so bad," he went on as he looked at Joe's foot. "A little swelled. Here, I'll give it a rub," and in spite of Joe's half-hearted protests he proceeded to massage the ankle until it felt much better. "Try to step on it," directed Shorty Kendall. Joe did so, and found that he could bear his weight on it with less pain. "I guess you'll do," announced the Junior. "Cut along to your room now--or say--hold on, I can fix you up here for the night. I've got a couch----" "No, thank you," expostulated Joe. "The boys would worry if I didn't come back." "You could send word----" "No, I'll trot along. Much obliged." "Take that liniment with you," directed Kendall. "Won't you need it?" "Not until the diamond season opens, and that's some time off yet. Good night--can you make the stairs?" "Yes--don't bother to come down," and Joe limped out. As he reached the first hall he was made aware that someone was coming in the front door. Before he could reach it the portal opened and a student hurried in, making for a room near the main entrance. In the glare of the hall light Joe saw that the youth was Ford Weston. He also saw something else. On Weston's hand was a red smear--brilliant--scarlet. At first Joe thought it was blood, but a slight odor in the air told him it was paint. An instant later his eyes met those of the rival pitcher--at least Joe hoped to make him a rival--and Weston started. Then he thrust his smeared hand into his pocket, and, without a word, hurried into his room and slammed the door. CHAPTER XII JOE'S SILENCE "Rather queer," mused Joe, after a moment's silence. "I wonder he didn't say something to me after what happened. So he rooms here? It's a great shack. I suppose if I stay here the full course I'll be in one of these joints. But I don't believe I'm going to stay. If I get a chance on the 'varsity nine next year and make good--then a professional league for mine." He limped out of the dormitory, and the pain in his ankle made him keenly aware of the fact that if he did not attend to it he might be lame for some time. "Red paint," he murmured as he let himself out. "I wonder what Weston was doing with it? Could he---- Oh, I guess it's best not to think too much in cases like this." He reached his rooming place and trod along the hall, his injured foot making an uneven staccato tattoo on the floor. "Well, what happened to you?" "Where did you hike to?" "Were you down to Glory's all by your lonesome?" "What'd you give us the slip for?" "Come on; give an account of yourself." These were only a few of the greetings that welcomed him as he entered his apartment to find there, snugly ensconced on the beds, chair, sofa and table, his own room-mate and the other friends who had gone out that wild night. "What's the matter?" demanded Spike, in some alarm, as he saw his friend limping. "Oh, nothing much. Twisted ankle. I'll be all right in the morning. How did you fellows make out?" "Nothing doing," said Ricky. "The boobs that shampooed us split after we got on their trail, and we lost 'em. Did you see anything of 'em?" "Not much," said Joe, truthfully enough. "Then where did you go?" He explained how he had twisted on his ankle, and turned back, and how, in coming home, he had met Kendall. He said nothing of watching Weston and another chap do something to the stoop of the unknown professor's house. "Mighty white of Kendall," was Spike's opinion, and it was voiced by all. "Oh, what a night!" exclaimed Slim Jones. "Home was never like this!" "Well, you fellows can sit up the rest of the night if you want to," said Joe, after a pause; "but I'm going to put my foot to bed." "I guess that's the best place for all of us," agreed Ricky. "Come on, fellows; I have got some hard practice to-morrow. I may be called to the 'varsity." "Like pie!" jeered Slim Jones. "Oh, ho! Don't you worry," taunted Ricky. "I'll make it." There was a sensation the next morning. It seemed that a well-known and very literary professor, returning from a lecture from out of town, before a very learned society, had slipped and fallen on his own front porch, going down in some greasy red paint that had been smeared over the steps. The professor had sprained a wrist, and his clothing had been soiled, but this was not the worst of it. He had taken with him, on his lecture, some exceedingly rare and valuable Babylonian manuscripts to enhance his talk, and, in his fall these parchments had scattered from his portfolio, and several of them had been projected into the red paint, being ruined thereby. And, as the manuscripts had been taken from the Yale library, the loss was all the more keen. "I say, Joe, did you hear the news?" gasped Ricky, as he rushed into his friend's room, just before the chapel call. "No. Is there a row over the shampooing?" "Shampooing nothing! It's red paint, and some of those musty manuscripts that a prof. had," and he poured out the tale. "Red paint?" murmured Joe. "Yes. There's a fierce row over it, and the Dean has taken it up. If the fellows are found out they'll be expelled sure. Oh, but it was a night! But the red paint was the limit." Joe did not answer, but in a flash there came to him the scene where Weston had entered his room, thrusting his hand into his pocket--a hand smeared with red. "Fierce row," went on Ricky, who was a natural reporter, always hearing sensations almost as soon as they happened. "The prof. went sprawling on his steps, not knowing the goo was there and the papers---- Oh me! Oh my! I wonder who did it?" "Hard to tell I guess," answered Joe, "with the bunch that was out last night." "That's so. I'm glad it wasn't any of our fellows. We all stuck together--that is all but you----" and, as if struck by a sudden thought, he gazed anxiously at Joe. "Oh, I can prove an _alibi_ all right," laughed the pitcher. "Don't worry." "Glad of it. Well, let's hike. There goes the bell." There was indeed a "fierce row," over the spoiling of the rare manuscripts, and the Dean himself appealed to the honor of the students to tell, if they knew, who the guilty one was. But Joe Matson kept silent. There was an investigation, of course, but it was futile, for nothing of moment was disclosed. It was several days later when Joe, strolling across the college campus after a lecture, came face to face with Weston. For a moment they stood staring at one another. The hot blood welled up into the cheeks of the 'varsity pitcher, and he seemed to be trying to hide his hand--the hand that had held the red smear. Then, without a word, he passed on. And Joe Matson still maintained his silence. The Fall passed. The Yale eleven swept on to a glorious championship. The Christmas vacation came and went and Joe spent happy days at home. He was beginning to be more and more a Yale man and yet--there was something constrained in him. His parents noticed it. "I--I don't think Joe is very happy," ventured Clara, after he had gone back to college. "Happy--why not?" challenged her mother. "Oh, I don't know. He hasn't said much about baseball." "Baseball!" chuckled Mr. Matson, as he looked out of the window at the wintry New England landscape. "This is sleigh-riding weather--not baseball." "Oh, I do wish Joe would give up his foolish idea," sighed Mrs. Matson. "He can never make anything of himself at baseball. A minister now, preaching to a large congregation----" "I guess, mother, if you'd ever been to a big ball game, and seen thousands of fans leaning over their seats while the pitcher got ready to deliver a ball at a critical point in the contest, you'd think he had some congregation himself," said Mr. Matson, with another chuckle. "Oh, well, what's the use talking to you?" demanded his wife; and there the subject was dropped. Joe went back to Yale. He was doing fairly well in his lessons, but not at all brilliantly. Study came hard to him. He was longing for the Spring days and the green grass of the diamond. Gradually the talk turned from debating clubs, from glees and concerts, to baseball. The weather raged and stormed, but there began to be the hint of mildness in the wintry winds. In various rooms lads began rummaging through trunks and valises, getting out old gloves that needed mending. The cage in the gymnasium was wheeled out and some repairs made to it. "By Jove!" cried Joe one day, "I--I begin to feel as if I had the spring fever." "Baseball fever you mean," corrected Spike. "It's the same thing, old man." Jimmie Lee, a little Freshman who roomed not far from Joe's shack, came bursting in a little later. "Hurray!" he yelled, slapping our hero on the back. "Heard the news?" "What news?" asked Spike. "Have you been tapped for Skull and Bones, or Wolf's Head?" "Neither, you old iconoclast. But the notice is up." "What notice?" "Baseball candidates are to report in the gym. to-morrow afternoon. Hurray!" and he dealt Spike a resounding blow. Joe Matson's eyes sparkled. CHAPTER XIII EARLY PRACTICE "What are you going to try for?" "Have you played much before you came here?" "Oh, rats! I don't believe I'll have any show with all this bunch!" "Hey, quit shoving; will you?" "Oh, Rinky-Dink! Over here!" "Hi, Weston, we're looking for you." "There goes Shorty Kendall. He'll sure catch this year." "Hello, Mac! Think you'll beat Weston to it this year?" "I might," was the cool reply. The above were only a few of the many challenges, shouts, calls and greetings that were bandied from side to side as the students, who had been waiting long for this opportunity, crowded into the gymnasium. It was the preliminary sifting and weeding out of the mass of material offered on the altar of baseball. At best but a small proportion of the candidates could hope to make the 'varsity, or even a class team, but this did not lessen the throng that crowded about the captain, manager and coaches, eagerly waiting for favorable comment. "Well, we're here!" exulted Jimmie Lee, who had, the night before, brought to Joe the good news that the ball season had at least started to open. "Yes, we're here," agreed Joe. "And what will happen to us?" asked Spike Poole. "It doesn't look to me as if much would." "Oh, don't fool yourself," declared Jimmie, who, being very lively, had learned many of the ropes, and who, by reason of ferreting about, had secured much information. "The coaches aren't going to let anything good get by 'em. Did you see Benson looking at me! Ahem! And I think I have Whitfield's eye! Nothing like having nerve, is there? Joe, hold up your hand and wriggle it--they're trying to see where you're located," and, with a laugh at his conceit, Jimmie shoved into the crowd trying to get nearer the centre of interest--to wit, where the old players who served as coaches were conferring with the captain. The latter was Tom Hatfield, a Junior whose remarkable playing at short had won him much fame. Mr. William Benson and Mr. James Whitfield were two of the coaches. George Farley was the manager, and a short stocky man, with a genial Irish face, who answered to the name of Dick McLeary, was the well-liked trainer. "Well, if I can make the outfield I suppose I ought to be satisfied," spoke Jimmie Lee. "But I did want to get on a bag, or somewhere inside the diamond." "I'll take to the daisies and be thankful," remarked Spike; "though I would like to be behind the bat." "Carrying bats would do me for a starter," spoke a tall lad near Joe. "But I suppose I'll be lucky if they let me play on the Freshman team. Anyhow as long as I don't get left out of it altogether I don't mind. What are you going to try for?" he asked of our hero. "I would like to pitch. I twirled at Excelsior Hall, and I think I can play on the mound better than anywhere else, though that's not saying I'm such a muchness as a pitcher," added Joe, modestly. "I did hope to get on the 'varsity, but----" "Pitch!" exclaimed the other frankly. "Say, you've got as much chance to pitch on the 'varsity as I have of taking the Dean's place to-morrow. Pitch on the 'varsity! Say, I'm not saying anything against you, Matson, for maybe you can pitch, but Weston has the place cinched, and if he falls down there's Harry McAnish, a southpaw. He stands about second choice." "Oh, I've been disillusioned," said Joe frankly. "I know I can't get on the 'varsity this year. But don't they have more than one pitcher in reserve?" "Oh, yes, sure. But Bert Avondale comes next, and I have heard that he's even better than Weston, but Weston is steadier--in most games. I don't want to discourage you, but you'd better try for some other place than pitcher." "No, I'm going to try for there," said Joe in a low voice. "I may not make it, but if I get a chance to show what I can do, and then fall down, I won't kick. I mean next year, of course," he added. "Oh, you may get a chance all right. Every fellow does at Yale. But you're up against some of the best college baseball material that ever came over the pike. Sometimes I think I've got nerve even to dream of a class team. But listen--they're going to start the fun now." The manager was speaking, announcing more or less formally, that which everyone knew already--that they had reported to allow a sort of preliminary looking over of the candidates. There were several of the former ball team who would play, it was said, but there was always need and a chance, for new material. All save Freshmen would be given an opportunity, the manager said, and then he emphasized the need of hard work and training for those who were given the responsibility of carrying the blue of Yale to victory on the diamond. "And, no less does this responsibility rest on the scrub, or second team," went on Farley. "For on the efficiency of the scrub depends the efficiency of the 'varsity, since good opposition is needed in bringing out the best points of the first team." Farley, who was one of the old players, acting as a coach, went on to add: "I have used the word 'scrub' and 'second team,' though, as you well know, there is nothing like that here at Yale, that is as compared to football. When I say 'scrub' I mean one of the class teams, the Freshman, Sophomore or Junior, for, in a measure, while separate and distinct teams themselves, they will serve us the same purpose as a scrub or substitute team would in football. They will give us something to practice with--some opposition--for you've got to have two nines to make a ball game," and he smiled at the anxious ones looking at him. "So," he went on, "when I use the word 'scrub' after this, or when any of the other coaches do, I want you to understand that it will mean one of the class teams which, for the purpose of strengthening the 'varsity, and enabling it to practice, acts as opposition. "Sometimes the 'varsity will play one team, and sometimes another, for the class teams will have their own contests to look after, to win, we hope; to lose, we hope not. I wish I could give you Freshmen encouragement that you could make the 'varsity, but, under the rules, none of you can. Now we'll get down to business." He gave encouragement to many, and consoled those who might fail, or, at best, make only a class team. Then he introduced the captain--Tom Hatfield--who was received with a rousing cheer. "Well, fellows," said Hatfield, "I haven't much to say. This is my first experience at the head of a big college nine, though you know I've played with you in many games." "That's right--and played well, too!" yelled someone. "Three cheers for Hatfield!" They were given with a will, and the captain resumed. "Of course we're going to win this year, even if we didn't last." This was received in silence, for the losing of the championship to Princeton the previous season had been a sore blow to Yale. "We're going to win," went on Hatfield in a quiet voice; "but, just because we are, don't let that fool you into getting careless. We've all got to work hard--to train hard--and we've got to practice. I expect every man to report regularly whether he thinks he has a chance to make the 'varsity or not. It's part of the game, and we've all got to play it--scrub and 'varsity alike. "I guess that's all I've got to say, though I may have more later, after we get started. The coaches will take charge now and you'll have to do as they say. We won't do much to-day, just some catching and a bit of running to see how each fellow's wind is." He nodded to the coaches and trainer, and as he stepped back once more came the cry: "Three cheers for Hatfield. Good old Yale cheers!" The gymnasium rang with them, and then came the Boola song, after which the crowd formed in close line and did the serpentine dance. "Now then, get busy!" commanded Mr. Benson. "Old players over that side, and the new ones here. Give in your names, and say where you've played. Lively now!" He and Mr. Whitfield began circulating among the candidates, and, as they approached him, Joe felt his heart beginning to beat faster. Would he have a chance? And, if he got it, could he make good? These were the questions he asked him. "Name?" "Matson--Joe." "Hum. Yes. Ever played before?" "Yes, on a school nine." "Where?" "Excelsior Hall." "Hum! Yes. Never heard of it. Where did you play?" "I pitched." "Pitched. Hum! Yes. I never saw so many pitchers as we have this season. Well, I'll put you down for your Freshman class team, though I can't give you much encouragement," and Mr. Benson turned to the next lad. "Go over there and do some throwing, I'll watch you later," he concluded, and Joe's heart began to sink as he saw Spike motioning to him to come to one side and indulge in some practice balls. "How'd you make out?" asked his room-mate. "Oh, I'm engaged right off the bat," laughed Joe, but he could not conceal the anxiety in the voice that he strove to make indifferent. "So? Then you had better luck than I. Whitfield told me he didn't think I had the right build for a catcher." "Well, maybe we can both make our scrub class team," spoke Joe. "Say, it hasn't half begun yet," declared Jimmie Lee, who had a hankering to play first base. "Wait until the main coach gets here, and we'll have a shake-up that'll set some people on their ears." "What do you mean?" asked Joe wonderingly. "I mean that the main gazaboo isn't here yet: Mr. Forsythe Hasbrook--old Horsehide they call him. He's the main coach. These are only his assistants." "Is that so?" inquired Spike. "It sure is. He's the real thing in baseball--Horsehide is. An old Yale man, but up-to-date. Played ever since he was a baby, and knows the game from A to Z. He never gets here until the preliminary practice has begun on the field, and then it doesn't take him long to size a fellow up. Of course I only know what I've been told," he added, "but that goes all right." "Well, if we didn't get picked for the team now, I don't believe we'll have any chance after the main coach gets here," said Joe. "Guess not," assented Spike. "Here we go." And they started to practice. CHAPTER XIV THE SURPRISE "Oh, get a little more speed on! Don't run so much like an ice wagon. Remember that the object is to get to the base before the ball does!" "Lively now! Throw that in as if you meant it! We're not playing bean bag, remember!" "Oh, swing to it! Swing to it! Make your body do some of the work as well as your arms!" "Don't be afraid of the ball! It's hard, of course, that's the way it's made. But if you're going to flinch every time it comes your way you might as well play ping-pong!" "Stand up to the plate! What if you do get hit?" Thus the coaches were trying to instill into the new candidates for the 'varsity nine some rudiments of how they thought the game should be played. Sharp and bitter the words were sometimes, bitten off with a snap and exploded with cutting sarcasm, but it was their notion of how to get the best out of a man, and perhaps it was. "Remember we want to win games," declared Mr. Benson. "We're not on the diamond to give a ladies' exhibition. You've got to play, and play hard if you want to represent Yale." "That's right," chimed in Mr. Whitfield. "We've got to have the college championship this year. We've _GOT_ to have it. Now try that over," he commanded of Ford Weston, who had struck one man out in practice. "Do it again. That's the kind of playing we want." Joe, who had been catching with Spike, looked enviously at his rival, who was on the coveted mound, taking in succession many batters as they came up. Shorty Kendall was catching for the 'varsity pitcher, and the balls came into his big mitt with a resounding whack that told of speed. "I wonder if I'll ever get there," mused Joe, and, somehow he regretted, for the first time since coming to Yale, that he had consented to the college arrangement. It seemed so impossible for him to make way against the handicap of other players ahead of him. "If I'd finished at Excelsior," he told himself, "I think I'd have gotten into some minor league where good playing tells, and not class. Hang it all!" The practice went on. It was the first of the outdoor playing, and while the gymnasium work had seemed to develop some new and unexpectedly good material, the real test of the diamond sent some of the more hopeful candidates back on the waiting list. As yet Joe had been given scant notice. He had been told to bat, pitch, catch and run, but that was all. He had done it, but it had all seemed useless. The day was a perfect Spring one, and the diamond was in excellent condition. It had been rather wet, but the wind had dried it, and, though there were still evidences of frost in the ground, they would soon disappear under the influence of the warm sun. In various sorts of uniforms, scattered over the big field, the candidates went at their practice with devotion and zeal. Winning a baseball game may not be much in the eyes of the world, getting the college championship may seem a small matter to the man of affairs--to the student or the politician, intent on bigger matters. But to the college lads themselves it meant much--it was a large part of their life. And, after all, isn't life just one big game; and if we play it fairly and squarely and win--isn't that all there is to it? And, in a measure, doesn't playing at an athletic game fit one to play in life? It isn't always the winning that counts, but the spirit of fair play, the love for the square deal, the respect for a worthy foe, and the determination not to give up until you are fairly beaten--all these things count for much. So, after all, one can not blame the college lads for the intense interest they take in their games. It is the best kind of training for life, for it is clean and healthful. For a week or more this preliminary practice was kept up. The weather remained fine, and every afternoon the diamond was the scene of much excitement. The candidates reported faithfully, and worked hard. There were many shifts from some of the Sophomore or Junior nines to the 'varsity, and back again. Some who had been called to the "scrub," as I shall call the class nines when they practiced against the 'varsity, were sent back to the waiting list--at best to bunt balls to their fellows, to pitch or catch as suited the positions they hoped to fill. Nor was it all easy work, it was really hard toil. It is one thing to play ball without much care as to the outcome, to toss the horsehide back and forth, and, if it is missed, only to laugh. It is one thing to try to bat, to watch the ball coming toward you, wondering what sort of a curve will break, and whether you will hit it or miss it--or whether it will hit you--it is one thing to do that in a friendly little game, and laugh if you strike out. But when making a nine depends on whether your stick connects with the sphere--when getting the college letter for your sweater can be made, or unmade, by this same catching of the ball, then there is a different story back of it. There is a nervous tension that tires one almost as much as severe physical labor. And there is hard physical work, too. Of course it is a welcome change from the class-room work, or the lectures, to get out on the diamond, but it is work, none the less. Then there are the coaches to put up with. I never was a coach, though I have played under them, and I suppose there is some virtue in the method they use--that of driving the men. And when a lad has done his best, has stood up to the ball, and clouted at it for all he is worth, only to fan the yielding air, it is rather discouraging to hear the coach remark sarcastically: "You're not playing ping-pong, you know, Jones." Or to hear him say with vinegary sweetness: "Did you hurt yourself that time, Smith? It was a beautiful wind blow, but--er--pardon me if I mention, just for your benefit you know, that the object in this game is to _hit the ball_. You hit it, and then you run--run, understand, not walk. And another thing, don't be so afraid of it. "Of course this isn't a rubber ball, of the sort you probably used to play baby in the hole with--it's hard, and when it hits you it's going to hurt. But--don't let it hit you, and for cats' sake stand up to the plate!" It's a way coaches have, I suppose, and always will. Joe felt so, at any rate, and he had rather one would fairly howl at him, in all sorts of strenuous language, than use that sarcastic tone. And I think I agree with him. There is something you get at when a coach yells at you: "Come on there you snail! Are you going to hold that base all day? Someone else wants to get past you know. "Come on in! We need that run! Move as if you meant it! Don't fall asleep! Oh, for cats' sake, fanning the air again? Run now! That's it. Slide! Don't be afraid of soiling your clothes, we'll buy you another suit!" I hold this is preferable to the soft and sarcastic method, but they used both varieties at Yale, and Joe sometimes got so discouraged at times that he felt like resigning. It was harder than he had dreamed of, and he had not pictured a rosy time for himself. "I don't believe I'm ever going to make even the class scrub, Spike," said Joe to his room-mate one day, following some long practice, when he had not even been called on to bat. "Oh, yes you will," declared his friend. "You can pitch--you know it, and I know it. I haven't caught off you these two weeks for nothing. You can pitch, and they'll find it out sooner or later. Don't give up!" "I'm not going to. And say, come to think of it, you're no better off than I am. They haven't noticed you either, and yet I've never seen anyone who held the balls any better than you do. And, as for throwing to second--say, you've got Kendall beaten." "I'm glad you think so," murmured Spike. "I know it!" insisted Joe. "I've played in a few games. But what's the use of kicking? Maybe our chance will come." "I hope so," replied Spike. The practice went on, the elimination and weeding out process being carried on with firm hands, regardless of the heart-breaks caused. "First game to-morrow," announced Jimmie Lee, bursting into Joe's room one evening. "It's just been decided." "Who do we play?" asked Spike. Joe felt his heart sink down lower than ever, for he realized that if he had a chance he would have heard of it by this time. "Oh, it isn't a regular game," went on Jimmie, who was jubilant from having heard that he would at least start at first base for the class team. "The scrub, as they call it, and 'varsity will play the first regular contest. Horsehide is to be there for the first time. Then there'll be something doing. I only hope he sees me." "The first regular practice game to-morrow," mused Joe. "Well, it will be a good one--to watch." "Yes--to watch," joined in Spike, grimly. "But the season is early yet, Joe." As they were talking the door opened and Ricky Hanover came in. He was grinning broadly. "Let's go out and have some sport," he proposed. "It's as dull as ditch water around here. Come on out and raise a riot. I'll take you fellows down to Glory's, and you can have a rabbit." "Get out!" cried Spike. "We're in training, you heathen, and you're not." "A precious lot of good it will do you," commented the newcomer. "Why don't you chuck it all? You'll never make the team--I mean you and Joe, Spike. Jimmie here has had luck. Chuck it and come on out." "No," spoke Joe slowly. "I'm going to stick." "So am I," added his room-mate. "You never can tell when your chance will come. Besides, we owe it to Yale to stick." "All right--I suppose you're right," agreed Ricky, with a sigh. "I did the same thing at football. But I sure do want to start something." "Begin on that," laughed Joe passing him over the alarm clock. "It's run down. Wind it and start it going!" Ricky joined in the laugh against him, and soon took his departure. Joe heard him come in at an early morning hour, and wondered what "sport" Ricky had been up to. A large gathering turned out to see the first real baseball contest of the season. By it a line could be had on the sort of game the 'varsity would put up, and all the students were eager to see what sort of championship material they had. There was a conference between coaches and captains, and the 'varsity list was announced Weston was to pitch, and Kendall to catch. Neither Joe's name, nor those of any of his intimate chums were called off for a class team. Joe did have some hope of the scrub, but when the name of the last man there had been called off, Joe's was not mentioned. He moved off to the side, with bitterness in his heart. The game started off rather tamely, though the class pitcher--Bert Avondale--managed to strike out two of the 'varsity men, to the disgust of the coaches, who raced about, imploring their charges to hit the ball. At the same time they called on the scrub to do their best to prevent the 'varsity men from getting to the bases. It was playing one against the other, just as diamond dust is used to cut the precious stones of which it once formed a part. "Well, I haven't seen anything wonderful," remarked Joe to Spike, after the first inning. "No, they're a little slow warming up. But wait. Oh, I say, here he comes!" "Who?" "The head coach--Horsehide himself. I heard he was to be here to-day. It's his first appearance. Now they'll walk Spanish." Across the back-field a man was approaching--a man who was eagerly surrounded by many of the candidates, and he was cheered to the echo, while murmurs of his name reached Joe. "Let's go up and have a look at him," proposed Spike. "Go ahead," agreed Joe, for the game had momentarily stopped at the advent of the head coach. He was shaking hands all around, and, as Joe approached, Mr. Forsythe Hasbrook turned to greet someone behind him. Joe had a good look at his face, and to his great surprise he recognized it as that of the man whom he had driven to the depot in such a rush to catch a train. "And he's Yale's head coach!" murmured Joe. "I--I wonder if he'll remember me?" CHAPTER XV HIS FIRST CHANCE Joe Matson's hope of a quick recognition from the man he had helped that day, and who had turned out to be Yale's head coach, was doomed to disappointment, for Mr. Hasbrook--or, to give him the title lovingly bestowed on him by the players, "Horsehide"--had something else to do just then besides recognizing casual acquaintances. He wanted to watch the playing. After a brief conference between himself and the other two coaches, in which the 'varsity captain had a part, Horsehide motioned for the playing to be resumed. He said little at first, and then when Weston, who was pitching, made a partial motion to throw the ball to first base, to catch a man there, but did not complete his evident intention, Mr. Hasbrook called out: "Hold on there! Wait a minute, Weston. That was as near a balk as I've ever seen, and if this was a professional game you might lose it for us, just as one of the world series was, by a pitcher who did the same thing." "What do you mean?" asked Weston, slightly surprised. "I mean that pretending to throw a ball to first, and not completing the action, is a balk, and your opponents could claim it if they had been sharp enough. Where were your eyes?" he asked, of the scrub captain. "I--er--I didn't think----" "That's what your brains are for," snapped the head coach. "You can't play ball without brains, any more than you can without bases or a bat. Watch every move. It's the best general who wins battles--baseball or war. Now go on, and don't do that again, Weston, and, if he does, you call a balk on him and advance each man a base," ordered Horsehide. The 'varsity pitcher and the scrub captain looked crestfallen, but it was a lesson they needed to learn. "He's sharp, isn't he?" said Joe. "That's what makes him the coach he is," spoke Spike. "What's the use of soft-soap? That never made a ball nine." "No, I suppose not." Joe was wondering whether he ought to mention to his chum the chance meeting with Mr. Hasbrook, but he concluded that a wrong impression might get out and so he kept quiet, as he had done in the matter of the red paint on the porch. Nothing more had been heard about that act of vandalism, though the professor who had fallen and spoiled the valuable manuscripts was reported to be doing some quiet investigating. "I believe Weston had a hand in it," thought Joe, "but I'm not going to say anything. He had red paint on him, anyhow. I wonder what he has against me, and if he can do anything to keep me from getting a chance? If I thought so I'd--no, I can't do anything. I've just got to take it as it comes. If I do get a chance, though, I think I can make good." The practice game went on, developing weak spots in both nines, and several shifts were made. But the 'varsity pitcher remained the same, and Joe watched Weston narrowly, trying to find out his good points. For Weston had them. He was not a brilliant twirler, but he was a steady one, in the main, and he had considerable speed, but not much of a curve. Still he did manage to strike out a number of his opponents. The game was almost over, and the 'varsity had it safely in hand. They had not obtained it without hard work, however, and they had made many glaring errors, but in this they were not alone. "Though, for that matter," declared Joe, "I think the scrub pitcher did better, and had better support, than the 'varsity. I don't see why the scrubs didn't win." "It's just because they know they're playing against the 'varsity," declared Spike. "There's a sort of nervousness that makes 'em forget to do the things they could do if it was some other nine. Sort of over-awed I guess." "Maybe," assented Joe. "Well, here's the end," and the game came to a close. "Now for the post-mortem," remarked his room-mate. "The coaches and captain will get together and talk it over." "Then we might as well vamoose," said Joe. "They won't need us." "I guess not. Come on." The boys strolled from the diamond. As they passed a group of the 'varsity players surrounding the coaches, Joe saw Mr. Hasbrook step forward. He had a bat and seemed to be illustrating some of the weak points of the plays just made, or to be about to demonstrate how properly to swing at a ball. As Joe came opposite him the head coach stepped out a little and saw our hero. For a moment he stared unrecognizingly at him, and then a smile came over his rugged face. His eyes lighted up, and, stepping forward, he held out his hand. "Why, how do you do!" he exclaimed. "I know you--I'm sure I've seen you somewhere before, and under queer circumstances, too, but I can't just recall--hold on, wait a moment!" he exclaimed, as he saw Joe about to speak. "I like to make my brain work. "Ah! I have it! You're the young fellow who drove me to the station, in time to catch the New York train, the day my carriage wheel broke. Well, but I'm glad to see you again! That was a great service you did me, and I haven't forgotten it. Are you attending here?" "Yes," said Joe, glad that he had not been forgotten. "Good! Are you playing ball?" "Well--er--I--that is I haven't----" "Oh, I see. You're trying for your team. Good! I'm glad to hear it. It's a great game--the greatest there is. And so you are at Yale--Matson--you see I haven't forgotten your name. I never expected to meet you here. Do you know the other coaches?" "I've met them," murmured Joe, and he half smiled in a grim fashion, for that was about as far as his acquaintanceship had progressed. He had met them but they did not know him apart from many others. "Good!" exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook. "Well, I'll see you again. And so you're at Yale? Look me up when you get time," and he turned back to his instruction, murmuring to the other coaches: "He did me quite a service some time ago. I'm glad to see him again. Seems like a nice lad." The others murmured an assent, and then gave their whole attention to the man who had, more than anyone else, perhaps, mastered the science of baseball as it ought to be played. "Well, say, you've got a friend at court all right!" exclaimed Spike, as he and Joe strolled along. "If I had your chance I'd----" "Chance!" exclaimed Joe. "What better chance have I than I had before?" "Why, you know Horsehide! Why didn't you say so?" "I didn't know I did until a little while ago. I had no idea that the man I picked up and took to the station would turn out to be the Yale coach. But if you think he's going to put me in ahead of the others just on that account you're mistaken." "Oh, I don't say that." "It wouldn't be square," went on Joe. "Of course not. But as long as he does know you he might at least prevail on the other coaches to give you a better chance than you've had so far." "Well, maybe," laughed Joe. "But I'm not expecting anything like that." "Well, just remember me when your chance does come," begged Spike. "And remember that I told you." "I will," declared Joe, with a laugh, and then he added more earnestly: "If ever I do get on the mound, Spike, I'll try to have you catch for me." "I wish you would!" As they went off the field they saw the knot of players still gathered about the head, and other coaches, receiving instructions, and how Joe Matson wished he was there none but himself knew. In their rooms that afternoon and evening the ball players talked of little save the result of the first real clash between 'varsity and scrub, and the effect of the return of the head coach. It was agreed that the 'varsity, after all, had made a very creditable showing, while the upholders of the class team players gave them much praise. "But things will begin to hum now!" exclaimed Jimmie Lee, as he sat in Joe's room, while the beds, sofa and table, to say nothing of the floor, were encumbered with many lads of the Red Shack, and some visitors from other places. "Yes, sir! Horsehide won't stand for any nonsense. They'll all have to toe the line now." "Jove, weren't the other coaches stiff enough?" asked Clerkinwell De Vere, who aspired to right field. "They certainly laced into me for further orders when I muffed a ball." "And so they should," declared Spike. "That's what they're for." "Oh, but wait until you do that when Horsehide sees you," went on Jimmie. "That won't be a marker, will it, Shorty?" "I should say not. He'll make your hair curl all right. He's a terror." "Friend of Joe's here," put in Spike. "No! is he?" demanded Ricky Hanover, who had drifted in. "How's that?" "Oh, I just met him by accident," declared our hero. "It isn't worth mentioning." He told the incident after some urging. "I wish I stood in your shoes," said De Vere. "I'd be sure of my place then." "Nothing of the sort!" exclaimed Jimmie Lee. "If Horsehide played favorites that way, he wouldn't be the coach he is. That's one thing about him--he makes his friends work harder than anyone else. I know he did it other seasons--everyone says so." "Oh, he's square," chimed in another. "There's not a better coach living, and none you can depend on more. All he wants is to see good, clean playing, and Yale to win." Joe could not help thinking of the coincidence of meeting the head coach but, though he did have slight hopes that it might lead to something, he resolutely put them out of his mind. "I don't want to get on even the 'varsity that way!" he said to himself that night, when the visitors were gone, and he and Spike had turned in. "I want to win my way." Nevertheless, he could not help a feeling of slight nervousness the next day, when he reported for practice. "Well, same old gag over again I suppose," remarked Spike, as they went out to toss and catch. "I suppose so," agreed Joe. He passed Mr. Hasbrook, who was giving some instructions to the fielders just before the 'varsity-class game, but the head coach did not even notice Joe. After some batting and catching, and some warming-up work on the part of the pitchers, Mr. Benson called for a cessation of practice. "Here is the batting order and positions of the nines for to-day," he announced, producing a paper. He began to read off the names. For the 'varsity they were the same as the day before. Joe, who had permitted himself a faint hope, felt his heart sinking. "For the opposition, or scrub," announced the assistant coach, and he ran down the line, until there was but one place unfilled--that of pitcher. "Joe Matson!" he called, sharply. CHAPTER XVI JOE MAKES GOOD For a moment our hero could scarcely believe his good fortune. He had been called to pitch for the scrub! Once more as he stood there, scarcely comprehending, Mr. Benson called out sharply: "Didn't you hear, Matson? You're to pitch against the 'varsity, and I want you to beat 'em!" "Yes--yes, sir," answered Joe, in a sort of daze. "And, 'varsity, if you don't pound him all over the field you're no good! Eat 'em up!" snapped the assistant coach. "Don't let 'em win, scrub," insisted Mr. Whitfield, and thus it went on--playing one against the other to get the 'varsity to do its best. "Play ball!" called the umpire. "Get to work. Come in, you fellows," and he motioned to those who were out on the field warming up. "Congratulations, old man!" murmured Spike, as he shook Joe's hand. "You deserve it." "And so do you. I wish you were going to catch." "I wish so, too, but maybe my chance will come later. Fool 'em now." "I'll try." Joe had a vision of Bert Avondale, the regular scrub pitcher, moving to the bench, and for an instant his heart smote him, as he noted Bert's despondent attitude. "It's tough to be displaced," murmured Joe. "It's a queer world where your success has to be made on someone else's failure, and yet--well, it's all in the game. I may not make good, but I'm going to try awfully hard!" He wondered how his advancement had come about, and naturally he reasoned that his preferment had resulted from the words spoken in private by Mr. Hasbrook. "I wonder if I'd better thank him?" mused Joe. "It would be the right thing to do, and yet it would look as if he gave me the place by favor instead of because I've got a right to have it, for the reason that I can pitch. And yet he doesn't know that I can pitch worth a cent, unless some of the other coaches have told him. But they haven't watched me enough to know. However, I think I'll say nothing until I have made good." Had Joe only known it, he had been more closely watched since his advent on the diamond than he had suspected. It is not the coach who appears to be taking notes of a man's style of play who seems to find out most. Mr. Hasbrook, once he found that the lad who had rendered him such a service was at Yale, and had aspirations to the nine, made inquiries of the coaches who had done the preliminary work. "Oh, Matson. Hum, yes. He does fairly well," admitted Mr. Benson. "He has a nice, clean delivery. He isn't much on batting, though." "Few pitchers are," remarked the head coach. "I wonder if it would do to give him a trial?" "I should say so--yes," put in Mr. Whitfield. He was quick to see that his co-worker had a little prejudice in Joe's favor, and, to do the assistant coaches justice, they both agreed that Joe had done very well. But there were so many ahead of him--men who had been at Yale longer--that in justice they must be tried out first. "Then we'll try him on the scrub," decided Mr. Hasbrook; and so it had come about that Joe's name was called. In order to give the scrubs every opportunity to beat the 'varsity, and so that those players would work all the harder to clinch the victory, the scrubs were allowed to go to bat last, thus enhancing their chances. "Play ball!" yelled the umpire again. "It's getting late. Play ball!" Joe, a little nervous, walked to the box, and caught the new white ball which was tossed to him. As he was rubbing some dirt on it, to take off the smoothness of the horsehide, Mr. Hasbrook advanced toward him and motioned him to wait. "Matson," said the head coach, smiling genially. "You wouldn't let me reward you for the great favor you did me a while ago, though I wanted to. I hoped sometime to be able to reciprocate, but I never thought it would come in this way. I have decided to give you a chance to make good." "And I can't thank you enough!" burst out the young pitcher. "I feel that----" "Tut! Tut!" exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook, holding up his hand, "I wouldn't have done this if I didn't think you had pitching stuff in you. In a way this isn't a favor at all, but you're right though, it might not have come so quickly. I appreciate your feelings, but there are a few things I want to say. "At Yale every man stands on his own feet. There is no favoritism. Wealth doesn't count, as I guess you've found out. Membership in the Senior Societies--Skull and Bones, Scroll and Keys--Wolf's Head--doesn't count--though, as you will find, those exclusive organizations take their members because of what they have done--not of what they are. "And so I'm giving you a chance to see what is in you. I'd like to see you make good, and I believe you will. But--if you don't--that ends it. Every tub must stand on its own bottom--you've got to stand on your feet. I've given you a chance. Maybe it would have come anyhow, but, out of friendship to you, and because of the service you did me, I was instrumental in having it come earlier. That is not favoritism. You can't know how much you did for me that day when you enabled me to get the train that, otherwise, I would have missed. "It was not exactly a matter of life and death, but it was of vital importance to me. I would be ungrateful, indeed, if I did not repay you in the only way I could--by giving you the chance to which you are entitled. "But--this is important--you've got to show that you can pitch or you'll lose your place. I've done what I can for you, and, if you prove worthy I'll do more. I'll give you the best coaching I can--but you've got to have backbone, a strong arm, a level head, and grit, and pluck, and a lot of other things to make the Yale nine. If you do I'll feel justified in what I have done. Now, play ball!" and without giving him a chance to utter the thanks that were on his lips, Mr. Hasbrook left Joe and took a position where he could watch the playing. It is no wonder that our hero felt nervous under the circumstances. Anyone would, I think, and when he pitched a wild ball, that the catcher had to leap for, there were some jeers. "Oh, you've got a great find!" sneered Weston. "He's a pitcher from Pitchville!" Joe flushed at the words, but he knew he would have to stand more than that in a match game, and he did not reply. Other derogatory remarks were hurled at him, and the coaches permitted it, for a pitcher who wilts under a cross-fire is of little service in a big game, where everything is done to "get his goat," as the saying goes. "Ball two!" yelled the umpire, at Joe's second delivery, and the lad was aware of a cold feeling down his spine. "I've got to make good! I've got to make good!" fiercely he told himself over again. There seemed to be a mist before his eyes, but by an effort he cleared it away. He stooped over pretending to tie his shoe lace--an old trick to gain time--and when he rose he was master of himself again. Swiftly, cleanly, and with the curve breaking at just the right moment, his next delivery went over the plate. The batsman struck at it and missed by a foot. "Good work, old man!" called the catcher to him. "Let's have another." But the next was a foul, and Joe began to worry. "You're finding him," called the 'varsity captain to his man. "Line one out." But Joe was determined that this should not be, and it was not, for though the batter did not make a move to strike at the second ball after the foul, the umpire called sharply: "Strike--batter's out." There was a moment of silence, and then a yell of delight from the scrubs and their friends. "What's the matter with you?" angrily demanded Mr. Hasbrook of the batter. "Can't you hit anything?" The batsman shook his head sadly. "That's the boy!" "That's the way to do it!" "You're all right, Matson!" These were only a few cries that resounded. Joe felt a warm glow in his heart, but he knew the battle had only begun. If he had hoped to pitch a no-hit, no-run game he was vastly disappointed, for the batters began to find him after that for scattering pokes down the field. Not badly, but enough to show to Joe and the others that he had much yet to learn. I am not going to describe that practice game in detail, for there are more important contests to come. Sufficient to say that, to the utter surprise of the 'varsity, the scrub not only continued to hold them well down, but even forged ahead of them. In vain the coaches argued, stormed and pleaded. At the beginning of the ninth inning the scrubs were one run ahead. "Now if we can shut them out we'll win!" yelled Billy Wakefield, the scrub captain, clapping Joe on the back. "Can you do it?" "I'll try, old man," and the pitcher breathed a trifle faster. It was a time to try his soul. He was so nervous that he walked the first man, and the 'varsity began to jeer him. "We've got his goat! Play tag around the bases now! Everyone gets a poke at it!" they cried. Joe shut his lips firmly. He was holding himself well in, and Mr. Hasbrook, watching, murmured: "He's got nerve. He may do, if he's got the ability, the speed and the stick-to-it-iveness. I think I made no mistake." Joe struck out the next man cleanly, though the man on first stole to second. Then, on a puzzling little fly, which the shortstop, with no excuse in the world, missed, another man got to first. There was a double steal when Joe sent in his next delivery, and the catcher, in a magnificent throw to second, nearly caught his man. It was a close decision, but the umpire called him safe. There were now two on bases, the first sack being unoccupied, and only one out. "Careful," warned the catcher, and Joe nodded. Perhaps it was lucky that a not very formidable hitter was up next, for, after two balls had been called, Joe struck him out, making two down. "Now for the final!" he murmured, as the next batter faced him. There were still two on bases, and a good hit would mean two runs in, possibly three if it was a homer. "I'm going to strike him out!" thought Joe fiercely. But when two foul strikes resulted from balls that he had hoped would be missed he was not so sure. He had given no balls, however, and there was still a reserve in his favor. "Ball one!" yelled the umpire, at the next delivery. Joe could hear his mates breathing hard. He rubbed a little soil on the horsehide, though it did not need it, but it gave him a moment's respite. Then, swift and sure, he threw the bail. Right for the plate it went, and the batter lunged fiercely at it. But he did not hit it. "Striker out--side's out!" came from the umpire. Joe had made good. CHAPTER XVII ANOTHER STEP "'Varsity beaten! What do you know about that?" gasped Ricky Hanover, as the crowd that had watched the game swarmed out on the diamond. "And Joe Matson did it!" added Spike. "Jove! but I'm glad for his sake! And him only a Freshman, playing on a scrub class team. I'm glad!" "So am I," added Jimmie Lee, who joined them. "Will this get him a permanent place?" asked Ricky. "He's entitled to it." "Well, he's got his foot on the first rung of the ladder anyhow," was Jimmie's opinion. "But it'll be a good while before he pitches for the 'varsity. He's got to show the coaches that it was no freak work. Besides he's got a year to wait." "And he can do it!" declared Spike. "I haven't been catching him these last two weeks for nothing. Joe isn't a freak pitcher. He's got control, and that's better than speed or curves, though he has them, too." On all sides there was talk about the result of the practice game. Of course the second nine had, in times past, often beaten the 'varsity, for the element of luck played into the hands of the scrub as well as into those of its opponents. But the times were few and far between when the first nine had to go down to defeat, especially in the matter of a scrub Freshman pitcher administering it to them, and Joe's glory was all the greater. "Congratulations, old man!" exclaimed Avondale, the scrub twirler whom Joe had temporarily displaced. "You saw your duty and you done it nobly, as the poet says. You didn't let 'em fuss you when you were in a tight corner, and that's what tells in a ball game. Shake!" "Thanks!" exclaimed Joe. He knew just what it meant for his rival to do this, and he appreciated it. "You can have a whack at them next." "I'm afraid not," returned Avondale. "You did so well that they'll want to keep you at scrub, and you'll be on the 'varsity before you know it." "I wish I could think so," laughed Joe. As he spoke he saw Ford Weston passing behind him, and the 'varsity pitcher had heard what was said. A scowl passed over his face. He did not speak to Joe, but to Captain Hatfield, who was with him, the pitcher murmured, loudly enough to be heard: "It was just a fluke, that was all. We could have won only for the errors the fielders made." "Maybe--maybe not," agreed the captain. "I think we were outpitched, and I'm not afraid to acknowledge it. We've got to do better!" "Do you mean me?" There was challenge in Weston's tone. "I mean all of us," was the quiet answer. "Matson, you did us up brown, but you won't do it again," and the captain laughed frankly. "I'll try--if I get the chance," was the grim retort. Meanwhile the coaches had singled out some of the 'varsity members whose playing had shown faults, and were giving instructions how to correct them. Merky Bardine, who played on third, had sprained his leg slightly, and the trainer, McLeary, had taken him in hand to treat him. Mr. Hasbrook walked up to Joe. "You did very well," the chief coach was good enough to say, "and I'm glad you had your chance. You have a number of faults to correct, but I think you can master them. One is that you don't get enough into the game yourself. A pitcher must do more than merely deliver the ball. Twice in this game you didn't get after the bunts as you might have done." Joe felt a little discouraged. He had hoped for unqualified praise from the head coach, but he was sensible enough to realize that it was all said for his benefit, and he resolved to profit by it. In fact it was this quality and ability of Joe's--enabling him to receive advice graciously--that made him the wonderful pitcher he afterward became. "You must play into the game more," went on Mr. Hasbrook. "Outside of the catcher, you're the only man on the team who can handle certain bunts--I mean the pitcher. For that reason you want to study a style of delivery that won't leave you in a bad position to look after the ball if it is hit your way. You have the right idea now in throwing, but you can improve, I'm sure." "I'll try," spoke Joe. "I know you will, and that's why I'm taking the trouble to talk to you. Then you've got to be on the watch for base stealing. There are some catchers who can pretend to throw to second, and yet so suddenly change as to deliver the ball to the pitcher. This deceives the man on third, who starts for home, and if you have the ball you can nip him. So far we haven't had a catcher who can work this trick, but we may develop one before we get through." "Then Kendall isn't sure of his place?" asked Joe eagerly, thinking of the desire of his chum Spike to fill the position behind the plate later on. "Well, he's reasonably sure of it," went on the head coach cautiously. "But we never can tell what will develop after the season opens. Another point I'd like to impress on you is, that sometimes you've got to help out on first base. Particularly is this the case when a bunt comes that the first baseman can take care of. Then it's your duty to hustle over to first." "Yes, sir," answered Joe. It was all he could think of to say at the time. In fact he was rather dazed. There was a deal more to this baseball game than he had imagined. He was beginning to get an inkling of the difference between the amateur sport and the professional way of playing. "I don't want to burden you with too much advice at the start," went on Mr. Hasbrook, "for I want you to remember what I tell you. From time to time, as I see your weak points, I'm going to mention them to you." "I'll be glad if you will," spoke Joe earnestly. "On the whole you did very well to-day," concluded the head coach, "and I'm glad we gave you the chance. Report for light practice to-morrow, and the next day we'll try another game. Look after your arm. You used it a good bit this afternoon." Joe felt in rather better spirits after Mr. Hasbrook had finished than when he began. "I'm going to get a fair chance to show what I can do, anyhow," declared our hero, as he went to his room. On the way he was joined by Spike, who had dropped back when the head coach started his instructions. "Well?" asked Joe's room-mate. "Fairly well," was the answer. "Say, I believe you've got a chance, Spike." "Me? How?" "Why, it isn't settled that Kendall will catch all of next season." "Oh, I guess it is as much as anything is settled in this world. But I can wait. I've got four years here." Joe was elated at his triumph, and little was talked of in baseball circles that night but how the scrubs had "put one over" on the 'varsity. There was some disposition to criticize the first team for loose and too confident playing, but those who knew gave Joe credit for what he had done. And so the baseball season went on until the 'varsity was fully perfected and established, the class teams improved and the schedule made up. Then came hard and grilling work. Joe was doing his best on his Freshman class team, and often played against the college nine, either in conjunction with his mates, or, when it was desired to give one of the other Freshmen pitchers a chance, taking part with a mixed "scrub" team, composed of lads from various classes in order to give the 'varsity good opposition. And Yale swept on her way. Of course Joe bewailed the fact that he would have to lose a whole year before he could hope for a chance to be on the first team, but he bided his time. Weston was doing fairly well, and the feeling between him and our hero had not changed. The Spring term was drawing to a close. Yale and Princeton had met twice, and there was a game apiece. Yale had also played other colleges, losing occasionally, but winning often enough to entitle her to claim the championship if she took the odd game from the Tiger. But she did not, and though her players insisted, none the less, that Yale was at the top of the heap, and though the sporting writers conceded this, still Princeton won the third game. And Yale was bitter, though she stood it grimly,--as she always does. "Well, we'll see what next year will bring forth," said Spike to Joe, at the wind-up of the baseball season. "You're coming back; aren't you?" "I wouldn't miss it for anything now. Though, as a matter of fact, I didn't expect to. I thought I'd take one year here, and if I could get on the 'varsity nine long enough to say I had been on it, I'd quit, and go in for the professional end of it. But, since I can't, I'll come back and make another stab at it." "That's the way to talk. Well, I hope to be here, too." The Summer vacation came, and Joe had passed his examinations. Not brilliantly, but sufficiently well to enable him to enter the Sophomore class. "And if I don't make the 'varsity next Spring, it will be my own fault!" he cried, as he said good-bye to his chums and packed up for home. The Summer passed pleasantly enough. Joe's family took a cottage at a lake resort, and of course Joe organized a ball team among the temporary residents of the resort. A number of games were played, Joe pitching in fine style. One day a manager of one of the minor leagues attended a contest where Joe pitched, and when word of this was carried to our hero he had a nervous fit. But he pulled himself together, twirled magnificently, and was pleased to see the "magnate" nod approvingly. Though later, when someone offered to introduce Joe to him, the lad declined. "I'll wait until I've made a better reputation," he declared. "I want the Yale Y before I go looking for other honors;" and he stuck to that. "Joe seems to care more for college than you thought he would, father," said Mrs. Matson, when it came time for her son to go back as a Sophomore for the next Fall term. "I think he'll finish yet, and make us all proud of him." "Joe will never do anything that would not make us proud of him," said his father. "But I rather fancy the reason he is so willing to go back to Yale is that he didn't make the 'varsity baseball nine last season. There's a rule against Freshmen, you know." "Oh dear!" lamented Mrs. Matson. "I did hope he would like college for its own sake, and not for baseball." "It's hard to separate baseball and football from college likings, I guess," conceded her husband. And so Joe went back. It was quite different from entering New Haven as a Freshman, and even in the old elms he seemed to have a proprietary interest. He took his old room, because he liked it, and a number of his other Sophomore friends did likewise, though some Freshmen held forth there as usual. Then came the football season, and, though Joe took an interest in this, and even consented to try for the scrub, he was not cut out for that sort of work, and soon gave it up. Yale made her usual success on the gridiron, though the far-famed game with Princeton resulted in a tie, which made the baseball nine all the more anxious to win the championship. The Winter seemed endless, but soon there was the beginning of baseball talk, as before, and this was regarded as a sign of Spring. There was no question now but what Joe was eligible for the 'varsity, though that was far from saying that he would be picked for it. All his old friends had returned to the university, and there was little change in the baseball situation as regards new names. Most of the old ones kept their same places. Nothing definite had been learned about the red paint episode, and though it was mentioned occasionally, and often in a censorious manner as against the perpetrator of it, the latter was not discovered. Then there began to gather at Yale the oldtime players, who acted as coaches. Mr. Hasbrook, who from long familiarity with the game, and from his intense love of it, and for his _alma mater_, was again named as head coach. "Well, we've got a pretty good nine, I think," said Weston one day, after hard practice against the Freshmen. How Joe did thank his stars that he was not in the latter team, though he was first pitcher on the Sophomore team. "Yes, we have," admitted several. "It looks as if we could trim Princeton this time." Joe had pitched for the 'varsity in some informal practice games, though Weston was regarded still as first choice. And Joe was fearful that his cherished ambition was yet far from being realized. "We're playing good ball," said Weston. "I don't say that because I'm pitching," he added quickly, as he saw some looking at him curiously, "but because we have got a good team--mostly old players, too," and he glanced meaningly at Joe, as though he resented his entrance as an aspirant for the mound. "One thing--we've got to tighten up considerably," declared Captain Hatfield. "We'll play our first match game with Amherst in two weeks, and we want to swamp 'em." "Oh, we will," said Weston easily. "Not unless you pitch better--and we all play better," was the grim answer. "What do you mean?" "Just what I said. You've got to strike more men out, and play a livelier game." "Well, I guess I can," answered the pitcher, sullenly. There was only light practice the next day, and Joe was told to perfect himself in signals with the class captain. Then came another hard practice contest, and, somewhat to Joe's surprise, he was not called on to pitch, as he fully expected. But he resigned himself cheerfully when Avondale went to the mound. Had our hero but known it, Mr. Hasbrook had deliberately omitted to start Joe, wishing to discipline him, not, however, because of anything Joe had done. "I think there's championship material for one of the big leagues in that lad," mused the head coach, to justify himself, "and he's got a hard row ahead of him unless he learns to take disappointment. I'll start him on the right track, though I would like to pitch him steadily." And so Joe sat on the bench, while his rival pitched. Whether it was on this account, or because the 'varsity had tightened, was not at once apparent, but the fact was that the first team began to pound out runs, and the scrub did not. "That's the way!" exclaimed the enthusiastic assistant coaches. "Eat 'em up, 'varsity!" Mr. Hasbrook smiled, but said nothing. At the end of the seventh inning Joe was sent in to pitch, but it was too late for the scrubs to save the game for themselves, since the 'varsity had it by six runs. Nor did Joe escape hitless, though from the time he went in no runs were made by his opponents. "Joe, you're a better pitcher than I am," declared Avondale, frankly. "I can see where I've made mistakes." "Well, it isn't too late to fix 'em." "Yes, I'm afraid it is," and, as it developed, it was, for from then on Joe did most of the pitching for the scrub. Occasionally, when his arm was a bit lame, Avondale was sent in, or one of the other pitching candidates, but the result was nearly always disastrous for the scrub. Not that Joe always made good. He had his off days, when his curves did not seem to break right, and when his control was poor. But he was trying to carry out Mr. Hasbrook's instructions to get into more plays, and this handicapped him a bit at the start. The head coach saw this, and made allowances, keeping Joe on the mound when the assistants would have substituted someone else. "Wait," advised the head coach. "I know what I'm doing." The season was beginning to open. Schedules were being arranged, and soon Yale would begin to meet her opponents. The practice grew harder and more exacting. The voices of the coaches were more stern and sharp. No errors were excused, and the scrub was worked doubly hard to make the 'varsity that much better. Ford Weston had improved considerably and then one day he went to pieces in the box, when playing a particularly close and hard game with the scrub. There was surprise and consternation, and a hasty conference of the coaches. An attempt was made to stem the tide by putting in McAnish, the southpaw, and he did some excellent work, but the scrub seemed to have struck a winning streak and took everything that came their way. Joe was pitching, and held the first team well down. There was gloom in Yale that night, for the game with Amherst was not far off, and the Amherst lads were reported to be a fast and snappy lot. There was a day of rest, and then came the final practice against the scrub. There was a consultation among the coaches in which the first and second captains participated before the contest. Then Mr. Hasbrook separated himself from the others. "Matson!" he called sharply. "You and Kendall warm up a bit, and get a line on each other's signals. Matson, you're going to pitch for the 'varsity to-day!" CHAPTER XVIII PLOTTING Joe Matson was trembling when he went to his place, even after some lively warming-up practice with the catcher. The very thing he most wanted had come to him very unexpectedly. And yet he was sensible enough to realize that this was only a trial, and that it did not mean he would pitch against Amherst. But he had great hopes. "Come!" he exclaimed to himself, as he got ready for the opening of the game. "I've got to pull myself together or I'll go all to pieces. Brace up!" The sight of Weston glaring at him helped, in a measure, to restore Joe to himself. "He's hoping I won't make good," thought Joe. "But I will! I must!" It may have been because of Joe's natural nervousness, or because the scrub team was determined to show that they could bat even their own pitcher, that was the cause of so many runs coming in during the first inning. No one could rightly say, but the fact remained that the runs did come in, and it began to look bad for the 'varsity. "I told you how it would be--putting in a green pitcher," complained Mr. Benson. "Perhaps," admitted the head coach. "But wait a bit. Joe isn't as green as he looks. Wait until next inning." And he was justified, for Joe got himself well in hand, and the 'varsity, as if driven to desperation by another defeat staring them in the face so near to the Amherst game, batted as they never had before. Avondale was all but knocked out of the box, and the scrub captain substituted another pitcher, who did much better. Joe's former rival almost wept at his own inability. Meanwhile our hero was himself again, and though he did give three men their bases on balls, he allowed very few hits, so that the 'varsity took the game by a good margin, considering their bad start. "That's the way to do it!" cried Captain Hatfield, when the contest was over. "Do it to Amherst," was the comment of the head coach. "We will!" cried the members of the first team. "Good work, Matson," complimented Hatfield. "Can you do it again?" "Maybe--if I get the chance," laughed Joe, who was on an elevation of delight. "Oh, I guess you'll have to get the chance," spoke the captain. He did not notice that Weston was close behind him, but Joe did, and he saw the look of anger and almost hate that passed over the face of the pitcher. "He looks as though he'd like to bite me," murmured Joe. "And yet it's all a fair game. I may get knocked out myself. But even then I'm not going to give up. I'm in this to stay! If not at Yale, then somewhere else." If Joe imagined that his work that day had been without flaws he was soon to be disillusioned, for Mr. Hasbrook, coming up to him a little later, pointed out where he had made several bad errors in judgment, though they had not resulted in any gain for the scrub. "Still," said the head coach, "you don't want to make them, for with a sharp team, and some of the big college nines playing against you, those same errors would lose the game." And he proceeded to give Joe some good advice. When Avondale, the twice-humiliated pitcher, walked off the diamond that afternoon, he was joined by Weston, who linked his arm in that of the scrub twirler. "Well, we're both in the same boat," remarked Avondale. "A better man has ousted us." "Not at all--nothing of the sort!" cried Weston, and his voice showed how much he was nervously wrought up. "I don't admit for a minute that Matson can pitch better than I can." "Well, I do, in my own case, and the coaches seem to in yours." "I'm a little out of form to-day," admitted Weston, quickly. "I'll be all right to-morrow, and I'll pitch against Amherst." "It'll be a great game," spoke Avondale. "Maybe. But say, what do you think of a fellow like him--a regular country clod-hopper--coming here, anyhow?" "Who do you mean?" "Matson. What right has he got to butt in at a college like Yale, and displace the fellows who have worked hard for the nine?" "The right of ability, I suppose." "Ability nothing! He doesn't belong here, and he ought to be made to quit." "Well, I confess I don't like to lose the place I worked so hard for, and I don't see much chance of making the 'varsity now," admitted Avondale; "but at the same time I must give Matson credit for his work." "Bah! It's only a flash in the pan. He can't last. I think I could make him quit if I wanted to." "How?" "Would you join me in a little trick if we could?" "I don't know. What do you mean?" and Avondale looked curiously at his companion. "I mean that red paint business and the spoiling of the ancient manuscripts. If it was known who did it he'd get fired." "You don't mean to say Matson had a hand in that!" cried Avondale aghast. "I'm not saying anything. But if it could be shown that he did it, he'd not pitch for Yale--that's sure. Shall I say any more? Remember I'm making no cracks yet. But I know some things about Matson no one else knows." This was true enough, but Avondale did not take it in the sense in which it could have been truthfully said, but, rather, as Weston meant he should--wrongly. Now Avondale had one fault. He was too easily led. He was brilliant, full of promise, and a jolly chap--hail-fellow-well-met with everyone, and that is not the best thing in the world, though it makes for temporary popularity. Avondale was his own worst enemy, and many a time he had not the courage to say "no!" when the utterance of it would have saved him from trouble. So when Weston thus temptingly held out the bait, Avondale nibbled. "Shall I say any more?" went on the other. "Remember, you've got to be as tight as a drum on this." "Of course. I--er--I--that is----" "Come over here and I'll tell you something," went on the 'varsity pitcher, and the two were soon in close conversation. CHAPTER XIX THE ANONYMOUS LETTER "Have you seen the _News_?" gasped Jimmie Lee, bursting into the room of Joe and his chum one afternoon, following some baseball practice. "It's great!" "You mean have we _heard_ the news; don't you?" questioned Spike. "You can hear news, but not see it, that is unless the occurrence which makes news happens to come under your own observation. Where is your logic, you heathen? _Seen_ news!" "Yes, that's what I mean!" snapped Jimmie. "I mean have you seen the last copy of the Yale _News_?" "No; what is it?" asked Joe quickly. "Something about the baseball nine?" "No, it's about those musty old manuscripts that got spoiled the time Professor Hardee slipped on his doorsteps in the red paint." "What about 'em?" demanded Joe, thinking of the time he had seen Weston slipping into his room, trying to conceal his hand on which was a scarlet smear. "What's new?" "Why, it seems that some learned high-brow society wrote on to borrow them, to prove or disprove something that happened in the time of Moses, and they had to be refused as the sheepskins are illegible. The powers that be tried to clean off the paint, but it took some of the lettering with it, and Prof. Hardee and some of his friends are wild over the loss. The _News_ says it's irreparable, and there's even an editorial on it." "Well, that isn't much that's new," went on Joe, as he took the college paper which Jimmie held out to him. "It was known before that the parchments were pretty well on the blink. It's a shame, too, for they are the only ones in the world of that particular dynasty. What else?" "Lots," went on Jimmie. "The _News_ hints that a committee of Seniors is working with Professor Hardee and some of the faculty, trying to find out who was responsible. If they do find out they may make the joker's folks pay heavy damages." "Yes, if they find out," put in Spike. "But it happened some time ago, and they haven't got a hint of it yet. It was a mean trick--I'll say that--but there are no welchers or squealers at Yale." "I'm not so sure of that," murmured Jimmie. "What do you mean?" asked Joe quickly. "Why this screed goes on to hint that the investigators have a line on who did it. They have some clews, it seems, and an exposure is hinted at." "Get out!" cried Joe, thinking of the effect it would have on Weston should the truth--as Joe thought it--come out. He had half made up his mind to deny everything he had seen, even if questioned. "That's right," asserted Jimmie. "This article says it may soon be known who did the 'dastardly deed'--note the 'dastardly'--guess the editor dipped his pen in sulphuric acid. But it was a mean trick, and I guess we all feel the same way about it. The fellow who did it ought to be fired. Fun is fun, and I like it as much as anybody, but this passes the limits." "Right!" exclaimed Spike. "But does it say anything about who it might be--what class?" "Oh, it as much as says a Freshman did it, of course--as if we did everything last year. Anyhow, it's stirred up a lot of talk, I can tell you. I just came across the campus and the _News_ sold more copies than ever before, I guess. Everyone seems to have one, and they're all talking about it. I hope if they do find out who did it, that he won't happen to be any of our crowd--or on the ball nine." "Why?" asked Spike. "Why--he'd be expelled, of course, and if it was one of the 'varsity nine it might have a bad effect on winning the championship. We've got to win that this year." "Oh, I guess it's mostly talk," asserted Spike, as he read the article after Joe had finished. As for Joe he said little. But he thought much. "Maybe," agreed Jimmie. "And yet it looks as if there was something back of it all. I only hope there isn't. It would be tough for our class to have to stand for this." There was more talk along the same line, and, a little later, some other of the second-year class dropped in and continued the session. There were differences of opinion, as might have been expected. "Well, after all is said and done," came from Bert Fost, who by reason of weight was ineligible for the nine, but who was an enthusiastic supporter, "when it's all over, I think we'll wipe Amherst off the map." "We will--if the nine isn't broken up," declared Jimmie. "Broken up--what do you mean?" and Bert glared at the questioner. "I mean that if it's proved that some member of the team did this red paint business it's all off with him having a chance to play against Amherst." "Oh, piffle!" declared Bert. "That punk is written by some lad who's trying to make good on the _News_ so he'll get tapped for Scroll and Keys. Forget it." But it was not so easily forgotten, for the article seemed to have some definite knowledge behind it, and the editorial, though student-inspired, as all knew, was a sharp one. "If it really is Weston I'm sorry for him," thought Joe, little thinking how near he himself was to danger. There were new developments the next morning--a certain something in the air as the young men assembled for chapel told that there was about to be a break. And it came. "Here comes the Dean!" the whisper went round, when the exercises were nearly over. "Something's going to be cut loose." The Dean addressed the students. He began mildly, but soon he had almost worked himself up to a dramatic situation. In veiled terms he referred to the red paint outrage, and then, after telling what it meant to have the valuable manuscripts ruined, he added: "I assume that you have all seen the article which appears in the college paper. With that, though I might, I take no issue. On another phase I do. "I have received an anonymous letter, accusing a certain student of the outrage. I shall, in this matter, take the course I always do when I receive such a cowardly communication as an anonymous letter--I destroy it unread," and, as he spoke the Dean tore into fragments a piece of paper. The pieces he carefully put in his pocket, however, with the remark that they would be consigned to the fire unlooked at, as soon as possible. "I wonder who was accused?" said Spike. "I wonder?" added Joe. CHAPTER XX THE CORNELL HOST "That's the way to do it!" "Yale always can do it!" "Bull dog grit!" "The blue always wins!" "They came--they saw--but--we conquered!" It was the close of the Yale-Amherst baseball game, and the sons of Eli had gloriously triumphed. They had trailed the banners of their opponents in the dust, they had raced around the bases, they had batted the ball into the far corners of the field, and they had raced home with the runs. "I told you so!" chirped Jimmie Lee. "Hold on!" cried Slim Jones. "Didn't you start to be a calamity howler, and say Yale wouldn't win?" "Never!" asserted Jimmie. "Yes, you did!" "Well, I was only bluffing. I knew we could put it all over them." "And we did," said Spike in a low voice to Joe. "Only----" "Only I didn't have much share in it," interrupted the aspirant for pitching honors. There had indeed been a "shake-up" on the nine the day of the game. Until the last moment it was not definitely settled who would pitch, and there were many rumors current. It lay between Joe, Weston, and McAnish, the left-handed one, and on the morning of the game--the first important one of the season for Yale--the newspapers had various guesses as to who would be the twirler. Joe had hoped to go in at the start, but when the game was called, and Captain Hatfield submitted his list, it was seen that Weston had the coveted place. "Well, old man, you're back where you belong," said Avondale to him, as the name was called. "I suppose now, that little matter, which you were speaking to me about, can drop?" "It can--if I remain pitcher," answered Weston. "But I've got it all cocked and primed to explode if I have to. I'm not going to sit tight and let some country whipper-snapper put it all over me." "I don't know as I blame you--and yet he seems a pretty decent sort." "Oh, he's not in our class!" "Well, maybe not. Do your best!" And Weston did. Never had he pitched a better game--even his enemies, and he had not a few, admitted that. It was a "walkover" soon after the first few innings had demonstrated the superiority of Yale. Amherst was game, and fought to the last ditch, but neither in batting, fielding nor pitching was she the equal of the wearers of the blue. Joe, sitting on the bench, with the other substitutes, fretted his heart out, hoping for a chance to play, but he was not called on until the eighth inning. Then, after a conference of the coaches, during which the head one could be seen to gesticulate vigorously, Joe was called on to bat in place of another, which gave him the call to pitch the next inning. "What's the matter?" was asked on all sides. "Is Weston going stale?" "Glass arm," suggested some of his enemies. "No, they're saving him for the Harvard game," was the opinion of many. "They don't want to work him too hard." "And we have this game anyhow." "But what's the matter with McAnish?" "Oh, he's out of form." And so Joe had gone in at the eleventh hour, before that sitting on the bench, eating his heart out. "Show what you can do!" exclaimed the head coach to him as he took the mound. "And don't worry." "Don't worry?" repeated Joe. "That's what I said. Remember what I told you, and don't try to win the game by merely pitching." Joe recalled his instructions about backing up first base in an emergency, of taking care of the bunts, of watching the catcher, who might try to deceive the man on third. And it was well for Joe that he did. For, though he did well from the pitching end, there came several opportunities to distinguish himself in making infield plays. Once he made a fine stop of a bunt that, had it been a safety, would have done much to lower Yale's lead. Again he managed, by a quick play, on getting the ball from the catcher, to throw out the man at second, who was trying to steal third. There was applause for Joe Matson that day, though he did not pitch the team to victory. "Well?" asked Mr. Hasbrook of his colleagues, after the contest. "What did I tell you? Isn't he an all-around good player?" "He seems so," admitted Mr. Benson. "But I think Weston did most excellently." "Yes, he did," said the head coach, "but mark my words, he's overtrained or he hasn't the grit to stick it out. Here we are at the beginning of the season, and he has failed us several times. I don't want to force my judgment on you gentlemen, but I think we ought to give Matson a better trial." "All right, we'll send him in earlier in the Cornell game next week," suggested Mr. Whitfield, and to that the head coach agreed. There were all sorts of baseball politics discussed in the dormitories, on the campus, and at Glory's and other resorts that night. "It begins to look as if the coaches didn't quite know where they were at," declared Ricky Hanover. "They make a shift at the last minute." "A good shift--according to the way the game went," declared Hen Johnson, who held down second base. "That's yet to be seen," asserted Jimmie Lee. "Amherst was fruit for us to-day." The opinions went back and forth--_pro_ and _con_--and it was, after all, a matter of judgment. Yet back of it all was the indomitable Yale spirit that has often turned defeat into victory. This was to hearten up those who picked flaws in the playing of the blue, and who predicted a slump in the following week, when the strong Cornell team would be met. "Oh, Cornell may row us but she can't play ball us," declared Jimmie Lee. "We'll dump 'em." "We may--if Joe Matson pitches," spoke Spike, in a low voice. "Here! Cut that out," advised Joe, in a sharp whisper. Meanwhile no more had been heard about the red paint matter, and it looked to be but a flash in the pan--what the _News_ had printed. The Senior committee of investigation was not in evidence--at least as far as could be learned. Baseball practice went on, sometimes Joe pitching for the 'varsity, and again one of his rivals being called on. There was a tightening up on the part of the coaches--they were less tolerant--the errors were less excused. Bitter words were the portion of those who made mistakes, and Joe did not escape. "You must do a little better," the head coach urged him. "We're not playing school teams, remember, but teams that are but little removed from the professional class, as regards ability. Play harder--sharper--more accurately--don't get rattled." And Joe tried to tell himself that he would do or not do these things, but it was hard work. He had begun to realize what a career he had marked out for himself. "Well, are you going to spring it?" asked Avondale of Weston, a day or so before the Cornell game. "What about the red paint?" "Oh, I guess it will keep--if I pitch the game," was the answer. "Did you send the anonymous letter?" "Don't ask me," snapped Weston. The day of the next game came--one of the great battles of the diamond, on the winning or losing of which depended, in a measure, the gaining of the championship. The Cornell host, many strong, descended on New Haven, and made the air vibrant with their yells. They cheered Yale, and were cheered in turn. Out on the diamond they trotted--a likely looking lot of lads. "Husky bunch," commented Jimmie Lee. "They sure are," agreed Shorty Kendall. "Who'll pitch for you?" "Don't know. They're just going to announce it." The umpire, the captains, managers, and coaches were holding a conference. Joe, in spite of his seeming indifference, watched them narrowly. Over in their section the Cornell hosts were singing their songs and giving their cheers. The wearers of the blue had given their great cry--they had sung the Boola song--some had even done the serpentine dance. All was in readiness for the game. "If he doesn't pitch me," murmured Weston, "I'll be----" Mr. Hasbrook motioned to the umpire, who raised his megaphone to make the announcement. CHAPTER XXI EAGER HEARTS "The battery for Yale will be Weston and Kendall, and for Cornell----" But the last announcement was given no heed by the supporters of the blue--at least by the players themselves, the substitutes, and Joe Matson in particular. A murmur went around. "Weston! Weston's going to pitch!" "After the work Baseball Joe's done too!" "Why, Weston isn't in form." "Oh, he's practiced hard lately." "Yes, and he was doing some hot warming-up work a little while ago. I guess they'll pitch him all right." "He must have put up a kick, and Hasbrook gave in to him." "It looks so, and yet Horsehide generally doesn't play a man unless he can make good. That's Yale's way." These were only a few of the comments that were being heard on all sides. The Yale team looked somewhat amazed, and then, lest their enemies find out that they feared they had a weak spot, they braced up, smiled and acted as if it was a matter of course. And, as far as Cornell was concerned, they knew that there was rivalry between Weston and Joe, but as a pitcher is an uncertain quantity at best, they were not surprised that the 'varsity twirler whom they had faced the season before should again occupy the mound. It might be a part of the game to save Matson until later. "Tough luck, Joe," said Spike, as he passed his friend. "Yes--Oh, I don't know! I hadn't any right to expect to pitch!" Joe tried to be brave about it, but there was a sore feeling in his heart. He had hoped to go into the game. "Sure you had a right to expect it!" declared Spike. "You're the logical pitcher. There's been some funny work going on, I'm sure. Weston has pulled off something." "Be careful, Spike." "Oh, I'm sure of it. Why, look at Horsehide's face!" Joe glanced at the head coach. Indeed the countenance of Mr. Hasbrook presented a study. He seemed puzzled as he turned away from a somewhat spirited conversation with Mr. Benson. For an instant his eyes met those of Joe, and the young pitcher thought he read in them pity, and yet a trace of doubt. "I wonder if he has lost confidence in me?" thought Joe. "I wonder if he thinks I can't pitch in a big game?" Yet he knew in his own heart that he had not gone back--he was sure he could pitch better than he ever had before. The days at Yale, playing with young men who were well-nigh professionals, had given him confidence he had not possessed before, and he realized that he was developing good control of the ball, as well as speed and curves. "I wonder why he didn't pitch me?" mused Joe. "Play ball!" called the umpire, and the hearts of all were eager for the battle of stick and horsehide to begin. Cornell went to the bat first, and Weston faced his man. There was a smile of confidence on the pitcher's face, as he wound up, and delivered a few practice balls to Kendall. Then he nodded as if satisfied, and the batter stepped up to the plate. "Strike!" called the umpire, at the first delivery, and there was a murmur of amazement. The batter himself looked a bit confused, but made no comment. The ball had gone cleanly over the plate, though it looked as if it was going to shoot wide, and the player had thought to let it pass. Weston smiled more confidently. He was hit for a foul, but after getting three and two he struck the batter out, and there was a round of applause. "I couldn't have done it any better myself," said Joe, with honest praise for his rival. "Wait," advised Spike. "Weston's got to last over eight more innings to make good, and he'll never do it." But when he struck out the next man, and the third had retired on a little pop fly, Yale began to rise in her might and sing the beginning of a song of victory. "Oh, we've got the goods!" her sons yelled. "How's that for pitching?" demanded someone. Joe joined in the cheer that was called for Weston, but his heart was still sore, for he felt that those cheers might have been for him. But he was game, and smiled bravely. Yale managed to get one run during the last half of the first inning, and once more the sons of Eli arose and sent forth a storm of cheers, songs and college cries. "Go back home, Cornell!" they screamed. But the Cornell host smiled grimly. They were fighters from start to finish. Joe noticed that Weston did not seem quite so confident when he came to the mound the second time. There was an exchange of signals between him and the catcher, and Weston seemed to be refusing to do what was wanted. After getting three and two on his man, the batter sent out a high one that the left fielder was unable to connect with, and the runner reached second. "Never mind, play for the next one," advised Kendall, and though the runner stole third, Weston pitched the second man out. Then, whether it was nervousness or natural inability cropping out at the wrong time, was not known, but the pitcher "went up in the air." With only one out, and a man on third, he began to be hit for disastrous results. He made wild throws, and the whole team became so demoralized that costly errors were made. The result was that Cornell had four runs when the streak was stopped. "We've got to do better than this," declared the head coach, as the Yale men came in to bat. "Rap out a few heavy ones. Show 'em what Yale can do in a pinch." They tried, but Cornell was fighting mad now, with the scent of victory to urge her players on. The best Yale could do was two, leaving their opponents one ahead at the beginning of the third. And then Weston went to pieces more than ever, though in the interval his arm had been rubbed and treated by the trainer. He had complained that it was stiff. I shall not give all the details of that game. Yale wanted to forget it after it was over. But when, at the ending of the fifth inning, the score stood eight to four in favor of Cornell there was a quick consultation among the coaches. What was said could not be heard, but Mr. Hasbrook seemed to be insisting on something to which the other two would not agree. Finally Horsehide threw up his hands in a gesture of despair. "Avondale, take the mound!" he exclaimed. "Avondale!" gasped the players. The scrub pitcher to go in and Joe, who was his master, kept on the bench? It was incredible. "Well, what do you know about that?" demanded Spike. "I've a good notion to----" "Be quiet!" begged Joe. "They know what they're doing." But it seems they did not, for Avondale was worse by far than Weston had been. He was hit unmercifully, and three more runs came in. But he had to stick it out, and when the miserable inning for Yale ended he went dejectedly to the bench. Weston, who had been having his arm rubbed again, and who had been practicing with a spare catcher, looked hopeful. But this time, following another conference of coaches, Mr. Hasbrook evidently had his way. Fairly running over to where Joe sat the head coach exclaimed: "Quick--get out there and warm up. You'll pitch the rest of the game. It's a forlorn hope, but we'll take it!" Joe's face shone as he ripped off his sweater, grabbed up a ball and his mitt, and started for the practice stretch. His heart was in a tumult, but he calmed himself and began his work. But it was too much to expect to pull the contest out of the fire by such desperate and late-day methods. In the part of the game he pitched Joe allowed but one hit, and with howls of delight his friends watched him mow down the Cornell batters. Not another run came in, but the lead of the visitors was too big, and Yale could not overcome it, though her sons did nobly, rising to the support of Joe in great style. "Well, it's over," remarked Spike gleefully as he caught Joe's arm at the close of the contest. "You seem glad that Yale lost," said the pitcher. "Never! But I'm glad you showed 'em what you could do when you had the chance. If you'd gone in first Yale would have won!" "Oh, you think so--do you?" sneered a voice behind them. They turned quickly, to see Ford Weston, scowling with rage. "Yes, I do," declared Spike boldly. "Then you've got another think coming!" was the retort. "I'm the 'varsity pitcher, and I'm going to hold on to the job!" CHAPTER XXII THE CRIMSON SPOT "What do you think of him, anyhow?" asked Spike of his room-mate, as Weston passed on. "Isn't he the limit!" "He certainly doesn't seem to care much for me," replied Joe, with a grim smile. "But I suppose it's natural. Almost anyone would feel that way at the prospect of being replaced." "Oh, he makes me tired!" exclaimed Spike. "He ought to stand for Yale--not for Ford Weston. It's the first time in a good many years that any player has placed himself above the team." "But Weston hasn't done that yet." "No, but that's what he's scheming for. He as good as said that he'll pitch for the 'varsity no matter what happens." "Who's that? What's up?" asked another voice, and, turning, the two chums saw Ricky Hanover. "Oh, you're talking about Weston," he added, as he noted the defeated pitcher walking away. "What's he been saying?" They told him, and Ricky, making a wry face, went on: "So that's how things are; eh? Well, if Weston tries that sort of game, I can see the finish of the Yale nine. It'll be the tail end of the kite, and the championship will be in the soup. In fact it's beginning to gravitate that way now, with the loss of this Cornell game." "But where does Weston get his pull?" demanded Spike. "How is it that they put him in to-day, when it was almost known that he couldn't make good. And here was Joe all ready to go on the mound. You saw what he did when he got there and yet----" "Spare my blushes! I'm a modest youth!" laughed Joe. "That's all right, there's something back of all this," continued Spike, vigorous in defence of his chum. "Why should the coaches put Weston in, and then, when he slumped, call on Avondale before they did you, Joe? It isn't right, and I think Horsehide should have made a better fight for you. You claim he's a friend of yours, Joe." "Well, yes, in a way. And yet if I had to depend on his friendship to get on the mound I'd never go there. I want to stand on my own feet and have the right to pitch because I can do better than some other fellow. That's all I ask--a fair show. I don't want any favors, and Mr. Hasbrook isn't the man to give them to me, if I'd take them." "I guess you're right there," commented Ricky. "But what I can't understand," went on Spike, "is how Horsehide seemed to give in to the other two coaches. It was as plain as a flagpole that he didn't want to pitch Weston to-day, and yet he had to in spite of himself. Why was it?" "Do you really want to know?" asked Ricky, and his voice was lowered, while he glanced around as if to make sure that no one would hear him save his two friends. "Do you really want to know?" "Certainly," declared Spike, and Joe wondered what was coming. "Well, it's because Weston is a member of the Anvil Club," said Ricky. "It's a class secret society, and it has a lot of influence--more so than even some of the big Senior clubs. Weston belongs and so do Horsehide and the other two coaches. They were in college, and they still keep up their affiliations. Now you know why they pitched Weston to-day--because he demanded it as a part of his right as a member of the Anvil Club." "Do you mean to tell me," asked Spike, "that the secret society is bigger than Yale--that it could make her lose a ball game?" "No, not exactly," replied Ricky. "But it is powerful, and a member has an unwritten right to demand almost anything in reason of the other members, and by their promises made they are obliged to help him." "But this wasn't anything in reason," said Spike. "Joe should have pitched the game, and then we'd have won. It was unreasonable to let Weston go in." "Look here!" exclaimed Ricky. "I don't mean to say that Yale men would do any underhand work to make any athletic contest go by the board. But you can't say, right off the bat, that Weston's demand was unreasonable. He thought he could pitch to a victory, and he probably said as much, very forcibly. It was a chance that he might, and, when he appealed for a try, on the ground that he was an Anvil man--they had to give it to him, that's all. It was all they could do, though I guess Horsehide didn't want to." "But there's Avondale," went on Ricky. "What about him?" "He's an Anvil man, too." "And I'm not," broke in Joe. "Say," he asked with a laugh, "how do you join this society?" "You don't," spoke Ricky solemnly. "You have to be asked, or tapped for it, just as for Wolf's Head, or Skull and Bones. Oh, it's an exclusive society all right, and as secret as a dark cellar." "And you really know this to be so?" asked Spike, almost incredulously. "Well, no one says so out and out, but I've heard rumors before, and to-day they were strong enough to hear without a megaphone. Oh, Weston's got the thing cinched all right." "Then I haven't a chance," sighed Joe, and more than ever he regretted coming to Yale. Yet, deep in his heart, was a fierce desire to pitch the college to a championship. "Haven't a chance!" cried Spike, indignantly. "Do you mean to say, Ricky, that they'll let Weston go on losing games the way he did to-day?" "No, not exactly. But they'll pitch him because he will appeal to their society side, and bamboozle 'em into thinking that he has come back strong, and can sure win." "And if he doesn't--if he slumps as he did to-day?" "Then they'll put in Avondale or McAnish." "And Joe won't get a show until last?" asked Spike. "That's about the size of it." "I don't believe so." "All right. Just watch," said Ricky, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Of course," he went on, "the coaches may wake up to the fact before it's too late, or there may be such a howl made that they'll have to can the society plea. But it's a queer situation. Come on down to Glory's and we'll feed our faces." "Wait until we get un-togged," suggested Spike, for he, too, had on a uniform, hoping for a chance to play. But it had not come. It was late when Joe and his chum got back to their room. They had met congenial spirits at the popular resort, and a sort of post-mortem had been held over the game. But, though the faults of many players were pointed out, and though Joe received due praise for his work, little had been said of Weston's poor pitching. "It's just as I told you," declared Ricky. "There are too many members of the Anvil Club, and affiliated societies, and they hate to hurt Weston's feelings, I guess." The 'varsity pitcher was not present. "Well, it sure is a queer state of affairs," commented Spike, as he and Joe reached their apartment. "I wish we could do something. It's a shame, with a pitcher who has your natural abilities, Joe, that----" "Oh, forget it, old man, and go to sleep," advised Joe. "I'm much obliged for your interest in me, but maybe it will come out right after all." "Humph! It won't unless we make it," murmured Spike. The coaches tried some shifting about of players when the next practice came on, though Weston was still retained on the mound. Joe was told to go in at shortstop, and he made good there, more by hard work than natural ability, for he wanted to show that he would do his duty wherever he was placed. Weston seemed to be doing better, and he got into more plays, not being content to merely pitch. "We'll trim Harvard!" was the general opinion, and Yale stock, that had gone down, took an upward move. The Harvard game was soon to come--one of the contests in the championship series, though Yale generally regarded the fight with Princeton as the deciding test. It was one afternoon following some sharp practice, when the 'varsity seemed on edge, that Joe said to Spike: "Come on, let's take a walk. It's too nice to go back and bone." "All right--I'm with you. We'll get out in the country somewhere." Weston passed as this was said, and though he nodded to the two, there was no cordiality in it. Joe and Spike thoroughly enjoyed their little excursion, and it was almost dusk when they returned. As they entered their room, Ricky came out to greet them. "What have you fellows been doing?" he demanded. "I came in to have a chat, and I found your room empty. A little later I heard you in it, and then, after I had found my pipe which I dropped under the bed, and went in again, you weren't to be seen. Yet I was sure I heard you moving about in it." "We haven't been home since practice," declared Spike. "You say you heard someone in our room?" inquired Joe. "I sure did." "Maybe it was Hoppy." "No, for I asked him, and he said no." "Any messages or letters left?" asked Spike, looking around, but no missives were in sight. "Oh, well, maybe it was spooks," declared Joe. "I'm going to get on something comfortable," and he went to the clothes closet, presently donning an old coat and trousers. Ricky made himself comfortable in an armchair, and the three talked for some time. "I say, what's that on your sleeve?" asked Ricky of Joe during a pause. "It looks like red ink. See, you've smeared Spike's trigonometry with it." "Quit it, you heathen!" exclaimed the aggrieved one. "Red ink," murmured Joe, twisting his sleeve around to get a look at the crimson spot. He touched it with his finger. "It's paint--red paint!" he exclaimed, "and it's fresh!" CHAPTER XXIII JOE'S TRIUMPH "Red paint!" exclaimed Ricky. "Who put it there?" asked Spike, and he looked queerly at Joe. "Not I," replied the pitcher. "And yet it's fresh. I can't understand. You say you heard someone in here, Ricky?" "As sure as guns." "Maybe it was some of those pesky Freshies trying some of their funny work," suggested Spike. "Hazing and tricks are about over," came from Joe, as he looked more closely at the red spot. "And yet someone seems to have been in here, daubing up my clothes. I wonder if they tried it on any more? Lucky it was an old suit." He looked in the closet, but the coat, with the crimson spot on the sleeve, seemed to be the only one soiled. "I have it!" suddenly cried Spike. "What, for cats' sake?" asked Ricky. "It's good luck!" "Good luck?" demanded Joe. "How do you make that out? These aren't my glad rags, that's a fact, but still paint is paint, and I don't want it daubed all over me. Good luck? Huh!" "Of course it is," went on Spike. "Don't you see? That's red--Harvard's hue. We play them next week, you'll pitch and we've got their color already. Hurray! We're going to win! It's an omen!" "Cæsar's pineapples!" exclaimed Ricky. "So it is. I'm going to grind out a song on it," and, having rather a knack with verse, he was soon scribbling away in rhyme. "How's this?" he demanded a few minutes later. "Listen fellows, and pick out a good tune for it," and he recited: "We've got Harvard's colors, We'll tell it to you. The red always runs At the sight of the blue. So cheer boys, once more, This bright rainbow hue, The Red will turn purple When mixed with the blue!" "Eh? How's that?" he asked proudly. "Pretty nifty I guess! Your Uncle Pete isn't so slow. I'm going to have the fellows practice this for the game, when you pitch, Joe." "Maybe I won't." "Oh, yes you will. But what do you think of it?" "Rotten!" exclaimed Spike. "Punk!" was the opinion of Slim Jones, who had entered in time to hear the verse. "Disinfect it, Ricky." "Aw, you fellows are jealous because you can't sling the muse around when you want to. Guess I'll try a second spasm." "Not in here," declared Spike, quickly. "This is a decent, law-abiding place, and, so far, has a good reputation. I'm not going to have the Dean raiding it just because you think you're a poet. That stuff would give our English Lit. prof. a chill. Can it, Ricky, can it." "You're jealous, that's all," and despite the protest Ricky proceeded to grind out a second verse, that he insisted on reading to his audience, which, by this time had increased to half a dozen lads from neighboring rooms. There was quite a jolly little party, and Ricky demanded that they sing his new song, which they finally did, with more or less success. The strains wafted out of doors and passing students were attracted by the sound until the place was swarming with congenial spirits, and nothing was talked of but the coming game with Harvard. "It's queer though, about that red paint," said Spike, later that night, when he and Joe were alone. "It sure is," agreed the pitcher. "Maybe Hoppy sent someone around to do a bit of daubing, and the chap got in here by mistake," suggested his chum. But inquiry developed that this was not so, and the mystery remained unsolved for a time. But after he got in bed, Joe did some hard thinking. He recalled the red paint episode of the spoiled manuscript, and wondered, without believing, if Weston could have come to his room. "He might have," reflected Joe, "and he might have had a hardened spot of red paint on his clothes from daubing it on the steps that time. If the hardened upper crust rubbed off, it would leave a fresh spot that might have gotten on my coat. And yet what would he be doing in my closet, let alone in the room here? No, it can't be that. Unless he sneaked in here--knowing Spike and I would be away--looking for something to use against me. "He doesn't want me to pitch, that's a fact, and if he could find something against me he'd use it. But he can't. I'm glad I'm not a candidate for any of their queer secret societies here, or I'd be worrying about them not asking me to join. I'm going to keep out of it. But that red spot is sure queer." All Yale was on edge on the day before the Harvard game, which was to take place on the Cambridge diamond. The team and the substitutes were trained to the minute, and all ready to make the trip, together with nearly a thousand "rooters" who were going along to lend moral support. Particular pains had been taken with the pitching staff, and Joe, Weston, McAnish and Avondale had been worked to the limit. They had been coached as they never had been before, for Yale wanted to win this game. As yet it was not known who would pitch. At least the 'varsity candidates did not know, and Joe was hoping for at least half a game. He was modest, for Weston arrogantly declared that he would last the nine innings. His friends said little, but he had a certain power in college not to be overlooked. The stadium was thronged with spectators as the teams trotted out for a little warming-up practice. In the cheering stands for the wearers of the blue the locomotive cry, the Boola song, a new one--"Bulldog Grit!"--and Ricky's effusion were gone over again. "Hit the Line!" came as a retort, and the cheerers tried to outdo each other. "Do you think you'll pitch, Joe?" asked Spike, in a low tone, as he and his chum practised off to one side. "I don't know. There are all sorts of rumors going about. I'd like to--I guess you know how much--just as you would like to catch--but we can't always have what we want. The coaches are having a talk now. Weston seems pretty confident." "Yes, the cad! I wish he'd play fair." "Oh, well," said Joe, with an air of resignation, "I suppose he can't help it. I guess I shouldn't like it if I'd pitched for a year, and then found a new man trying for my place." "But if the new man was better than you, and it meant the winning of the game?" asked Spike, as he took a vicious ball that Joe slugged to him. "Oh, well, of course in theory the best man ought to play--that's not saying I'm the best man by a long shot!" Joe hastened to add; "but even in theory it's hard to see another man take your place." "Something's doing," said Spike suddenly. "The conference has broken up." Joe looked nervously to where the coaches and captain had been talking. Tom Hatfield was buttoning on his shortstop glove, and then taking it off again as though under a strain. He walked over to the umpire, and Weston, seeing him, made a joking remark to a companion. He started for the players' bench, for Harvard was to bat last, and Yale would come up first for the stick-work. "It looks like him," remarked Spike in a low voice. "Well, I'll be ready when they call me," said Joe, with a good nature he did not feel. The umpire raised his megaphone. There was a hush, and then came the hollow tones: "Batteries for to-day. Harvard: Elkert and Snyder--Yale: Matson and Kendall." "By Halifax!" cried Spike, clapping Joe on the back with such force that he nearly knocked over his chum. "You pitch, old man!" CHAPTER XXIV HARD LUCK Shouts and yells greeted the announcement of the umpire--cheers from the admirers of the respective batteries. "Yah!" voiced the wearers of the crimson. "That's our one best bower! Oh you Elkert! Tear 'em apart, Snyder!" Back came the challenge from the sons of Yale. "You're our meat, Harvard! Keep your eye on the ball--that's all you'll be able to do. Fool 'em, Matson. 'Rah for Baseball Joe!" Our hero was becoming quite a favorite with his classmates, many of whom now knew of his one ambition. But Kendall had his admirers too. "He eats 'em alive--Shorty Kendall does!" came the cry. "Look out for our bear-cats, Harvard!" Once more came a riot of cheers and songs, each college group striving its best to outdo the other, giving its favorite cries or songs. "Come, get together, you two, and make sure you don't have any mix-up on signals," exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook to Joe and the catcher. "We want to win this game. And, Joe, don't forget what I told you about getting in on all the plays you can. We'll need every man if we take this game. Harvard has several good twirlers, and she's been playing like a house afire. Watch yourselves." "Then I'm really going to pitch?" asked Joe. It was almost the only thing he had said since hearing the announcement, after Spike had clapped him on the back with such force. "Pitch! Of course you're going to pitch," declared the head coach. "And I want you to pitch your head off. But save your arm, for there are going to be more games than this. But, mind!" and he spoke with earnestness. "You've got to make good!" "I will!" exclaimed Joe, and he meant it. "Come over here," suggested Shorty. "Plug in a few and we'll see if you're as good as you were yesterday," for Joe and he had had considerable practice, as, in fact, had all the pitchers, including Weston. As for that lad, when he heard the announcement a scowl shot across his face, and he uttered an exclamation. "What's the matter?" asked De Vere, who had become rather intimate with Ford of late. "Matter! Isn't there enough when that--when he pitches?" and he nodded his head toward Joe. "Why; do you think they'll get his goat, or that he'll blow, and throw the game?" "He might," sneered Weston, "but I have a right to be on the mound to-day. I was half promised that I could pitch, and now, at the last minute, they put him in. I'm not going to stand for it!" "It's a sort of a raw deal," declared his friend. "I don't see why they let such fellows as he come to college. First we know there'll be a lot of hod-carriers' sons here instead of gentlemen," and De Vere turned up, as far as possible, the point of his rather stubby nose. He himself was the son of a man who had gotten his start as a contractor, employing those same "hod-carriers" at whom the son now sneered. "That's right," agreed Weston. "I should think they could keep Yale a little more exclusive." "I agree with you," came from the other. "Why I even understand that they are talking of forming a club where even those who eat at commons, and are working their way through, can join. It's going to be fierce. But none of them will get in the Blue Ribbon Association," he added, referring to an exclusive college organization. "Nor the Anvil Club either," added Weston. "This is all Hasbrook's fault. He's taken some silly notion to Matson, and he thinks he's a wonderful pitcher. It seems they met somewhere, and Matson did him a favor. Now he's taking advantage of it." "But he can pitch," said De Vere, who, for all his snobbishness, was inclined to be fair. "Yes, after a fashion, but he hasn't anything on me. I won against Harvard last year." "So you did." "And I could do it again." "I believe you. Anyhow I think only the fellows in our own class--socially--should play. It makes it rather awkward, don't you know, if you meet one of the team out anywhere, and he isn't in your set. You've got to notice him, or there'd be a howl, I s'pose; but really some of the fellows are regular clod-hoppers, and this Matson doesn't train in with us." "You're right. But if things go the way I think he may not last very long." "How do you mean? Will he put up such a rotten game that they won't stand for him?" "That's all I can say now," rejoined Weston, somewhat mysteriously. "But something may happen." "And you'll pitch?" "I hope so. I may get in this game, for I did beat Harvard one year." But Weston forgot to add that he pitched so wretchedly the remainder of the season that Yale finished a poor third, losing the championship. "Play ball!" called the umpire. Those who had been practicing straggled to the bench, or walked out to take their fielding positions. "I guess you'll do," declared Kendall to Joe, with a nod of encouragement. "Don't let 'em get your Angora." "I'll try not to," came the smiling answer. "Are they hard hitters?" "They are if they get the ball right, but it's up to you not to let 'em. Give 'em twisters and teasers." "Play ball," called the umpire again, and the first of the Yale batsmen took his place. Once more came the yells and cheers, and when the lad struck out, which he did with an ease that chagrined his mates, there was derisive yelling from the Harvard stands. "Two more and we've got 'em going!" was shouted. But Jimmie Lee, the diminutive first baseman, was up next, and perhaps the Harvard pitcher did not think him a worthy foeman. At any rate Jimmie caught a ball just where he wanted it, and rapped out a pretty two-bagger. "That's the way! Come on in!" was shouted at him, but Jimmie caught the signal to hug the half-way station, and stayed there. He stole third while they were throwing his successor out at first, and this made two down, with Jimmie ready to come in on half a chance. But the Harvard pitcher tightened up, and the fourth man succumbed to a slow twister on his final strike, making the third out, so that poor Jimmie expired on the last sack. "Now, Joe, show 'em that we can do better than that," begged Shorty, as he donned mask and protector. "Throw me a few and warm up. Then sting 'em in!" Joe was a bit nervous as he went to the box, but he managed to control himself. He seemed to guess just what kind of a ball would fool the batter, and, after two balls had been called on him, sent over two in succession that were named strikes. "That's the way we do it!" yelled a Yale admirer, in a high-pitched voice. "One more and he's done." But the one more did not come. Instead, apparently getting the ball just where he wanted it, the Harvard man swung on it to the tune of three sacks, amid a wild riot of cheers. "Now we've got 'em going!" came Harvard's triumphant yells, and Joe felt the hot blood rush to his face. Kendall saw it, and, guessing the pitcher's state of mind, walked out to the box and whispered: "Don't mind. That was a fluke. It won't happen again. Hold on to yourself--tighten up and we'll get 'em." Joe felt better after that bit of advice, and was calmer when he wound up for the next batter. Though he had been told that Harvard would play a foxy game, he was hardly prepared for what followed. The next player up hit lightly, for a sacrifice, thinking to bring in the run. As it happened, Joe stumbled as he raced to pick up the twisting ball, and though he managed to recover himself, and throw home, while on his knees, the man racing from third beat the throw and the first run for Harvard was in. Then such cheering as there was! Yale was nonplussed for the moment, and her rooters in the stands sat glum and silent. But the spirit of the blue could not long be kept down, and soon the Boola song came booming over the field. It cheered Joe mightily, even though he saw the sneering look on the face of Weston, who sat on the bench, hoping for a chance to supplant him. "Here's where we walk away!" crowed a Harvard man, but the wearers of the crimson did not, for that run was the only one they got that inning. But it was a start, and it looked big below the goose egg that adorned Yale's score. The game went on, varyingly. Yale managed to get two runs in the fifth inning, putting her one ahead, for Joe had done such good work, aided by the rest of the team, when a hit was made, that Harvard had not scored again. "Matson's pitching a great game!" exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook, as he watched eagerly. "I told you we wouldn't make any mistake if we let him go in first," and he looked at his colleagues. "But that was a costly fumble," declared Mr. Benson. "Yes, but no one is perfect. Besides we're ahead." "Only one run." "That's enough to win the game." "But hardly with four more innings to go," rejoined Mr. Whitfield, dubiously. "Look at that!" exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook, in excitement, as Joe grabbed a hot liner and whipped it over to first in time to catch the man napping there. "Matson's more than just a pitcher." "You seem interested in him," spoke Mr. Benson. "I am. I think Joe is going to make one of the finest ball players we've ever had at Yale. He hasn't found himself yet, of course, and he needs more judgment. But he's got a future. I think we'll hear of him somewhere else besides on a college team, too." "I understand he has professional ambitions," admitted Mr. Benson. "But he's got a hard life ahead of him." "Oh, he'll make good!" declared Mr. Hasbrook. And it seemed that Joe was going to in this game. He was pitching wonderfully well, and Harvard only found him for scattering hits. On her part Yale was doing very well. Harvard had tried another pitcher when she found that her first one was being pounded, but it availed little, and when the ninth inning closed, as far as the wearers of the blue were concerned, they were two runs ahead. "We've got 'em! We've got 'em!" yelled Shorty with delight, capering about Joe. "All you've got to do is to hold 'em down!" "Yes--all--but that's a lot," declared the pitcher. "They're going to play fierce now." "But they need three runs to win. You can hold 'em down!" "I'll try," promised Joe, as he went to the mound. It looked as if he was going to make good, but luck, that element that is always present in games, especially in baseball, deserted the blue for the red. The first man up knocked a long, high fly to deep centre. So sure was he, as well as everyone else, that it would be caught, that the player hardly ran, but the ball slipped through the fingers of Ed. Hutchinson as if it had been greased, and the man was safe on second. "Now we've got 'em going," came the cry. "A couple more hits and we've got the game." Joe was wary, but he was playing against experienced youths, and when he found the man on second trying to steal third he threw down, hoping to catch him. His throw was wild, the baseman jumped for it in vain, and the runner went on to third. "Never mind--play for the batter," advised Shorty. Joe did, but somehow he could not get the right twist on the ball. He was hit for a single, and the man on third scored. "Two more and we've got 'em!" yelled the delighted wearers of the crimson. "None down yet." Then, whether it was the effect of luck, or because the Yale team was hypnotized by the wearers of the crimson, was not manifest; but certain it was that the blue players went to pieces. It was not Joe's fault--at least not all his, though he made one error. But this seemed to affect all the Yale team, and the result was a wild finish on the part of Harvard that put them two runs to the good, winning the game. "Hard luck!" exclaimed Shorty, in a dejected voice, as he took off his glove and mask. "Hard luck!" CHAPTER XXV AT WEST POINT "We'd a right to that game!" "Sure we had." "And we did have it in the refrigerator, only it got out through the drain pipe, I guess." "It's tough luck!" The Yale team and its admirers--no, in this case its sympathizers--were coming off the field after the Harvard defeat. All sorts of comments, excuses, philosophical expressions, and revilings at fate, were heard. Joe said but little, though he thought much. Every error--every little point he had missed--seemed to stand out glaringly. "Never mind, old man!" It was Spike who spoke, putting his arm affectionately around his chum's shoulders. "I--I can't help it," replied the pitcher, bitterly. "We lost the game." "That's just it--we did--not you. Cæsar's ghost, man! You can't carry the whole blame of losing the game, any more than you can claim the whole credit when we win. It's all in the day's work." "I know, but----" "'But me no buts,' now Joe. Just brace up. This is only one of the championship games. There are more to come, and we'll get enough to put us on top of the heap. I only wish I had your chances to perform in public." "I wish you had, Spike. But I guess this was my last chance." "Nonsense! They'll play you again. Why Weston--or Avondale either, for that matter--wouldn't have done half as well, I think." "Oh, so that's your opinion; is it?" snapped a voice behind them. There was no need to turn to know that Weston was there, and it took but a glance to show that he was frowning and sneering. "It sure is," retorted Spike, sturdily, for he was not afraid to air his opinions. "Well, you've got another think coming," snapped Weston. "I'll pitch a game pretty soon, and show you what's what." Joe did not make reply, but he wondered if Weston's words held significance. "Maybe they won't let me pitch after this," he mused. Spike, reading his thoughts, said: "Now don't you go to thinking gloomy thinks, Joe. You're all right if you only believe so. Have some confidence in yourself." "I have, but after the way things went to pieces in the last inning I don't know what to think." "Oh, bosh! If you'd had anything like decent support it never would have happened. Hutchinson muffing that ball started us down hill." "That's what!" chimed in Jimmie Lee, coming along just then. "This is only one game--the fortunes of war. We'll beat 'em next time; wallop Princeton, and take the championship." "West Point is next on the list," went on Joe. "I wonder what sort of a game they play?" "Like clockwork," explained Spike. "I saw one, once, and they put it all over Yale. But we've got to win this one." "That's what!" declared Jimmie. "I say, I know a nice place where we can get a dandy rabbit. Let's stay over to-night. I can stand some cuts, we'll take in a show, and have supper after it. Come on, and we can go to New Haven in the morning." "No, I guess I'll go back with the team," said Joe, slowly. "They might think I was trying to dodge if I sneaked off. I'll go back with the rest." "All right--then we'll go to Glory's and have a feed," insisted Jimmie. "I've got to do something to raise my spirits." They went to the dressing rooms, and soon the players and their friends were moving to the hotel where they had stopped. Yale had cheered her successful rivals, and had been cheered in turn, and now, as the team walked through the Cambridge streets they heard, on all sides of them, the jubilant expressions that told of joy over the victory. To Joe it was gall and wormwood, for, in spite of the efforts of his friends to make him feel better, he half blamed himself for the defeat. On the way home in the special train he was gloomy and silent, but later, when he and his chums went to the well-known resort, and heard the Yale songs, and saw the jolly faces of the students--jolly in spite of the defeat--he felt better. "It's only once in a while that the bulldog loses his grip," declared Ricky Hanover. "We'll get a strangle hold on the rest of the games and come out on top of the heap." College life resumed its usual routine after this big game. There were others in prospect, though, and practice went on unceasingly. Joe half feared he would be displaced from his position on the 'varsity, but he was not. True, Weston and Avondale were called on at times, for the policy of the coaches was to have the best pitchers always in reserve. But Joe seemingly was the first one to be called on. Nor did Mr. Hasbrook reproach him, personally, for the defeat. All the players received a calling down for their loose methods in the Harvard game, and their faults were pointed out in no uncertain fashion. In a way the loss of the contest did good, for, following it, the practice was snappier than it had been in a long while. "We want to defeat the army lads!" exclaimed the head coach a few days before the West Point game. Contrary to the general custom the two who were to pitch and catch were announced the night before. It was at a meeting of the team, during which the coaches gave some good advice. Joe saw Weston in close conversation with Mr. Benson and Mr. Whitfield, and he had a fear that the deposed pitcher was trying to "pull strings" and make a place for himself. "Of course you'll pitch, Matson," said Mr. Hasbrook, in such a matter-of-fact voice that Joe was rather startled. "And Kendall will catch." There was a murmur, possibly at the remembrance of the Harvard game, but no one said anything. Joe, who sat beside Spike, whispered: "I wonder when you'll get your chance?" "Oh, some day, maybe," was the answer. "I can wait. I'm glad you've had yours." "I must make good, though," declared Joe, half fearful that he would not. They arrived at West Point to be enthusiastically greeted by the cadets, who took charge of the team, the substitutes and the "rooters" in right royal fashion. A big crowd had assembled, and as the day was a fine one there was every prospect of a game that would be all that was desired. "I wonder if we'll win?" mused Joe, as he got into his uniform and started out on the field. The cadets were already at practice, and showed up well. "A fine, snappy lot of fellows," observed Jimmie Lee. "We've got our work cut out all right." "That's what," declared Hen Johnson. As Joe left the dressing room, he saw Weston talking to Mr. Benson, who was having a conversation with the trainer. The former 'varsity pitcher--who was now second choice it seemed--was much excited, and as Joe passed he heard Weston say: "Well, I want half the game, anyhow. Can't I have it?" "I--I'll see what I can do," replied Mr. Benson. "I'll do all I can." "I'm tired of playing second fiddle," snapped Weston, as he drifted out behind a knot of players. Joe began to think of many things. CHAPTER XXVI A SORE ARM Yale won the toss and chose to go to the bat last--always an advantage it seems--so Joe had to go on the mound as soon as practice was concluded. The usual practice of the home team batting last did not prevail on this occasion. The stands were filled with a mass of spectators, in which pretty girls seemed to predominate. At least Joe assumed that they were pretty for they had escorts who looked on them with eyes that seemed to bear witness to this designation. Many of them were "stunning," to quote De Vere, who took a position in the outfield during practice. "Just so he could be nearer some of the girls," declared Jimmie Lee, who had the reputation of being a "woman hater." "Some crowd," remarked Joe to Spike. "Yes, and a good one, too," declared Joe's room-mate. "It isn't all howling for Yale blood. There are a lot of old grads. here to-day, as well as a lot of army men, and we've got our friends with us. You've got to play for all you're worth." "I intend to," declared Joe, "but----" "Now there you go!" interrupted his chum. "Getting doubtful of yourself. Stop it, I tell you! Just make up your mind that you're going to make good and you will. These fellows are only human, and, though they've got the game down to a fine point, and play together like machinery, on account of their drill practice, yet baseball is always uncertain. Yale luck is bound to turn up sooner or later." "It had better be sooner then," remarked Joe, with a grim smile. "Two defeats, hand running, would about put me out of business. I'd resign." "Nonsense!" declared Spike. "You can make good all right. Remember that Weston is just hankering for a chance to displace you, so don't give it to him. Hold on to the mound." "I intend to. And yet I heard something that set me thinking," and Joe related what he had inadvertently listened to, adding: "I may be taken out after two innings." "Not much!" declared Spike emphatically. "I see what's going on. Weston is trying to work his society pull and get the trainers to pitch him. The cad!" "Well, I can't find the heart to blame him," said Joe, softly. "I can," snapped Spike. "He's putting himself above the team." "Well, maybe it will all come out right," said Joe, but his tone did not support his words, for he ended with a doleful sigh. "Oh, you get out!" cried Spike cheerfully. "You've got the losing bugaboo in a bad form. Cheer up--the worst is yet to come." "Yes, a defeat," murmured Joe, and then Spike hit him such a thump in the back that the pitcher had to gasp to recover his breath, and in doing so he forgot some of his gloomy thoughts. The practice went on over the field, until the umpire called the captains together for the final conference, and an agreement on the ground rules. These were adjusted satisfactorily, and once more the inspiring cry rang out: "Play ball!" "Get 'em over, Joe," advised Shorty Kendall, as the young pitcher walked out to his place. "Shoot 'em in good and hard, but keep 'em over the plate. I know this umpire. He's fair, but he's careful. You'll have to work for all the strikes you get." "And I'm willing to," declared Joe. Somehow his confidence was coming back, and as he caught the new ball which the umpire tossed to him, he felt that he could pitch as he never had before. He was aware of the scowling glance of Weston, who sat on the bench, and, as Joe stooped over to rub some dirt on the ball, to render it less slippery, he wondered if the deposed pitcher had so managed to "pull strings" as to gain his end. "Anyhow, I'll pitch as long as I can," thought Joe with grim determination. The game started. There was nothing remarkable about it, at least at first, so I shall not weary you with details of the strikes, balls, the sliding for bases, the decisions, and the runs. Sufficient to say that at first neither side could score. Joe and the rival pitcher were in good form, and, aside from scattering hits, which were usually only good for a single bag, little was done. For four innings neither side scored a run, though on one decision of the umpire, when Joe came sliding home on a sacrifice by Jimmie Lee, and was called out, there was a howl of protest. "Robber!" "Blind man!" "He was safe by a yard!" "Don't give it!" were some of the mildest epithets and expressions of opinion hurled at the umpire. "Hold on! That isn't Yale's way," said the captain quietly. "It's all right," and the decision stood, though had it been otherwise it would have meant a run for Yale. And so the game went on until the eighth inning, which put West Point one run ahead. There was excitement on the part of the army and its supporters, for in the last half of it Yale had been unable to score, and it looked as if she might lose. "We've got to get 'em!" declared Captain Hatfield grimly, as he and his men took the field for the beginning of the ninth. "Don't let one get past you, Joe, and then we'll bat out two runs." The young pitcher nodded, but he did not smile. He was a little in doubt of himself, for there was a strange numb feeling in his right arm, and he knew that the muscles were weakening. He had worked himself to the limit, not only in this game, but the one with Harvard, and now he began to pay the penalty. Once or twice as he wound up to deliver he felt a sharp twinge that alarmed him. He had not asked to have one of the professional rubbers with the team massage him, for fear the rumor would get out that Yale's pitcher was weakening. So he bore it as best he could. But his arm was sore. Joe had struck out one man, and then he was found for a two-bagger. This man was a notorious base stealer and managed to get to third, while the player following him, who was the heaviest hitter on the team, had been passed by Joe on a signal from the captain, who did not want to take chances. "He's afraid!" came the taunt, and Joe was beginning to get nervous, especially as his pain increased. With two on bases, and only one out, Joe saw come to the bat a man who was an expert bunter. He could lay the ball almost anywhere he wanted to, and our hero realized that he was in for a bad few minutes. It would not do to walk another. He must get this man. What he had feared came to pass. The player bunted and the ball came lazily rolling toward the pitcher. Joe and Kendall started for it, and then Joe yelled: "I'll get it--go back!" He felt himself slipping on a pebble, but recovered with a wrench that strained his sore arm. With an effort he managed to get the ball. He knew that if he threw it from the unnatural and disadvantageous position he had assumed in recovering it, he would make his sore arm worse. But there was no help for it. The man on third had started for home. Joe, with a mighty effort, threw to Kendall, who caught it and tagged his quarry. "Out!" called the umpire. One run was saved. Then, like a flash the catcher threw to third, for the man who had been on first, having reached second, rather imprudently tried for another bag. He was tagged there by as neat a double play as could be desired, and the West Pointers had finished, with but the one run to their advantage. "We need one to tie and two to win," exclaimed Shorty to Joe, as he tossed his big mitt into the air. "Why," he added, "what's the matter with your arm?" for he saw it hanging down limp. "A strain," replied Joe shortly. "I'm all right." "You are not! McLeary must look at you. We'll play somebody else this inning. You go get rubbed." And Joe was glad enough to do so. CHAPTER XXVII THE ACCUSATION Yale won from West Point. It was almost a foregone conclusion after that sensational inning when Joe went down and out with his sprained arm, after saving the game. His mates rallied to the support of, not only himself, but the whole team, and, the cadets, having been held runless, the wearers of the blue made a determined stand. Weston was called on to go in and replace Joe, and the former 'varsity pitcher, in spite of his feeling against our hero, had that in him which made him do his best in spite of the odds against him. Weston was half hoping that the game would be a tie, which would give him a chance to go on the mound and show what he could do at pitching against a formidable opponent of Yale. But it was not to be, though he brought in one of the winning runs for the New Haven bulldog. The crowd went wild when they saw what a game fight the visitors were putting up, and even the supporters of the army lads hailed them with delight as they pounded the cadet pitcher, for everyone likes to see a good play, no matter if it is made by the other side. "Oh, wow! A pretty hit!" yelled the throng as Weston sent a two-bagger well out in the field. His face flushed with pleasure, as he speeded around, and, probably, had he been taken in hand then, subsequent events might not have happened, for his unreasonable hatred against Joe might have been dissipated. But no one did, and the result was that Weston felt he had been wrongly treated, and he resolved to get even. "Well played, boys, well played!" exclaimed the captain of the cadets, as he came up to shake hands with Hatfield. "You did us up good and proper. We can't buck such a pitcher as you have. What happened to him!" "Sprained arm," explained Spike, who stood near. "Too bad! Tell him to take care of it," rejoined the cadet. "Such twirlers as he is are few and far between. Well, you beat us, but that's no reason why you can do it again. We'll have your scalps next year. Now, boys, altogether! Show 'em how West Pointers can yell." The cheer for the Yale team broke out in a gladsome yell, tinged with regret, perhaps, for West Point had been sure of winning, especially toward the end, but there was no ill-feeling showing in the cries that echoed over the field. In turn the New Haven bulldog barked his admiration of the gallant opponents, and then came a special cheer for Joe Matson, whose plucky play had made it possible for Yale to win. Joe, in the dressing room, heard his name, and flushed with delight. Trainer McLeary was rubbing his sore arm. "Hurt much?" the man asked, as he massaged the strained muscles. "Some," admitted Joe, trying not to wince as the pain shot along his arm. "How are we making out?" "We win," declared McLeary, as a scout brought him word. "And you did it." "Not by pitching," asserted Joe. "No, perhaps not. But every game isn't won by pitching. There are lots of other plays besides that. Now you've got to take care of this arm." "Is it bad?" "Bad enough so you can't use it right away. You've got to have a rest. You've torn one of the small ligaments slightly, and it will have to heal. No baseball for you for a week." "No!" cried Joe aghast. "No, sir! Not if you want to play the rest of the season," replied the trainer. Now Joe did want to finish out the season, whether he came back to Yale or not, for there were big games yet in prospect, particularly that with Princeton, and, if it was necessary to play a third one, it would take place on the big New York Polo Grounds. "And, oh! if I could only pitch before that crowd!" thought Joe, in a moment of anticipated delight. "There, I guess you'll do, if you keep it well wrapped up, stay out of draughts and don't use it," said the trainer finally, as he bound up Joe's twirling wing. "No practice, even, for a week, and then very light." Joe half groaned, and made a wry face, but there was no help for it, he realized that. He was surrounded by his mates, as the game ended, and many were the congratulations, mingled with commiserations, as they greeted him. Weston even condescended to say: "Hope you won't be knocked out long, old man." "Thanks," replied Joe dryly. "It'll be a week anyhow." "A week!" exclaimed Weston, and he could not keep the delight from showing on his face. Then he hurried off to see one of the coaches. Joe had little doubt what it meant. Weston was going to try for his old place again while Joe was unable to pitch. "Well," remarked De Vere, as his crony came out of the dressing rooms, whither he had gone. "I should think you could drop your other game, now that's he out of it." "Not much!" exclaimed Weston, with some passion. "This won't last. He'll be back pitching again, and do me out of it. What I'm going to do won't hurt him much, and it will give me a chance. I'm entitled to it." "I guess you are, old man." The Yale team went back jubilant, and there was a great celebration in New Haven when the ball nine arrived. Fires were made, and the campus as well as the streets about the college were thronged with students. There were marches, and songs, and Joe Matson's name was cheered again and again. Meanwhile our hero was not having a very delightful time. Not only was he in pain, but he worried lest the injury to his arm prove permanent. "If I shouldn't be able to pitch again!" he exclaimed to Spike, in their room. "Forget it!" advised the other. "You'll be at it again in a little while. Just take it easy." And Joe tried to, but it was hard work. It was galling to go to practice and watch others play the game while he sat and looked on--especially when Weston was pitching. But there was no help for it. And then, like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, it came. The week had passed and Joe, who had done some light practice, was sent in to pitch a couple of innings against the scrub. Weston was pulled out, and he went to the bench with a scowl. "I'll get him yet," he muttered to De Vere. "He's put me out of it again." "I'd go slow," was the advice. "It's been slow enough as it is," growled the other. The day for the first Princeton game was at hand. It was to be played at Yale, and everyone was on edge for the contest. Joe was practically slated to pitch, and he felt his responsibility. His arm was in good shape again. The night before the game the Dean sent for Joe to come to his office. "What's up now?" demanded Spike, as his friend received the summons. "Have you won a scholarship, or is the Dean going to beg of you not to throw the game?" "Both, I guess," answered Joe with a laugh. In his heart he wondered what the summons meant. He was soon to learn. "I have sent for you, Mr. Matson," said the Dean gravely, "to enable you to make some answer to a serious accusation that has been brought against you." "What is it?" faltered the pitcher. "Do you remember, some time ago," the Dean went on, "that some red paint was put on the steps of the house of one of the professors? The gentleman slipped, fell in the paint, and a very rare manuscript was ruined. Do you remember?" "Yes," answered Joe quietly, wondering if he was to be asked to tell what he knew. "Well," went on the Dean, "have you anything to confess?" "Who, me? Confess? Why, no, sir," answered Joe. "I don't know what you mean." "Then I must tell you. You have been accused of putting the red paint on the steps, and, unless you prove yourself innocent you can take no further part in athletics, and you may be suspended." CHAPTER XXVIII VINDICATION Joe fairly staggered back, so startled was he by the words of the Dean--and, not only the words, but the manner--for the Dean was solemn, and there was a vindictiveness about him that Joe had never seen before. "Why--why, what do you mean?" gasped Joe. "I never put the red paint on the steps!" "No?" queried the Dean coldly. "Then perhaps you can explain how this pot of red paint came to be hidden in your closet." "My closet!" cried Joe, and at once a memory of the crimson stain on his coat came to him. "I never----" "Wait," went on the Dean coldly. "I will explain. It is not altogether circumstantial evidence on which I am accusing you. The information came to me--anonymously I regret to say--that you had some red paint in your closet. The spoiling of the valuable manuscripts was such an offence that I decided to forego, for once, my objection to acting on anonymous information. I did ignore one letter that accused you----" "Accused me!" burst out Joe, remembering the incident in chapel. "Yes. But wait, I am not finished. I had your room examined in your absence, and we found--this." He held up a pot of red paint. "I had the paint on the steps analyzed," went on the Dean. "It is of exactly the same chemical mixture as this. Moreover we found where this paint was purchased, and the dealer says he sold it to a student, but he will not run the risk of identifying him. But I deem this evidence enough to bar you from athletics, though I will not expel or punish you." Barred from athletics! To Joe, with the baseball season approaching the championship crisis, that was worse than being expelled. "I--I never did it!" he cried. "Do you know who did, if you did not?" asked the Dean. Like a flash it came to Joe. He could not tell. He could not utter his suspicions, though he was sure in his own heart that Weston was the guilty one--the twice guilty one, for Joe was sure his enemy had put the paint in the closet to direct suspicion to him. "Well?" asked the Dean, coldly. "I--I have nothing to say," faltered Joe. "Very well. You may go. I shall not make this matter public, except to issue the order barring you from athletics." Without a word Joe left. Inside of an hour it was noised all over the college that he could not pitch against Princeton, and great was the regret, mingled with anxiety. "What in thunder is up?" asked Captain Hatfield, as he sought out Joe. "Nothing." "Oh, come off! Can't you tell?" "No," answered Joe, and that was all he would say. Joe did not go to the Yale-Princeton game. Yale won. Won easily, though had Weston, who pitched, not been ably supported the story might have been a different one. "One scalp for us," announced Spike. "Yes," assented Joe gloomily. "Oh, you get out!" cried Spike. "I'm not going to stand for this. You've got to keep in form. There's no telling when this thing will all come out right, and you want to be in condition to pitch. You and I will keep up practice. The Dean can't stop you from that." Nor did he try, and, though Joe was hard to move at first, he soon consented to indulge in pitching practice with his chum. And then life at Yale went on much as before, though Joe's heart was bitter. He seldom saw Weston, who was again first choice for 'varsity pitcher. Weston did fairly well, too, though some games Yale should have won she lost. But it was to Princeton that all eyes turned, looking for the college championship. Could Yale win the next contest? The answer was not long delayed. Two weeks later the bulldog invaded the tiger's lair and was eaten up--to the end of his stubby tail. Yale received the worst beating in her history. "And it's up to Weston!" declared Spike savagely, when he came back from Princeton. "He was absolutely rotten. Went up in the air first shot, and they got seven runs the first inning. Then it was all over but the shouting, for Avondale and McAnish couldn't fill in the gap. Oh, Joe, if you could only pitch!" "But I can't." "You've just got to! Yale has a chance yet. It's a tie now for the championship. The deciding game will be played on the New York Polo Grounds in two weeks. You've got to pitch!" "I don't see how I can." "Well, I'm going to!" and Spike strode from the room, his face ablaze with anger and firm with determination. It seems that one of the janitors about the college had a son who was an epileptic. The lad was not badly afflicted and was able, most of the time, to help his father, sometimes doing the cleaning at one of the student clubs. It was to this club that Spike went when he burst out of his room, intent on finding, in some fashion, a way of vindicating Joe, for he was firm in his belief that Joe was innocent in spite of the silence. There had been rain the night before, and on a billboard adjoining the club room some of the gaudy red and yellow posters, announcing the final Yale-Princeton game, had been torn off. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Spike picked up part of a sheet, colored a vivid red. At that moment, from the side entrance, Charlie, the janitor's son, came out, and Spike, who had often given him odd tasks to do, and who felt sorry for the afflicted one, playfully thrust the red paper at him, saying: "Here, Charlie, take it home, and let your little sister cut out some paper dolls." He slapped the paper on the lad's hand, and being damp and pasty it stuck there, like a splotch of blood. Charlie shrank back, cowering and frightened, whimpering like a child, and mumbling: "Don't! Oh, don't Mr. Poole. Don't put that on me. I--I can't bear it. It's been haunting me. I'll tell all I know. The red paint--I put it there. But he--he made me. Some of it got on my hand, and I wiped it off on his coat. Oh, the blood color! Take it away. I--I can't stand it!" "What's that?" fairly yelled Spike. "Red paint? Here, tell me all you know! Jove, I begin to see things now!" "Take it off! Take it off!" begged Charlie, and he trembled so that Spike feared he would have a seizure. "There--there--it's all right," he said soothingly. "I'll take it off," and he removed the offending paper. "Now you come with me, and tell me all about it," he went on quietly. And Charlie obeyed, like a child. A little later Spike was closeted with the Dean, taking Charlie with him, and when they came out Joe's room-mate said: "Then the ban is removed, sir?" "Certainly, Poole," replied the Dean, "and I will make a public explanation in the morning. I am very sorry this occurred, and I deeply regret it. But circumstances pointed to him, and I felt I had to act. Never again, though, shall I place any faith in an anonymous letter. Yes, everything will be all right. If Matson had only spoken, though!" "It's just like him not to," said Spike. CHAPTER XXIX BUCKING THE TIGER "Hurray! Matson is going to pitch for us!" "Get out! He's barred!" "Not now. It's all off. He'll pitch against Princeton!" "Where'd you hear it?" "What's the matter with Weston?" "Oh, he's gone--vamoosed--flew the coop. Couldn't stand the disgrace. It'll all be out in the morning." Student meeting student on the campus, in dormitories, in the commons, at Glory's--anywhere in fact, passed these, and similar remarks. "And to think you knew, all the while, that Weston put that red paint on the steps, and you wouldn't squeal!" cried Spike, clapping his chum on the shoulder. "Would you?" asked Joe quietly. "Well--er--now you have got me, old man! But it's all right. Come on out and celebrate." And they celebrated as they never had before. Joe was given an ovation when he entered Glory's, and every member of the nine--substitutes and all--were there to do him honor. That is, all but Weston and De Vere. They had quietly taken themselves from Yale. The explanation was simple. Weston had, as my readers know already, put the red paint on the professor's steps. He was not discovered, for Joe kept quiet. Then, when our hero was preferred as pitcher, in the bitterness of his heart, Weston planned to throw suspicion on him. He sent the first anonymous letter, though Avondale knew nothing of it. Then Weston took De Vere into his confidence and the two evolved the scheme of smuggling the pot of red paint, that Weston had used, into Joe's closet. The epileptic lad, Charlie, was the innocent medium, and once the paint was hidden Weston sent the second anonymous letter to the Dean, telling about it. What happened is well known. Joe was accused, and would not inform on another to save himself. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to do--certainly he owed it to himself to have the right to vindication. I am not defending him, I am only telling of what happened. Then came the dramatic episode, when Spike unwittingly brought out the truth from Charlie. It seems that the boy's conscience had been troubling him, for though Weston pretended it was only an innocent joke he was playing on Joe, the lad suspected something. And so the full explanation was made to the Dean, and the latter, publicly, at chapel the next morning, begged Joe's pardon, and restored him to his full rights. As for Weston and De Vere, they were not in evidence. They had left Yale. "Sharp practice from now on," ordered Mr. Hasbrook, when the excitement had quieted down somewhat. "We'll have to replace De Vere at right field, but otherwise the team will be the same as before. Matson, you'll pitch, of course." "And he'll win for us, too!" cried Spike. "I'm sure I hope so," went on the head coach. "Spike, if it wasn't so late in the season I'd let you catch. You deserve something for your share in this." "Oh, I wouldn't think of catching now, though it would be great," declared Joe's chum. "Give me a chance next season." "I sure will," said the head coach. "Get busy now, everybody. We've got to beat Princeton!" "Oh, Joe, do you think we'll win?" asked Spike, half nervously, the night before they were to start for New York to meet their rivals. "Win! Of course we'll win!" cried Joe, and though so much depended on him, he was the coolest member of the team. CHAPTER XXX THE CHAMPIONSHIP Such a crowd as filled the big Polo Grounds! The grandstands seemed full, and the bleachers too, but the elevated and surface roads brought more constantly, and the honking autos added to the clamor. It was a perfect day, and the ball field--one of the best in the world--where professionals meet professionals--was laid out with mathematical precision. From their lairs near the press boxes the tigers trotted to be welcomed with shouts and yells from their supporters and the songs of their fellows. "They beat us once--as we did them," said Joe in a low voice. "They may beat us again." "Not much!" cried Spike. "A Yale victory is in the air. I can feel it! Look at that blue," and he pointed to the sky, "and then at that," and he waved toward the azure-hued Yale stand, "and say we're going to lose! I guess not!" "A cheer for every man!" yelled the leader of the Princeton cheer masters, who were armed with big megaphones as were their New Haven rivals, except that the ribbons were of the tiger's stripes. "A cheer for every man!" And then, as the Jersey cheer was howled there followed each time the name of some player--sweet music to their ears, no doubt. "They're signalling to us," said Spike a little later. "I guess they want us inside to come out all in a bunch, as Princeton did." This was the import of the message delivered to them a little later as they filed into the dressing rooms, where the team and substitutes now were. "Remember, boys," said the captain solemnly, "we've got to win. It's Yale's luck against Princeton's maybe, but even with that it's got to be bulldog pluck against the tiger's fierceness. They can play ball." "And so can we!" declared several, in low voices. "Prove it--by beating 'em!" was the quick retort. "Pile out now, and have some snap to you!" If Yale had gone wild, so now did the students from her rival college. The orange and black, which had been in evidence on the opposite stand to that which showed the blue, now burst forth in a frenzy of color. Hats were tossed in the air, canes too, and one excited man dashed his tall silk head covering about with such energy that he split it on the walking stick of a gentleman seated near him. "I beg your pardon," said the one with the stick. "Don't mention it! My fault entirely--I'm too excited, I guess, but I used to play on the Princeton team years ago, and I came to-day to see her win. I don't care for a hat--I can buy lots more. But Princeton is going to win! Wow!" "I'm sorry for you," said the other with a smile. "But Yale has the bulge to-day." "Never!" "I tell you she has!" And then the argument began, good-natured enough, but only one of many like it going on all about the grounds. "Hark!" said Joe to Spike, as they were walking back toward the diamond. "Isn't that great?" There had come a momentary hush, and the sweet strains of the Princeton song--"Orange and Black," floated over the big diamond. Many of the spectators--former college men--joined in, Yale ceased her cheering while this was rendered, and then came a burst of applause, for the melody was exceptionally well rendered. "Well, they may sing, but they can't play ball," said Spike. Out came the bulldogs, and at once it seemed as if a bit of blue sky had suddenly descended on the stands, so solid was the mass of ultramarine color displayed, in contrast to the orange and black. "Joe, old man, isn't it great!" cried Spike, capering about. "To think that I'm really going to play in this big championship game!" "It's fine!" exclaimed Joe, yet he himself was thinking how glorious it would be if he was only a professional, and could occupy the mound of the Polo Grounds regularly instead of on this rare occasion. "And I will, too, some day!" he murmured. "Play ball!" The practice was over, the last conference between coaches, pitchers, catchers and captains had been held. The championship was now to be contested for. Yale had won the toss and taken last chance at bat. "Play ball!" Joe walked to the mound, a trifle nervous, as anyone would have been under the circumstances, but, with it all, holding himself well in hand. As he got ready to deliver the customary five balls before attending to the batter a quiet-appearing man, sitting in one of the press boxes, moved so as to get a better view of the young pitcher. "What's the matter, Mack?" asked one of the reporters. "Think you see some bushleaguers in this bunch of college boys?" "You never can tell," was the quiet answer. "I'm always on the lookout for recruits, and I'm particularly in need of a good pitcher." "Well, both teams have some good ones I hear," went on the newspaper man, and then he devoted himself to sending out an account of the game to his paper. With the first ball that he delivered Joe knew that he was in shape to pitch the game of his career. He was sure of his control, and he realized that with a little care he could place the horsehide just where he wanted it to go. "If we can only bat a few we've got this cinched," decided Joe, always aware, though, of the fatal element of luck. The early results seemed to justify his confidence. For four innings not a Princeton man got farther than first base, and the crowd was wildly cheering him. "If it will only last," he thought, and the memory of his sore arm came to him as a shock. But he had not suffered from it since, and he hoped he would not. On her part Yale had managed to get one run across, and thus the game stood at the beginning of the fifth inning. In that, for one fearful moment, Joe had fears. He had been signalled to walk the heaviest batter, but something went wrong, and the man plugged a three bagger that got past Spike. The next man up was a good hitter, and Kendall, in fear and trembling, signalled for another pass. But Joe shook his head. He was going to try to strike him out. And he did. Amid wild roars the man was retired, and when two more had gone down, and Princeton was still without a run, pandemonium broke loose. Though Yale tried with all her might to sweeten the score, she could not--at least in the next two innings. She batted well, but Princeton seemed to be right on the ball every time. And with only one run as a margin, the game was far from won. "But we'll do it!" cried Hatfield, fiercely. "That's what!" echoed Joe. Yale's chance came in the eighth inning, when, owing to an error by the Princeton shortstop, a man got to first. None were out, and Joe rapped out a pretty two-bagger that, followed by a wild throw home, enabled a man to score. Then Joe was brought in on a sacrifice hit, and when the inning ended Yale had three more runs, making the score four to nothing in her favor. Once more the riot of blue shot over the stands, while the orange and black fluttered listlessly. But the tiger was growling in his lair, while the bulldog was thus barking, and every Yale player knew that fortune might yet turn against them. But when Princeton had her last chance to bat, and only managed to get one run, it was all over but the shouting. Joe had pitched magnificently, and when the last chance of the Princeton tiger had vanished there was a rush for the young pitcher, and he was fairly carried away on the shoulders of his fellows. And such cheering as there was! "Yale wins!" "Yale is champion!" "Three cheers for Baseball Joe!" The field swarmed with the spectators, who hardly stayed to hear the victors and vanquished cheer each other. The quiet man who had sat in the press box managed to get a word to Joe, though he had to shout to be heard above the din. The young pitcher looked startled, then pleased, and his voice faltered as he answered; after a little more talk: "But supposing I don't make good, Mr.--er--?" "Mack is my name, I represent the manager; in fact I'm his assistant." "But supposing I don't make good?" repeated Joe. "I know I can do pretty well here, but, as you say, I don't seem to take to the college life. Still, I wouldn't want to make a public try as I'd have to, and then give up. It would bar me from the amateur ranks forever." "Yes, I know that," was the answer, "but you needn't be afraid. Look here, Matson. This isn't the first time I've done such a thing as this. It's part of my business, and part of my business to know what I'm doing. I can size a player up as quick as a horse buyer can a spavined nag. I've sized you up, and I know you're all wool and a yard wide." "But this is the first time you've seen me play." "It was enough, I tell you." "And, as I said," went on Joe, "I don't want to be in the position of putting myself out of the game. If I go in with you, and fail, I probably never could get another chance." "Oh, yes you could. But look here, Matson, you mustn't think of failure. You're not built that way. Now aren't you sport enough to take a chance?" Joe was silent for a moment. He thought of many things--of his overpowering ambition, and then answered falteringly: "I--I'm willing to try." "All right, then I'll sign you," was the answer. Another rush of the delirious students almost carried Joe off his feet. He was cheered and cheered again. Through the mob came pushing and shoving the president of the exclusive Anvil Club. "I say, Matson," he began, "this is great! Yale has come into her own again. We'd like the honor of electing you to our society, and would be pleased to have you make application." "I'm much obliged to you," spoke Joe slowly, "but I'm afraid I can't." "You can't! Why not?" "Because I'm going to leave Yale!" "Leave Yale!" came the indignant protest. "What for?" "Because I have just accepted, tentatively, an offer from one of the managers of a professional league to pitch for him the rest of this season, and all of next," replied Joe quietly. "That's right," confirmed the man who had whispered in our hero's ear. "I know a good pitcher when I see one, and there is no use of Matson wearing himself out on a college nine. He is cut out for a professional!" And to all the protests of his classmates Joe would not give in. He knew that college was no place for him, and as the chance had come to get into the professional ranks, at good pay, he was going to take it; provided, of course, that his folks were willing. How he did, and what happened, will be told in the next volume of this series, to be called, "Baseball Joe in the Central League; Or, Making Good as a Professional Pitcher." "Oh, Joe, can't you reconsider, and stay at Yale?" begged Spike, when he and his chum, after the exciting events of the championship game, were in their room once more. "I don't know what I'm going to do without you." "Spike, old man," said Joe, and his voice broke a little. "I would like to stay, for your sake, and for some of the other fine fellows I've met here. I'd like to stay in spite of the unpleasant experience I've had. I know it's going to break mother all up to hear I've left college, but I'm not cut out for it. I'm a square peg in a round hole. I want to get into professional baseball, and I've just _got_ to. I shouldn't be happy here." "Well, if that's the case," said Spike, with a sigh, "I'm not going to say anything more. Only it sure is tough luck. Yale will miss you." "And I'll miss her, too, in a way. But my place isn't here." There was silence between them for a space, and then Spike said softly: "Come on down to Glory's--for the last time. Joe." And they went out together. THE END THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES By LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Illustrated. Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] 1. BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS _or The Rivals of Riverside_ 2. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE _or Pitching for the Blue Banner_ 3. BASEBALL JOE AT YALE _or Pitching for the College Championship_ 4. BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE _or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_ 5. BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE _or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles_ 6. BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS _or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_ 7. BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES _or Pitching for the Championship_ 8. BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD _or Pitching on a Grand Tour_ 9. BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING _or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record_ 10. BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE _or Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy_ 11. BASEBALL JOE CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM _or Bitter Struggles on the Diamond_ 12. BASEBALL JOE CHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE _or The Record that was Worth While_ 13. BASEBALL JOE CLUB OWNER _or Putting the Home Town on the Map_ 14. BASEBALL JOE PITCHING WIZARD _or Triumphs Off and On the Diamond_ _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BOMBA BOOKS By ROY ROCKWOOD _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. With colored jacket._ _Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] _Bomba lived far back in the jungles of the Amazon with a half-demented naturalist who told the lad nothing of his past. The jungle boy was a lover of birds, and hunted animals with a bow and arrow and his trusty machete. He had a primitive education in some things, and his daring adventures will be followed with breathless interest by thousands._ 1. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY 2. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE MOVING MOUNTAIN 3. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE GIANT CATARACT 4. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON JAGUAR ISLAND 5. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE ABANDONED CITY 6. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON TERROR TRAIL 7. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE SWAMP OF DEATH 8. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AMONG THE SLAVES 9. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON THE UNDERGROUND RIVER 10. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AND THE LOST EXPLORERS 11. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN A STRANGE LAND 12. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AMONG THE PYGMIES _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BOY HUNTERS SERIES By CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL [Illustration] _12mo. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors._ _Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ _Captain Ralph Bonehill is one of the best known and most popular writers for young people. In this series he shows, as no other writer can, the joy, glory and happiness of outdoor life._ =FOUR BOY HUNTERS= _or The Outing of the Gun Club_ A fine, breezy story of the woods and waters, of adventures in search of game, and of great times around the campfire, told in Captain Bonehill's best style. In the book are given full directions for camping out. =GUNS AND SNOWSHOES= _or The Winter Outing of the Young Hunters_ In this volume the young hunters leave home for a winter outing on the shores of a small lake. They hunt and trap to their hearts' content and have adventures in plenty, all calculated to make boys "sit up and take notice." A good healthy book; one with the odor of the pine forests and the glare of the welcome campfire in every chapter. =YOUNG HUNTERS OF THE LAKE= _or Out with Rod and Gun_ Another tale of woods and waters, with some strong hunting scenes and a good deal of mystery. The three volumes make a splendid outdoor series. =OUT WITH GUN AND CAMERA= _or The Boy Hunters in the Mountains_ Takes up the new fad of photographing wild animals as well as shooting them. An escaped circus chimpanzee and an escaped lion add to the interest of the narrative. _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE JEWEL SERIES By AMES THOMPSON [Illustration] _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in colors._ _Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ _A series of stories brimming with hardy adventure, vivid and accurate in detail, and with a good foundation of probability. They take the reader realistically to the scene of action. Besides being lively and full of real situations, they are written in a straightforward way very attractive to boy readers._ 1. THE ADVENTURE BOYS _and the_ VALLEY OF DIAMONDS In this book they form a party of five, and with the aid of a shrewd, level-headed sailor named Stanley Green, they find a valley of diamonds in the heart of Africa. 2. THE ADVENTURE BOYS _and the_ RIVER OF EMERALDS With a guide, they set out to find the River of Emeralds. But masked foes, emeralds, and falling mountains are all in the day's fun for these Adventure Boys. 3. THE ADVENTURE BOYS _and the_ LAGOON OF PEARLS This time the group starts out on a cruise simply for pleasure, but their adventuresome spirits lead them into the thick of things on a South Sea cannibal island. 4. THE ADVENTURE BOYS _and the_ TEMPLE OF RUBIES The Adventure Boys find plenty of thrills when they hit the ruby trail, and soon discover that they are marked by some sinister influence to keep them from reaching the Ruby. 5. THE ADVENTURE BOYS _and the_ ISLAND OF SAPPHIRES The paths of the young jewel hunters lead to a mysterious island where the treasures are concealed. _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York Transcriber's Notes: --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). --Text in bold is enclosed by "equal" signs (=bold=). --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --Retained author's long dash style. 
39582	----	[Illustration: THE GAME WON--PHIL, AMID A RIOT OF CHEERS, KEPT ON TO SECOND] THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball BY LESTER CHADWICK AUTHOR OF "A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK," ETC. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES 12mo. Illustrated THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK A Story of College Football (Other volumes in preparation) CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY NEW YORK Copyright, 1910, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY THE RIVAL PITCHERS Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE OLD BELL CLAPPER 1 II A GOOD THROW 19 III A BASEBALL MEETING 27 IV THE HAZING 42 V A SCRUB GAME 51 VI THE POLE RUSH 62 VII TOM HOLDS HIS OWN 69 VIII AT PRACTICE 77 IX A GAME WITH BOXER HALL 86 X A COIL OF WIRE 93 XI AN ELECTRIC SHOCK 104 XII TOM DOESN'T TELL 112 XIII A GIRL AND A GAME 120 XIV TOM'S CURVES 132 XV A SOPHOMORE TRICK 139 XVI TOM MAKES A DISCOVERY 147 XVII AN EXPOSTULATION 152 XVIII SOME "OLD GRADS" 160 XIX TOM IN COLD WATER 168 XX A GAME OF ANOTHER SORT 176 XXI ON THE GRILL 185 XXII DARK DAYS 192 XXIII AT THE DANCE 200 XXIV DRESS SUITS COME HIGH 208 XXV TOM IN A GAME 216 XXVI THE FRESHMAN DINNER 227 XXVII TOM IS KIDNAPPED 234 XXVIII THE ESCAPE 240 XXIX ANTICIPATIONS 247 XXX A GREAT GAME 255 XXXI LANGRIDGE APPEALS 272 XXXII THE FINAL CONTEST 281 XXXIII VICTORY 293 THE RIVAL PITCHERS CHAPTER I THE OLD BELL CLAPPER Down the green campus they strolled, a motley group of sturdy freshmen, talking excitedly. In their midst was a tall, good-looking lad, who seemed to be the center of discussion. Yet, in spite of the fact that the others appeared to be deferring something to him, he regarded them with rather an amused and cynical smile on his face. He paused to brush an invisible bit of dust from his well-fitting clothes. "Well, aren't we going to make a try for it to-night?" asked one youth, whose hat was decorated with a silk band, yellow and maroon in color. "My uncle, who used to be a football coach here, says the freshmen always used to get it the first week of the term. My uncle----" "Oh, let up about your uncle, Fenton!" exclaimed the lad on whose word the others seemed to depend a great deal. "I've heard nothing but your uncle, your uncle, ever since you came here. Give us something new." "That's all right, Fred Langridge, but my uncle----" "There you go again!" interrupted Fred. "I guess I know what the custom is, as well as your uncle. He hasn't been here in fifteen years." "I know that, but he says----" "Say, if you speak uncle again, I'll land you one on the jaw, and that'll keep you quiet for a while." The words, in spite of their aggressiveness, were good-natured enough, and were spoken with a smile. Ford Fenton, who seldom took part in any conversation about college sports or frolics without mentioning his relative, who had been a well-known coach at Randall, looked first surprised, then hurt, but as he saw that the sympathies of his companion freshmen were with Langridge, he concluded to make the best of it. "I guess I know what the customs are here," repeated the well-dressed lad. "Didn't I get turned down at the exams, and ain't I putting in my second year as freshman? I helped get the clapper last year, and I'll help again this term. But I know one thing, Fenton, and that's not two." "What's that?" eagerly asked the youth who had boasted of his uncle. "That's this: You may not get the clapper, but you'll get something else." "Why, what's the matter?" For answer Langridge silently pointed to the gay hatband of the other. "Take it off--take it off," he said. "Don't you know it's against the sacred customs of Randall College for a freshman to wear the colors on his hat until after the flagpole rush? Don't you know it, I ask?" "Yes, I heard something about it." "Better strip it off, then," went on Langridge. "Here come Morse and Denfield, a couple of scrappy sophs. They'll have it off you before you can say 'all Gaul is divided into three parts,' which you slumped on in Latin to-day." Fenton looked up, and saw approaching the group of freshmen which included himself, two tall lads, who walked along with the swagger that betokened their second year at college. The hand of Fenton went to his hat, to take off the offending band, but he was too late. The sophomores had seen it. They turned quickly and strode over to the group of first years. "Would you look at that, Morse!" called Denfield in simulated wrath. "I should say so," came the answer. "The nerve of him! Hi, fresh, what are you doing with that hatband?" Then Fenton did something totally opposed to the spirit of Randall College. He, a freshman, dared to talk back to a sophomore. "I'm wearing it," replied he pertly. "Does it look as if I was playing ping-pong with it?" The sophomores could hardly believe their ears. There was no imitation in the surprise that showed on their faces. "For the love of Mike! Listen to him!" gasped Morse. "Grab him, Denfield! Wow! But things are coming to a pretty pass when a fresh talks like that the first week. Look out now, youngster, you're going to get a little lesson in how to behave to your betters." The two sophomores reached out their hands to grab Fenton. He made a spring to get behind a protecting wall of his comrades, and for a moment it looked as if the second year lads would be bested, for there were at least fifteen freshmen. But Langridge knew better than to let his friends get into trouble that way. "Let 'em have him," he advised in a low voice. "It's the custom, and he knew it. He deserves it all." Thereupon the freshmen divided, and offered no opposition to the twain, who gathered in their man. Morse snatched off the hat with the offending band, and, while Denfield held the struggling Fenton, ripped off the ribbon. Then with his knife Morse began cutting the hat to pieces. "Here, quit that!" yelled Fenton. "That's a new hat!" "Softly, softly, little one," counseled Denfield. "I pray thee speak softly." Though Fenton struggled to escape, the other easily held him, and the freshman was forced to witness the destruction of his nice, new soft hat. Having thus, as he believed, wiped out the insult offered, Morse carefully folded the ribbon and placed it in his pocket. "Maybe you'll get a chance to wear it--after the pole rush," he said calmly. "I don't believe you will, for we're going to wipe up the ground with you freshmen this term. But if you do, I'll give you back your ribbon--er--what's your name, freshman?" "Fenton," answered the humiliated one. "Fenton what?" "Ford Fenton." "Say 'Fenton, sir,'" counseled Langridge in the other's ear. "Don't you know how to reply to a gentleman?" asked Denfield fiercely, shaking Fenton from a neckhold he had. "Say sir, when you speak to a soph." "Sir!" cried Fenton, for the grip hurt him. "That's better. Now remember, no more ribbons until after the pole rush, and maybe not then. This to all you freshies," added Morse. "Oh, we know that," put in Langridge. "But we'll all be wearing them after next week, and we'll be wearing something else, too." "Nixy on the clapper, old chap!" called Denfield. "We won't stand for that." "We'll see," responded Langridge. "All is not gold that doesn't come out in the wash." "Ha! He speaks in parables!" cried Morse. "Well done, old chap! But come on, Denfield. I've got a date." The youth holding Fenton gave him a sudden turn and twist that sent him spinning to the ground, and as he picked himself up the two sophomores walked off, as dignified as senators. "Confound them!" muttered Fenton as he brushed the dust off his clothes. "I've a good mind to----" "Easy, now," advised Langridge. "They're sophs, you know. Go easy!" "But that's no reason why we should let them walk all over us!" exclaimed a sturdy lad, who had watched, with rising anger, the attack on Fenton. "I don't see why a crowd of us fellows should take whatever mean things they want to inflict." "That's all right, Clinton," declared Langridge. "It's college custom, just the same as it is for us to take the clapper out of the chapel bell, have it melted up, and cast into watch charms. It's college custom, that's all." "That's all right, it may be; but I like to see a fair fight!" went on Phil Clinton. "I could have tackled Morse alone, and he's bigger than I am." "Maybe you could, but you'd have the whole sophomore class down on us if you did, and you know what that means. No, let it go. Fenton brought it on himself by wearing the band." "I wish they'd tackled me," murmured the sturdy Clinton. "I wish they had," echoed Fenton. "Look at my hat." "That's all right, my uncle says I can have a new one!" piped up a shrill voice, in imitation of Fenton's usual tones. "Holly Cross, or I'm a Dutchman!" exclaimed Langridge, turning quickly to glance at a newcomer, who had joined the ranks of the freshmen. "Where've you been, Holly?" "Down by the boathouse, watching the crew practice. I'll give you an imitation of Billy Housenlager pulling," and Holly, or Holman, Cross, began a pretense of rowing in grotesque style. "That's Dutch all over," admitted Langridge. "He goes at it like a house and lot." "What's up?" demanded Holly, for he had seen from afar the little rumpus. "Has 'my uncle' been cutting up?" and he winked at Fenton. "That's all right," began the aggrieved one, who did not seem to know when he was being made fun of. "Look at my hat," and he held up the felt article, which was in tatters. "New style," commented Holly casually. "Good for hot weather. Fine for a souvenir. Hand it around and we'll all put our initials on it, and you can hang it in your room. But say, is there anything doing?" "There may be, to-night," answered Langridge. "So--so?" asked Holly with a wink, the while he pretended to ring an imaginary bell. "Keep it mum," was Langridge's answer. "You fellows want to meet at the boathouse to-night," he went on, as if giving orders. "Don't forget what I told you, and don't walk as if you had new shoes on. Take it easy. Be there at eight o'clock. Come along, Holly. I want to talk to you." Langridge linked his arm in that of the newcomer, and the two strolled off to one side of the college campus, while the group of freshmen made their way toward one of the two large dormitory buildings. "He orders us around as if we were working for him," objected Phil Clinton. "Langridge takes too much for granted." "Well, he's been here a year, and I s'pose he feels like a soph," remarked Sid Henderson. "Maybe, but that doesn't make him one. He thinks because he's got plenty of money, and comes from Chicago, that he can run things here, but he's not going to run me," and Phil stuck out his square, well-formed jaw in a manner that betokened trouble. "Aren't you going to help get----" began Ed Kerr, who was quite a chum of Langridge. "Easy!" cautioned Sid. "Here are some sophs." A group of second-year students passed the freshmen with suspicious glances, but, seeing no offending colors, nor any other evidences of anything that could be taken to mean that their traditional prey had violated any rules, they saw nothing objectionable. "Don't mention clapper," went on Sid. "That's right," agreed Ed Kerr. "But I was going to say that Fred knows the ropes better than we do. If we stick to him we'll come out all right. It's no fun to try for--for it, and have the sophs give us the merry ha-ha." "Oh, we'll try to get it," assented Phil Clinton, "but I don't like being ordered around." "Langridge doesn't mean anything by it," spoke his friend. "Well, I don't like it." And with that the lads passed into the dormitory, for it was nearly time for supper, and the rule was that they must come to the tables neatly dressed. A little later Langridge and Holly strolled up to the buildings where the three hundred students of Randall College were housed. "Then you'll be on hand, eh?" asked Langridge. "Oh, yes, I reckon so. But it seems like a lot of work for what we get out of it." "Get out of it! You old anthropoid!" exclaimed Langridge. "What's the matter with you? Going back on the college customs?" "What's an anthropoid?" asked Holly Cross, as he deftly juggled three stones with one hand. "How's that for good work?" he asked irrelevantly. "An anthropoid is a second cousin to a cynic," answered Langridge, "and a cynic is a fellow whose liver is out of order, which makes him have a bad taste in his mouth and get out of the wrong side of bed." "Get out, you camel-backed asteroid!" cried Holly. "There's nothing the matter with my mouth, and I can get out of either side of my cot without knowing which side it is." "Are you coming to-night?" "Sure, I'll be there." "All right; that's what I want to know." Holly and Langridge passed into the east dormitory, where they had been preceded by the other group of freshmen. This building was given over to rooms for the first year and senior students, while in the west dormitory the sophomores and juniors, as being the least likely to indulge in hazing and horse-play, did their studying and sleeping. There are few institutions of learning better known throughout the Middle West than Randall College. It had been established several decades before, and though small at first, and unimportant, the thorough methods used soon attracted attention from parents who had sons to educate. Many a well-known man of to-day, who has made his mark in the world, owes part of his success, at least, to Randall College, and he is proud to acknowledge it. In time, because of liberal endowments, and because the institution became better known, its influence spread, until, from a small seat of learning, it became a large one, and now students from many States attend there. Randall College was most fortunately situated. It was on the outskirts of the town of Haddonfield, and thus was connected by railroad with the outside world. It was far enough away from town to be rid of the distractions of a semi-city life, yet near enough so that the advantages of it could be had. The buildings composing the college consisted of several in addition to the main one, containing the classrooms, lecture halls, laboratories, study rooms and the like. There was Biology Hall, a magnificent gift from an alumnus, and Booker Memorial Chapel, a place of worship, containing some wonderful stained-glass windows. The chapel was the gift of a lady, whose only son had died while attending the school. Back of the main college building, and somewhat to the left, was a modest structure, where the faculty, including Dr. Albertus Churchill, the venerable president, had their living apartments. Farther to the rear of the main structure were two buildings that contained dormitories and rooms for the three hundred or more students. There were two dormitory buildings, the east and the west, and, for obvious reasons, one, the eastern, was inhabited by the freshmen and seniors, while the juniors and sophomores lived, moved and had their being in the other. The gymnasium, which was well equipped, was located a little to the left of the west dormitory, and it adjoined the baseball diamond and the football gridiron. Skirting the edges of this big, level field were the grandstands and bleachers, for sports had a proper and important part in life at Randall. Standing on the knoll in front of the main building, one looked down a gentle, grassy slope to Sunny River, which twisted in and out, lazily enough, around a hill that contained the college and the grounds. The campus swept down, in a sort of oval, to the very edge of the stream. And there is no finer sight in all this country than to stand on the steps of the main building some fine summer day (or, for that matter, a wintry one) and look off to the river. If you are patriotic, and of course you are, you will take off your hat to the colors that fly from a tall flagpole in the center of the campus. Sunny River was a beautiful stream, not as broad as some rivers, but sufficiently so to provide boating facilities for the Randall students. On it, every year, was held the annual regatta, Randall and some other institutions participating. There was a large boathouse on the edge of the river, located on your left as you stood on the campus, facing the water. Sunny River flowed into Lake Tonoka, which was about a mile below the college, and in the midst of the lake was Crest Island. What exciting times that lake and river have seen during the summer season! What rowing races! What swimming races! What jolly picnics! And, let us whisper, what mysterious scenes on nights when some luckless candidate was initiated into a secret society! On the farther side of the river from the village, and near the junction with the lake, was a sort of park, or summer resort. A trolley line ran from it to the town of Haddonfield, but the students more often preferred to walk to the village, rather than wait for the cars, which ran on uncertain schedules. At the lower end of Lake Tonoka, just over the line in another State, was Boxer Hall, a college somewhat smaller than Randall, while to the west, fifteen miles away, was Fairview Institute, a co-educational school that was well patronized. The three institutions had a common interest in sports, and there was a tri-collegiate league of debating clubs that often furnished milder, if more substantial, excitement. It was an evening in early April, of the new term after the Easter vacation, that a number of freshmen, who had taken part in the lively scene of the afternoon, and some students who had not, met silently and stealthily back of the boathouse on the back of Sunny River. The night was cloudy, and thus it was darker than usual at that hour. "Have you fellows got the rope?" asked Langridge in a whisper, as he took his place at the head of the little force. "Of course," answered Phil Clinton. "There's no 'of course' about it," retorted Langridge arrogantly. "I've seen the time it's been forgotten." "What are we going to do with it?" asked Sid Henderson. "Use it to hang a soph with," spoke Holly Cross. "Prepare to meet thy doom!" he added in a sepulchral voice. "Cut it out, Holly," advised Langridge. "I'm afraid the sophs are on to us as it is." "Then we'll rush 'em!" exclaimed Phil Clinton aggressively. "No, that won't do any good. We'd never get the clapper, then." "I know a good way," spoke Fenton. "My uncle says----" "Say, you and your uncle ought to be in a glass case and in the museum," called Holly. "Dry up, Fenton!" "Where's the Snail?" asked Langridge. "Here," replied Sam Looper, who, from his slow movements, and from the fact that he loved to prowl about in the dark, for he could see well after nightfall, had gained that nickname. "What do you want?" "Will you climb up the rope after I get it in place?" "Sure." "Then come on," whispered Langridge. "I guess it's safe now. There don't appear to be any one stirring." The mysterious body of freshmen moved off in the darkness toward the Booker Memorial Chapel. Their object, as you have probably guessed, was to climb to the steeple and remove the clapper from the bell, a prank that was sanctioned by years of custom at Randall College. Once the big tongue of iron was secured, it would be taken to a village jeweler, who would have it melted up and cast into scores of miniature clappers. These, when nickel-plated, made appropriate watch charms for the freshmen class, and suitably, they thought, demonstrated their superiority over their long-time rivals, the sophomores. For it was the duty of the second-year students, if possible, to prevent the taking away of the clapper. The purloining of it must always be done the first week after the Easter vacation, and if this passed by without the freshmen being successful, the clapper was safe, immune and inviolate. Hence the need of haste, as but two more nights were left. Once the clapper was taken the class had to contribute money enough to buy another for the voiceless bell. Silently, as befitted the occasion, the lads made their way from the rendezvous at the boathouse toward the chapel. Their plan was simple. On top of the cupola which held the bell was a large cross. It was the custom to tie a stone, or some weight, to a light cord, throw the weight over the cross, and by means of the thin string haul up a heavy rope. Up this rope some freshman would climb, remove the clapper, and slide down again, while his comrades stood guard against any attack of sophomores. "Who's going to throw the stone?" asked Ed Kerr, as he walked along beside Langridge. "I am, of course." "Oh, of course," repeated Clinton in a low voice. "You want to run everything." "Well, Fred Langridge is a good pitcher," spoke Sid Henderson. "He's likely to make the 'varsity this year." "Um!" was all Phil said. The boys reached the chapel, and, under the direction of Langridge, the cord and rope were made ready. "Got a good stone?" asked the leader. "Here's a hunk of lead," replied Ed. "I made it on purpose. It's not so likely to slip out as a stone." "That's good. Hand it over." The lead was soon fastened to the cord. "Look out, now, here goes!" called Langridge. "I'm going to pitch it over. Be all ready, Snail." He stepped back, and tossed the lead, intending to make the cord fall across one arm of the cross. But either his aim was poor, or he could not discern well enough in the darkness the outlines of the cross. "Missed it!" exclaimed Clinton. "Well, so would you," growled Langridge. "Some one stepped on the cord." "Let Snail try," suggested Henderson. "I'm doing this throwing," declared Langridge curtly. "It doesn't look so," murmured Phil. Langridge tried again, but with no success. "Hurry," spoke Kerr. "The sophs will be out soon." Langridge made a third attempt, and failed. Then Snail Looper called out in an excited whisper: "Here come the sophs! Cut it!" "No!" cried Langridge. "Hold on! I'll get it over now. Fight 'em back, boys!" CHAPTER II A GOOD THROW There was excitement in the ranks of the freshmen. They formed in a ring about Langridge, who once more prepared to throw the weight over the cross. "Hold 'em back, boys!" he pleaded. "We can do it. It won't take five minutes to get the clapper after the rope's up." "But first you've got to get it up," replied Clinton. "And I will. Cut out your knocking. Here goes!" Off to the right could be seen a confused mass of shadows moving toward the chapel. They were the sophomores, who in some mysterious manner had heard of the attempt to take the clapper, and who now determined to prevent it. "They're coming," said Kerr ominously. "I know it," answered Langridge desperately. "Keep still about it, can't you?" he asked fretfully. "You make me nervous, and I can't throw well." "Humph! He must be a fine pitcher if he gets nervous," declared Clinton. Langridge glanced at the circle of freshmen about him. There were enough of them to stand off the rush of the sophomores, who, as they came nearer, were observed to be rather few in number. "Here it goes!" exclaimed the rich youth, and he threw the lead weight with all his force. It struck the cross, but did not carry the cord over the arm. "At 'em, fellows! At 'em!" yelled the leading sophomores. "Tear 'em apart! Don't let 'em get the clapper!" There was a struggle on the outer fringe of freshmen, who crumpled up under the attack of the second-year lads. "Hold 'em back!" yelled Langridge. There was no longer any need of caution. The sophomores were hurled back by the weight of superior numbers. Seeing this their leader hastily sent for reinforcements. Meanwhile the others renewed their attack on the freshmen. Langridge prepared to make another cast. "He'll never do that in a week!" exclaimed Clinton in disgust. "Why doesn't some one who can throw try it?" "I'll throw, all right!" cried Langridge, as he untangled the cord, which was in a mass at his feet. He was about to make another attempt, when a lad stepped to his side--a lad who was a stranger to the others. Where he had come from they did not know. "Let me try," he said pleasantly. "I used to be pretty fair at throwing stones. Your arm is tired, I guess." "Who are you?" demanded Langridge suspiciously. "Are you a soph? How'd you get here?" "I'm not a soph," replied the other good-naturedly, in a pause that followed a second hurling back of the attackers, who withdrew to wait for reinforcements. "I'm a freshman. My name is Parsons--Tom Parsons. I'm a little late getting here this term. In fact, I just arrived to-night. I was on my way from the depot to the college, when, as I crossed the campus, I heard what was up. As I'm a freshman, I decided to join in. Hope it's all right." "I don't know you," said Langridge hesitatingly, fearing this was a trick of the enemy. "You may be a soph----" "No, I assure you I'm not," said Tom Parsons. "Wait a minute. Is there any one here named Sidney Henderson?" "That's my name," replied Sid. "Then you ought to know me. I'm to room with you, I believe. At least, I have a letter from Dr. Albertus Churchill to that effect. He's quartered me on you." "Oh, that's all right!" cried Henderson. "Parsons is a freshman, all right. I didn't remember about it. Sure, he's all right. It's a queer time to arrive, though." "Isn't it?" agreed Tom good-naturedly. "Couldn't help it, though. Train was late." "Here come some more sophs!" called Kerr. "Get that line over, for cats' sake!" demanded Clinton. "I will!" exclaimed Langridge. "Shall I throw it?" asked Tom. "I guess----" "I'll do my own throwing," replied the other coldly. "If he knows how to throw, let him try," suggested Clinton. "We want to get that clapper some time to-night." "Go ahead, Fred," urged Kerr. "I guess your arm ain't in shape yet." Langridge murmured something, but as there arose a general demand that he let some one else try, and as a new body of sophomores were rushing down to the attack, he handed over the lead weight. "Can you pitch?" he asked of Tom. "A little," was the quiet reply. The two faced each other in the darkness, as if trying to see of what stuff each was made. It was the first time Tom Parsons and Fred Langridge met, and it was rather prophetic that this first meeting should presage others which were to follow, and in which the rivalry thus early established was to be fought out to the bitter end. "Hurry!" urged Kerr. "We're going to have our hands full now. They're going to rush us." Tom Parsons grasped the lead weight, and shook the cord to free it of kinks. He stepped back a few feet, looked up in the darkness to where the cross was dimly visible, and then, drawing back his arm, sent the lead with great force and straight aim up into the air. "A good throw!" cried Sid Henderson, as the moon, just then coming out from behind a bank of clouds, showed that the cord had fallen squarely over one arm of the cross, the weight coming down to the ground on the other side of the chapel. "A good throw!" echoed Clinton. "Humph!" growled Langridge. "I could have done as well on the next try." "Haul up the rope!" ordered Kerr. "Lively, now!" Several lads ran around to where the end of the cord, still attached to the weight, was on the ground. All around a struggle was going on, the freshmen endeavoring to hold back the attacking sophomores. Now and then a second-year lad would break through the protecting fringe, only to be hurled or pushed back again by the defenders. Quick hands hauled on the cord, and the heavier rope rose in the air and slipped over the cross. It was held down on one side by several turns taken around a post. Then it was made taut at the opposite end. "Shin up now, Snail!" cried Langridge, who had again assumed command of things. "Quick! We'll hold the rope! Get the clapper!" The night-loving youth moved slowly forward. But, in spite of his lack of speed, he managed to make good time up the rope, which he skilfully ascended hand over hand. "Don't let 'em get the clapper!" "Break through and yank down the rope!" were the cries of the sophomores. Again and again they hurled themselves against the circle of freshmen, who protected the two groups of their comrades holding either end of the rope. "Hold 'em, boys! Hold 'em!" pleaded Langridge. Tom Parsons threw himself into the thick of the fight. He gave blows, and he took them, all in good nature. Once, when a small sophomore broke through, Tom picked him up bodily and deposited him outside the circle of defenders. "Say, he's got muscle, all right," observed Clinton to Kerr. "That's what. There's class there, all right. Shouldn't wonder but what he'd give Langridge a rub for pitcher, if he plays baseball." "Oh, he'll play, all right. A fellow who can throw as he did can't help playing." "Who's that?" asked Sid in a breathing spell, following a temporary repulse of the enemy. "The new lad--Tom Parsons." "Oh, yes, he plays ball," said Sid. "His father knows my father. They used to be chums in Northville, a country town. That's how Tom happened to come here, and he asked if he couldn't room with me. He plays ball, all right." "Pitch?" asked Clinton laconically. "I think so. Look out, here they come again!" The conversation was interrupted to repel another rush. "Look out below!" suddenly called the Snail from his perch near the cupola. "Got the clapper?" yelled Langridge. "Yep! Here it is!" Something fell with a thud in the midst of a group of freshmen. It was the bell clapper, which the Snail had unhooked. Tom Parsons made a dive for it. "I'll take that!" exclaimed Langridge roughly, as he shoved the newcomer to one side and grabbed up the mass of iron. "I was only going to help," replied Tom good-naturedly. "Cut with it!" ordered Kerr. "We can't hold 'em much longer, and we don't want 'em to get it now. Skip, Langridge. Take some interference with you." As if it was a football game, several lads made a sort of flying wedge in front of Langridge, with him inside the apex, and, thus protected, he bored through the mass of sophomores. "After him!" yelled several second-years, who had become aware of the trick. "He's got the clapper!" Most of the lads rushed away from the chapel, only those remaining who were holding the rope taut. Some of these even started away. "Hold on!" yelled the Snail. "I'm up here yet! I want to get down!" "Don't leave Sam up there!" cried Kerr. "Hold the rope, fellows, until he shins down." Several freshmen ran back. "I'll help hold," volunteered Tom, though there was a temptation to join the fighting throng that surrounded Langridge and his defenders. The Snail slid to the ground, the rope was pulled from the cross, and the lads, coiling it up as they ran, hastened to the aid of their freshmen comrades. CHAPTER III A BASEBALL MEETING "Swat 'em, freshmen! Swat 'em!" was the rallying cry of the first-year lads. "Get the clapper! Get the clapper! Don't let them get away with it!" implored the sophomores. There was a confused mass of arms, legs and bodies. The mass swayed, now this way, now that. Tom Parsons, the Snail, Ed Kerr and some others who had remained behind to manage the rope, threw themselves into the fray. Their help turned the tide of battle, and the sophomores, who were outnumbered, turned and fled, leaving the freshmen victors of the fight. "Have you got the clapper, Langridge?" called Kerr anxiously. "Of course," and the lad addressed produced the unwieldy souvenir from underneath his coat. "Then get it to our room and hide it," went on Kerr. "They'll not give up yet. We've got to expect a hunt for it to-night." Kerr and Langridge, who roomed together, started away, the clapper of the bell safe in their possession, while the others brought up the rear, a guard against a possible unexpected attack. But none was made, and presently the long, iron tongue was safely hidden in the rooms of the freshmen. "I say," remarked Tom Parsons to Sidney Henderson, when the excitement had somewhat calmed down, "I wonder if I'd better report to the proctor, or to Dr. Churchill to-night. I've just entered, you know." "What's the use?" asked his companion. "You're to room with me--that's settled. Mr. Zane, the proctor, won't want to be disturbed. Besides, I rather think that Dr. Churchill, our venerable and respected head--by the way, we call him Moses, you know--I say I don't believe he'd thank you for coming." "Why not?" "Well, you see, there's been more or less of doings to-night. Of course, the faculty are not supposed to know that we take the bell clapper, but you can bet they do know. They pretend not to, and take no notice of it. If you were to go and ring Moses up at this hour, he'd have to become aware--take cognizance, he'd call it--of our little racket. That might make trouble. No, on the whole, let the proctor and Moses alone." "Why Moses?" "What's that?" "I say--why Moses?" "Oh, I see. Well, we call him that from his name. Church and hill. Moses went up on a hill to preach about the church, hence--aha! see?" "You needn't draw a map," answered Tom, "even if I am from the country." "That's so, you're from Northville, where dad used to live." "That's right." "Well, I wouldn't boast of it, if I were you--especially when any of the fellows are around." "Why not?" "Well, of course it's all right with me--I understand, but they might make fun of you--rig you, you understand." "Yes, I understand, but I don't mind being 'rigged,' as you call it. I fancy I can do some 'rigging' on my own hook." "All right, it's your funeral. I've warned you." "Thanks. But if you think it's all right for me to go right to your room, and bunk, without telling Dr. Churchill--excuse me, Moses--why, I'm willing." "That's all right. Come on, we'll go to my room. There may be some excitement after a bit." "How?" "Well, the sophs may try to get the clapper back. They generally do. We'll have to help fight 'em in that case." "Of course. By the way, what do you fellows do with the bell tongue, anyhow?" Sid told about the watch charms. "You'll get one," he added. "That was a good throw you made." "Well, maybe. It was hard to see in the dark. I guess What's-his-name could have made it, only he tired himself all out." "Oh, you mean Langridge." "Is that his name?" "Yes. I don't like him very well, but he's got lots of dough, and the fellows hang around him. He's manager of the baseball team." "He is?" "Yes. Got the election because he's willing to spend some of his money to support the team." "Well, that's white of him." "Oh, yes, Fred's all right, only for what ails him. He's got some queer ways, and he thinks some of us ought to bow down to him more than we do. But I won't, and I guess Kerr is getting sick of him. Some fellows think he got to be manager, and keeps the place, because he used some money. There's been talk about it." "Who's Kerr?" "The fellow with the black hair. He's catcher on the nine." "I see." "Are you going to play ball?" asked Henderson as they entered the room Tom was to share. "I'd like to. Is there any chance?" "Guess so. The nine's not all made up yet. They're going to have a meeting to-morrow, or next day, and try out candidates. You'll have as good a chance as any one. Where do you play?" "I've been pitching." Henderson uttered a low, long whistle. "What's the matter?" "That's Langridge's pet place. He thinks he's a regular Christy Mathewson." "Well, I haven't disputed it," replied Tom quietly. "But if you don't mind, I'm going to take off my shoes; my feet are tired. Think any sophs will come?" "It isn't likely now. They'd been here some time ago if they were coming. Guess I'll turn in. I've got to get up early and do some boning on my trigonometry. It's rotten stuff, ain't it?" "Oh, I rather like it." "Um!" was all the answer Sid made, as he prepared for bed, while Tom also undressed. Tom Parsons had come to college, not because he wanted to have "a good time," nor because it was the fashion, nor because his father had the money to send him. Tom came because he wanted to gain knowledge, to fit himself for a place in life, and he earnestly wanted to learn. At the same time he did not belong to the class known as "digs." Tom was a sport-loving lad, and it needed but a look at his well-set head, on broad shoulders, his perfectly rounded neck, his long, lithe limbs, small hips and deep chest, to tell that he was an athlete of no little ability. Tom's hair was inclined to curl, especially when he was warm from running or wrestling, and when it clung about his bronzed forehead in little brown ringlets, he was an attractive figure, as more than one girl had admitted. But Tom, to give him his due, never thought about this. He was tall and straight, and he could do more than the regulation on the bars, or with dumbbells, while on the flying rings, or at boxing, you would want to think twice before you challenged him. But Tom's specialty, if one may call it such, was on the baseball diamond. He had played in all the positions ever since he was a little lad, and he and the other country boys laid out a diamond in a stubble field, with stones for bases, and a hickory club for a bat. But Tom had a natural bent toward pitching, and he gradually developed it, principally by his own unaided efforts, together with what he could pick up out of athletic books, or what was told to him by his companions. In twirling the ball Tom's muscles, hardened by work on the farm, served him in good stead. For Tom Parsons was a farmer lad, though, perhaps, not a typical one. His father was fairly well-to-do, and had a large acreage in the town of Northville. Tom was an only son, though there were two sisters, of whom he thought the world. When Tom had finished his course at the village academy, and had expressed a wish to go to college, his father consented. He furnished part of the money, and the rest Tom supplied himself, for he was an independent sort of lad, and thought it his duty to take part of his savings to gain for himself a better education than was possible in his home town. So Tom, as you have seen, came to Randall, and of the manner of his arrival, due to a combination of circumstances, you have been duly informed. He made two resolutions before coming. One was to stand well in his classes, and the other--well, you shall learn the other presently. Tom slowly undressed. He was not used to change, for he had been a "home boy" for years, though he was no milksop, and did not in the least mind roughing it. But, after the reaction of the night, when he was in the little room with the lad who was to be his chum, he felt a bit lonely. It was new and strange to him, and he thought, not without a bit of regret, of the peaceful farmhouse in Northville, with his mother and father seated in the big, comfortable dining-room, talking, and the girls reading books, or sewing, under the light of a big lamp. Tom looked slowly about the little room that was to be his "home" for some time to come. Randall was not a rich college, and, in consequence, the dormitories and study apartments were not elaborately furnished. There was a sufficiency, and that was all. Of course, there was nothing to prevent the students from adding such articles to their rooms as they wanted, or thought they desired, and some, whose parents were wealthy, had nicely furnished studies. But the one occupied by Sid and Tom was quite plain. There was a worn rug on the floor, so worn, in fact, that the floor showed through it in several places. But Sid remarked that it was a virtue rather than otherwise, for it obviated the necessity of being careful about spilling things on the rug, and also did away with the necessity of a door mat. "They can't harm the rug, no matter how much mud they bring in," Sid had said, when Tom suggested getting a new one. There were two small iron cots or single beds in the apartment, a bureau for each lad, a closet for clothes, but which closet contained balls, gloves, bats, sweaters, old trousers and other sporting "goods," almost to the exclusion of clothes. And then the closet did not contain it all, for many articles overflowed into the room, and no amount of compression sufficed to get things entirely within the closet. There was always something sticking out. Several old chairs, one a lounging one with a broken set of springs in the seat, a sofa that creaked in every joint, like an old man with rheumatism, a table with a cover spotted with ink, a shelf of books, an alarm clock, some cheap pictures, prints from sporting papers, and water pitchers and bowls completed the furnishings. Tom wondered, as he fell asleep, whether the sophomores would make a further attempt to regain the clapper, but they did not, and the night was undisturbed by further pranks. At chapel next morning Dr. Churchill, after the usual devotions, announced with a twinkle in his deep-set eyes that the reason there was no bell to call the students to worship was because the tocsin was clapperless. "It mysteriously disappeared during the night," went on the president, "and--er--well, ahem! I think matters may take their usual course," he finished quickly, trying hard not to smile. It was always this way. By "usual course" Dr. Churchill and the students understood that the freshmen would meet, make up by contributions enough to buy a new clapper, and the incident would be closed until another year brought new freshmen to the college. This course was followed. Langridge, who was president of the class, called a meeting that afternoon, the amount needed was quickly subscribed, and the money was taken to Dr. Churchill. "Why do you encourage that nonsense?" asked Professor Emerson Tines, the Latin instructor (dubbed "Pitchfork" by the college lads in virtue of his name). "Why do you submit to it?" He happened to be with the president when Langridge brought in the money. "I don't submit to it, Professor Tines." "But you encourage it." "No; I simply ignore it." "But the clapper is taken year after year." "Is it?" asked the doctor innocently. "Well, now, so I have been informed by the janitor, but, you know, of my own knowledge I am not aware of it. It is simply hearsay evidence, and I never like to depend on that." "But, my dear sir, don't you _know_ that the clapper is taken by the first-year pupils?" "Perhaps I do," answered the good doctor with a smile, "but I'm not going to admit it. I was young once myself, Professor Tines." "So was I!" snapped the Latin teacher as he went to his own apartments. "I--I doubt it, and that's not hearsay evidence, either, I'm afraid," murmured Dr. Churchill, as he resumed his study of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Tom Parsons, after chapel, introduced himself to Dr. Churchill and the proctor, and was properly enrolled on the college books. He was assigned to his classes, and soon began to feel himself at home among the students. "Well, are you going?" asked Sid of Tom that afternoon, as they came from the last recitation. "Going where?" "To the baseball meeting. Didn't you see the notice?" "No." His roommate showed it to Tom. It was a note on the bulletin board in the gymnasium, stating that all interested in the baseball nine, whether as players or as supporters, were invited to meet in the basket-ball court that afternoon. "Of course I'm going," declared Tom. The size of the throng that gathered in the gymnasium was proof enough of the interest taken in affairs of the diamond by the Randall students. There was talk of nothing save bases, balls, strikes, sacrifices, bunts, home runs, fielding, pitching, catching, and what-not. Langridge called the meeting to order, and in a few words explained that the object of it was to get the team in shape for the spring games. "I understand that there are a number of new men with us this year," he went on in easy tones. There was no use in denying that the well-dressed lad knew how to talk, and that to get up in front of a throng did not embarrass him. "I hope, as manager as well as a player," he went on, "that we shall find some good material. The team needs strengthening in several places, and it is up to us to do it. Now I have a list here of the former players, and the names of some who have already signified a desire to try for places this year. I'll read them." It was quite a long list, and Tom Parsons, listening to it, began to wonder if he would have any chance among so many. "If there are any others who would like to put their names down as candidates, I'll take them," announced Fred. Several stepped forward, and their names were noted, together with the positions they desired to play. "Go on up," urged Sid to Tom. The country lad advanced to where Langridge stood. "I'd like to try for a place," he said. "Oh, you would, eh?" asked the other, and the sneer in his voice was evident. "Well, don't you think you'd better wait until the hayseed is out of your hair?" and he laughed. "Here's a comb," retorted Tom quickly, extending a small pocket one. "Maybe you'll give me a hand. I can't see the back of my head." "That's one on you, Langridge," cried Phil Clinton. "That's the time you got yours good and proper." Tom was smiling good-naturedly, but the other was scowling. Tom looked Langridge straight in the eye, and the other turned aside. The country lad put back the comb into his pocket. "What's your name?" growled Langridge, though he knew it full well. "Tom Parsons." "Where do you want to try for?" "Pitcher." There was some confusion in the room, but it ceased at Tom's reply. "Pitcher!" exclaimed Langridge. "I said pitcher," replied Tom quietly. "Why--er--I'm pitcher on the 'varsity nine!" fairly snarled Langridge. "That is, I was last year and expect to be again. Do you mean pitcher on the scrub?" "On the 'varsity," spoke Tom, smiling the least bit. Langridge shot a look at him from his black eyes. It was a look that boded Tom no good, for the former pitcher had recognized in the new arrival a formidable rival. "Put his name down," called Sid. "You might get a sore arm, and we'd need a substitute." Langridge glanced quickly at the speaker. "His name is down," he answered quietly--more quietly than any one expected him to speak. "Are there any others?" No one answered. "We'll meet for practice to-morrow afternoon," went on Langridge. "Of course, it's understood that no one plays on the team who doesn't contribute his share of expenses," and he looked straight at Tom Parsons. Without a word the country lad drew out a wallet, none too well filled, to judge by the looks of it. "What's the tax?" he asked, still smiling. "The--er--the finance committee attends to that," was the answer Langridge made. "They'll meet to-night." Evidently he had not expected so ready a compliance on Tom's part. "Well, if it's all settled, I move we adjourn," suggested Ed Kerr. "Let's have a scrub game, for luck." At that moment a lad came hurrying into the gymnasium. "Where's Langridge?" he asked excitedly. "Here," replied the baseball manager. "What's up?" "Hazing!" was the somewhat breathless answer. "The sophs are going to try it on to-night, to get square about the bell clapper. I just heard it." "That's the stuff!" cried Phil Clinton. "Now we'll get a chance to have some fun." "And I'll pay 'em back for slashing my hat," added Ford Fenton. "My uncle says----" But what his respected relative had remarked was not learned, as the boys rushed from the room to prepare for the ordeal that they knew awaited them. CHAPTER IV THE HAZING "What sort of hazing do they do?" asked Tom Parsons of Sid Henderson as the two youths followed their companions from the gymnasium. "Oh, all sorts. It's hard to tell. Mostly they come in your room and make a rough house, but not too rough, for the proctor doesn't stand for it. They'll tumble you about, tear down any ornaments you may have up, pour a pitcher of water in the bed, and make things unpleasant generally." "Are we supposed to stand for that?" There was a grim look settling on Tom's face. "Well, what can you do when three or four big sophs are holding you?" "Not much, that's a fact. But I'm going to fight back." "So am I, but that's all the good it'll do. If they don't put enough on you in your room they'll tackle you outside, when you're alone, and maybe chuck you into the river or lake, or make you walk Spanish, or force you to parade through town doing the wheelbarrow act. Oh, you've got to take some hazing in one form or another." "Well, I don't mind getting my share. So they're coming to-night, eh?" "So the twin said." "The twin--who's he?" "The little fellow that brought word. I don't know whether he was Jerry or Joe Jackson. I didn't look closely enough to see." "Why, is it hard to tell?" "Sure. They're two brothers, Jerry and Joe. They come from some town in New Jersey. We call them the 'Jersey Twins,' and they look so much alike it's hard to tell them apart. The only way you can tell is when they're playing ball." "How then?" "Why, Jerry plays right field, and Joe left. Then it's easy to say which is which; but when they come to bat it always happens that some one on the other team makes a kick. They think we're ringing in the same man twice, and we have to explain. That's what I've heard. Of course, I've only been here a week." "Oh, then they've played here some time?" "Yes; they're juniors. It was mighty white of Jerry or Joe, whichever it was, to tip us off. Now we'll be ready for the sophs." "What can you do?" "Well, if you know in time, as we do now, we can take down the best things in our room, so they won't get busted, and we can hide the bed clothes, so they won't get soaked. Then we can put on our old clothes. It's no fun to have a good suit ruined, especially when you don't find new clothes growing on trees." "That's right. Let's go to our room and make ready." "Oh, we've got plenty of time. I fancy it won't be until after dark. The only thing is for all of us freshmen to keep together if we go out. For if they catch two or three of us alone they'll put it all over us. But I guess there won't be any scrub game now. The sophs would break it up." "When do we have any rest from them?" "In about two weeks. After the pole rush." "The pole rush?" "Yes. It's an old college custom, as Fenton's uncle would say. We freshmen form a ring about the big flag-pole on a certain night and the sophs try to pull us away. If they make us leave inside of fifteen minutes it means we can't wear the class college colors until next term. If we win, why, we sport a hat like Fenton had--the one Morse and Denfield slashed up." "I see. But, say, I'd like to know more about the ball team. Does Langridge run it all?" The two lads by this time were in their room, where they proceeded to hide under the beds and bureaus their choicest possessions against the prospective raid. It was close to the supper hour and they did not have much time. "No, Langridge doesn't run everything," answered Sid. "He's manager, that's all." "That seems a lot." "Well, it is in a way, though it's only because he has plenty of cash and isn't afraid to spend it. But he couldn't be elected captain. He tried, but was defeated his first term, though he made the managership." "Who is captain?" "Bricktop Molloy was last year, but this season we're going to have a new one. I guess Dan Woodhouse stands as good a show as any one. He's a senior and a fine player." "Woodhouse--that's an odd name." "Yes, we call him Kindlings for short. I'm going to vote for him." "So will I then; I'll depend on your say-so." "I fancy you threw a scare into Langridge," went on Sid as he carefully slid under a mat at the edge of the bed a picture of a football game. "How so?" "Telling him you wanted to try for pitcher. It was like stepping on his corns. He thinks he's got a cinch on that position. Always has ever since he helped win a game last year." "Has he?" "Well, I don't know. It depends on who is captain. Langridge wants to see Ed Kerr elected captain. If that happens, he and Ed will run things to suit themselves. Ed's quite a chum of Langridge, though Ed's a better fellow all around. The only reason some of the fellows won't vote for Ed is that he's too thick with Langridge. But if old Kindlings is elected he'll not take any orders from Langridge." "Langridge doesn't seem to be very popular with you," observed Tom. "He isn't. I don't like him. Yet he's all right in a way. You see, he's pretty well off in his own right. His father died, leaving him quite a sum, and when his mother died he got more. His uncle is his guardian, but he doesn't look after Fred very closely, and Fred does pretty much as he pleases. Now that isn't good for a lad, though I don't mind admitting I wish I had plenty of money. But Langridge is something of a sport. He has good clothes--better than most of us here--he has all he wants to spend, and he's liberal with it. He has quite a following and lots of fellows like him. He doesn't care what he does with his money, and that's the whole thing in a nutshell. That's why he's manager and for no other reason. But, as I said, Woodhouse won't stand for any of his dictation." "Maybe I'll get a chance then," mused Tom. "I guess you will. I'd like to see another good pitcher on the nine. Maybe we'd win more games if we had a good one." "I don't know whether I'm a good one or not," answered Tom. "I want to try, though. Back home they used to say I had a good delivery." Sid did not answer at once. He was thinking that to pitch on a country nine was vastly different from doing the same thing on a good-sized college team. But he did not want to discourage his roommate. "Well," he said after a pause, in which he surveyed the somewhat dismantled room, "I don't know whether it's pitching, or catching, or fielding, or what it is our team needs, but it's something. We're at the bottom of the league and have been for some years." "What league is that?" "Oh, I forgot you didn't know. Well, it's the Tonoka Lake League. You see, our college, Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute have a triangular league for the championship. But we haven't won it in so long that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary, as the legal documents have it. Last year we had a good chance to be second, but Langridge got a glass arm in the final game and we were dumped. That's why I say we need a new pitcher, and I'm glad you're going to try for it." "Maybe I'll do worse." "Well, Langridge sure does deliver a good ball," said Sid slowly; "the only trouble is that he----" He stopped suddenly and seemed embarrassed. "Well?" asked Tom questioningly. "Maybe you'll find it out for yourself," concluded Sid Henderson. "There's the supper gong. Come on. There'll be hot work after a bit." Puzzling somewhat over the answer his chum had made to the question regarding Langridge and wondering what it was he might find out for himself, Tom followed Sid to the dining hall, where throngs of students were already gathered. There was something in the air that told of mischief to come. The sophomores, who dined together, maintained a very grave and decorous air, utterly out of keeping with their usual mood. There was silence instead of talk and laughter at their table. "They're almost as dignified as the seniors," remarked Phil Clinton to Tom as he took a seat next to him. "It means trouble. Look out." "Oh, we're looking out," replied Tom. Few lingered over the meal, and, going back to their room, Sid and Tom took their best clothes and hid them in a closet at the end of the long corridor. It was a closet used for the storage of odds and ends. "There, I don't believe they'll find them there," spoke Sid. "Now we're ready for them." On their way back to their apartment they heard some one preceding them down the long hall. "Who's that?" asked Sid. "I don't know," replied Tom. "Let's take a look. Maybe it was some one spying on us." They hastened their steps and saw some one hurry around a corner. "Did you see him?" asked Tom. "Yes," answered Sid slowly. "Was it a soph?" "It was Langridge," came the hesitating answer. "I wonder what he was doing up here?" inquired Tom. "I wonder too," added his chum. There was a rush of feet in the hall below and the sound of voices in protest. "Here they come!" cried Sid. "The hazers! Come on!" And he slid into the room, followed by Tom. They slammed the portal shut and bolted it. The noise below increased, and there was the sound of breaking doors. "Do they smash in?" asked Tom, to whom a college life was a new experience. "Sure, if you don't open." "Going to open?" "I am not. Let 'em break in. They'll have to pay for the damage." In spite of lively scenes on the floor below, the noise was kept within a certain range. Neither the freshmen nor the sophomores desired to have their pranks interrupted by the college authorities, which would be sure to be the case if the fun grew too hilarious. The noise seemed to be approaching the room of Sid and Tom. "Here they come," whispered the country youth. Sid nodded and there was a grim smile on his face. An instant later the door was tried. "The beggars have locked it!" some one exclaimed. "Break it in!" another added. "Ask 'em to open first," counseled a third. "We've smashed so many now that we'll have a pretty bill to pay." "Oh, blazes, give it your shoulder, Battersby," exclaimed a loud voice. "Going to open, fresh?" called out a student on the other side of the portal. "Nope!" cried Sid. There was a moment's pause and then some one hurled himself at the door. The bolt held for a few seconds, but on a second rush there was a splintering of wood, the screws pulled out and the portal flew open, giving admittance to a crowd of sophomores. CHAPTER V A SCRUB GAME "Stripped!" exclaimed a tall sophomore with a broken nose. "The beggars have stripped their den!" "I told you some one had been giving us away," added another. "They knew we were coming. Didn't you, fresh?" and he turned to Sid and Tom. "Sure," replied Sid as he looked around the room, which was bare of the articles that usually afforded the second-year men an opportunity for causing annoyance. "Who tipped you off?" asked he of the broken nose. "Yes, tell us," chimed in several others. "We won't do a thing to him but make him sorry." "Oh, we had a dream," put in Tom with a grin. "Ha! Here's a fresh fresh!" exclaimed "Broken-nose." "Well, fellows, let's give 'em a shower bath, anyhow." "Look under the beds," suggested a big sophomore. "Nope; haven't time, Gladdus. Here, some of you hold 'em while the rest of us douse 'em." In an instant Sid and Tom were grasped each by half a dozen hands and pulled to the middle of the room. Then Broken-nose and some others took the two water pitchers and poured the contents over the two freshmen. It was not a pleasant ordeal, but Tom and his chum bore it unflinchingly. It was useless to struggle. "Oh, this is no fun!" exclaimed Gladdus. "They don't fight." "The odds are too heavy," retorted Tom quickly. "I'll take any one of you alone," he added, and he looked as if he meant it. "Let me take him on," pleaded a tall sophomore. "No--none of that," declared Broken-nose, who was addressed as Fenmore. "We've got lots to do yet. I wonder where their good clothes are. They've got on old togs. We'll give 'em a soaking." Tom and Sid were glad that they had hidden their garments in the hall closet. There was a hasty search on the part of the sophomores, but as nothing was disclosed the second-year men prepared to leave. "Come on," ordered Fenmore. "There's no water left in their pitchers, anyhow." "Oh, we could get more H{2}O if we could find their togs," spoke another. Just then another second-year youth came along. "I know where their clothes are," he said. "In the closet at the end of the hall. Langridge----" "Shut up!" cried Gladdus. "Come on, fellows!" called Fenmore. "We'll soak 'em good." Sid groaned as the sophomores released him and Tom and made a run for the closet. "We'd ought to have scattered 'em," he said. "Now we'll have to wear wet duds to chapel to-morrow. We can't go in these," and he looked at his dripping garments--clothes in which he did cross-country running and played tennis--old and somewhat ragged and muddy habiliments. "Did you hear what that soph said?" demanded Tom. "You mean----" "I mean about Langridge. He gave us away. He told them where our clothes were; the mean sneak!" "That's right," chimed in Sid. "That's what he was doing up here--spying on us. Oh, I'll pay him back all right!" "So will I!" declared Tom fervently as a triumphant shout down the corridor announced that their clothes had been discovered. The garments, dripping wet and all out of shape, were thrown into their room a little later. "Well, wouldn't that put your nerves on the gazabo!" exclaimed Sid disgustedly. "Oh, Langridge, I'll have it in for you!" The hazing went on until after midnight and then the dormitory quieted down. Scarcely a freshman escaped and those who absented themselves from their rooms were due to be put on the grill later. Tom and Sid sat up late, wringing as much of the water as they could from their clothes and drying them somewhat by inserting an electric light bulb in the arms of the coats and the legs of the trousers. Fortunately their bedding was not wet or the boys would have passed a miserable night. As it was they did not have a good one, and they arose early to hang their moist clothes out of the window to let the morning sun finish the work of drying. But they were not the only ones in this plight, and it was a bedraggled lot of freshmen who appeared at chapel--that is, all but Langridge. He was spick and span as he always was, dressed in expensive clothes. "Didn't they get at you?" asked Sid as he and Tom caught up to the wealthy youth on the way to class. "Get at me?" "Yes, your clothes don't seem to have suffered." "Oh, this is another suit. They wet one for me, but I had this put away." "And no sneak went and told the sophs where you put it, did they?" asked Tom. "What's that?" asked Langridge quickly, and he turned a bit pale. "I say no sneak gave you away?" "I don't know what you mean," and Langridge turned aside. "Oh, yes, you do," said Sid quickly. "You know all right and we know, and what's more, you'll get what's coming to you all right. That's all from yours truly, but look out--that's all--look out, Fred Langridge!" "I don't know what you're talking about," was the cool retort, and then the students passed into the class room. It was two days later that the miniature clappers, which had been made from the tongue of the big bell, were received, and a proud lot of freshmen they were, including Tom Parsons, who attached them to their watch chains. "Now, if we win the pole rush, we'll be all to the merry," exclaimed Phil Clinton as he walked along the campus toward the gymnasium. "I'm just aching for a chance to pummel some of those sophs. They certainly made a rough house of my room the other night." "Oh, we'll get the chance all right," remarked Sid. "The rush is a week from to-night. But say, how about the baseball election? Isn't Langridge taking his own time calling it?" "He sure is. He's trying to work up votes for Kerr for captain, but he can't do it. The fellows haven't anything against Ed, but he's too thick with Langridge. I'm for old Kindlings." "So are we," put in Tom. "They've got to hold the election to-morrow," said Phil. "That's the last day, according to the rules. Why, we haven't had a bit of practice yet. We don't know who's going on the scrub and who has a chance for the 'varsity. I hope I can get center field." "Had you rather play there?" asked Tom. "I always have. I fancy I know that position better than I do any other. But, to tell you the truth, I like football better than baseball. I'm going to try for the eleven this fall." "I hope you make it. But what's going on?" asked Tom as he saw a little commotion about the gymnasium. "It's a scrub game," exclaimed Sid. "That's the stuff. Come on. Maybe we'll get a chance. Langridge sees that he's got to get things going." They hurried to the gymnasium and found that preparations were under way for a scrub game. There was also a notice on the bulletin board stating that the election for captain would be held the following day. "I wonder if he's got enough votes for Kerr?" mused Sid. "I hope not--for the sake of the team." The crowd, including students from all four classes of the college, moved off toward the diamond. Rivalries were forgotten in the interest in the game. The lads were not in uniform, but had on old clothes. Langridge was issuing orders and two temporary captains were chosen, they selecting their men. Bob, or "Bricktop" Molloy, the captain of last year, had one scrub team, and Pete Backus, who rejoiced in the nickname "Grasshopper" from the fact that he was always trying to see how far and how high he could jump, had another. Langridge assumed the rôle of manager, though there was little to manage. "Now play lively, boys," he urged. "I want to arrange for some other games this season besides those in the league, and we want to win some of 'em." To his delight Tom found himself chosen by Bricktop, together with Sid and Phil Clinton. Langridge held a whispered conversation with Backus, the other captain, and was promptly chosen on that hastily formed nine. "I'll pitch and Ed Kerr'll catch," Langridge announced, as if that settled it. And it was noticeable that Backus did not make a protest, though he was as good a catcher as was Kerr. "Will you pitch for us, Parsons, me lad?" asked Bricktop with just a trace of rich Irish brogue. "Sure and I heard what ye did, me lad, the night of the clapper." "Well, that was mostly luck, I guess," replied Tom modestly, "though I'd like the chance to pitch now." "Sure, then, an' you'll have it," replied the Irish lad with a twinkle in his honest blue eyes. "Come on, fellows. We're last at the bat." "Hold me down, somebody!" exclaimed Dutch Housenlager as he turned a hand spring and came down so close to Molloy that the former captain was nearly sent over. "I'm feeling like a two-year-old." "That's all right, Dutch, me lad," exclaimed Bricktop, relapsing into a broader brogue as his feelings came uppermost. "This isn't a stable, though, and we can dispense with the horse play until after the game if you can accommodate yourself to the exigencies of the occasion," and he spoke much after the manner of Dr. Churchill, for Bricktop, in spite of the fact that he was a senior, "grave and reverend," liked fun and his joke. "If you will kindly resume the upright stature befitting a human being," he went on, "you may try to stop whatever balls come in the direction of shortstop, for there's where ye'll play." "All right," answered Dutch good naturedly. "I'm agreeable, my fair captain. But would you mind keeping your hat on? When the sun strikes your red-gold locks it dazzles my eyes." "Go on wit' your blarney!" exclaimed Molloy, making a punch at Housenlager, who skilfully ducked it. The diamond was in fine shape, for it had been cut and rolled and the base lines marked off in readiness for the opening of the season. The grass was like velvet and the clean, fresh green, contrasted with the brown earth of the diamond proper, the long white lines, the new bases and the level field made a picture that rejoiced the heart of every lad. "Wow! isn't it great?" cried Tom. "And the smell! Do you smell the green grass, Sid, and the earth, and--and the baseball smell? Isn't it great?" "Cheese it!" cried Phil Clinton with a laugh. "You'll be spouting poetry next." "I wish I could," returned Tom a little more soberly. "I never get out on a ball field but I want to orate something like Thermopylæ or Horatius at the Bridge. The fever of the game gets in my blood." "There is something in that," admitted Phil. "Oh, it's a great game. There's none greater except football, and when I see the gridiron marked off and hear the 'ping' of somebody's boot against the pigskin my heart begins to thump and I catch my breath and want to take the ball to batter down a stone fence and make a touchdown." "Bravo!" cried Sid. "You're as bad as Tom." "Quit talking and get to practice!" exclaimed a voice at the rear of the lads, and they turned to see Langridge. "Say, who told you to give orders?" asked Sid quickly. "Bricktop is our captain." "Well, we're going to have a little warm-up practice first," remarked Langridge. Then he turned to Tom and said: "So you're going to pitch against me?" "It seems so." "Humph!" was all Langridge said as he walked away. Two or three good batters on each side began knocking flies for the others to catch and Tom and his chums soon found themselves warming up in earnest. The country lad discovered that he could judge the balls quite accurately and he made some good throws from a long distance. "Play ball!" suddenly called Bricktop Molloy. "Come on, fellows! Out in the field. Parsons, let's see what sort of a twirler you are." Tom went to the box. He was a trifle nervous, but he controlled himself as well as he could. The first man up was Langridge, and there was an unpleasant look on the face of the rich youth as he faced his rival. Tom sent in an out curve and he was pretty sure it was going over the plate. But he heard the umpire cry: "One ball!" and he was much surprised. There was a mocking smile on the face of Langridge. Tom held the next ball rather longer. He threw in a peculiar little drop. Langridge saw it coming and struck savagely at it, but a resounding "thump" told Tom that the horsehide had landed safe in Molloy's mitt. "One strike!" yelled the umpire, and Tom's heart was glad. "That's the way to do it!" cried Phil Clinton, from center field. "Strike him out!" Langridge hit the next ball, though it was only a weak liner, which Tom stopped and threw over to first, but there was no need, for Langridge had seen the uselessness of running. "One out. Go on with the game," sang out Bricktop. CHAPTER VI THE POLE RUSH Tom managed to strike out the next man, but the third batter knocked a two-bagger, and Kerr, who followed, sent a beautiful long fly to right field, where Jerry Jackson muffed it. There was wild delight on the part of Pete Backus and his men when they got in three runs before Tom managed to strike out another player, retiring the side. "Well, that's not so bad," spoke Bricktop, but there was some dubiousness in his tone. "My pitching was bum," acknowledged Tom, "but I'll do better next inning." "Of course you will, me lad," said Captain Molloy kindly. "It's a new ground to you." There was a confident air about Langridge when he took his position in the box and it was somewhat justified when he struck out the first two men in quick succession. "He's doing better than I thought he would," said Sid. "He's a good pitcher," admitted Tom honestly, for he saw that his rival had something that he himself lacked--a better control of the ball, though Tom could pitch a swifter curve. Tom was third at the bat. Now a good pitcher is usually a notoriously bad hitter. Tom proved an exception to the rule, though perhaps he had not developed into such a good pitcher yet that it applied in his case. He faced Langridge confidently and even smiled mockingly as a swift ball came in. Tom was a good judge of it and saw that it was going wild, so he did not attempt to strike it. His judgment was confirmed when the umpire sang out: "Ball one!" Langridge looked annoyed and sent in a swift one. Tom's bat met it squarely and it went well over the center fielder's head. "Go on! go on, me brave lad!" yelled Molloy, his brogue very pronounced. "That's the stuff!" "Take two bases! take two!" cried Phil. "Make it three! make it three!" begged Sid, and three Tom made it, for he was a swift runner, and the ball rolled provokingly away from the fielder who raced after it. "Well, you can bat, anyway, me lad," observed Molloy as Tom came in on a safe hit made by Sid a little later. "Does that mean I can't pitch?" asked Tom with a smile. "Not a bit of it. It only accentuates it, so to speak. You're all right--_facile princeps_ as the old Romans have it--which, being interpreted, means you can come in and sit at our training table." Tom's side only gathered in two runs, however, and from then on up to the eighth inning the team Langridge was on held the lead, the score at the beginning of the ninth inning being 10 to 8 in favor of Backus' men. That inning Tom and his chums rather went to pieces as regarded fielding, nor did Tom shine brilliantly in the box. He struck out two men and then he seemed to lose control of the ball. The bases were filled, two men knocking a one and two bagger respectively and another getting his walking papers. Then Tom got nervous, and just when he should have held himself well in hand to keep the score down, he gave another man a chance to amble easily to first on four balls and forced in a run. There were cries of derision from the opposing players and an ominous silence on the part of Captain Molloy and his men. The next man got a one-bagger and the player who followed him knocked a pop fly, which Molloy, who was on third, missed. The inning ended with three more runs in favor of Langridge and his mates, making the score 13 to 8. "Six runs to win and five to tie," murmured Molloy. "Can we do it, boys?" "Sure," said Phil Clinton confidently. Phil always fought to the last ditch. But it was not to be. Tom made one run and Sid another, but that was all. Langridge struck out his last man with the bases full and the game ended. "I thought you were a pitcher," sneered Langridge as the teams filed off the field, and there were several laughs at Tom's expense, for he had not made a good showing in the box. "Sure he can pitch," cried Molloy, coming to Tom's defense. "The ground was new to him, that's all." "Rats!" retorted Langridge, and Tom was too humiliated to make a reply. "Just the same he'll make a good pitcher," said Mr. James Lighton, the coach of the 'varsity, who had strolled out to watch the practice. "He has a swift ball, but he lacks control. We can make a first-class pitcher of him, Molloy." "I'm sure I hope so," murmured the red-haired youth. "We didn't do very well last year with Langridge, though he seems to have improved to-day." "So will young Parsons," declared the coach. "You watch him. I'll take him in hand as soon as the team is in shape. He'll probably have to go on the scrub first, but he won't stay there long." But Tom did not hear these comforting words, and it was with rather a bitter feeling in his heart that he went to his room to dress for supper. "You'll be better next game," said Sid, trying to console him. "Maybe there won't be any next game for me," was Tom's reply. "I saw Kerr and Langridge talking together, and I'm sure it was about me." "That's all right. Kerr isn't going to be captain of the 'varsity." "Are you sure?" "Sure. I've got a straight tip. We've votes enough to elect old Kindlings Woodhouse." And so it proved the next day, when the election was held. Dan Woodhouse received forty more ballots than did Kerr and his election, after the first test, was made unanimous, a compliment always paid. Then baseball matters began in earnest. Candidates were chosen, Coach Lighton ordered regular practice and established a training table. Tom was much chagrined when he found that he was named for pitcher on the scrub, while Langridge got the coveted place as pitcher on the 'varsity, but Sid told his chum that the scrub was but a stepping stone to the final goal. And when the coach began to take Tom in hand and give him some much-needed instruction about control Tom began to feel that, after all, perhaps he had a chance. It was about a week later, following some rather hard practice on the diamond, that a hurried knock was heard on the door of the room occupied by Sid and Tom. "Come," called Sid, looking up from his Latin book. "Pole rush to-night!" cried Dutch Housenlager, poking his head in and rapidly withdrawing it, as though he feared a book would be hurled at him. "Meet on the campus at eight o'clock. Old clothes--it's going to be a hard fight." "That's the stuff!" exclaimed Sid, throwing his book across the room. "Come on, Tom. We'll have a battle royal with our traditional enemies, the sophs." The pole rush was like the cane or cannon rushes held in other colleges. Half a dozen of the strongest of the freshmen formed a circle, with linked arms about the big flag pole on the campus. About them in concentric circles their chums formed a series of defensive rings. Then the sophomores came at them with a rush, seeking to displace the first-year lads and arrange themselves in a circle about the pole. If they succeeded in doing this inside of fifteen minutes it meant that the freshmen could wear no college colors their first term. It was to this rush that Tom, Sid and their friends hurried when Dutch and some others went about to the various rooms sounding the rallying cry. Out on the campus that soft spring evening was a motley crowd of students. On one side were gathered the sophomores and on the other the freshmen. "My, there are a lot of 'em," remarked Phil Clinton. "I shouldn't wonder but they've rung in some seniors on us." "No, they wouldn't do that," declared Sid. "They're a big class." Langridge and some others were going about selecting the men who were to form the first circle about the pole. Tom and Phil, who were both sturdy lads, were chosen for this honor. "In place! in place!" cried the impatient sophomores. "Line up! line up, fellows!" shouted Langridge. Tom and his chums took their positions. The protectors formed about them. "Hold fast, everybody!" cautioned Phil as he grasped Tom's arm. "Here they come! here they come!" was the warning cry, and with a rush the sophomores hurled themselves against the mass of lads about the pole. CHAPTER VII TOM HOLDS HIS OWN It seemed for a moment as if the first-year boys would be quickly shoved aside and their places taken by the sophomores, for so heavy was the impact that the outer and second lines of defense were broken through and the attackers were in the midst of the defenders. "Throw 'em back! throw 'em back!" yelled Phil Clinton. "Tackle low!" "Think you're playing football?" panted Tom, for some of his mates had been pushed against him and he almost lost his grip on Phil's arm. "It's like a scrimmage," replied Phil. "That's the stuff, boys!" he added as the lines of defense formed again. The freshmen by a fierce effort succeeded in blocking the advance of their enemies, and those who had penetrated part way into the circles were hurled back. But the battle had only just begun. Once more came the rush of sophomores, the members of the class calling to each other encouragingly. There were more of them than there were of freshmen, but the latter had the advantage of a firm base of support, for the lads nearest the pole clung to that and those adjoining them locked their arms or legs about those of their comrades, thus forming a compact mass. "Pick 'em off one by one!" yelled Gladdus, one of the leading sophomores. "Bore a way in there, Fenmore, and some of you fellows. We ought to get them away." "Hold fast! Hold fast, everybody!" cried Tom, for the joy of battle was upon him and his heart exulted in the struggle that was going on about him, in the pressure of bodies against his, the labored breathing, the panting, the fierce grips that were broken only to be made anew. The sophomores now began other tactics. Several of them would grab a freshman in the outer circle. They would pluck him from the restraining grasp of his companions, and then, when a hole was thus made, other sophomores would bore their way in to repeat the process. So quickly was this done and so strong was the peculiar attack that, almost before the freshmen knew it, Gladdus and Fenmore, two of the most aggressive attackers, had reached the circle that was about the pole. The two boldly grabbed at Tom, at the same time calling out: "Sophs this way! Sophs this way! Here's meat for us!" Tom suddenly felt himself being pulled away from the pole. The grips of Phil Clinton on one side and Sid Henderson on the other were slipping from his arms. "Hold fast! Don't let them take you!" cried Phil. "I won't!" gasped Tom. He thought of a trick he had acquired in wrestling. Quickly arching his back like a bow, he suddenly straightened it with a snap, and the holds of Gladdus and Fenmore were broken. They were hurled back and then other freshmen took them up bodily, thrusting them beyond the outer line of defense. Then the whole body of sophomores quickly threw themselves against the freshmen, as if to force them away from the pole by weight of numbers. They nearly succeeded, and Tom and his fellow defenders of the flag staff thought their arms would be pulled out of the sockets. But, as if it was a second down in a fierce football game, the freshmen held their opponents and thrust the wave of sophomores back. So it went on, the attack becoming fiercer until, when the timekeepers announced that there were but two more minutes left in which to hold or gain the pole, the second-year men seemed fairly to overwhelm the others. "Tear 'em up! tear 'em up!" pleaded Gladdus. "Hold, boys, hold!" begged Langridge. And hold they did, for when time was called the defenders were found with their arms still locked about the flag staff. "We win, fellows!" yelled Tom, capering about, with his hands grasping those of Sid and Phil. Then followed an impromptu war dance, while the vanquished sophomores filed away in the darkness, the exultant freshmen sending cheer after cheer out on the air. "Here's where we wear ribbons on our hats!" cried Ford Fenton. "Now, I'd like to see any soph make me take it off." He pulled from his pocket a band and fixed it to a new hat he had bought to replace the slashed one. "You came prepared, didn't you?" asked Holly Cross. "Here, let me give you an imitation of a soph," and he held out the decorated hat, though the gaily decorated band could not be seen in the darkness, and pretending to regard it with horror, minced along like some grotesque dancer on the stage. "Good! good!" cried his fellows. "That's the stuff, Holly, old chap!" remarked Phil. "We'll have you in the next play." "Why don't you fellows run the colors up on the flag pole?" proposed a lad who had stood watching the fun. "That's it, Jerry Jackson!" exclaimed Sid. "Good idea." "I'm not Jerry, I'm Joe," replied the Jersey twin. "I'll have to take your word for it," went on Sid. "Say, you two ought to wear labels. We're always getting you mixed up." Amid much laughter and joking a long streamer of yellow and maroon was fastened to the halyards and run up to the truck. Langridge had the colors with him, anticipating a victory. "We ought to have a parade now," suggested Fenton. "My uncle says----" "If you say uncle again inside of a week, we'll duck you!" cried Sid as he jostled Ford to one side. "We know him by heart by this time." "I don't believe he ever had an uncle," declared Kerr. "But come on, fellows, let's have a parade." The idea took at once, and the victorious freshmen formed in line and marched about the college buildings, singing songs and yelling joyfully, for it had been a good, fair, clean fight, and they had won. "Let's go to Haddonfield and get out hat bands," proposed Langridge. "We'll all be wearing them in the morning." As discipline was rather relaxed during the first two weeks of the term and as it was the custom for the victorious class to celebrate in some way the idea was adopted and the joyous lads made for the town, which at their advent at once awakened from a sort of evening nap. They went to a dealer who made a specialty of college goods and soon all were decked out in the gay hat bands, all save a few who, like Fenton, had already provided themselves with the articles. "I suppose you aren't used to such things as this down on the farm, are you?" asked Langridge of Tom sneeringly as they were about ready to depart for the college. "Corn husking bees and quilting parties are more in your line." "Wa'al, thet's what they be!" retorted Tom quickly, imitating the nasal drawl of the typical farmer. "We folks down Northville way is some pumpkins when it comes t' huskin' corn. Was you ever there, sonny?" His manner was so patronizing and the effect of his words and assumed mannerisms so odd that the lads about him burst out laughing, much to the annoyance of Langridge. "Going to the post-office for the mail and meeting the pretty country girls was about the height of your enjoyment, wasn't it?" persisted the rich youth, who seemed bound to pick a quarrel with Tom. "Wa'al, now you're talkin'," came the quick answer in the same drawl. There was something rather strange about Langridge. His eyes seemed very bright and his cheeks were flushed. He evidently took Tom's acquiescence as an indication that the country lad was willing to have fun poked at him. "I suppose you got lots of letters from the pretty country lasses, enclosing locks of their red hair," sneered Langridge. "You bet I did," exclaimed Tom, still imitating a farmer's peculiarities, "but I want to tell ye suthin', an' when you come out Northville way, mebby you'll remember it." Then, suddenly becoming serious and with a change in his manner, he added: "I also used to get letters from gentlemen, but I don't believe you could write me one!" There was a snap in his words. "What--what's that?" cried Langridge, taking a step toward Tom. "You heard what I said," was the retort. "That's the time you got yours all right, Langridge," exclaimed Phil Clinton. "You can't tell by the looks of a haystack how far a cow can jump, you know." Langridge fairly glared at Tom. He seemed to want to make some reply, but the words stuck in his throat. "I'll--I'll get----" he stammered, and then, turning on his heel, he linked his arm in that of Kerr and the two started off down the street. "You held you own that time, Tom," said Sid as a little later they followed. "Yes, I don't mind a joke, but he went a little too far. My people live in the country, and I'm proud of it, and proud of all my friends in Northville. But come on, let's get back to our room. I've got some studying to do." CHAPTER VIII AT PRACTICE Following the exciting scenes of the pole rush it was rather difficult for any of the lads to settle down to study that night, but for some it was a necessity, and Tom and Sid were in this number. Tom, by reason of missing the first week of the term, was a little behind his class, but he was a fine student, and the instructor saw that there would be no trouble for the lad in covering the lost ground. With Sid it was another matter. Though faithful and earnest, studying did not come easy for him, and, as he expressed it, he had to "bone away like a ground hog" to get facts and dates fixed in his mind. Consequently, because of the evening of fun, ten o'clock saw Sid and Tom busy in their room over their books. For an hour or more nothing was heard but the occasional turning of the pages or the noise of a pencil being rapidly pushed across the paper. At length Tom, with a sigh of relief, closed his chemistry and remarked: "There, I guess that will do for to-night. My eyes are tired." "So are mine," added Sid. "I'm going to kiss this Latin prose good-night and put it to bed," and he threw the book under his cot. "Pleasant dreams," he added sarcastically. "Gee! but I hate Latin," he exclaimed. "Why do you take it?" "Oh, dad thinks I'll need it. I'd a heap sight rather learn to play the banjo." "Not much comparison there, Sid." "No, but don't mention comparison. That reminds me of grammar, and grammar reminds me of verbs, and verbs naturally bring to mind declension, and--there you are. Let's talk about something pleasant." "What do you call pleasant?" "Well, baseball, for instance, though maybe that isn't very pleasant for you, since you didn't make the first team." "No," admitted Tom frankly, "it isn't pleasant to think about. I did want to get on the first team and I may yet. But I've learned one thing since coming here." "That's good. Maybe I'd better call up Moses and tell him. He'll feel encouraged that some of the students are progressing." "No, I wouldn't advise you to do that," spoke Tom with a laugh that showed his white, even teeth. "In fact, what I've learned didn't have much to do with books." "What was it?" "Well, it's been made very clear to me that it's something different from being a big fish in a little puddle than acting the part of a small-sized finny resident in a more extended body of water, to put it scientifically." "Meaning what, if you don't mind translating?" came from Sid as he stretched out on the rather worn and springless sofa. "Meaning that I had an idea that I was about as good as the next one in the pitching line, but I find I'm not." "Proceed," came calmly from Sid, who had his eyes shut. "No, I'm afraid I might disturb your slumbers," said Tom quickly, and there was a curious change in his voice. Sid sat up quickly. "I beg your pardon, old man," he exclaimed. "I was listening all right and I'm interested, honest I am. Only my eyes hurt to-night. But it must be quite different, coming from a small village to a fairly large college. Did you have a good nine at Northville?" "Well," went on Tom, somewhat mollified at his chum's interest, "we cleaned up all the other nines around there. I was considered a crackajack pitcher, but I guess now the reason for that may have been that the others were rotten batsmen." "There's something in that," admitted Sid judicially. "You see, things are peculiar here. Now take Langridge. Nobody, unless it's Kerr and a few others, cares much about him. Yet he's a fairly consistent pitcher, and he's the best they've had in some years, they tell me. Now our college has had rather hard luck on the diamond, especially in the Tonoka Lake League. There was a better chance of winning the championship last year than in any previous one, but we didn't make good. It wasn't altogether Langridge's fault. He didn't have very good support, I'm told. Now they've decided to keep him on, or, rather he's engineered things so that, as manager, he keeps himself on. And there are some hopes of pulling out somewhere in the lead of the league this season. But Langridge is his own best friend." "And he keeps me from pitching on the 'varsity," said Tom somewhat bitterly. "Can you blame him?" "No, I don't know that I can," was the frank answer. "I s'pose I'd do the same thing. But I hope in time to be a better pitcher than he is." "How are you coming on with the coach?" "Fine. Mr. Lighton has given me some good pointers, and I needed them. My curves are all right and so is my speed. It's my control that's weak, and I'm getting rid of some of my faults." "We're going to have a practice game with you scrubs to-morrow or next day," said Sid. "Maybe you'll get a chance to show what you can do then." "I hope so. I want to show Langridge that he isn't the only bean in the pot, to put it poetically." "Very poetically," murmured Sid, who seemed to be dozing off. "Say, Sid," exclaimed Tom suddenly, "do you remember what you started to say about Langridge the other day and stopped?" "Yes." "What was it?" "I'd rather not tell. You'll probably find out for yourself before long. I did, though not many know it." "You mean----" "I'm not going to say what I mean. Only," and Sid suddenly sat up, "it may increase your chances of pitching on the 'varsity." "I think I know," said Tom slowly, and he began to get ready for bed. A practice game between the 'varsity and the scrub was called for the next afternoon. The first team was in rather disorganized shape yet. That is to say, not all the players were in permanent positions and shifts were likely to be made at any time as practice brought out defects or merits. It was even said that some now on the 'varsity might be relegated to the scrub and some from the second team advanced. Tom secretly hoped so in his case, but his common sense told him he stood a slim chance. Langridge, of course, was pitcher on the first team and Kerr was the catcher. Kindlings Woodhouse played on third, where he could direct the efforts of his men. When the scrub and regular teams were out on the diamond ready for the practice game Kindlings looked over his players. "Where's Sid Henderson?" he asked. "He got turned back in Latin at last class," volunteered Jerry Jackson. "Here he comes now," added Joe Jackson, as if he was an echo to his brother. Sid came running up, all out of breath, buttoning his blouse as he advanced. "What's the matter, son?" asked the captain. "That rotten Latin." "Be careful," warned Kindlings. "Don't slump too often or you may put us in a hole. You aren't the only first baseman that ever lived, but you're pretty good, and I don't want to go to work training you in and have you fired off the team by the faculty for not keeping up your studies." "Oh, I'll be careful," promised Sid confidently, and then the game started. The 'varsity played snappy ball and the scrub seemed a bit ragged, naturally perhaps as there was less incentive for them to play hard. "Brace up, fellows," implored Tom toward the close of the game. "They're only four runs ahead of us, and if we can knock out a couple of three-baggers we'll throw a scare into them. They're weak in right and left field. Soak the horsehide toward either of the twins, but don't get it near Phil Clinton. If he gets it within a foot of his mitt, it's a goner." "It's a wonder you wouldn't strike out more men," said Fenton. "My uncle says that when he was a coach----" "Play ball!" yelled the umpire, and the reminiscence was cut short. The scrubs did "take a brace" and began finding the curves of Langridge, much to that pitcher's annoyance. Tom made a neat two-bagger, but died on third, though the score was bettered in favor of the scrub by two more runs. Tom went to his box with a firm step and a more certain feeling about his ability than he had ever experienced before. He was sure he could strike out at least two men, and he did so, including Langridge and Holly Cross. Holly, who was a good batter, was laughed at by his chums. "You'll have to do better than that," warned Langridge. "Do better yourself," retorted Holly. "I didn't want to hit it, anyhow. I was giving you an imitation of how close I could come to it and miss it." "Those imitations don't do on this circuit," added the tall Kindlings. "It's mighty risky in a game." "Oh, yes, in a game," admitted Holly with a laugh. Tom gave one man a chance to walk and the next popped out a fly that Dutch Housenlager neatly gathered in. The game ended with no runs for the 'varsity in the last inning and they had beaten the scrub by only two runs. "It might be worse," said Mr. Lighton grimly as the teams filed off the diamond. "It might be worse, Woodhouse, but I don't like it." "Neither do I," admitted the captain gloomily. "We tackle Boxer Hall in the first of the league series next week, and I think I'll have to make some more shifts. What do you think of Langridge?" "Well, he's all right--yet. If he doesn't----" The coach stopped suddenly, seemed about to say something and then evidently thought better of it. "At any rate," he finished, "if worst comes to worst, we can put Parsons in. He's improving every day, and with a little more coaching so that he isn't quite so awkward and can run better, he'll make a star player. He'll be on the first team next year." "He wants to get on this year." "Perhaps he will," and with that the coach walked off rather abruptly. CHAPTER IX A GAME WITH BOXER HALL The grandstand was filled with cheering students. In one section were the cohorts of Randall College, led in giving their cries by "Bean" Perkins, who had a voice like unto that of some fog horn. There was a mass of glowing colors as flags and streamers were waved in the wind. In another part of the stand a smaller but no less enthusiastic throng sent up exultant cries of rivalry, calling out repeatedly: "Boxer! Boxer! Boxer!" Scattered among the students in each of the two divisions of the stand were girls and more girls, all of them pretty, at least in the eyes of their admirers, and all of them sporting one college colors or the other. The bleachers were filled by ardent supporters of the game who were not so particular about having a roof over their heads and who, for one reason or another, had to look to the difference in cost between a grandstand ticket and one on the side benches. It was the occasion of the first regular game of the season in the Tonoka Lake League between Randall College and Boxer Hall. As the opposing players came out for warm-up practice the yells, cheers and cries were redoubled, and the stands seemed a waving riot of colors, like some great bed of flowers. The sounds of balls impinging on thick mitts, of willow bats cracking out hot liners or lofty flies were heard all over the diamond. Never had the grass seemed greener and never had the field looked so inviting. It was a perfect day for the game. There was not a little anxiousness on the part of the Randall players as they "sized up" their opponents. They found them a sturdy lot of youngsters. "They're playing snappy ball," observed Coach Lighton to Captain Woodhouse. "Yes, and so will we," predicted Kindlings. "Just watch us." "I intend to. That's why I'm out here. Now let me give you and Langridge a few pointers," and he called the pitcher to him, the three strolling off to one side of the field. Tom Parsons was on hand, and it does him no discredit when it is stated that there was a feeling of envy in his heart. But it was honest envy. He wanted to get out on the diamond and do his share in helping the Randall team to win. But he could only look on and cheer with the others. To win or lose the first game meant much to either team. Not so much to Boxer Hall, perhaps, as that team had run Fairview Institute a close second for the championship, but to Randall the winning of the game might put the necessary "snap" into the lads, while to lose it might so discourage them that it would be well on in the season before they would "take a brace." So it is no wonder that there was a feeling of nervousness on the part of the coach and the players. The practice was over. The preliminaries had been arranged, the home team, Randall, having the privilege of being last to bat. Langridge, with final instructions from the coach, took his place in the box. "Play ball!" fairly howled the umpire, and the game was on. "Ping!" That was the sound of the bat colliding with the ball, the first ball that Langridge threw. Describing a graceful curve, the white sphere sailed up into the air. Ed Kerr, hoping it might be a foul, had thrown off his mask and was wildly looking for it, but it was winging its way toward Jerry Jackson in right field. A yell went up from the two hundred college supporters of Boxer Hall, but it was changed to a groan when one of the Jersey twins neatly gathered in the fly and put the runner out. Langridge breathed a sigh of relief and struck out the next two men. Not a man got to first on the Randall team in the initial inning. Kerr knocked a pop fly, but it was caught by the pitcher, who repeated Langridge's trick and sent the next two men to the bench in short order. The next three innings saw goose eggs in the squares of both teams, the only hitting that was done being foul tips. "It's a pitchers' battle," began to be whispered from seat to seat, and so it seemed. In the sixth inning Randall succeeded in getting a man to first on balls, and then began an attempt on the part of the onlooking students of that college to get the pitcher's "goat," which, being interpreted, meant to "rattle" him. That he had a "glass arm" was the mildest epithet hurled at him, but Dave Ogden, who was doing the twirling for Boxer Hall, only smiled in a confident sort of way and struck out the next man. He was not so successful with Kindlings Woodhouse, and the captain hammered out a pretty fly that was good for two bases and sent Bricktop Molloy to third. The Randall boys were rejoicing now, for they saw a chance to score the first run. And the run itself was brought in by the blue-eyed and red-haired Molloy a moment later, when Phil Clinton knocked a hot liner right between the Boxer Hall shortstop and the third baseman. But that ended the fun, though the score was 1 to 0 in favor of the home team. This may have been an incentive to the visitors, for straightway they began pounding Langridge, and when the seventh inning ended the score was 4 to 2 in favor of Boxer Hall. "Boys, we've got to down 'em!" said Woodhouse fiercely. "Don't let them put the game on ice this way. Don't do it. Take a brace." In the eighth inning it looked as if there was going to be a slump in Randall stock. Langridge seemed to go to pieces and issued walking passes to two men, while he was batted for a two-bagger and a three-base hit. But with a gritting of their teeth the others rallied to his support, and though the visitors tucked away two more runs, making the score 6 to 2, at which their cohorts went into a fine frenzy, that was all they could do. "Fellows, we're going to win!" cried Captain Paul, or "Pinky" Davenport, of the Boxers. "Wait a bit, son," advised Kindlings dryly. In the ending of the eighth there was a look of "do or die" about the Randall players. Tom Parsons felt himself gripping the sides of the seat until the board hurt his hands. "Oh, if I could only get down there and play!" he whispered to himself. "Why can't I? why can't I?" But he couldn't and he knew it. Rather to their own surprise the Randall lads began finding the ball with surprising regularity. They batted it out "for keeps," as Molloy said, and they managed to tie the score. Then came the ever nerve-thrilling ninth inning in a close game. By great good luck, after he had given one man his base on balls, Langridge retired a trio in one-two-three order, and the score still stood a tie. "Now, fellows, slam it into them. Wallop the hide off 'em--sting 'em--souse 'em--put 'em in brine for next year!" implored Holly Cross. "I'm first up, and I'm going to give you a correct imitation of a man making a home run." But he didn't. Holly struck out miserably and he went away into a far corner and thought gloomy thoughts. Not for long, however. A resounding crack of the bat told him some one had knocked a fly. It was Phil Clinton, and he started for first like a deer with the hounds after it. "My, but he can run!" exclaimed Tom in admiration. "Wouldn't he be fine covering the gridiron with the ball tucked under his arm? Go on! go on! That's the stuff, Phil! Pretty! pretty! That's a beaut! that's a beaut!" Tom was on his feet yelling at the top of his voice. So were hundreds of other lads and girls also. But the Boxer third baseman was right near the ball. He gathered it in and hurled it to first. It would have been all over with Phil, in spite of his magnificent run, except that the first baseman missed it, and Phil, amid a riot of cheers, kept on to second. That sealed the fate of the Boxers. They "slumped" and went to pieces badly. The Randall lads garnered a run and so they won the game--the first of the season--by a score of 7 to 6. And then what cheering there was! CHAPTER X A COIL OF WIRE "Bonfires to-night, fellows--bonfires multiplied by seven and one more!" cried Captain Woodhouse as he gathered the victorious nine about him and tried to hug each member. "Well played, my hearties! Yo ho! and a heave, yo ho! You shall dine sumptuously this day, an it please ye!" "Hold hard there!" came the laughing but calming voice of the coach. "No breaking of training just because you've won the first game. Not much! You've got to buckle down harder than ever from now until school closes." "Not even a cigarette?" asked Holly Cross, with a wink at his chums. "Or an ice cream soda?" added Bricktop, his blue eyes twinkling. "Go on," answered the coach with another laugh, not taking the trouble to return an answer to so obvious a question. "They are going to cheer you. Get ready to give them a yell in return." The defeated team had gathered together. There was an air of sullenness about the members at losing the game, but this mood quickly passed under the entreaties of Pinky Davenport, who was a sportsman and "a good loser," as he besought his men to "perk up and wallop 'em next time." He called for three cheers for the victors, and they were followed by the Boxer Hall yell. Back came three ringing acclamations and a "tiger" from Woodhouse and his mates, and their yell, as weird a combination of words and syllables as could well be devised, brought the whole concourse of spectators standing up in acknowledgment. Then came more cheering, and the nines disappeared into the dressing-rooms beneath the grandstand, while the crowds filed away. "Well," remarked Sid as he walked along with Tom a little later, "it was a glorious victory, as the poem says. I don't exactly remember what it was all about nor how we did it, but ''twas a glorious victory.'" "Now you're talking," was Phil Clinton's opinion. "Eh, Tommy, my lad?" Tom was rather silent. He had cheered the nine until his throat ached, but somehow there was to him a hollowness in the winning. "Too bad you couldn't play, old man," commented Sid. "I was almost hoping Langridge would strain his arm, and then----" "Don't!" exclaimed Tom quickly. "That's bad luck, and, what's worse, Sid, it's treason." "Then give me liberty or buy me a seltzer lemonade, Patrick Henry!" declaimed Phil. "Honest now, Tom, weren't you just aching to get out and play?" "I was," replied Tom so earnestly that the others looked curiously at him. "I never wanted so much in my life to get into a game. Why, I'd even been glad to act as backstop. But it's all right," he added quickly. "It was a great game, and maybe I'll have a chance to play next year if I live that long," and he laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "Mighty pretty lot of girls at the game," observed Sid, as if to change the subject. "That's what," agreed Tom, glad to get on a more congenial topic. "Oh, wait until we play Fairview Institute," said Phil. "Why?" from Tom. "Why, that's co-ed, you know--girl students as well as boys. And, say, maybe there aren't some stunners among 'em! They take in all the games at home and some that aren't, and they have flags and a yell of their own. They know how to yell, too. I was over to a ball game there last year, before I thought of coming to Randall, and say, it was immense. There was one----" "Cut it out, if it's about a girl," advised Sid. "When you get on the dame question, you don't know where to stop. Sufficient to say that there are some." "Yes, and then some more," added Phil. "Wait until we go there or they come here. Then you'll see something worth seeing." "May the day come soon," spoke Tom with a laugh. "I sat next to a mighty pretty girl to-day all right. She had a flag of Randall colors, and when we won she waved it so hard she nearly put my eye out." "Of course you made a fuss," said Phil with a grin. "Of course. I turned to apologize and so did she, and I knocked her hat all squeegee and she blushed and I got red, and then--well, I up and asked her if she had a brother at college." "That's going some," commented Sid. "What did she say? Did you learn her name? Where does she live?" "Fair and softly, little one," advised Tom, with a sort of assumed superciliousness. "Trust your Uncle Dudley for that." He walked on a few paces. "Well?" demanded Phil. "Is that all?" cried Sid. "No," said Tom, provokingly mysterious about it. "Go on. Tell a fellow, do." "What's the use?" asked Tom. "I saw her walking off after the game with another fellow." "Who?" demanded his two chums. "Langridge." "With him?" exclaimed Sid, and there was a new meaning in his tones. "Who was the girl?" "Her name was Madge Tyler," replied Tom slowly. "Madge Tyler!" repeated Sid. "Why, her brother used to go here. He graduated two years ago. He was a crackajack first baseman. And so Madge Tyler is going with Langridge?" he questioned. "Or he with her," said Tom dryly. "I don't see that it makes much difference. Why, hasn't he got a right to?" "Oh, I s'pose if you put it that way, he has," went on Sid. "Only----" and he stopped abruptly. "Only what?" asked Tom. "Only--nothing. Say, here's a chance to buy me that seltzer lemonade. I think you ought to stand treat for Phil and me, Tom, seeing that if it hadn't been for us the game would have been lost and you wouldn't have met Miss Madge." "I don't know that it has benefited me much," replied Tom. "What do you mean, you old cart horse?" asked Phil, thumping his friend on the back. "Seeing the game won or meeting the pretty girl? I believe you said she was pretty." "I didn't say so, but she is--very. But I meant about meeting her. Langridge seems to have a mortgage in that direction, I fancy." "He makes me sick!" exclaimed Phil. "He and the airs he gives himself. But come on in here," and he turned toward a drug store. "I'm like a lime kiln, I'm so warm. It's your treat, Tom." "All right, I'm willing." "Did Miss Madge ask you to call?" inquired Phil as the three were wending their way toward college again. "Yes." "You don't say so! Well, it seems to me that for a new acquaintance you rushed matters fairly well." "I forgot to add," said Tom slowly, "that I knew her before--back in Northville where I live. She moved away from there some years ago and I didn't recognize her at first. But she knew me at once." "Wow! You old coffee percolator!" shouted Sid. "Why didn't you dish that out to us first, instead of letting us think you made an impression simply by the aid of your manly figure? So you knew her of old. Ha! ha! Likewise ho! ho! I begin to smell a concealed rodent in the woodpile." "You didn't give me a chance," was Tom's quiet answer, and then he fell to talking about the game until he and Sid got to their room. Later there were bonfires and fun galore in honor of the victory. Coach Lighton gave the nine no rest. Early the next Monday afternoon, as soon as lessons were over, he had them out on the diamond playing against the scrub. Somewhat to the surprise of members of the second team as well as that of the 'varsity, Tom Parsons struck out an unusual number of players. "You fellows will have to bat better than this," growled Langridge when practice was over and the 'varsity game had been saved merely by a fumble on the part of a scrub fielder. "This won't do." "Physician, heal thyself," quoted Captain Woodhouse with a grim smile. "You struck out twice, Langridge." "I know it, but batting isn't my best specialty and it is for some of you fellows." "True enough," admitted Kindlings gravely, "and we must brace up a bit for the game next Saturday with Fairview." "The captain is right, boys," added the coach. "You must do some hard hitting." "Or else Tom Parsons mustn't pitch so well," said Phil Clinton in a low voice to Sid. "How about it?" "That's right. He's improving wonderfully. Langridge will have to look to his pitching arm." At that moment the wealthy youth passed by Phil and Sid. He heard what they said, and if they could have seen his face then they would have been somewhat puzzled at the look on it. But neither Tom nor any of his friends saw. It was the next day after the scrub game that as Tom was alone in his room, "boning" away on Latin, a knock sounded on the door. "Come!" he cried, and, much to his surprise, Langridge entered. "You're becoming a regular greasy dig, aren't you?" he asked pleasantly. "Well, I've got to do some studying, you know. That's what I came here for." "Yes, I know and all that sort of thing, but if you're going in for athletics you can't pound away at your books too hard." "Oh, I guess what pounding I do won't hurt me," and Tom laid aside the volume, the while wondering why Langridge had called on him. Tom distinctly was not in the rich youth's set. "I hope not," and the other's manner was becoming more and more cordial. "But I say, Parsons, don't you want to help us get one in on the sophs?" "Sure. You can always count on me. What is it this time?" "Well, you know the little open pavilion down near the river?" "The one near the boathouse?" "That same." "Sure I know it." "Well, you know according to ancient and revered college tradition that is sacred to the sophomores. None other but members of the second-year class may go there. If one of us freshmen is caught there it means a ducking, to say the least." "So I've heard." "Well, Kerr and I were in there the other day, for we heard that the sophs were off on a little racket, and we didn't think we'd be disturbed. We had a couple of girls there and were having a little confab when along came Gladdus and Battersby, grabbed us before we knew it and chucked us into the H{2}O, whence we floundered like drowned rats." "Yes, I heard about it." "So did the whole college, I guess. Now Kerr and I feel that not only have we been insulted, but that the whole freshman class has." "I agree to that." "And will you help us to get even?" "Sure. What you going to do?" "You'll see later. What I need now is a coil of wire. I want to know if you'll get it for me." "Certainly, but why can't you get it for yourself?" "Well, to tell you the truth, I've got about all the marks I can stand this term, and merely because I happened to play an innocent trick in class to-day I'm forbidden to leave the college grounds for a week. Just when I want to go to town, too. So I've got to get some one else to get the wire for me, and I thought you would. I'll pay for it, of course." "Sure I'll get it," agreed Tom, not stopping to think that Kerr, the special chum of Langridge, might have acted for his friend. "What kind do you want?" "I'll tell you. Here's the money," and Langridge handed over a bill, also giving Tom a memorandum of the kind of wire wanted and where to get it in Haddonfield. "And one more thing," the other youth added as he prepared to take his leave. "What's that?" "Don't, for the life of you, tell a soul that you got the wire for me. I want it kept a dead secret. The trick will be all the better then. Will you promise?" "I will." "On your honor as a freshman of Randall College?" Tom wondered at the other's insistence. "Of course I will. Shall I swear?" and Tom laughed. "No, your word is enough," spoke Langridge significantly. "Have the wire by to-night, and we'll teach the sophs a lesson they won't soon forget." CHAPTER XI AN ELECTRIC SHOCK Late that same afternoon Tom, having gone to town alone, that he might accomplish his mission unobserved, came back with a coil of telegraph wire concealed under his sweater at his waist. He smuggled it to Langridge's room without being seen. "That's the stuff, old man," cried Langridge heartily, but there was an air of patronizing superiority in his manner that Tom did not like. Still, he reasoned, the other could not rid himself of an inborn habit so easily, and it really seemed, in spite of the fact that Tom might be regarded as a rival of Langridge, that the latter was doing his best to be friendly. "I s'pose it wouldn't do to ask what's up, would it?" inquired Tom as he was about to leave. "Hardly," replied Langridge with what he meant to be a genial smile. "It might get out, you know. But you can be in at the death, so to speak. The whole freshman class will assemble at the boathouse about nine. There'll be a full moon and we can have a good view of the sophs' pavilion." "Are they going to be there?" "I hope so. In fact I'm counting on it. This is the night of their annual moonlight song festival. They gather in and about the pavilion and make the night hideous with snatches of melody. They're rotten singers--the sophs this year--but that is neither here nor there. The point is that they'll be there, and it's up to us freshmen to give 'em a little surprise party." "I suppose you're going to arrange the wire so they can't get into the pavilion without cutting it," suggested Tom, "or else put it across the path to trip them up." "Er--yes--something like that," replied Langridge hastily. "Oh, by the way, have you a knife? I lost mine out rowing the other day. I'll give it back to you to-morrow." Tom passed over his knife, a good-sized one, with his name engraved on the handle. His father had given it to him. "Don't lose it," he cautioned. "I think a great deal of it." "I'll not," promised Langridge. "Now don't forget to be on hand." "I'll be there to see the fun." "And maybe you'll see more than you bargain for," whispered Langridge as Tom went out. There was a curious look on the face of the 'varsity pitcher. One by one, by twos and threes or in small groups, silent figures stole away from dormitories that night and gathered about the pavilion or the boathouse, which was not far from it. To the first place went the sophomores, bent on having their annual frolic of song. To the second rendezvous traveled the freshmen, but they went more silently, for they did not want their natural enemies to learn of their presence. The sophomores, however, were on their guard. From time immemorial it had been the custom for the first-year class to endeavor to break up the song fest of their predecessors, and it was the function of the first years to do this in as novel a manner as possible. Tradition had it that various methods had been used, such as setting fire to the pavilion, digging pits in the paths that led to it and covering the holes with leaves and grass, laying a line of hose to the place, so that at an opportune moment the singers would be drenched and routed. The latter was a favorite plan and most successful. But to-night a more strict guard than usual had been kept over the battle-scarred pavilion. All that day a committee had been on the watch so that it was thought impossible that any hose could be used or any pits dug. Now the sophomores were beginning to gather in and around the small shelter. They were jubilant, for they began to think they had outwitted their never-ceasing enemies. Meanwhile the freshmen were not idle. In large numbers they had quietly gathered at the boathouse, in the dark shadows of which they remained in hiding, waiting for the opening of the singing and the consequent breaking up of the sophomore body. "What's the game?" asked Sid of Tom as those two and Phil Clinton made their way to the rendezvous. "Water pipes, fire or something brand new?" "You can search me," was Tom's non-committal answer. "I hope it's something new. There doesn't seem to be any provisions for a bonfire and none of us swiped the fire hose." "Langridge and his committee have it in charge," said Phil. "There's some secrecy about it, and very properly, too. Last year, I understand, it leaked out and the fun was spoiled." Tom did not reply, but he wondered what use Langridge was going to make of the wire. "They ought to start soon now," whispered Phil. "There's a good crowd of them there." "Yes, and they've got scouts out all around," added Sid as he and his chums saw a number of shadowy figures patroling the stretch around the pavilion. "They're not going to be caught unawares." "I don't see how we're going to break 'em up," remarked Phil. "You wait and you'll see," exclaimed Langridge, who was moving about among the freshmen. "Say, Ed, you'd better go now and light the fuse." "Is it an explosion?" asked Sid eagerly. "Better be careful," cautioned Phil. Tom's heart was thumping. He began to see the use to which the wire might be put, and he was afraid lest he had taken part in some dangerous prank. If Langridge had planned to explode a mine under the pavilion, some one might be injured. "There'll be no explosion, only an explosion of wrath pretty soon," replied Langridge. "Go ahead, Kerr. Let 'em sing one song and they'll think we've called it off. Then let it go." Kerr hurried off, keeping in the shadows. No sooner had he started than a movement was noticeable among the sophomores, groups of whom could easily be seen now, as the moon was well up. Then, on the stillness of the night, there broke a song. It was an old melody, sacred to Randall, and, in spite of being rendered by hilarious students, it was well done. "That's not half bad," commented Phil. "They've got some good members for the glee club there." "It's punk!" sneered Langridge. "Wait until we have a song fest. We'll make them feel sick!" The melody continued, and coming as it did from the distance, while all about was the wondrous beauty of the moon, the effect produced on Tom Parsons was one of distinct pleasure. It was like being at some play. "What a pity," he thought, "to spoil it all! What brutes we college fellows are--sometimes. I like to listen to that." The song was softer now, and then it broke forth into a full chorus, well rendered. "It's a shame to break it up," reasoned Tom. Then a class feeling overcame him. After all, the sophomores were their traditional enemies, and college tradition demanded that they disperse the gathering. "Kerr ought to be there now," whispered Langridge. "The fuse will burn for two minutes." "Fuse--fuse," repeated Phil. "It _must_ be an explosion. You want to be careful, Langridge." "Oh, I know what I'm doing," was the answer. "But mind now, no squealing, whatever happens." "You needn't say that," was Phil's quick retort. "We're Randall College freshmen," as if that was all that was necessary. Kerr glided in from somewhere. "Well?" asked Langridge. "It's all right." The sophomores had started another song. They were about through the second verse when there came a series of sudden yells from the pavilion. There were cries of pain, and Langridge, in the midst of the freshmen, called out: "That's it! That's the stuff! Rah! rah! sophs! This time we break you up. Cheer, boys, cheer!" The freshmen set up an exultant cry as it became evident that, in some way, the gleeful singing of the second-year lads had been stopped. There was an excited movement in the pavilion, yet the waiting freshmen could not see that anything had taken place. Then came a cry--two exclamations--louder and more anguished than any that had preceded. There was a yell--a protesting yell--and then some one in the pavilion shouted: "Cut it, fellows! The hand railing is charged with electricity!" "Three cheers for the freshmen!" called Langridge, and the response came spontaneously, for his mates knew that they had triumphed over the sophomores. Suddenly above the confused cheering and shouting there came another cry. "Help me, fellows! Oh, help--help!" screamed some one inside the pavilion. There was a confused movement among the singers. Something seemed to have happened--something serious. The freshmen stopped their cheering and crowded up. A big sophomore broke through the throng and dashed toward the college. "What's the matter?" called Tom, and he had an uneasy feeling as he asked the question. "Matter? It's you confounded freshmen, that's what's the matter! Gladdus and Battersby have been knocked unconscious." "Unconscious?" "Yes, by a powerful current of electricity. Get out of my way, fresh, or I'll knock you down! I'm going for a doctor. Some of you had better notify the proctor," he added to a few of his classmates who followed him on the run. "This is serious business." "Come on, fellows," advised Langridge. "It's all right. We broke up the pavilion meeting all right." "But maybe some one is seriously hurt," said Sid. "Nonsense, it was only a current from the incandescent light lamps. It couldn't hurt them. Come on, take a sneak away from here. We've had our fun. And mind, everybody keep his mouth shut," and Langridge disappeared in the shadows of the trees, while ahead of him panted several sophomores on their way to summon a physician. CHAPTER XII TOM DOESN'T TELL Tom and Sid hurried along in the midst of the freshmen, Phil Clinton trailing after them. The three found themselves in a little group, comparatively alone. "Maybe we'd better do something," proposed Tom. "No, best not to interfere," advised Sid. "Let them manage it." "But if Gladdus and Battersby are hurt----" "Come on," urged Phil. "We're likely to be caught any minute. Proc. Zane will be out after all that racket. Let's get to our rooms and lay low." When Tom and Sid were in their apartment the scrub pitcher turned to his chum and asked: "Did you know what was in the wind to-night, Sid?" "No. I left it all to Langridge and Kerr. But I guess it's all right. Why?" "Oh, nothing much. But if some one is hurt----" "Nonsense, don't worry. Why, that's nothing to what other classes have done. I remember hearing a story of how----" But Sid's yarn was interrupted by a tap at the door, and Ford Fenton slid in. There was rather a frightened look on his face. "What's up, Fenton?" asked Sid. "I don't know, but something is. They've carried Gladdus and Battersby into the infirmary, and there's a lot of scurrying about. They've sent for a doctor from town, and Moses and Proc. Zane have gone down to the pavilion." "What for?" asked Tom. "Blessed if I know. Say, but we broke up their singing all right, didn't we? It was great. My uncle says----" "Shut up!" cried Tom, and there was such unusual irritability in his tone that the other two looked at him in surprise. He saw it and went on: "I--I didn't exactly mean that, Fenton, old chap, but I'm--I'm all upset." "For cats' sake, what about?" demanded Sid. "You don't mean to say you're worried because our class knocked out a couple of greasy old sophs?" "Well, I--er----" There came another interruption, and a lad entered. "Here's the Snail," exclaimed Sid as Sam Looper crawled in and closed the door softly behind him. "He can find out what's up. How about it, Snail--any news?" Sam blinked his eyes as if the light hurt him. "I've been around--around," he said slowly, waving his hand to take in the whole compass of the college and grounds. "I saw 'em carry the two sophs away. They're badly burned and shocked. Langridge is a fool!" They had seldom seen the Snail so excited. "He went and strung a wire from the electric light circuit to the iron hand rail around the pavilion. Only he made a mistake in the connections and got the wires crossed with the powerful arc circuit. The incandescent is only a hundred and ten volts, while the arc is twenty-four hundred. Some difference. Only that they got a small part of it, they'd be dead instead of merely badly shocked." Tom Parsons half uttered an exclamation. "What's the matter?" asked Sid quickly. "Oh, nothing. Go on, Snail." "That's about all," came from Sam. "Pitchfork--he's a sort of doctor, you know--he's working over 'em now. I guess they'll be all right." Tom started to leave the room. "Where you going?" inquired Sid. "Out. I--I must see what's happened!" "You stay here!" ordered Sid, half fiercely. "You'll be nabbed in a minute. Proc. Zane has his scouts out, waiting to corral everybody. Here, Snail, you go. You know how to keep out of sight." "Sure," agreed Sam, who liked nothing better than to prowl around in the dark. "Wait here and I'll sneak back." "Be careful," cautioned Ford. The Snail slowly winked his half-shut eyes, but did not speak. Then he closed the door softly and they heard him tiptoeing down the corridor. "The Snail will find out," almost whispered Sid. Somehow they all appeared to be under a strain. Tom was pacing back and forth in the room. Ford stood with his back to the mantel, his hands clasped behind him. Sid tried to look at a book, but he took no sense of the words. Finally, with an exclamation, he threw it on the sofa. Ford quietly left the room and a little later Phil Clinton came in. Sid and Tom saw that he had heard all. Tom ceased his nervous walk and went over to the sofa. He sat down on it, the ancient piece of furniture creaking with his weight. But he was not there half a minute before he arose and began pacing up and down again. Then he tried an easy chair, whence there floated up a little cloud of dust from the old cushions. There was silence in the apartment, broken only by the ticking of a fussy little alarm clock. It seemed to double up on the number of seconds allotted to a minute. The three could hear each other's breathing. They were under some strain, though, for the life of them, neither Sid nor Phil could tell what it was. "Why doesn't some one say something?" asked Phil at length, and it was as if some one had broken the silence in a church. Sid picked up the book he had cast aside. Then he threw it down again, for there sounded the noise of a person coming along the corridor. The Snail came in. "Well?" gasped Tom, and it was as if he had shouted it, though he spoke in a low, tense voice. "They're in a bad way," said the Snail slowly, "but there's a chance to pull them through. There's going to be an investigation, I heard. Langridge is likely to----" There came a knock on the door. The lads started guiltily. Phil, being nearest the portal, opened it, though if it was one of the proctor's "scouts," as was likely, he would be "up" for breaking one of the college rules about being in another room after the prescribed hours. It was a "scout," Mr. Snell, a sort of upper janitor. "Mr. Parsons," said the scout deferentially--and he took no notice of the presence of the Snail or Phil, for which they were duly grateful--"Mr. Parsons, the proctor would like to see you in his office." "Now?" asked Tom, and his heart began to beat double strokes. "Now, yes, sir." Without a look at his chums Tom went out and to the office. He was afraid lest he might betray the secret he feared would be disclosed at any moment--the secret of the coil of wire. "Mr. Parsons," began Proctor Zane slowly when the door had closed behind Tom, "there has been a serious accident to-night." Tom bowed. He could not trust his voice. "Two students were badly hurt and the results may be lasting. They are only just now out of danger." Once more Tom bowed. He could not speak. The beating of his heart was choking him. "As a rule," went on the proctor judicially, "I take no notice of the--er--the affairs between the different classes or student bodies. But this time I am obliged to. Dr. Churchill and myself have made an examination of the pavilion where this outrage occurred. We discovered the wires running from the electric light circuit to the hand rail. We discovered where a spring connection had been made, so that, by the burning away of a fuse, the parts of the spring closed, the wires came in contact and the current filled the hand rail. We also discovered something else." He paused, and Tom, for the first time, looked the proctor full in the face. Mr. Zane held out a small object. "This knife was found near where the wires were fastened to the railing," he said. "It has your name on it. Is it yours?" "Yes, sir," replied Tom. "You took part in this affair?" "I am a freshman." "That is answer enough. Did you attach the wires?" "No, and I had nothing to do with that part of it." "Your knife would seem to indicate that you had." No answer from Tom. "Did you use your knife to attach the wires?" "No, sir." "Do you know who did?" "I think I do." "Will you tell?" Tom could almost hear his heart beating. There was a singing in his ears. Then he answered: "No. I cannot tell, Mr. Zane. I--I----" "That will do," said the proctor gravely. "I did not expect you would tell." Tom turned and made his way from the room. There was a mist before his eyes. There came back to him the promise he had made to Langridge. On his honor as a freshman he had agreed not to give information. When he gave the promise he had not known how serious it would be. But, nevertheless, it was a promise. Tom stumbled into his room. The Snail and Phil were gone. Sid sat with the light turned low. He jumped up as his chum came in. "Tom," he cried, "what's the matter?" "Nothing," was the answer in a dull, spiritless tone. Tom threw himself into a chair. The fussy little clock ticked away. Half an hour passed and not a word was spoken. "You'd better go to bed, old man," said Sid gently. "It'll be all right to-morrow." Without a word Tom began to undress. The light was turned out. Sid was dozing off when he heard his chum tossing restlessly on his bed. "Tom," he called through the darkness, "can I help you?" "No," came the answer, and then Tom lay quiet. But he did not sleep. CHAPTER XIII A GIRL AND A GAME There was a more complete investigation the next day. The report was also circulated that the two sophomores were not so badly injured as had at first been feared. But there was something in the air which showed that stringent measures were likely to be taken by the faculty. Dr. Churchill was ten minutes late in opening chapel that morning, and there was much stately moving to and fro on the part of the instructors. On the face of Professor Emerson Tines there was a look of satisfaction, as if he was glad that some one had gotten into trouble. "Look at Pitchfork!" said Sid to Tom, but Tom's face had not lost its anxious look. "For Heaven's sake, cheer up!" whispered Phil Clinton. "They'll think you did the whole business if they see your face, Tom." Dr. Churchill made an unusual prayer that morning. Though he did not directly refer to the happening of the previous night, it was in his petition, and many a freshman, impressed by the solemn words, then and there resolved to abjure in the future unseemly pranks and to become a "grind." "The freshman class will remain after chapel this morning," announced the venerable head of Randall, and as the other classes filed out there were commiserating looks cast at the unlucky first-years by the juniors and seniors and vindictive glances bestowed by the sophomores. The examination was a long and searching one. Tom was questioned at length, but all he would admit was that he took part in the affair, though he stated that he had had nothing to do with fixing the wires. Nor did he tell of having brought the coil to Langridge. His knife was damaging evidence against him, and he was content to let it stand as such. Kerr manfully admitted lighting the fuse which sprung the wires together and sent the current sizzling into the hand rail, but he would go no further nor tell who had strung the conductors. The faculty dismissed the class and the instructors went into executive session. "Maybe we'll all be in for it," predicted Phil as the lads strolled off to their classrooms. "They may suspend us all for a week." "I don't believe they'd do that," was Sid's opinion. "They may forbid any of us taking part in athletics, though." "Yes, they might do that," added Fenton. "My uncle says----" The boys all stopped and looked at him. No one spoke a word. Fenton squirmed under their unflinching gaze. "Well--well," he began hesitatingly, "he ought to know, for he was a coach here----" "Yes, and you're a regular trolley car, with an automatic gong that rings up the same thing every time," exclaimed Langridge. "They wouldn't dare keep us out of athletics for such a little joke as that. Why, the whole student body would be up in arms. The ball team would go to pieces, and we'd lose the championship. They wouldn't dare." "Glad you think so," remarked Holly Cross calmly. "But I can see us giving a good imitation of a lot of fellows in trouble. Maybe we--that is, whoever strung those wires, for I don't know who it was--maybe we went a little too far. If I'd have known what was up, I'd have made a kick." "Oh, is that so?" sneered Langridge. But he did not admit his part in the prank and he let Tom suffer for him, for that afternoon it was announced that Tom was to be suspended for two weeks and Kerr for three. Every other member of the freshman class was barred from leaving the college grounds for a week. There arose a mighty protest over this, for there was a game scheduled with Fairview Institute at the end of the week, and if the class was kept within bounds it meant that many of the nine could not play and that all the freshmen would be barred from witnessing the second of the championship struggles, as the contest was to take place at Fairview. Then the faculty reconsidered the matter, being "almost human," as Phil said, and, with the possible exception of Professor Tines, having once been young and fond of sport themselves. They made a new ruling: That the class was to keep within bounds until the day of the game, when all would be allowed to attend save Tom and Kerr. In their case no exception would be made. There was more objecting, but the ruling stood. It meant that Tom could not pitch on the scrub and that Kerr could not catch on the 'varsity, whereat there was much anguish of soul, for the Fairview team was a hard proposition, and it would take the best that was in the Randall lads to beat them. But there was no help for it. Nor did Tom reproach Langridge for having gotten him into the trouble. Tom had hoped that his rival would confess and shoulder the blame, in which case, merely having brought the wire on a supposition that it was to be used for a comparatively harmless prank, Tom's case would not have been nearly so bad. But Langridge said nothing. Sid heard somehow of the 'varsity pitcher's part in the trick. Then Tom's chum expressed the belief that Langridge had deliberately acted so as to get Tom into trouble because the rich lad had feared the newcomer might supplant him as pitcher. But Tom would not hear of this. He took his suspension grimly, silently, and though barred from class, he kept up his studies; nor did he neglect his practice of throwing curves, Kerr gladly agreeing to catch for him, for the two were outcasts from the diamond, Tom not even being allowed to play on the scrub. "But two weeks and three weeks can't last forever," declared Kerr, "though I sure would like to see the Fairview game." Saturday came and with it a feeling of apprehension on the part of the Randall students, for various reports had come to them of the prowess of their rivals. The team made ready to depart for Fairview Institute. They were to go by rail to the college that was fifteen miles away. Tom and Kerr, about the only ones in the athletic set who remained at Randall, looked wistfully at their departing comrades. And then, so suddenly that it seemed like a miracle, their sorrow was turned to joy, for the proctor sought them out on the campus, where the team was being cheered previous to departure, and announced in the case of the two suspended students that they might go to the game, but take no part, even in an emergency. They gladly accepted the terms. Dr. Churchill's heart had softened at the last moment. "Girls, girls, girls!" exclaimed Tom as he walked out on the field with Sid and Phil and saw the grandstand at Fairview massed with gay femininity. "And all pretty too!" "Of course," agreed Sid. "What did I tell you? But what interests me more is the other team. Jove! but they are quick," for the Fairview students were batting and catching in a manner to provoke admiration. There were shrill cries of encouragement from the girls and more hoarse shouts from the male students, for at Fairview the sexes were about evenly divided, both boys and girls taking equal interest in sports. Coach Lighton shook his head dubiously as he saw the Randall boys stream out on the diamond for practice. "I hope Cross will appreciate the seriousness of the matter," he said. "He can't begin to touch Kerr at catching, yet he's the best one we can put in." "Yes," agreed Kindlings. "But maybe we'll make out. I hope so." Kerr was as nervous as a girl at not being able to play. He paced up and down the coaching lines until Kindlings, fearing he would disconcert the team, sent him to the grandstand, where Tom had already gone. Well, that game with Fairview is ancient history now. Sufficient to say that after a good beginning, when they gathered three runs the first inning and held their opponents down to a goose egg, principally through the pitching of Langridge, the Randall lads went to pieces and the Fairviews ran away with them. Langridge was finally fairly batted out of the box and the final score was 16 to 4 in favor of the co-educational institution. It was a sorely disappointed nine that filed off the diamond, nor could the generous cheers of the victors apply any balm to the wounds. "Such pitching!" grumbled Phil as he was in the dressing-room. "That lost us the game as much as anything else. Langridge didn't seem to be in form." The pitcher overheard him. "I say, Clinton," he called out sneeringly, "you mind your own affairs. I train as good as you, and I didn't miss a fly that came right into my hands," for Phil had thus offended, letting in a run. "I've seen you pitch better," spoke Sid quietly, for he and several others were "sore" at Langridge, who plainly enough had not been in his usual good form. "Well, maybe. I can't be on edge all the while," and the pitcher laughed nervously. Tom, in the grandstand, was making his way down amid a bevy of pretty girls and wishing he had some one who would introduce him to them when he heard a voice call his name. He turned quickly and saw Madge Tyler in a bewilderingly pretty dress, her hair framing her face in a most bewitching manner, while her eyes were bright with the joy of youth and the fire thereof. "Too bad, wasn't it?" she asked sympathetically, holding out her hand to Tom. "I was so sorry for Mr. Langridge!" "Why Langridge?" asked Tom quickly. "Oh, well, because the pitcher seems to have to work so hard, and then to be defeated----" "Yes, it was unpleasant--the defeat," agreed Tom. "But are you going out?" "Yes, I came over with friends to see the game, but I seem to have missed them in the crush." "Then let me be your escort back to Haddonfield?" asked Tom. "I'm rather by my lonesome, too." "Oh, thank you. I dare say----" She paused and looked over the moving mass of students, boys and girls who were laughing happily or walking away dejectedly according to the colors they wore. Tom followed her gaze. He saw Langridge approaching and he knew that Miss Tyler had seen him also. "There's Mr. Langridge!" she exclaimed. "I wonder how he feels? He promised to meet me after the game." Tom took a sudden resolve. He did not stop to think that it might be a foolish one. He was actuated solely by what he argued to himself was a platonic interest in the pretty girl at his side. He had known her in childhood, he knew her people, and they were old friends of his folks. Of late Tom had heard certain rumors about Langridge, nothing serious as rumors about college students go, but enough to make Tom glad that, in the case of his sisters, Langridge could not get to know them. It was therefore with somewhat the same feeling that he might have warned his sisters that he spoke to Miss Tyler. "You and Mr. Langridge are quite friendly," he said in what he intended to be a light tone. "Oh, yes," came the frank answer. "I like him immensely. I like all college boys--when they're nice," she finished with a little laugh. Tom's face was grave, and she saw it. With a girl's intuition she felt that there was something in the air, and, girl-like, she wanted to know what it was. "Shouldn't I like him?" she demanded with an arch look. "Well--er--that is--no, Miss Madge!" burst out Tom, speaking more loudly than he had intended to. "You won't mind me speaking about it, for I've known you so many years." "Oh, I'm not so ancient as all that!" exclaimed the girl rather pertly. "No," admitted Tom, and he felt that he was getting into deep water and beyond his depth. But he would not retreat and floundered on: "No, but I--I know your folks wouldn't like you to go with Langridge--that is, too much, you know. He does not bear a very good----" There was a hand on Tom's shoulder, and he felt himself wheeled suddenly around, to be confronted by Langridge. The pitcher had brushed his uniform and looked particularly handsome in a well-fitting suit, while there was a healthy glow to his face. "Perhaps you'd better repeat over again, Parsons," he said somewhat sternly, "what you were just saying to Miss Tyler about me. I didn't catch it all!" "I--er--I----" Tom was choking, and the girl bravely came to his relief. "We were just talking about you," she admitted with a nervous little laugh. "I was saying how disheartening it must be to pitch through a hard game and then lose it. And Tom--I mean Mr. Parsons, but I always call him Tom, for I've known him so long--he was just saying--er--he was just saying that you were rather--well, rather a flirt. I believe that was it, wasn't it, Tom?" and she looked quickly at him, but there was meaning in her glance. Langridge kept his hand on Tom's shoulder and the two looked each other straight in the face unflinchingly. Miss Tyler lost some of her blushes and her cheeks began to pale. Then Tom spoke quietly. "If you wish to know exactly what I said," was his quiet but tense answer, "I will tell you--later," and he swung on his heel and started down the grandstand steps. For an instant Langridge stared after him. Then, with a little laugh, he turned to Miss Tyler. "Poor Parsons is sore because he's been suspended," he said. "He can't even pitch on the scrub. But how pretty you're looking to-day, Miss Madge." "Miss Tyler, please," she corrected him. "Mayn't I even call you Miss Madge after I've been defeated in the game?" he pleaded, and he looked at her boldly. "It would be--er--well, sort of soothing to me." "Would it?" and she laughed lightly. "It surely would," and he bent closer toward her. "Well, then, you may--but only on occasions of defeat." "Then I'm going to lose every game," he added promptly as he turned at her side and walked down the steps. Tom Parsons, strolling alone over the now vacant diamond, saw them together, and there was a strange feeling in his heart. CHAPTER XIV TOM'S CURVES There was lively practice of the Randall nine the following week, and Coach Lighton said some things that hurt, but they were needed. Nor was Langridge spared, though he affected not to mind the sharp admonition that he must pitch more consistently. The nine played a game Saturday with an outside team, more for practice than anything else, and won it "hands down," as Holly Cross said. But, after all, it was not much credit to the 'varsity, for their opponents were not as good as the college scrub. Holly caught, the period of Kerr's suspension not being up yet. Tom kept at his practice, but he was more than glad when he could resume his class work again and take his place on the second nine. "Now we'll tackle work together," said the coach one afternoon to Tom, for Mr. Lighton had not been allowed to give him directions during the suspension weeks. "I hope you haven't gone stale, Parsons." "I hope not. Kerr and I have been sort of practicing together." "That's good. I hope, before the season is over, that you and he will go into a regular game together. If not, you'll have your 'innings' next year, if you progress as you have been doing." Tom was glad of the praise, but he would have been more glad of a chance to get on the 'varsity. Still he determined to do his best on the scrub, but it was hard and rather thankless work. Mr. Lighton put him through a hard course of "sprouts" that afternoon. With some members of the scrub to bat against him, Tom sent in swift and puzzling balls, for all the while his ability to curve was increasing and his control was improving. That afternoon he struck out six men in succession, retiring them without having given any one of them more than two balls. It was very good work, and the fact that the men were not extraordinary good hitters did not detract from it. "That's fine!" cried Mr. Lighton enthusiastically. "I'm going to----" But what he was going to do he did not say. "They ought to make you substitute pitcher on the 'varsity team," was the opinion of Dutch Housenlager when the practice was over. "Rod Evert isn't one-two-six with you, and he doesn't do any practicing to speak of." "Maybe he feels that he doesn't have to, for Langridge seems to make good nearly every time," spoke Tom. "Aw, rats! All that keeps Langridge manager is his money. He certainly runs the financial end of the game to perfection. And if he wasn't manager he wouldn't be pitcher. But the fellows know he takes a lot of responsibility from them, and they're just easy enough to let things slide. Some day we'll be up against it. Langridge will be knocked out of the box, Evert won't be in form, and we'll lose the game." "Unless they call on 'yours truly,'" interjected Tom with a laugh. "Exactly," agreed Dutch seriously. "That's my point. I wish they'd name you for sub. I'm going to ask----" "No, no!" expostulated Tom quickly. "If I can't get there on my own merits, I don't want it. No favors, please. I can wait." "Well, just as you say, of course. But say, there's the Grasshopper. Watch me make him jump." He pointed to Pete Backus, a tall student, who seemed to be measuring off a certain distance on a grassy stretch down near the river. "Looks as if he was going to jump without you making him," observed Tom. "Oh, he's always jumping. He thinks he's great at it. Wants to make the track team, but he can't seem to do it. He'll do his distance easily one day and fall down the next. You can't depend on him. But I'll make him jump now. Sneak down behind those bushes." Tom followed Dutch softly. There were no other students about and they managed to gain the screen of the bushes unobserved by the Grasshopper, who was intent on measuring distances with a pocket tape. The two conspirators could see where he had been practicing the broad jump. The Grasshopper stood close to a clump of elder bushes, with his back to them. He was preparing for another test. Dutch Housenlager, who was not happy unless he was engaged in some joke or horse play, silently cut a long pole and fastened to it a big pin, which he extracted from some part of his garments. Then, seeing a good opening that gave access to a tender part of the rear elevation of the Grasshopper's legs, he thrust with no gentle hand just as poor Pete was about to throw himself forward in a standing broad jump. "Wow!" cried the punctured one. But it was so sudden that he did not have time to stop his leap, which he was on the verge of making, and he sprang through the air like an animated jumping-jack. "Fine! fine!" cried Dutch, rising up from his place of concealment. "That's the time you beat your own record, Grasshopper." Pete turned. He looked over the space he had covered. His heels had come down at least a foot beyond where he had previously landed. The look of anger on his face, as he felt of his pricked leg, turned to one of satisfaction. "By Jove! I believe you're right," he exclaimed. "I have done better by--let's see"--and he measured it--"by fourteen inches." "I told you so," called Dutch, still laughing. "Next time you want to jump, just let me get in the bushes behind you. It'll be good for an extra foot every time." "Um," murmured the Grasshopper, still rubbing his leg reflectively. "It was an awful jab though, Dutch." "What of it? Look at your distance," and once more Pete looked happy as he again measured the space he had covered. "Poor old Grasshopper," commented Dutch as he and Tom strolled along the campus, leaving the jumper still at his practice. "Poor old Grasshopper! He'll never make the track team." The next few days saw Tom putting in all his spare time practicing curves under the watchful eye of Mr. Lighton. The 'varsity played with the scrub and narrowly escaped a good drubbing. Langridge seemed to be asleep part of the time and issued a number of walking papers. It was after the contest, which the regulars had pulled out of the fire with rather scorched fingers, that the coach called Captain Woodhouse and Langridge to him. "I rather think we'd better make a little shift," he said. "In what way?" asked Langridge quickly. "Well, I think we ought to name Parsons as substitute pitcher on the 'varsity. He's been doing excellent work, fully equal to yours, Langridge. Of course he's a little uncertain yet, but one big game would take that out of him. I'd like to see him pitch at least part of the game against Boxer next week." "Does that mean you're dissatisfied with me?" asked Langridge quickly, and his face flushed. "Not necessarily. But I think it rather risky not to provide better than we have for a substitute pitcher. Evert is available, of course, but as he is a junior his studies are such that he can't devote the necessary time to practice. Parsons ought to be named." "Do you demand that in your official capacity as coach, Mr. Lighton?" asked Kindlings. "Because if you do, I'll agree to it at once." "No, I merely make that suggestion to you." The captain looked at the manager. Langridge stood with a supercilious smile on his face. "I presume I shall have something to say as manager," he remarked. "Certainly," admitted the coach gravely. "Then I say Parsons shan't act as substitute pitcher. I'm good for the season, and I'm going to play it out. I see his game. He wants to oust me and he's taken this means of doing it. He got you to plead for him, Mr. Lighton. I'll not stand for it." "You're entirely mistaken, Langridge," said the coach, with the least suspicion of annoyance in his even voice. "It is my own idea. Parsons does not even know that I have spoken to you; in fact, I believe that he would not allow me to." Langridge was sneering now. "I guess he would," he said. "Then you, as manager, don't want Parsons as substitute pitcher?" asked the coach. "No!" snapped Langridge. "Of course if you order it, Mr. Lighton," began honest Kindlings with an uneasy look at the coach--"of course if you make a point of it----" "No, I don't," and Mr. Lighton spoke quietly. "That was not my intention--just yet. Parsons will remain on the scrub then, at least for the present. Later I may--er--I may make a point of it," and he turned and walked away. CHAPTER XV A SOPHOMORE TRICK While knowing nothing of the efforts Coach Lighton was making in his behalf, Tom continued hard practice at his pitching. Every day he made some improvement until his friends on the scrub regarded him as a marvel. But, as if some mysterious whisper had come to Langridge, the latter also showed improvement. He spent more time in practice and at one game, when it looked as if the scrub would beat the 'varsity, chiefly due to Tom's fine pitching, Langridge saved the day by brilliant work in the box. The coach was pleased at this and Tom could not help feeling that his chances were farther away than ever. There were many other phases of college life, aside from baseball, that appealed to Tom. He liked his studies and he gave them more attention than perhaps any other lad of the sporting set. He was not a "greasy dig," by which was meant a student who burned midnight oil over his books, but he stood well in his classes, for learning came naturally to him. Not so, however, to his roommate. Poor Sid had to "bone" away rather hard to get along, and, as he was required to put in a certain amount of time on the diamond, his lessons sometimes suffered. He was warned one day by Professor Tines, in the Latin class, that if he did not show more improvement he would be conditioned and not allowed to play on the team. "And that mustn't happen," declared Captain Woodhouse. "Take a brace, Sid. Don't go throwing us down now. It's too late to break in another first baseman." Sid promised, and, for a time, stood better in his class. In the meanwhile other sports went on at Randall College. The crew was out every day on the river and the 'varsity eight-oared shell, several doubles and some singles held impromptu races. A freshman eight was formed and Tom was asked to join, but he wisely refused, for he reasoned that he could not give enough time to it to become a member of a racing crew without sacrificing either baseball or his studies, and he would do neither. "But you'll never make the 'varsity nine," argued Captain Bonsell, of the freshman crew. "Much better to train with us, for I'll promise you a place in the boat when it comes to the championship race. You'll never be the 'varsity pitcher." For Bonsell had looked with envy on Tom's big muscles. "Well, I'm not going to give up until the last game," declared Tom stoutly. "Maybe I'll get a chance at the tail end. Langridge can't last forever, though far be it from me to wish him any bad luck." "I see," spoke Bonsell with a laugh, "the survival of the fittest. I wish you luck, old man." So Tom practiced and practiced and practiced until on the scrub his name became one to conjure with. But Langridge remained in his place on the 'varsity and Evert was the substitute pitcher. Between Tom and Langridge there was more than ever a coldness. It was not due to the sneaking act of the rich lad in not absolving Tom from blame in the wire episode, but might more properly be ascribed to the incident connected with Miss Tyler, though neither youth was willing to admit this. In spite of himself, Tom found that he was entertaining a certain indescribable feeling toward the girl. Often, at night, he would recall her laughing, tantalizing face as she walked away with Langridge. "Hang it all!" Tom would exclaim to his pillow. "He's not fit for her! She ought to know it. I practically told her, yet she went off with him, after all. Confound it all, I can't understand girls, anyhow." But Tom might well have been comforted, for no one else does either, though many believe that they do. But, though part of Tom's coldness toward Langridge was based on the latter's meanness about the wire and though probably the 'varsity pitcher kept aloof from Tom for the same reason, there was no disposition on Tom's part to complain or "squeal." As far as the faculty was concerned, Tom was guilty of the prank that had had so nearly a fatal ending. But he did not complain. He had given his word. "Well, Tom, old man, going along?" asked Sid one day as he came in from a biology lecture and tossed his text-book under the bed, though he knew he would have to crawl for it afterward. "Going along where?" "The team's going to Dodville for a game with a big prep. school there. Not much as regards a game, but it will be fun. It's a nice trolley trip, and I hear all the subs are going." "But I'm not a sub." "Well, you're a scrub, and that's almost the same. Come along and root for us, anyhow, though I guess we'll wipe up the earth with the preps." "I thought we had a game with Boxer to-morrow." "We did, but they canceled it, as they have to fill in a postponed game with Fairview, so we've shifted our schedule. Will you come?" "Sure, if there's room." "Of course there is. Langridge has hired two special trolleys. You know he's not going to play the regular 'varsity team. Only freshmen are to be allowed on it. It's more for practice than anything else." "Oh!" exclaimed Tom. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Sid thought there might be a chance to do some pitching, but he thought better of it. The Dodville Preparatory School had a good nine and a reputation of putting up a hard game, but Langridge was set on the idea of playing only freshmen against them, and thus it was decided. On the afternoon of the game the team, many supporters and the scrubs and substitutes boarded two trolleys for the trip to the grounds. It was a jolly crowd, and the way was enlivened by songs and jokes. Tom was in the first car with Sid and some others of his particular chums. Langridge was also there, but he kept rather away from Tom. Out on the platform with the motorman was an individual with a slouch hat pulled down over his eyes and his coat collar turned up. "Who's that, a tramp?" asked Tom as he noticed the man. "Looks like it," admitted Sid. "Begging a ride maybe on the strength of this being a special. Well, let him go. If you call attention to him, some of the fellows may make a row and create a rough house. Don't say anything." Tom did not, but he noticed that the tramp appeared to be very friendly to the motorman and talked frequently with him. The electric line to Dodville ran through a stretch of country not thickly populated, and at one point it switched over another trolley road which ran to a distant, thriving village. The boys were so engrossed in their fun, laughing and joking that they paid little attention to matters outside, and the time passed quickly. Holly Cross was giving (by request) an imitation of a well-known vaudeville performer when Sid, who happened to look out of the window, exclaimed: "Say, fellows, where, for the love of tripe, are we? This isn't the road to Dodville." "Aw, what's eatin' you?" demanded Dutch Housenlager. "Could the trolley car go off by itself on a road alone? Answer me that!" "I don't know what it could do, it's what it has done," retorted Sid. "I know this road. It goes to Fayetmore, which is next door to Squankum Center. Fellows, we're five miles from Dodville!" "Get out!" cried Langridge, unwilling to believe it. "Fact!" asserted Sid. "We're five miles out of our way, on the wrong road, and the game starts in less than an hour. They'll call it a forfeit on us and never stop twitting us about this." "Ah, you must be wrong," declared Holly Cross. "Don't you s'pose the motorman knows the way? It isn't as if this was an auto." Sid pulled open the front door. The tramp, who had been talking to the motorman, had gone. "I say," began the first baseman, "is this the road to Dodville? Aren't you on the wrong line?" "Why, sir, I don't rightly know," replied the motorman somewhat timidly. "You don't know?" repeated Sid incredulously. "No. I--I hope this is the right road." "You hope so!" cried Langridge. "Well, I should say yes. Why don't you know?" "Well, you see, I'm new on this section of the line. To-day is my first run. I took the turn back there where the gentleman told me to." "What gentleman?" "The one who was out here on the platform with me. He said he was your manager." "Manager!" fairly yelled Langridge. "Why, I'm the manager of this team." "Can't help it. That's what the gentleman said. He said he knew the road to Dodville, and when I got to the switch he told me to come this way." "What was his name?" demanded Langridge, who was beginning to "scent a rodent," as Holly Cross said. "He gave me his card," went on the motorman, who had halted his car in the midst of a lonely stretch of woods. "Let's see!" cried Sid. The trolley man fumbled in his pocket for it. Tom looked back, but could not see the other special car. That had probably been some distance behind the first one and had doubtless gone the right road, the motorman not suspecting that his predecessor was not ahead of him. Sid took the bit of pasteboard which the man held out to him. He looked at it and then uttered an exclamation. "It's a trick!" he cried, "a soph trick! Listen to this, fellows. This is Fenmore's card, and he's written on it this message: 'This is only part of what we sophs owe you freshies for the pavilion game. There is more coming. Hope you have a nice picnic in the woods.' That fellow on the platform was Fenmore," went on Sid. "No wonder he kept his hat down." "And here we are--part of the team--out here in the wilderness, five miles from the game, which starts in half an hour!" cried Langridge in disgust. "Say, those sophs got back at us all right. We're in a nice pickle!" CHAPTER XVI TOM MAKES A DISCOVERY There was consternation among the freshmen and their supporters. With a divided team, part of it being so far away from the grounds that it was practically impossible to arrive on time, and on a wrong road at that, the situation was enough to discourage any nine. "What made you let that fellow tell you where to go?" demanded Sid of the motorman. "Well, he said he was your manager, and I believed him." "Manager!" cried Holly Cross. "Yes, we need a manager. We need a nurse and a governess, that's what we need. To think that twenty of the brightest freshmen at Randall have been duped by one soph! Wow! I must have blood!" and he began to dance and howl like a stage Indian. "Well," said Langridge disgustedly after a few minutes' thought, which period was occupied on the part of the others by the use of language more strong and rugged than polite, "the only thing to do is to go back. Make the best time you can and see what we can do. Shift the car, motorman." "I can't." "Why not?" "Because I got orders not to start back until half-past four. You see, this is a single-track road, and I might run into a car coming in the opposite direction. We've got to stay here until four-thirty." This was worse than ever, and a howl went up. But suddenly Sid, who had been narrowly looking at the motorman, took a step toward him. He reached up, grabbed his beard and pulled it off. "Hayden!" he exclaimed as there was revealed to view the features of one of the liveliest of the sophomore class. "By all the gods that on Olympus dwell, it's Hayden!" "At your service, gentlemen," exclaimed Hayden with a mocking bow. "This is a little pleasure trip that Fenmore and I arranged for you. I hope you enjoy it," and with another mocking bow he slipped off the controller handle and leaped over the dashboard of the car. "We hired the regular motorman to let us take his place," he went on. "I guess you don't play ball to-day," and he disappeared in the woods with a tantalizing laugh. "Let's catch him!" cried Holly Cross. "Sure! Let's scalp him and tie him to a tree," proposed Dutch Housenlager. "What's the use?" asked Sid. "He knows this part of the country like a book, for he's been hunting in it. Better let him go. He'll only laugh the more at us." "But what are we to do?" demanded Langridge. "We don't want to lose the game." He was very vexed, for he knew it would reflect on him as manager. "The only thing I see to do is to walk back until we meet another car and then send on word of this abandoned one," said Sid. "It's a long walk, but----" "Hark!" cried Tom Parsons suddenly. "An auto is coming along the road." "Maybe some of us can get a ride," proposed Phil Clinton. "We can go to town and hire a rig for the rest of you." Along the road rumbled some big vehicle. There came in sight a big auto truck, ponderous and heavy. It was one of several used by a milk concern to transport cans to the railroad depot. "That's the stuff!" cried Tom. "Maybe he'll take us to Dodville if we pay him." The man was hailed and the situation explained to him. He looked dubious and shook his head. "Why can't you take us?" asked Phil. "You say you have no load on your truck, and it isn't much out of your way. We'll pay you well." "Maybe you would," admitted the man, "but I've heard of you students. If some of you ran off with a trolley car, there's no tellin' but what you'd take this truck away from me at some lonely spot and go cruisin' off like Captain Kidd." "No, no," promised the lads eagerly. "We won't cut up a bit." They had some difficulty in convincing the man of this, but did so finally, and he allowed them to pile in. They had to stand up and the road was rough. They were jolted about, for the truck was not built for easy riding, but they did not mind that, for they felt that there was a chance to play the game, and they urged the man to put on all speed. [Illustration: THE MAN ALLOWED THEM TO PILE IN] They reached Dodville just as the game was about to be awarded to the preparatory school on a forfeit. The members of the Randall nine who had arrived in the second trolley car, which safely made the trip, could not explain the absence of their companions. The game was started, but it was not remarkable for any brilliant work on the part of the college freshmen. In fact the other students played all around them. Possibly this was due to the episode that had occurred, for Langridge was nervous and threw wild, giving a number of men their bases on balls. Kerr asked him to let Tom pitch, but Langridge refused arrogantly and with bitter words against the scrub twirler. Nor would he consent that Evert should fill the box. "I'll pitch!" he cried excitedly. "I'll strike 'em out next inning. You watch." Tom happened to be in the dressing-room when it was the turn of Randall to bat, and Langridge came in. The 'varsity pitcher did not see his rival, but going to where his valise was containing his clothing, he took something from it. Tom saw Langridge put a bottle to his lips. "I wonder if he's taking medicine," he thought. A moment later the pitcher hurried from the room as his name was called to bat. Tom walked to a window that gave a view of the grounds. As he passed Langridge's valise he smelled a pungent, alcoholic odor. He started and for a moment could not tell what it was. Then it came to him. "Liquor! He's been drinking liquor!" he almost exclaimed aloud. "He's broken the training rules. I wonder--I wonder if this is what Sid hinted at--if this is what Mr. Lighton meant!" From the diamond there came a sharp crack. It was a bat meeting a swiftly pitched ball with that inspiring sound that indicates a fair hit. Tom saw Langridge speeding for first base, while Randall lads were yelling at the top of their voices. "It's a three-bagger!" cried Tom delightedly, and so it proved, Langridge bringing in a run a moment later on a sacrifice hit by Holly Cross. CHAPTER XVII AN EXPOSTULATION "Now we'll do 'em up!" cried Langridge, dancing about in a strange enthusiasm as he crossed the home plate. "Knock a home run, Kerr, and we'll roll up a score. Then I'll strike out the next six men." There were but two more innings to play, and the run Langridge brought in had reduced the lead against the Randall freshmen from 6 to 5. But five runs are a big handicap, especially when you can't depend on your pitcher. Kerr struck out and so did Sid, who was up next. Langridge was disappointed, though not discouraged, and he made wild promises about what he was going to do. But he did not fulfil them and got careless in his pitching. The game degenerated almost into a farce in the last inning, when Dodville piled up four runs, making the total score 17 to 5, it being the worst drubbing the Randalls had received in many years. The only consolation was that it was not the 'varsity team, but, as Kerr said, that was no excuse. There were almost jeers mingled with the cheers of the preparatory school lads, and it was a sore and sorrowful lot of freshmen who made their way to the special trolley cars, the stalled one having been brought up in the meanwhile. "Who's eating cloves?" asked Sid Henderson as he piled into the electric and threw his big mitt on the seat beside him. "Have some?" asked Langridge, holding out a quantity. "I had toothache and I took a few." "No, thanks, don't use 'em," replied Sid with a quick look at the pitcher, whose eyes were unnaturally bright. "But if you have any ginger about you, it might come in handy." "Ginger--how?" "For this team. We need it. To be beaten by a bunch of schoolboys!" "Well, we didn't have our regular team," explained Langridge. "Besides, I didn't have any support. I pitched well, but you fellows didn't back me up." There was an arrogant look on his face. "Yes, you pitched well, you did," exclaimed Kerr with an unconcealed sneer in his voice. "You did hot work, you did." "What about my three-bagger?" "That didn't make up for your rotten pitching!" The others looked at Kerr in surprise. It was something new for him to find fault openly with Langridge. The latter felt it, too, and hardly knew what to say. "Well, I--er--I----" "Yes, make some excuse," went on the catcher bitterly. "We got dumped, and that's all there is to it. I'm not saying I did such brilliant work--none of us did--but you did rotten, Langridge, and you know it. It isn't as if you couldn't do better, for we all know you can. You've gone stale--or--or something!" Tom had an idea what it was that had made the pitcher go "stale." His brilliant hit and run had been followed by a reaction, the result of the stimulant he took. It is always thus. Langridge stared at Kerr, his most particular chum, and then, as if not understanding it, went off by himself in a corner of the car. It was not a jolly party that rode back to Randall College. Nor were matters much better when they arrived. The freshmen had to endure the taunts of the sophomores concerning the trolley episode, as well as their own unexpressed disappointment at the result of the game. "Sid," said Tom in their room that night, when his roommate was stretched out on the old creaking sofa--"Sid, if you knew some member of--er--well, the crew who didn't train properly--that is to say, did sneaking things on the sly--didn't keep in form for a race, what would you do?" "How's that? Is some member of the crew trying to throw the college?" cried Sid, suddenly sitting up. "No, no. Of course not. I'm just supposing a case. You know we have to suppose cases in our psychology class. I'm just taking one for the sake of argument." "Oh," replied Sid sleepily. "If it's only a supposititious case, all right. I thought you meant you knew of some chap who was doing a dirty trick." "Well, suppose I did know of one--or you did--what would you do? Would you tell the coach or the captain?" "What good would it do?" "That's not the point. Would you?" "Well, you must have a reason for telling. Don't you learn that in psychology?" "Of course. Well, my reason might be that I wanted to see the crew do good work and not lose on account of some fellow who couldn't last out a race because he broke training rules on the sly. Or it might be that I wanted to see the fellow himself take a brace." "Both good reasons, son. Both good. As the Romans say, _Mens sana in corpore sano_. You would do it for his own physical good. Very nice. For his mental improvement also." "I'm serious," declared Tom. "So am I, you conscientious old wind-ammer! I know it. The trouble is you're too serious. Why don't you let things slide sometimes?" "I can't." "No, I s'pose not. Well, then, fire away, old chap. Wait until I get more comfortable, though," and Sid turned and wiggled on the decrepit sofa until it threatened to collapse. "You haven't answered my question yet," persisted Tom when his chum had been silent for two minutes. "What question? Oh, blazes, Tom, I thought you'd gone to sleep. But say, why don't you come right out and say what you mean? Do you know any member of the crew who's doing that?" "No, I don't. I told you this was a supposititious case. But, if there was one, what would you do?" "Well, I'll give you a supposititious answer." Sid closed his eyes. The fussy little alarm clock seemed to be counting time for him while he made up his mind. "Why don't you tell the fellow yourself?" asked Sid so suddenly that Tom jumped. "Would you?" he asked. Sid arose. He came and stood close to his chum. Then he spoke. "There be certain things, son," he said with an assumed serious air which was more than half real, "certain things that, in college, one might better ignore. If, perchance, however, one is so constituted morally that one can't; if the laws of the Medes and the Persians are so immutable that one can't rest--why, my young philosopher, take the easiest course so long as you are true to your own motto, _Dulce et decorum est pro alma mater mori_. There, I don't know whether I've got the Latin right, but it says what I mean--tell the other fellow first--Tom," and with that he went over, picked up his trigonometry and fell to studying. It was not an easy fight that Tom had with himself that night. He went all over the ground: the arrogance of Langridge, the scene in the dressing-room, the pungent odor of liquor and then his knowledge of it. Was it fair to the team to let the members be in ignorance of the fact that their pitcher took stimulants secretly--that he had done it before? For Tom was sure it was not the first time. Would it not mean, in the end, that Randall would lose some deciding game and the championship? Tom thought so and determined that it was his duty to do something. The question was, what? In a measure Sid had solved this for him, and before he fell asleep that night Tom determined to expostulate with Langridge the first chance he got. It came sooner than he expected. There was a game with Boxer Hall on the grounds of the latter university and it was expected to be a hard one, which expectation was not unfulfilled. For the first few innings Randall seemed to have the contest well in hand. Then, during a few minutes when his side was at bat, Langridge disappeared into the dressing-room. With a heart that beat harder than usual Tom quietly followed. He was just in time to see Langridge putting away a bottle that gave out the characteristic odor. "Don't do that!" cried Tom quickly, but in a low voice. He was hardly conscious of what he was saying. Langridge wheeled around and faced him. "Don't do what?" he asked sharply, his face flushed. "Take that liquor to brace you up. You'll only pitch the worse for it, and it's not fair to the team." Langridge took a step toward Tom. "What right have you got to speak so to me?" he demanded. "You're a dirty sneak, that's what you are, following in here to spy on me! I guess I know what I'm doing. Can't I take a little toothache medicine without being insulted by you? Liquor! Supposing it is? The doctor ordered it for me." "Not in the middle of a game," said Tom quietly. "Besides, it's against training rules, and you know it. It's not fair." "Oh, I see your game," sneered Langridge. "I know what you're after. You want to tell some story about me, thinking that I'll be dropped and you can have my place. But you can't. I'll do you yet. I'll show 'em how I can pitch!" He was boasting now, for he was not himself. "Get out of my way, you dirty sneak!" he cried. "I'm going to bat out a home run," and he put some cloves in his mouth. He almost knocked Tom over as he rushed past him and went out in time to take his place at the home plate. He did knock a home run to the delirious delight of the team, but it was short-lived joy, for, just as in the other games, Langridge went to pieces in the box, and Boxer Hall won the game by a score of 8 to 5. But the home run of Langridge so shone out that even Kerr did not have the heart to decry his friend's ragged pitching. Coach Lighton, however, shook his head, as the championship chances for Randall College seemed fading away. "Well," thought Tom as he accompanied the defeated team back that afternoon, "I did my duty, anyhow. I expostulated with him and was insulted for my pains. I did all I could." But that night there came to him something like a voice asking, "Did you?" Tom tossed restlessly on his bed. "What shall I do next?" he thought. CHAPTER XVIII SOME "OLD GRADS" "What's the matter, old man?" inquired Sid the next morning as he rolled over in bed and looked at Tom. "Matter? Why?" "You look as if you'd been drawn through a knot hole, and a small one at that. What's wrong?" "Nothing," and Tom tried to laugh it off. "I didn't sleep very well, that's all." "For that matter, neither did I." "Get out! I heard you snoring away like a boiler blowing off steam." "Then I must have been tired. I never snore unless I am. Wow! ouch! Decameron's Prothonotary!" Sid made a face that indicated intense anguish and put his hand to his side as he turned over in bed. "What's the matter?" asked Tom anxiously. "Strained my side when I slid for second base that time. I didn't notice it yesterday, but it hurts like sin now. Guess I'll have to cut lectures to-day and stay in bed." "What excuse will you give?" "Oh, I'll say--no, I won't, either," declared Sid with a sudden change of decision. "I can't say it was playing baseball that laid me up or Moses will ask me to cut out the ball. I've got to suffer. I know what I'll do. I'll limp in chapel and on my way to lectures. I'm not prepared in trig, anyhow, and maybe they'll let me off easy. I'm sure to slump in Latin, but maybe Pitchfork will have mercy on a gladiator who was willing to die for Cæsar." Tom felt like laughing, but he restrained himself as he saw that Sid was really suffering. The first baseman crawled out of bed with many a groan and made wry faces. He limped across the room. "How's that?" he asked Tom. "Do I do it naturally?" "Sure. It would deceive anybody." "I don't want to deceive 'em. It's gospel truth. I'm as lame as a sore horse. But I'll go down." "Let me rub it," suggested Tom, and he forgot part of his troubles in giving vigorous massage to Sid's strained side. "It feels better. Thanks, old man," declared the hurt one as he began to dress. "But you're limping worse than ever." "Sure. No use losing any of the advantages of my limp. It may save me from a discredit in Latin. Oh, if you want to know how to limp come to your Uncle Dudley." Tom laughed and prepared for chapel. He himself was in no very jolly mood, however, for he could not help thinking of the problem connected with the discovery about Langridge. That it was a problem, and no small one, Tom was ready to admit. He felt himself in a peculiar position. He had spoken to the 'varsity pitcher and had been insulted. To let him go on in his course, breaking training and endangering the success of the nine, Tom felt would not be right. Yet if he spoke to the coach or captain about it there would be but one construction put upon his action. Tom could fancy Mr. Lighton thanking him for the information about Langridge and could even imagine the coach acting on it and warning the pitcher. Tom could see the look on the face of Kindlings when he was told. It would be a revelation. Yet for all the service that he rendered to the team there would be but one construction put upon Tom's act by his classmates--he would be accused of informing in order to oust Langridge so that he might have the pitcher's place. "And I can't do that," declared Tom to himself. "I'll have to find some other way. I'll make one more try with Langridge." Sid's limp did not save him in Latin, for he "slumped" most ungracefully, and with a black look Professor Tines marked a failure against him, accompanying it with words of warning. As for Tom, his worry over the secret caused him to pay too scant attention in his geography class, and he was caught napping, whereat the instructor looked surprised, for Tom was one of the best students. The next day the scrub team went on a little trip to Morriston to play a small semi-professional nine, and Tom had a chance to show what he could do in the box. He gave a fine exhibition of pitching, so much so that the other nine was held down to a goose-egg score, and there were very few hits secured off Tom. The scrubs were wild about it and held a celebration, for it was the best victory they had scored yet. During the next few days Tom saw little of Langridge. In fact the 'varsity pitcher seemed to be keeping out of the way of the lad who had remonstrated with him. "I'll see him at the Boxer game Saturday," thought Tom. "If I get a chance, I'll make one more attempt, though I'm afraid it won't do any good." The next Boxer contest was a sort of annual mid-season affair. It was a game which members of the alumnæ of both colleges made it a point to attend in even greater numbers than at the contests deciding the championship. In fact of late years there had been no chance for such exhibitions, for Randall did not have a "look in" at the pennant, as Holly Cross used to say. The game was to take place on the Randall grounds, and before the hour when it was to be played the stands and bleachers began filling up. It was a beautiful afternoon about the middle of May and a better one for a game could not have been had, even if made to order. Oh, how Tom wanted to play! But he could only look on. The regular team came out for practice, with the substitutes waiting for a chance to go in. Then out trotted the Boxer Hall lads, to be received with a cheer. There were pretty girls galore, each one waving the flag of her particular college. Tom moved about in the grandstand, trying to pretend to himself that he was not looking for any one, but all the same his heart gave a great thump when he heard some one call: "Tom! Mr. Parsons!" "Why, how do you do, Miss Tyler?" he exclaimed. "I didn't know you were coming." "Oh, yes, I wouldn't miss this for anything. I just love to see the old graduates. They are so interesting, just as if they were boys again." She made room for Tom beside her, and he gladly availed himself of the chance. "Yes, there are quite a few of the old boys on hand to-day," he remarked. "Look at those two," and he pointed to two well-dressed men, each attired in a tall silk hat and a frock coat. They each had a gold-headed cane and they were very staid in looks, yet at the sight of each other they rose in their seats, clasped hands across the heads of intervening persons and one, the elder, cried out: "Well, well! If it isn't old Skeeziks! How are you? I haven't seen you since I graduated in '73!" "Nor me you, you old fish-pedler! How are things? Do you remember the day we kidnaped Mrs. Maguire and took all her chickens?" "Hush! Not so loud!" cautioned the other, his face breaking into smiles. "The faculty never found out who did that, and there's no use telling now. But I am glad to see you. Do you think our boys will win?" "I hope so, though I see by the papers they haven't been playing as good ball as when we went to school. They need a little ginger." "That's right. I wish I was young again. We certainly had some great games." On all sides similar scenes were being enacted and like reminiscences were being exchanged. It was a great day for the "old grads," and they took advantage of it. Many there were also from Boxer, though they occupied a different part of the grandstand. However, they exchanged visits with their former rivals during the practice. Ford Fenton was in his element. His uncle, who had been a coach at Randall, was on hand, and Ford was showing him off as if he was a prize animal at a county fair. Ford wanted to take his uncle around and introduce him to his classmates, but Mr. Fenton declined, as he wanted to meet some of his old friends. But this did not deter Ford from going about telling the news, and about all he could be heard to say was: "My uncle, the former coach, is here. He came to see the game. My uncle says----" Then the long-suffering ones would turn away, or if they were lads who had no particular regard for Ford's feelings, they would guy him unmercifully. "Hi, Ford!" cried Holly Cross after about half an hour of this sort of thing, "have you heard the latest?" "No. What is it?" "Why, 'my uncle' says that if you don't stop talking about him, he's going to leave and take you with him. He says he's being 'uncled' to death." "Ha! ha!" laughed Dutch Housenlager. "That's right, Ford, that's right," and he pretended to collide accidentally with the lad, knocking him against Holly, who promptly pushed him back. But now practice was over. The rival captains were in conference, the umpire was taking the new ball from the tinfoil wrapping and the spectators were settling back for the contest. "Boxer has improved since the other game," said Tom, who had been critically watching the teams at practice. "That's what I heard," replied Miss Tyler. "Oh, I do hope our boys will win!" "So do I," exclaimed Tom as he watched Langridge, who was first to go to the bat, in this game the visitors winning the privilege of being last up. Tom tried to notice the 'varsity pitcher, to see if he was in good form, but he could not judge then. "Play ball!" called the umpire, and Dave Ogden, the Boxer pitcher, drew back his arm to deliver a swift curve. CHAPTER XIX TOM IN COLD WATER Langridge at the first effort sent out a hot liner, which flew just over the pitcher's head. The second baseman made a jump for it and the ball began to roll along in front of the center fielder. Amid a wild burst of yells Langridge raced for first and got there safely, not daring to go on to second, as Ogden had run down to help cover it. "That's the stuff! that's the stuff! That's the way to line 'em out!" chanted an excited voice, and Tom looked around to see the two silk-hatted "old grads" embracing each other and doing an impromptu dance in their seats. "Aren't they jolly!" exclaimed Miss Tyler. "Very, but they're crowing too soon. The game has only just begun. Boxer Hall will play strong." And Tom's prediction came true, for in spite of the auspicious opening by Langridge, not a man crossed home plate for the Randalls that inning, the pitcher dying on third. Then it came the turn of the home team to show what they could do in holding down the visitors. It looked as if they were going to do it, too, for Langridge struck out the first two men. But he gave the next one a pass to first and was batted for a two-bagger by the following player, the inning ending with one run for Boxer. The Randall College boys and their girl supporters began to look anxious and so did some of the "old grads." On the other side there was laughter, cheers and jollity, while some of the aged former students of Boxer began to chant oldtime college songs. "Oh, I do hope our fellows win," exclaimed Miss Tyler, and there was an anxious look on her pretty face, while she tapped her flag of colors impatiently against her little foot. "Have you a bet on the game?" asked Tom. "A box of candy or some gloves?" "No, but I want to see Randall win. Besides, Fred--I mean Mr. Langridge--he told me he was going to work hard for success, and I never like to see any one disappointed--do you?" "No," said Tom rather shortly. He really did not care to hear his rival's praises sung by this fair damsel. "Do you know," she went on, "I've been thinking of what you started to tell me about him the other day. Is it really true?" "Well," began Tom slowly, "if you will excuse the privilege of a friend who has known you for some time, I would say that I don't believe your people would like you to go with him." "Why, mamma knows his uncle, who is his guardian, and she says he is very nice--I mean the uncle," and she laughed a little. "I have no doubt of it. I only----" But Tom did not say what he was going to, for just then Pinky Davenport, captain of the Boxers, knocked what Holly Cross described later as a "lalapoolassa" fly, which went clear over the center fielder's head and netted a home run for the captain of the visitors. What yelling and shouting there was then! It seemed to put new life into the opponents of Randall, if such was needed, for they began piling up the score until they were six runs in the lead. Then Randall "took a brace," encouraged by the yells of the "old grads" and others, and by the eighth inning had cut it down even. In the close of the eighth they held their opponents down to one run, making it necessary to gather in two to win the game, but with that it meant holding the visitors hitless in the last half of the final inning. The first part of the program was carried out all right. By some phenomenal playing Randall managed to get the lead by one run. They would have had another but for a miscalculation on the part of Ed Kerr, who was caught napping between third and home, where he was run down and put out. "Now, fellows, we have them on the hip!" exclaimed Captain Woodhouse as he called his players together for a little talk before the final struggle was made. "If we can hold them down this inning we have them. Langridge, it's up to you!" "I know it. But don't worry, I'll do it." It sounded well, and there was a determined look in the pitcher's face, but his eyes were unnaturally bright. His pitching had been ragged during the last three innings and the sudden decline of the abilities of the Boxer players had done as much as anything to give Randall her chance. "Oh, I hope Fred strikes three out, one right after the other!" exclaimed Miss Tyler as she shifted nervously in her seat. "He must be under a dreadful strain." "Probably he is," said Tom. "But if he takes a brace now he'll be all right." "He's been taking too many bracers--that's what's the matter with him," said a voice back of Tom, and he knew it was one of the former graduates speaking. Tom looked at the girl beside him. Either she had not heard or she took no notice of the remark. It was a tense moment when Langridge sent in the first ball. It was called a strike and the batsman looked surprised. The next was a ball, but two more strikes were called without the player getting a chance to swing at the horsehide. Langridge smiled at the cheers which greeted him. Then he did what few other pitchers could have done under the circumstances. He struck out the next two men, though one did manage to hit a high foul, which Kerr missed. Langridge had saved the game by holding the other team hitless. Such a cheer as went up then when it was seen that Randall had won! The stamping of feet on the stands sounded like thunder. Back of Tom and Miss Tyler two old men began yelling like Indians, hugging each other and whirling about. They were the two "old grads" of '73. They were waving their hats in the air and yelling "Randall! Randall! Randall!" until their faces were the color of raw beef. "Wow!" cried the taller of the two. "This does my heart good! I'm forty years young again. Wow! Whoop-la!" Suddenly he drew back his hand and his silk hat went sailing over the edge of the grandstand to the grass of the outfield. It was caught by some Randall players and quickly kicked out of shape. "Why, that was a new hat!" exclaimed the man's companion. "I know it, but there's more where that came from. I can buy a new hat every day, but I can't see my old college win such a game as this. Wow! Whoop!" "That's right. I'm with you," and a second hat went the way of the first, while the old men capered about like boys. They were given a round of cheers on their own account by the team when the players understood what had happened. Ford Fenton was running about, all excited, trying to find his relative. "Have you seen my uncle?" he asked several. "No!" cried Holly Cross. "And if I do, I'll shoot him on sight! Get out or I'll eat you up," and with a roar of simulated wrath he rushed at poor Fenton, who beat a hasty retreat. Tom was jubilant at the success of his college, nor did he withhold unstinted praise for Langridge. He had been surprised at the sudden improvement shown. Tom and Miss Tyler walked across the grounds toward the campus, the girl looking back several times. Suddenly Langridge appeared from amid a group of players. "I'll be with you in a minute," he called to Miss Tyler, "as soon as I change my duds. Wait for me." There was an air of proprietorship in the words and the girl must have felt them, for she turned away without speaking. "Perhaps I'd better say good-afternoon," spoke Tom, a trifle piqued. "Not unless you want to," she replied with a quick look at him. "Of course I don't want to, but I thought----" "Don't bother to think," she added with a little laugh. "It's tiresome. Come and show me the river. Not that I haven't seen it before, but it's so beautiful to-day, I want some one to enjoy it with me." "How would you like to go for a little row?" asked Tom. "I can get a boat and we'll go to Crest Island." "That will be lovely. The water is like glass." They were soon afloat. Tom was a good oarsman and sent the light craft ahead with powerful strokes. They spent some little time on the island, where other pleasure seekers were, and when the shadows began to lengthen started back. "I've enjoyed it ever so much," said Miss Tyler gratefully as the craft neared the float adjoining the college boathouse. "That's good," said Tom heartily. "Perhaps you will go again." "I probably shall--if any one asks me," she replied archly, and then he helped her out, whispering as he did so, for there were quite a number on the float, "I'll be sure to ask you, Madge." Tom may have imagined it, but he thought there was just a little return of the pressure when he pressed the hand he held. "Well, I thought you were going to wait for me," exclaimed a voice, and Langridge pushed his way through the throng and came close to where Miss Tyler was standing, waiting for Tom to tie the boat. "I didn't say so," she answered. "But you--you----" Langridge did not know what to say. "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me now," said the girl calmly, though she smiled at Langridge in no unfriendly fashion. "Come and take a walk," he almost ordered. "I want to say something to you." Before she could answer Tom was at her side. He looked keenly at Langridge and was about to make some reply when the 'varsity pitcher reached out as though to link his arm in that of the girl. Miss Tyler drew back and Langridge edged himself forward. He may have been merely eager or it may have been the result of intention. At any rate, he jostled Tom to one side and the next minute the pitcher of the scrub, vainly endeavoring to retain his balance, toppled into the cold water of the river. CHAPTER XX A GAME OF ANOTHER SORT "Oh!" screamed Miss Tyler. "He'll be drowned! Save him, some one!" There was much commotion on the float. The crowd surged to the edge and it tilted dangerously. "Get back! get back!" cried Dan Woodhouse. "Get a boathook, some one!" "We will!" cried the Jersey twins, and together they darted for the place where the rowing craft were stored. Langridge seemed stupefied at the result of his act. He stood there, peering down into the water beneath which Tom had disappeared. "Get back, I tell you! Get back!" yelled Woodhouse. "We can't get him out if you tilt the float so. We'll all be in the water!" Understanding this, the crowd of lads and girls moved back. Captain Woodhouse was peering over the edge of the dock, looking for a sight of Tom, and meanwhile was taking off his coat and vest, preparatory to a plunge in. "There he is! I see his head!" suddenly cried Miss Tyler, and she pointed to a dark object barely visible in the shadows that were settling down over the river. "I'll get him!" cried Langridge thickly, but he could not seem to unbutton his coat. "Look out!" cried a voice, and a tall, lithe figure, clad only in a rowing jersey and trunks, pattered in bare feet down the length of the float. "It's Fenmore!" exclaimed several, and the tall sophomore, who had been out in a single shell and who, arriving at the float, had understood what had happened, plunged in. He swam quickly to Tom, who seemed bewildered and unable to help himself. But, if he was dazed, which they later found to be the case, he had sense enough to let Fenmore rescue him in the proper fashion and was soon being lifted out on the float. His face was pale and blood from a cut on his forehead trickled down one cheek. "Much hurt?" asked Dan Woodhouse as he put his arms about Tom. "No--not--not much," gasped the rescued one. "I hit my head on the edge and that dazed me. I couldn't strike out, and I swallowed some--some water," he gulped. "Can you walk?" "Sure. I'm all right now," but Tom began to shiver, for the evening had turned cool and the water was not yet right for bathing. "Here, take my cloak for him!" exclaimed Miss Tyler, impulsively holding out a thin wrap which was more for appearance than utility. "It will keep him warm." "It will ruin it," declared Tom. "I'm as wet as a rat." "No matter!" cried the girl imperiously, and she tried to wrap it about Tom's shoulders. "Here are some sweaters," said the more practical Kindlings. "Now run up to the infirmary, Tom, get into a hot bath and throw some hot lemonade into you." Tom prepared to start off and Miss Tyler had taken back her cloak. She went closer to Tom. "I'm awfully sorry. It was all on my account," she said. "I hope you will be all right." "Su--sure I'll--I'll be all--all right," declared Tom, though his teeth chattered in spite of himself, for he had sustained a nervous shock. "I'll inquire for you to-morrow," she added with a smile as she turned aside. "I say, old man, I'm afraid I pushed you in, but I didn't mean to--'pon my soul!" exclaimed Langridge earnestly as he edged up to Tom. "All--all right--it doesn't matter--now," answered Tom, and then his chums rushed him up to the college, where a warm bath and drinks were soon effectively administered. No bad results attended the unexpected plunge, and that night Tom was able to join in the celebration that followed the winning of the ball game, when many bonfires blazed and the students were allowed more license than usual. It was about a week later when, following a rather hard series of games between the scrub and 'varsity teams in which Tom had strained his arm, Coach Lighton advised him to get a new kind of liniment to rub on it. It could only be had in a certain store in town, and, obtaining permission to go there on condition that he return to college before nine o'clock, Tom started off alone one evening. Sid had to make up some lessons he was "shaky" on, and though he wanted to take the walk, he did not feel that he dared spare the time. On his way to the drug store Tom passed the side entrance of a certain resort much patronized by the "sporty" class of students. Several lads were in there, as Tom could tell by the snatches of college songs that floated out, and as he got opposite the place the door swung open to give entrance to others and Tom saw Langridge sitting at a table with several flashily dressed lads. They were playing cards and glasses of some sort of liquor stood at their elbows, while most of them, including Langridge, were smoking cigarettes. "He's broken training with a vengeance!" exclaimed Tom in a low voice as he hurried on. "Cigarettes are the limit!" Tom tried not to think about what he had seen as he went on to the drug store and had his prescription filled. He had to wait some little time for it and as he came out he noticed by a clock that he would have to hurry if he wanted to get back to college in time. He started off briskly and just as he got in front of the side door of the resort the portal opened and several lads came out. Langridge was with them, and all were somewhat worse for the lively evening they had spent. The 'varsity pitcher, who seemed strangely hilarious, caught sight of Tom. "Well, if there ain't my deadly rival!" he cried in what was intended to be a friendly manner, but which was silly. "Hello, Parsons! Come in and have a cigarette!" "No," was the answer in conciliatory tones. "I'm in a hurry to get back to the college. My time's nearly up." "So's mine--so's all of us. But what's the odds? We've got to have a good time once in a while, eh, fellows?" "Sure," came the chorus. "I can't smoke, I'm in training," spoke Tom, intending it to be a hint, if not to Langridge, at least to his companions. "So'm I, you old hunk of fried tripe! Have a smoke." "No," and Tom started on. "Hold on!" cried Langridge. "I'll go with you. I'm going to shake you fellows," and he waved his hand to his companions. "I'm going to be virtuous and go to bed with the larks. I wonder if larks do go to bed, anyhow." "You mean chickens," declared one of the others with a laugh. "Come on then, fellows, if Langridge goes back, we'll stay and have some more fun." Tom was not unwilling to play the good Samaritan, so linking his arm in that of Langridge, he led him down the street. The 'varsity pitcher was not as steady on his feet as he should have been. "I--I s'pose you'll tell Kindlings and Lighton about me, eh, what?" he asked brokenly as he walked along. "No," said Tom quietly. "But you ought to cut it out, Langridge, if not for your own sake for the sake of the team." "That's right, that's right, old man, I ought. You're a good sort of chap, too preachy maybe, but all right. I ought to cut it out, but I like fun." "You ought to give up smoking and drinking," went on Tom boldly. He had determined that this was just the chance he wanted and decided that he would take advantage of it. "There you go again! there you go again!" cried Langridge fretfully, with a sudden change of manner peculiar to him. "Don't go to lecturing. I get enough of that from Moses and Pitchfork. Give us a rest. I'm all right. Have another cigarette." "No," and Tom declined the proffered one. "Oh, I forgot you don't smoke. That's right. It's bad for the heart. I don't take 'em only once in a while." Tom tried to reason with him, but Langridge was not himself and answered pertly or else insulted Tom for his good offices. "You ought to give up gambling, too," Tom said, starting on a new tack. They were nearing the college now. "There you go again! there you go again!" exclaimed Langridge and he was almost crying, silly in his excitement. He sat down on a stone along the road and lighted another cigarette. "Now let's argue this thing out," he said. "I feel just like arguing, Parsons. Guess we'll call you 'dominie,' you're so fond of preaching. Let's argue." Tom tried to urge him to come on. It was getting late and only by running could they reach college and report before the prescribed hour, nine o'clock. But Langridge was obstinate and would not come. Tom did not want to leave him, for he had heard that Langridge did not stand any too well with the faculty, and a few more demerits would mean that he would have to give up athletics. So Tom determined that, if possible, he would get the foolish lad within bounds in time. But it was a useless undertaking, and Tom heard nine strokes boom out on the chapel bell when they were some distance from college. "That cooks our goose!" he exclaimed. "It doesn't so much matter for me, as it's the first time, but Langridge will suffer if he's caught in this plight." He redoubled his persuasive powers and by dint of much talk at length induced Langridge to get up and come on. But it was half-past nine now and it was twenty minutes to ten, when, with his arm linked in that of the lad he was trying to save in spite of himself, Tom walked up the campus to get to the dormitory. The watchman opened the door at his knock. Langridge had slipped behind Tom and stood in the deep shadow. "After hours," said the man simply. "You will report to the proctor to-morrow morning, Mr. Parsons." "Yes," replied Tom simply. Langridge was moving uneasily about in the shadows on the stone steps. "Any one with you, Mr. Parsons?" "Well--er--that is----" The watchman started to go out, thinking to catch several students. At that instant Langridge, with a cunning evidently born of long experience, circled around Tom on the opposite side to that on which the watchman stood and darted down a small areaway that led to the basement. "Ha! trying to hide!" exclaimed the guardian of the door. "I'll find out who you are!" In the darkness he went down into the areaway. A moment later Langridge had roughly upset him there, and before the man could gain his feet, the pitcher had sprinted up the steps and into the open door of the dormitory and thence along the corridor to his room. The watchman had not had a glimpse of his face. The man came panting up the steps. "Who--who was that with you, Mr. Parsons?" he demanded sternly as he rubbed his bruised shins. Tom took a sudden resolve. There might be a chance for Langridge to escape. "I'm not going to tell," he said firmly but respectfully. "Very well," he replied. "You must report to Mr. Zane in the morning. I'll inform him of this outrage. He'll make you tell who was with you." "I don't believe he will," thought Tom as he went to his room. CHAPTER XXI ON THE GRILL "Well, what's up?" asked Sid as Tom came in. "You're going the pace, aren't you, old man?" and he looked anxiously at his chum, whose face was flushed from the experience through which he had just gone. "I got in late," admitted Tom. "Get caught?" asked Sid, as if that was all that mattered. "Yep, but that's not the worst of it." "What? You don't mean to say you've been caught? Well, of all things. You, one of the 'grinds,' falling a victim." "It wasn't altogether my fault." "How's that?" Tom considered for a moment. Would it be violating the ethical honor of a college boy if he told his chum? Would it be contrary to the spirit of Randall? Tom thought not, merely to let Sid know what had happened. For it would go no further, and, as a matter of fact, several students had seen Tom and Langridge leave town together. Besides, Tom wanted advice. So he told his chum everything from the time of meeting with the sporty students until the sensational retreat of Langridge to his room. "Now, what would you do?" asked Tom. "Keep still and take what's coming or tell the proctor and use that as an excuse for coming in late? It really wasn't my fault." Sid scratched his head. It was a new problem for him. He saw the point Tom made, that by informing on a fellow student, Tom would be held blameless, as indeed he had a right to be. Why should Tom suffer for another's fault? That came plainly to Sid. Yet he only hesitated a moment before answering. "Of course you can't squeal," he said simply. "That's what I thought," agreed Tom, as if that was all there was to it. "I'll have to take what's coming, I s'pose." "Maybe proc. won't be hard on you. You've got a good record." "Fairly. Anyhow, I hope he doesn't cut me out from baseball. Well, I'm going to bed. I wonder if they'll find out about Langridge? If the watchman thought to make a tour of the rooms, he'd discover that he just got in." "He'll not do that. Too many of 'em. Besides, trust Langridge for knowing how to take care of himself. He's getting reckless, though." "Of course you won't say anything to any of the fellows about him playing cards and smoking," went on Tom, but he did not mention the drinking episode, though probably Sid guessed. "Of course not," came the prompt answer, "but it's not fair to the rest of the team. However, I'm not going to make a holler. Hope you come out of it all right. By-by." "Um," grunted Tom, for he was rubbing some of the liniment on his arm and the pungent fumes made him keep his eyes and mouth shut. Sid tumbled into bed, leaving Tom to put out the light, and there was no further talk. Tom undressed slowly. He was in no mood for sleep, for he was much upset over the incident of the night, and he was not a little anxious about the next day and his prospective visit to the proctor. For the first time that he noticed it, the ticking of the alarm clock annoyed him, the fussy, quick strokes making him say over and over again the words of a silly little rhyme as one sometimes, riding in a railroad train, fits to the click of the wheels over the rail joints some bit of doggerel that will not be ousted. "I must be getting nervous," thought Tom. "Wonder if I'm over-training?" This idea gave him such an alarm that it served to change the current of his thoughts, and before he knew it he had fallen asleep over a half-formed resolution to undertake a different sort of gymnasium exercise for a few days. Tom's first visit the next morning after chapel was, as the rules required in such cases, to Proctor Zane. "Well?" inquired that functionary in no pleasant voice as Tom stood before him, for there had been some skylarking in the college the previous night and the proctor had been unable to catch the offenders. "What is it now, Parsons?" He spoke as though Tom was an habitual offender when, as a matter of fact, though the lad had taken his part in pranks, it was only the second time he had been "on the grill," as the process was termed. "I got in after hours last night, sir," reported Tom quietly, though he resented the man's manner. "Ha! So I was informed by the watchman." He looked at Tom antagonistically. "Well," he snapped, "why don't you continue? There's more, isn't there?" "Not that I know of," replied Tom calmly. "I had permission to go to town, but I got in late, that's all." "Oh, is it? What about the student who was with you? Wasn't there some one with you?" "Yes, sir." "And didn't he engage in a fight with the watchman, and, taking advantage of a mean trick, sneak to his room? Didn't he, I ask you?" "I presume the watchman has correctly informed you of what happened." Tom's voice was coldly indifferent now, and the proctor recognized that fact. "He did," he snapped. "And you know of it, too. I expected you to tell me that." "Since when has it been a college rule," asked Tom, "to confess to the doings of another student? I thought that all that was required of me was to report my own infraction of the rules." Tom knew that he was right and that the proctor had no authority to ask him concerning the doings of Langridge, and the proctor knew that he himself was in the wrong, which knowledge, shared as it was by a student, did not add to his good temper. "Then you refuse to say who was with you?" he snapped, his eyes fixed on Tom's face. "I certainly refuse to inform on a fellow student, Mr. Zane," was Tom's answer, "and I don't think you have any right to ask me to do so." If he had stopped with his first half of the reply all might have been well, for certainly the proctor did not expect Tom or any other student to be a tale-bearer, though he always asked them to speak in order to make more easy his own task. But to be practically defied, and by a freshman, was too much for the official, who had a certain dignity of which he was proud. "Ha!" he exclaimed, "you are impertinent, Parsons." "I didn't so intend, sir." "Ha! I don't have to be informed of my rights by you. I know them. You will write me out two hundred lines of Virgil by to-morrow afternoon and you will stand suspended for two weeks, with absolutely no privileges regarding athletics or going away from college!" It was a hard sentence under any circumstances. It was an unjust one in Tom's case, and he knew it. Yet what could he do? "Very well, sir," he replied, trying to overcome a certain trembling feeling in his throat, and he turned to go. "If," went on the proctor in a slightly more conciliatory voice, "you think better of your resolution and let me know the name of the student who so outrageously assaulted the watchman, I may find it possible to mitigate your punishment. Mind, I am not asking you to inform me in an ordinary case of breaking the rules, but for an extraordinary infraction. The watchman has a badly injured leg. So, if you wish to inform me later, I will be glad to hear from you." "I shall not change my mind," said Tom simply. "Nor I mine," added the proctor, jerking out the words quickly. Tom turned on his heel and left the room. CHAPTER XXII DARK DAYS Sid was waiting for Tom outside the proctor's office. "Well?" he asked eagerly as his chum appeared, but it needed only a look at the downcast face to tell that it was not "well" but "ill." "Rusticated!" exclaimed Tom. "For how long?" "Two weeks." "On your own account, or----" "Mainly because I wouldn't tell, I guess. Being out late just once isn't so monstrous." "Of course not. Still you couldn't tell." "Certainly not. It's tough, though. Suspended twice in the first term! I wonder what dad and the girls'll say." "Don't tell 'em." "Oh, I'll have to, but I guess they'll understand." "It certainly is rocky," admitted Sid, "but, do you know, I envy you a bit. It's getting mighty hard in class now. I have to bone away like a Trojan. Pitchfork has it in for me on Latin. I wish I had a vacation." "Without baseball?" asked Tom. "N-o--no, of course not without being on the team. But two weeks are soon over." "Not soon enough," and Tom darted away. "Where you going?" "Back and study. I can't afford to fall behind in my work." "My, but aren't you the grinder, though!" exclaimed Sid, but there was something of envy in his tone for all that. He went into recitation, while Tom continued on to their common room. He was walking along the path that led past Booker Memorial Chapel and paused for a moment to admire the effect of the early sun shining through a stained glass window. The combination of colors was perfect, and Tom, as he stood and looked at a depiction of a biblical scene which represented the Good Samaritan ministering to the stranger, felt somehow that it was a rôle that he himself had had a part in. Then came a revulsion of feeling. "Oh, pshaw! You're getting sentimental in your old age!" he exclaimed half aloud. "You've got to have your share of hard knocks in this world, and you've got to take what comes. But it's queer," he went on in his self-communing, "how Langridge seems to be getting mixed up with me. This is twice I've had to suffer on his account. I'd like--yes, hang it all, what's the use of pretending to yourself--I'd like to take it out of him--in some way. It's not fair--that's what!" The thought of Langridge brought another sort of musing to Tom. He saw a certain fair face, with pouting lips and bright, dancing eyes, a face framed in a fluffy mass of hair, and he fancied he could hear a little laugh, a mocking little laugh. "Worse and worse," growled Tom to himself. "You're getting dopy. Better go take a long walk." He kicked impatiently at a stone in the path and wheeled around just as a voice exclaimed: "Ah, Parsons, admiring the windows? The color effects are never so beautiful as early morning and the evening. The garish light of day seems to make them common. But--er--are you going to recitation? If so, I'll walk along with you," and genial Dr. Churchill, with a friendly nod of his head and a twinkle in his deep-set eyes, came closer to the lad. Tom wondered if the good doctor knew of the punishment that had just been meted out. If he did not he soon would have the report of the proctor for confirmation. "I've been suspended," blurted out Tom. "I was going to my room to study." "Suspended, Parsons! This is the second time, isn't it?" There was surprise and dismay in the doctor's voice. "Yes, sir, but----" Tom paused. How much should he tell, how much leave unsaid? "How did it happen?" asked the head of the college, and he placed his arm on Tom's shoulder in a friendly fashion. Tom said afterward that it was just as if he had been hypnotized. Before he knew it he was telling the whole story. "But I never mentioned the name of Langridge," he protested to Sid, to whom later he related all the events. "I never even hinted at it, but for all that I believe Moses knew. He's a regular corkscrew." Dr. Churchill was silent after the recital, a recital rather brokenly made, but containing all the essential facts. "Suspended for two weeks!" he murmured when Tom had finished. "With no athletics," added Tom. "Not even to see the games that are to be played here, and there are to be two." "Hum," mused the doctor. "Well, you know we must have discipline here, Parsons. Without it we would soon have chaos. But--ah--er--hum! Well, come and see me this evening. I will have a talk with Mr. Zane. He has to be strict, you know, very strict under certain circumstances, but--er--um--come and see me to-night." "What do you s'pose he wants?" asked Sid when Tom had told him of the meeting. "Blessed if I know, unless it's to give me a lecture on my conduct." "No, Moses isn't that kind." "He's going to restore to you all the rights and privileges of a student," declared Phil Clinton, who, together with some others of Tom's chums, was in his room. "My uncle says----" began Ford Fenton, but instantly there was a protesting howl. "Give me that water pitcher!" demanded Sid of Phil. "This isn't fit to drink," was the remonstrance. "I know it, but Fenton needs a bath, don't you, Ford? Your uncle! Say, the next time you say that we'll make you repeat the first book of Cæsar backward, eh, fellows?" "That's right," came in a chorus. "Well," went on Fenton in somewhat aggrieved tones, "he once told me----" "Write it out," expostulated Phil. "Move he be given leave to print," came from Sid, who had once heard a long debate in Congress. There was laughter and more chaffing of luckless Fenton, whose uncle, from his own making, was like unto a millstone hung about his neck. "Well, all the same, I'd like to know what Moses wants of you," said Phil, and the others agreed with him. "I'll let you know when I come back," said Tom. "It's early; you can all stay here for a while." He returned in half an hour from his call on the head of the college. "Well?" demanded his chums of him. "Great!" he cried. "He received me in his study. Say, were you ever there? It's a fine place. Books, books, books all over. The floor was piled full of them. There was a fire going on the grate and he was sitting there, reading some book with the queerest letters in it." "Sanskrit," ventured Phil. "I guess so. Well, he brought up a chair for me, and----" "Oh, for the love of Dionysius! give us some facts," cried Sid. "What happened?" "Well, he said he'd had a talk with the proctor and he removed the worst part of my suspension. I can go to the two games here with Boxer Hall and Fairview, but I can't play. I couldn't, anyhow, on account of my arm, so that's all right. And I can attend the special lectures in biology, which I hated to miss. I can't recite for two weeks, but I don't mind that. It's all right. I'll vote for Moses every time!" "I should say yes," agreed Phil. "He's white, he is. But Zane--ugh! He's----" "Treason," counseled Sid quietly. "The walls may not have ears, but the keyhole has. Better cut it, fellows, the time is almost up, and Zane's scouts will be sneaking around." The other lads departed, leaving Tom and Sid alone. "What about your pitching?" asked Sid. "Well, I'll have to give my arm a rest, Mr. Lighton says, so this comes in the nature of a special providence. It isn't so bad as it looked at first." But, in spite of his philosophy, there were dark days for Tom. It was hard to be deprived of the chance to play on the scrub and he missed the daily recitations. His arm, too, began to trouble him, and he was obliged to go to a doctor for treatment, though the medical man said all it needed was a little massage and rest. Tom, in his eagerness to excel, had overworked the muscles. Meanwhile the 'varsity nine was kept busy at practice or with league and other games. Word came that both the Boxer and Fairview nines had greatly improved, chiefly by shifting their players about, and the Randall coach and captain wore serious looks as they "sized up" the work of the Randall team. There came a contest with Fairview Institute on the Randall diamond. It was a "hot" game and Fairview won. There was anguish of heart among the Randall students and it was not assuaged when, the next week, Boxer, playing on the Randall grounds, took away a game with them, the score being 8 to 2. "Two drubbings in two successive weeks," exclaimed Kindlings. "What are we going to do?" "One thing we've got to do is to improve in pitching," declared the coach, and when some one brought word of this to Tom his heart, that had been heavy during the two weeks of suspension, grew lighter. "Maybe I'll get a chance," he said to Sid. "It would make up for everything if I did." "No one wants to see you in the box any more than I do, old chap," spoke Sid fervently. CHAPTER XXIII AT THE DANCE It was the night of the junior dance, an annual affair second only in importance to commencement and a function attended, as Holly Cross used to say, "by all the beauty and chivalry of Haddonfield and all points north, south, east and west." On this occasion all strictly partisan college feelings were laid aside. Forgotten were the grudges engendered by hazings or the rivalries of the field. It was an evening devoted to pleasure, and, on the part of the juniors at least, to seeing that their girl friends and acquaintances danced to their hearts' content. "Tom," cried Sid as they were dressing in their room, "does this dress suit seem to fit?" "Well, it might be a little larger across the shoulders," was Tom's answer as he turned around from an attempt to get his tie just right and surveyed his chum. "That's what I thought. I'm outgrowing it. I'm afraid it will split when I'm dancing, and I'll be a pretty sight, won't I? I'll disgrace the girl. Hang it all, I hate a dress suit. I always remind myself of some new specimen of a bug, and I think some entomological professor will come along, run a pin through me and impale me on a cork. In fact I'd just as soon he would as to go through this agony again." "Nonsense. You'll enjoy it," ventured Tom. "Maybe--after it's all over." But he managed somehow to wiggle himself into the garments and then, having asked a girl to the affair, he set off after her in a coach he had hired. Tom had not invited any one, but he heard that Miss Tyler was to be there and from the same source of information he knew that Langridge was to escort her. "In which case," reflected Tom, "I shall probably not have a chance to dance with her." The gymnasium had been turned into a ballroom. Around the gallery, which contained the indoor running track, flags and bunting had been festooned, the colors of Randall being prominent. From the center electric chandelier long streamers of ribbon of the mingled hues of each class were draped to the boxes that had been constructed on two sides of the room. There was a profusion of flowers and with the soft glow of the shaded lights the big apartment that was wont to resound to the blows of the punching bag, the bound of the medicine ball or the patter of running feet was most magically transformed. Over in one corner, screened by a bank of palms, was the orchestra, the musicians of which were tuning their instruments in thrilling chords which always tell of joys to come. The guests were arriving. Bewildering bevies of pretty girls floated in with their escorts, who showed the tan and bronze of the sporting field or the whiter hue of a "dig" who spent most of his time over his books. Then came the chaperons, grave, dignified, in rustling silks, a strange contrast to the light, fluffy garments worn by the younger set. Tom felt rather lonesome as he strolled out on the waxed floor, for most of his chums had girls to whom they were attentive, and of course they could not be expected to look after him. "Hello, Parsons!" called a voice, and he turned to see one of the Jersey twins. Which one it was he could not determine, for if Jerry and Joe Jackson looked alike when in their ball suits or ordinary clothes, there was even less of difference when they wore formal black, with the expanse of shirt showing. "Hello!" responded Tom. "I'm Jerry," went on the twin. "I thought I'd tell you. My brother and I are going to play a joke to-night." "What is it?" "Joe's going to get talking to a girl and then he's going to excuse himself for a moment. I'll take his place and I'll pretend I don't know what she's talking about when the girl tries to continue the conversation. I'll make believe I've come back to the wrong girl. Great, isn't it?" "Yes, except maybe for the girl." "Oh, we'll beg her pardon afterward. Got to have some fun. I'm on the arrangement committee and I'm nearly crazy seeing that every one has a good time. Got your name down on all the cards you want?" "I haven't it on any yet." "No? That's a shame! Come on and I'll fix you up," and the good-natured Jerry dragged Tom about, introducing him to an entrancing quartet of pretty girls and then Tom knew enough to do the rest, which included scribbling his name down for a whole or a half dance as the case might be. He had just finished this very satisfactory work when he heard his name called and turned to see Miss Tyler smiling at him. "I'm awfully glad to see you," he exclaimed, starting impulsively toward her with outstretched hand. "May I have a dance?" "Only one?" she asked with a laugh. "All of them, if you can spare them," he said boldly. "Greedy boy! I'm afraid you're too late. You may look," and she held out her card. Tom, with regret, saw that it contained the initials "F. L." in many places. There was only one two-step vacant. "Some one else has been greedy, too," he said as he filled in the space. "Let me see," she demanded, and she made a little pout. "How dare he think I'm going to give all those to him!" she exclaimed. "Here, Tom, let me have your pencil. I never can write with the ridiculous affairs they attach to dance programs." She used the lead vigorously on the card and then let Tom see it again. His name was in three places, and, to his surprise, on the last waltz he saw that the girl had written his initials under those of Langridge. "What does that mean?" he asked. "It means that I'm going to share the last dance with you," she almost whispered, "in memory of old times," and she nodded. "Don't forget now," and she shook her finger at him. "As if I would!" exclaimed Tom. The music began a march as the opening of the dance and the couples took their places, Langridge coming up almost on the run to claim Miss Tyler. He looked sharply at Tom. "How are you, dominie?" he asked with a nod, intended to be friendly, and then he led the girl away. Tom had no partner for the march and he stood about disconsolately until the first dance. Then he went to claim his partner, whom Jerry Jackson had secured for him, a pretty little girl in a yellow dress who was a fine dancer. "I wish you had another open date--I--er--I mean that you could give me another dance," he corrected himself quickly from the language of the ball field. "I can," she said simply, and she gave him a quick glance, for Tom was a fine dancer. He scribbled his name down and then had to relinquish her to another partner. Two dances after that, however, Tom was privileged to claim Miss Tyler. As he was leading her into the waltz Langridge came hurrying up. "I thought this was my dance, Madge--Miss Tyler," he stammered. "I wanted to vary the monotony," she said with a little laugh that had no malice in it. "How is your arm, dominie?" she asked of Tom, looking up into his face and smiling as she gave him the nickname conferred on him by Langridge. "Oh, much better," he answered. "How did you hear?" "Oh, the proverbial bird, I suppose. You had to stay away from class two weeks on account of it, didn't you?" "No," exclaimed Tom quickly, "not on _that_ account." "Oh!" she cried, struck by the change in Tom's voice. "I--I heard so." "Did Langridge tell you that?" "Yes," was her answer. "Well, it was partly on that account," and Tom turned the conversation away from what he considered a dangerous subject. If Langridge cherished any ill will toward Tom for taking away Miss Tyler the 'varsity pitcher did not show it. But Tom noticed that he was not far from the girl's side the remainder of the evening. "I wonder if she doesn't believe what I told her about him," thought Tom. "Well, I'm not going to say anything more. Let her find out for herself. Only--well, what's the use?" and he went to claim another dance elsewhere. It was the last waltz. Around the brilliant, gaily decorated room swung the dancers to the strains of the enthralling music. Langridge skilfully led Miss Tyler in and out among the maze of couples. The music turned into another melody. "I think this is about half," she said. "About half? What do you mean?" "Well, you were so greedy," she explained, laughter in her eyes, "that I had to punish you. I gave half this last dance to--to the dominie," and her lips parted in a smile. "Well, I like that!" spluttered Langridge, but just then Tom, who had been summoned from the "side lines" by a signal from Miss Tyler, came to claim her. "I like your nerve, Parsons!" snapped Langridge, glad to be able to transfer his wrath to a foeman more worthy of it. "It was my doing, Mr. Langridge," said the girl with some dignity. "You had no right----" began the 'varsity pitcher. "I fancy Miss Tyler is the best judge of that," spoke Tom coolly as he took the girl's hand. "Is she?" sneered Langridge. "Maybe she knows who brought her to this affair then! If she does, she can find some one else to take her away," and he swung off. For an instant Miss Tyler stood looking at him. The dancers whirled around the couple standing there and the music sounded sweetly. There was the suspicion of tears in her eyes. "He had no right to say that!" she burst out. "Indeed, no," agreed Tom. "But, since he has, may I have the honor of being your escort?" "Yes," she said, and then, with a revulsion of feeling, she added, "Oh, Tom, I don't feel like dancing now. Take me home, please!" CHAPTER XXIV DRESS SUITS COME HIGH So after all, Tom did not get the last half of the last waltz with Miss Tyler. He did not much care, however, for, as matters turned out, he had a longer time in her company. The girl soon recovered her usual spirits and the walk to where she was stopping with relatives in Haddonfield seemed all too short to Tom. "Will you be at the game Saturday?" he asked as they were about to part. "What game?" "Over at Fairview. Our team is going to try and run up a big score against them." "I hadn't thought of going." "Then won't you please think now?" pleaded Tom, with an odd air of patheticness, at which Miss Tyler laughed gaily. "Well, perhaps I shan't find that so _very_ difficult," she replied. "And if you think real hard, can you get a mental picture of your humble servant taking you to that game?" Tom was very much in earnest, though his air was bantering. "Well," she answered tantalizingly, "I do seem to see a sort of hazy painting to that effect." "Good! It will grow more distinct with time. I'll call for you, then. A number of the boys are going to charter a little steamer and sail down the river, and into the lake. We'll land at a point about four miles from Fairview, and go over in some automobiles." "That will be jolly!" "I'm glad you think so. Is the picture any clearer?" "Oh, yes, much so. I think the autos have cleared away the mist. Aren't we silly, though?" she asked. "Not a bit of it," declared Tom stoutly. "I'll be on hand here for you, then, shortly after lunch on Saturday." "Is the nine going that way?" Tom felt a sudden suspicion. Was she asking because she wanted to know whether Langridge would be in the party of merrymakers? "No, I think they're going in a big stage." "I thought maybe you might want to be with the nine," she went on, and Tom saw that he had misunderstood. "You might get a chance to pitch," and she looked at him. "No such luck," replied Tom, trying to speak cheerfully, but finding it hard work. "Well, I'll say good-night, or, rather, good-morning. When I write home I must tell my folks about meeting you here." "Yes, do. I've already written to mine, telling what a fine time I'm having." Tom was rather thoughtful on his way home. He stumbled into his dark room, nearly falling over something. "What's the matter?" asked Sid, who was in bed. "That's what I want to know," replied Tom, striking a match. "Why don't you keep your patent leathers out of the middle of the floor?" he demanded. "I did, Tommy, me lad, as Bricktop Molloy would say, but I had to throw them out there later." "How's that?" "Mice. Two of the cute little chaps sitting in the middle of the floor, eating some nuts that dropped out of my pocket. I stretched out on the bed without undressing when I came in from the dance, and must have fallen asleep, with the light burning. When I woke up I saw the mice staring at me, and I heaved my shoes at the beggars, for I'd taken 'em off--my shoes, I mean--when I came in, as my feet hurt from dancing so much. Then I doused the glim and turned in, for I knew you wouldn't be along until daylight." "Why not?" "Oh, I saw you going off with her. I admire your taste, old man, but it must be hard on Langridge." "It's his own fault." "So I understand. I heard about it." "Um," murmured Tom, for he did not want to talk about Miss Tyler and her affairs--at least not yet. There are some things that one likes to ponder over, and think about--all alone. The game with Fairview was looked forward to with more than ordinary interest, for the season was about half over, and a partial estimate could be made of the chances for the championship. Up to this time the three teams in the league had been running nearly even, with Randall, if anything, a trifle in the lead, not so much regarding the number of games won, but counting form. In the last two weeks, however, Fairview and Boxer had been doing some hard work, and in games between those colleges Fairview had some the best of it. If, on the occasion that was approaching, Randall won, it would put her nine in the lead, and if, on the contrary, she lost it would mean that she would be the "tail-ender," though only a few points behind Boxer, which would be second. "We've just got to win!" declared Sid, one afternoon, following a severe game with the scrub, who had played the 'varsity to a tie in eleven innings. "That's right," admitted the coach. "But I think we will. We have improved all around lately." This was true, more especially in the case of Langridge. Since the affair of the junior dance he had not spoken to Tom, and had taken pains to avoid him. But the 'varsity pitcher was certainly doing better work. The day before the game with Fairview, Coach Lighton called Tom to one side. "I think you had better prepare to go as a sub to-morrow," he said. "Why, is Langridge----" burst out Tom, a wild hope filling his heart. "No, it isn't our pitcher. But I understand Sid is falling back in his Latin, and he may not be allowed to play. In that case I'll have to do some shifting, and I _may_ be able to give you a place in the field." "Well, I don't want to see Sid left, but I would like a chance." Tom was in rather a quandary. He had arranged to take Miss Tyler, and he could not, if he went with the team as a sub. He hardly knew what to do about it, and was on the point of going over to see her, and explain, when Sid came bursting into the room. "Blood! blood! I want blood!" he cried as he threw his Latin grammar against the wall with such force that the covers came off. "What ho! most worthy knight!" replied Tom gently. "In sooth, gentle sir, what hath befallen thee?" "Heaps!" replied Sid. "Oh, Pitchfork, would I had thee here!" and he wadded up the table cover, and pretended to choke it. "What now?" asked Tom. "Oh, he put me through a course of sprouts for further orders this afternoon," explained Sid. "Thought he'd catch me, but I managed to wiggle through. Nearly gave me heart disease, though, for fear I'd have to be out of the game to-morrow. But I managed to save myself, much to the surprise of Pitchfork. Now I want my revenge on him." "What can you do?" "I don't know--nothing, I guess. I wish--hold on!" Sid struck a thoughtful attitude, looked fixedly at the floor, then at the ceiling, and finally cried: "Eureka!" "Has some one been playing hob with your crown?" asked Tom, referring to the exclamation said to have been made by the ancient king, when he discovered, in his bath, a means of finding out if his jeweler had cheated him. "No, but I've found a way to get even with Pitchfork." "How?" "Listen, and I will a tale unfold--a spike-tail at that. When I was coming in from recitation, disgusted with life in general, and with the Roman view of it, particularly, I met Wallops the messenger. He had a bundle under his arm, and you know what a talker he is. Confided to me that he was taking Pitchfork's best suit to the tailor's to be pressed, and his dress-suit to have new buttons put on, and some other fixings done. Pitchfork is going to a swell reception to-night, and will wear his glad rags. All he has now is his classroom suit, and you know what that is--all chalk and chemical stains when he goes into the laboratory once in a while on the relief shift." "I don't seem to follow you." "You will soon. See, as it stands now Pitchfork is without a decent suit he can wear, and he's such a peculiar build that no other professor's garments will fit him." "Well?" "Well, when he wants his dress-suit to go to the blow-out to-night, he's going to learn something new." "What's that?" "Just this. That dress-suits come high this time of the year! It's going to be the best joke yet. Now, ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission and attention I will endeavor to give you a correct imitation of Professor Pitchfork hunting high and low for his glad rags--particularly high. I will roll back my cuffs, to show you that I have nothing concealed up my sleeves. Now, commodore, a little slow music, please," and Sid, who had assumed the rôle of a vaudeville performer, pretended to nod to an imaginary leader of an orchestra. CHAPTER XXV TOM IN A GAME "Want any help?" asked Tom, when Sid had outlined his scheme of "revenge." "No, I guess not, until I get ready to pull the strings. Then you can give me a hand. We'll have to do it after dark, and be mighty careful not to be caught, though." "But how are you going to get the suit?" "I have a plan. Watch your Uncle Dudley." Sid spent the rest of the afternoon in making up a bundle to look like one that contained two suits just from the tailor shop. Only, in place of clothes he used old newspapers. It was toward dusk when he went out with it under his arm. "It's about time Wallops was coming back," he said to Tom. "I'll meet him in the clump of elms, where it's good and dark, and he can't tell who I am." "Be careful," warned his roommate. "Sure. But I know what I'm about. Revenge is sweet! Wow! Wait until you see the face of Pitchfork!" Sid stole carefully along to a spot near the edge of the river, where a clump of big elm trees grew. This was near the bridge on the road to Haddonfield. The spot was lonely and deserted enough at this hour to suit his purpose, and the dusk of the evening, being added to by clouds, and by the shadows of the trees, made concealment easy. "I guess that's Wallops," murmured Sid as he peered out from behind a tree. "That walks like Wallops, and he's got a bundle under his arm. Now for a grand transformation scene." Awaiting the psychological moment, Sid hurried out, and bumped into the college messenger. Wallops' bundle was knocked from under his arm, and, by a strange coincidence, so was Sid's. "I beg your pardon!" exclaimed the student in an assumed voice. "Awfully careless of me, I'm sure. I beg a thousand pardons! I was in a hurry, and I didn't notice you. Is this the road to Haddonfield?" "That's all right," replied Wallops good naturedly as his pardon was begged again. "Yes, keep straight on, and you'll come to the trolley that runs to Haddonfield." "Let me restore your bundle to you," went on Sid, picking up both parcels. He handed one to the messenger, and kept one himself. "'Twas yours, 'tis mine; 'twas his, 'tis ours," he paraphrased. "Again let me express my sincere sorrow at this happening. I trust there was nothing in your package that could be damaged when I knocked it from your grasp." "No, nothing but some clothes of one of the college professors. It's all right." "And I'm sure my package isn't damaged," said Sid, in a queer voice, as he hurried away. A little later he was telling Tom, with much mirth, how it all came about. The two, in the seclusion of their room, opened the bundle, and saw two suits, one full dress. "Won't he howl when he finds nothing but a lot of newspapers!" exclaimed Sid. "Now for the rest of the trick." "Maybe he'll borrow a dress suit from some student," said Tom. "Not much he won't," replied Sid. "I thought of that, and I forwarded a message by wireless to all the dormitories that if Pitchfork sent around to borrow some glad rags, he was to be refused on some pretext or other." Sid's precaution was well taken. A little later it was evident that something unusual had occurred. Wallops and several other college messengers were seen hurrying first to the rooms of one professor, then to the apartments of another. Each time the scouts came back empty-handed to that part of the faculty residence where Professor Tines dwelt. "I knew they had no spike-tails that would fit him," exulted Sid. "Besides, most of them are going to the reception themselves." There was consternation in the apartments of Professor Tines. Wallops had delivered to him the bundle of papers, and when the astonished instructor had threatened and questioned him, the unfortunate messenger could only say it was the package he had received from the tailor. That worthy, on being appealed to by telephone, declared that he had sent home the professor's garments. Wallops had no idea that the stranger he met in the wood had played a transformation trick on him, and Professor Tines, in his anxiety to get dressed, and go to the reception, did not dream that it was a student prank. Rather he blamed the tailor, and made up his mind to sue the man for heavy damages. Then, just as Sid had expected, the instructor endeavored to borrow a dress-suit from one of the students. But they had been warned, and were either going to wear their suits themselves, or had just sent them to the tailor. "What shall I do?" wailed Professor Tines. "I can't go in this suit," and he looked at his acid-and-chalk-marked classroom garments. "Yet I was to read a paper on early Roman life at this reception. It is too provoking. I can't understand why none of the students have a suit available." "You could have one of mine, only----" began Dr. Churchill as he looked first at the figure of the professor, and then at himself. "I'm afraid it wouldn't fit," he added. "No--no, of course not!" exclaimed Mr. Tines distractedly. "I will telephone that rascally tailor again. Never, never shall he press another suit of mine!" But the knight of the goose and needle insisted that the professor's clothes had been sent home, and that was all there was to it. Mr. Tines could not go to the reception, and, as it was an important affair, where nearly all of the faculty was expected to be present, he was grievously disappointed. When all was quiet that night a party of students, including Sid and Tom, stole out to the campus. They worked quickly and silently. "There!" exclaimed Sid, when all was finished. "I rather guess that will astonish him!" In the morning the attention of most of the college students, and several of the faculty, was attracted to a throng of passersby staring up at the flagstaff. They would halt, point upward, make some remarks, and then, laughing, pass on. Some one called the attention of Dr. Churchill to it. "Why, bless my soul!" he exclaimed as he prepared to go out. "I hope none of the students have put the flag at half mast or upside down." He put on his far-seeing spectacles, and walked out on the campus. There, at the top of the pole, was a figure which looked like a man, with outstretched arms. "What student has dared climb up there?" exclaimed the head of the college. "Send for Mr. Zane at once," he added to Professor Newton, who had accompanied him. "He must be severely punished--the venturesome student, I mean." "I hardly think that is a student," replied Mr. Newton. "Do you mean to say it is some outsider?" "I think it is no one at all, Dr. Churchill. I believe it is an effigy. See how stiff the arms and legs are." "I believe you are right," admitted the venerable doctor. His belief was confirmed a moment later, for a farmer, who was driving along the river road, left his team, and came up the campus, a broad smile covering his face. "Good-morning, Dr. Churchill," he said. "Is this a new course in eddercation you're givin' the boys?" "Ah, good-morning, Mr. Oakes. What do you mean?" "Why, I see you've got a scarecrow up on that liberty pole. I thought maybe you was addin' a course in agriculture to your studies. Only if I was you I wouldn't put a scarecrow up so high. There ain't no need of it. One low down will do jest as well. And another thing, I allers uses old clothes. There ain't no sense in puttin' a swallertail coat an' a low-cut vest on a scarecrow. Them birds will be jest as skeert of an old coat and a pair of pants stuffed with straw as they will of a dress-suit. That's carryin' things a leetle too fur!" and the farmer laughed heartily. "Dress-suit! Scarecrow!" exclaimed Dr. Churchill, and then he got a glimpse of the figure on top of the pole. It was arrayed in a full-dress suit, and Professor Tines, coming out a moment later, beheld his missing garments. "This is an outrage!" he declared. "I demand the instant dismissal of the student or students responsible for this, Dr. Churchill!" Dr. Churchill tried hard not to smile, but he had to turn his face away. [Illustration: DR. CHURCHILL HAD TO TURN HIS FACE AWAY] "I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Oakes, for your information," said the head of the college to the farmer, who was still laughing. "Our improvised scarecrow shall be taken down at once." "Scarecrow!" exclaimed Professor Tines. "I think----" But wrath choked his utterance. "I demand that my suit be taken down at once!" he went on, after a pause, "and that the guilty ones be punished!" "They shall be, I assure you," promised Dr. Churchill, "when I learn who they are. If you hear, professor, let me know." "I shall. But I want my suit. Perhaps it is ruined." But a new difficulty now arose, for Sid and his fellow conspirators had fastened the halyards high up on the pole, and it was not until Professor Tines had sent Wallops for a ladder that the ropes could be untied and the suit lowered. During this process a group of students gathered at a respectful distance from the flagstaff and looked on interestedly. But, though a strict inquiry was made, no one was ever punished for the "scarecrow joke" as it came to be called, and it is now one of the traditions of Randall College. Owing to the fact that Sid had "made good" in Latin he was not barred from the game that day, and there was no chance for Tom to act as substitute. He went with Miss Tyler, and the trip on the river, lake, and in the auto was a delightful one. There was a big crowd on the bleachers and grandstand when the nines began to play, and rivalry in singing college songs, giving college yells and waving college colors ran high. Randall got two runs in the first inning, and for three more Fairview secured only zeros. Langridge was pitching fine ball. Then Lem Sellig, who was doing the "twirling" for Fairview, seemed to warm up to his work, and struck out a surprising number of men. In the seventh inning Fairview secured five runs, and in the eighth they reeled off five more, for Langridge grew reckless, and not only gave men their bases on balls in rapid succession, but struck two men, which gave them free passes to first. "He's going to pieces!" exclaimed Coach Lighton as he saw the score piling up against his men. "It's got to stop, or we'll be the laughing stock of the league." Yet he did not like to take Langridge out. Captain Woodhouse was angry clear through, and as for Kerr, he openly insulted the pitcher. "What's the matter?" the catcher cried after a particularly bad series of balls and a fumble on the part of Langridge that let in a run. "You're rotten to-day!" Langridge flushed, but his face had been rosy-hued before that, and twice he had gone to the dressing rooms, whence he came odorous of cloves. Then the "rooters" seeing their game took up cries of derision against the pitcher, in an endeavor to "get his goat." Langridge bit his lips and threw in a fierce ball. There were two out, but it looked as if it would go on that way indefinitely. Frank Sullivan, a good batter, hit it fairly, but Joe Jackson, out in left field, made a desperate run for it, and got the ball. It was a sensational catch, and was roundly applauded. When Randall came to the bat for the last time the score was 12 to 2 in favor of their opponents. "We can't win," said Kindlings hopelessly. "No, but for the love of Mike, don't let them roll up any bigger score against us, or they'll put us out of the league," begged Bricktop Molloy. "Speak to Langridge, and tell him to hold hard." "What's the use speaking to him?" asked Kerr gloomily. "He'll go off his handle if I do. He told me never to speak to him again, just because I called him down a bit. Land knows he needed it!" "We've got to make a change," decided the coach. "I'll not let Langridge pitch next inning. If he does I'll resign, and I'll tell him so." He walked over to the pitcher, and soon the two were in earnest conversation. Randall could not make another run, for Sellig was doing his best and they did not get a hit off him. "Our only chance is to strike them out," murmured Kerr as he arose from the bench to take his place. "Who's going to pitch, Mr. Lighton?" "Tom Parsons." "Tom Parsons? What's the matter with our regular substitute, Evert?" "His arm is no good and he's out of practice. I'm going to put Tom in." And much to his astonishment Tom was summoned from the grandstand, where he was talking to Miss Tyler about the slump. "Me pitch? Are you sure Mr. Lighton sent you for me?" he asked Jerry Jackson, who had brought the message. "Sure. Come on and get into part of a uniform." "Yes, do go," urged Miss Tyler. "I--I hope you beat them." "It's too late for that now," replied Tom sadly as he walked down from the stand. A little later he was in the box, facing Roger Barns, one of the best hitters on the Fairview team. Tom was nervous, there is no denying that, but he held himself well in control. It was the goal of his ambition--to pitch on the 'varsity, and he was now realizing it. True, it was almost an empty honor, but he resolved to do his best, and this thought steeled his nerves, even though the crowd hooted at him. And he struck out the first three men up, at which his college chums went wild, for it was all they had to rejoice over in the game. CHAPTER XXVI THE FRESHMAN DINNER They wanted Tom to ride back to the college with the team and the substitutes, but he would not leave Miss Tyler, and, though he was torn between two desires, he went back to the girl. Moreover, he had an idea that it would not be altogether pleasant riding in the same stage with Langridge, who, he had heard whispered, made strenuous objection when Coach Lighton ordered him to give place to Tom. "He'll be down on me more than ever," thought Tom as he made his way back to the grandstand, which was rapidly emptying. "Well, I can't help it." "Your arm must be much better," remarked Miss Tyler as Tom came up to her. "You pitched finely." "Well, I've had plenty of practice," was his answer. "I fancy Langridge was tired out," he added generously. "It's no fun to pitch a losing game." "But you did." "Oh, well, it was my first chance on the 'varsity, and I would have welcomed it if the score had been a hundred to nothing." "Will you pitch regularly now?" "I don't know. I hope----" But Tom stopped. He had almost forgotten that Miss Tyler was very friendly to Langridge, in spite of the little scene at the dance. For two days after the disastrous game with Fairview Langridge sulked in his room and would not report for practice. He talked somewhat wildly about Tom, the latter heard, and practically accused him of being responsible for his disgrace. He even said Tom was intriguing against him to win away his friends; meaning Kerr especially, for the 'varsity catcher announced that he was done with Langridge as far as sociability was concerned. But Kerr, hearing this, came to Tom's defense, and stated openly that it was Langridge himself who was to blame. Mr. Lighton would stand for no nonsense, and ordered Evert into the pitcher's box, promising that Tom should have the next chance. He would have made Tom the regular substitute but for the fact that Evert, by right of seniority, was entitled to it. Hearing this news, Langridge came out of his sulks and resumed practice. "I have a large framed picture of Randall winning the league pennant," announced Sid gloomily one night as he and Tom were sitting in their room. "Our stock is about fifty below par now, and with only a few more games to play, we've practically got to win them all in order to top the league." "Maybe we'll do it," said Tom, in an endeavor to be cheerful. "We might, if you pitched, but Langridge is that mean that he'll keep in just good enough form so Mr. Lighton won't send him to the bench, and that's all. He won't do his best--no, I'll not say that. He is doing his best, but--well, something's wrong, and I guess I'm not the only one who knows it." "No," said Tom quietly. "I do and have for some time. It's been a puzzle to know what to do; keep still and let the 'varsity be beaten or squeal on Langridge." "Oh, one can't squeal, you know." "No, that's what I thought, especially in my case. It would look as if I was grinding my own ax." "That's so. No, you can't say anything. But it's tough luck. Maybe something will turn up. We've got a couple of games on our own grounds next, and we may do better. If we don't, we may as well order our funeral outfits. Well, I'm going to bone away at this confounded Latin. Ten thousand maledictions be upon the head of the Roman who invented it!" Sid opened his book, and studied for half an hour. Tom likewise was busily engaged, and only the ticking of the clock was heard, when suddenly there came a gentle tap on the door. "Who's there?" demanded Tom. "Yellow, sky-blue and maroon," was the reply, which indicated that a freshman was without, that being the password. "Flagpole," answered Sid, which being translated meant that it was safe to enter, no member of the faculty nor scout of the proctor's being nigh. Dutch Housenlager pushed open the portal and entered. He looked carefully around, and then, coming on tiptoe to the middle of the room, after having carefully shut the door, said in a whisper: "It's all arranged!" "Nay, nay, kind sir," retorted Sid, with a shake of his head. "Nay nay what?" demanded Dutch indignantly. "No tricks to-night," went on Sid. "We're two virtuous young men. We belong to the ancient and honorable order of _infra digs_ to-night, Dutch. Too near the exams. Thus did I exclaim 'nay, nay, kind sir.' We are not to be tempted, nay, even if it were to take mine ancient enemy, Pitchfork, and drop him into the lake; eh, Tom?" "Yes. I can't afford to take any chances. Twice bitten once shy, or words to that effect, you know. I, too, am delving into the hidden paths that lead to the spring of which the poet doth sing." "Say, you two give me a sore feeling in the cranium!" exclaimed Dutch as he sank into the easy chair with force enough almost to disrupt it. "Who's asking you to play any tricks?" "Aren't you?" "No." "_Fiat justitia, ruat coelum!_" exclaimed Tom, with mock heroics. "We have done you an injustice, most noble Dutchman. Say on, and we will hear thee." "I've a good notion not to," said Housenlager a bit sulkily. "Here I come in to tell you fellows a piece of news, and I find you boning away, and when I start to talk you spout Latin mottoes at me. I've a good notion to dig out." "Stay! Stay, dear friend!" cried Tom, laughing. "There, we'll chuck studying for to-night, eh, Sid?" "Sure. I'm sick of it." "Now, say on," invited Tom. Somewhat mollified, Dutch took an easier position in the creaking chair, thereby raising a cloud of dust, and remarked: "Well, the freshman dinner will come off to-morrow night. It's just been decided." "Honest?" cried Sid. "Sure. Our committee has everything in shape, and we'll fool the sophs this time. Ford Fenton and I have been going around notifying the fellows. You see, we had to keep it quiet, because those sophs will put it on the blink if they can." "Sure they will," agreed Tom. "Where is it to be----" He stopped suddenly, for there was the sound of footsteps in the hall outside. "Some one is spying," whispered Sid. Softly he opened the door and then he laughed. "It's Fenton," he said as the other entered. "All through?" asked Dutch of his partner. "Yes. I don't believe the sophs suspect. A few years ago, when the freshmen had a dinner, the sophs ate it all up, and my uncle says----" Tom significantly reached for a heavy book, and Ford, with a disappointed look, stopped his reminiscence. "It's to be in Cardigan Hall, in town," explained Dutch, "and we'll start from here in a----" He paused in a listening attitude and tiptoed over to the door. Throwing the portal open suddenly, he darted into the hall, the others crowding up close to see what was going on. "Some one was out there," declared Dutch as he came back, "but I couldn't catch him. Maybe it was only one of our boys, though. Now I'll tell you the plans," and he proceeded to go into them into detail, telling Tom and Sid where to join the other freshmen the next night, in order to steal away to Haddonfield and hold their banquet undisturbed by the sophomores. Tom and Sid promised to be on hand, and the two members of the committee departed, Ford Fenton being unable to tell what it was his uncle had said. As Tom saw their guests to the door, something bright and shining in the hall attracted his attention. "It's a matchbox," he remarked as he picked it up. "It's got initials on, too." "What are they?" "Hum--look like H. E. G." "Horace E. Gladdus," said Sid. "I wonder if he was sneaking around here trying to catch on about the dinner?" CHAPTER XXVII TOM IS KIDNAPPED For a moment Tom looked at Sid. The same thought was in both their minds. "Had we better tell Dutch?" asked Tom. "It wouldn't be a bad plan." "All right, I'll let him know. If Gladdus and his crowd find out our plans they'll spoil 'em." So Tom hastened after Dutch Housenlager and related the finding of the matchbox and the suspicion engendered by it--that Gladdus had been listening in the hall. "All right," remarked Dutch. "We'll change our plans a bit. I'll see you later." Tom and Sid did not feel like resuming their studies after what had happened. Instead they sat talking of the prospective dinner, Sid stretched lazily at full length on the sofa, while Tom luxuriously sprawled in the easy chair. "I tell you what it is, old man," said Sid, "it's mighty comfortable here, don't you think?" "It sure is." "And to think that next term we'll have to go into the west dormitory," went on Sid. "We'll be bloomin' sophs then. At least you will." "That's very nice of you to say so, but what about yourself?" "I'm not so sure," and Sid spoke dubiously. "That confounded Latin will be the death of me. I tell you what it is. I was never cut out for a classical scholar. Now, if they had a course of what to do on first base, I'd be able to master it in, say, a four years' stretch. But I'm afraid I'll go the way of our mutual acquaintance Langridge, and spend two years as a freshman, at which rate I'll be eight years getting through college." "Oh, I hope not. You stand better than Langridge. He's smart--not that you aren't--but he doesn't get down to it. It's just like his baseball practice, if he would only----" Then Tom stopped. He didn't want to talk about the player whom he was trying to supplant on the nine. "Well," he finished, "I guess I'll turn in. We'll have to see Dutch in the morning and learn what the new plans are." Housenlager and his fellow members of the freshman dinner committee found it advisable to make a change after what Sid and Tom had discovered. "But we can't alter the time or place of the feed," explained Dutch. "It's too late to do that. Anyway, there's no danger once we get inside the hall, for we've arranged to have the doors bolted and braced and guards posted. The only danger is that they'll get at some of us before we get to the place or that they'll get at the eating stuff in some way and put it on the blink." "I shouldn't think there'd be much danger of that," spoke Tom. "Won't the man who is going to supply it look out for that end?" "I s'pose he will," admitted Dutch, "so the main thing for us to do is to see that we get safely to the hall. I think we'd better not meet down near the bridge, as I proposed first. You know, we were all going in a body. I think now the best way will be for us to stroll off by ones and twos. Then there won't be any suspicion. The sophs will be on the watch for us, of course, but I think we can fool them." "Then you mean for each one of us to get to the hall as best he can?" asked Sid. "That's it," replied Dutch. "Some fellows did that one year," put in Ford Fenton, "but the sophs caught them just the same. My uncle says----" He paused, for the group of lads about him, as if by prearranged signal, all put their hands over their ears and all began talking at once loudly. "Hu!" ejaculated Ford. "You think that's funny, I guess." "Not as funny as what your uncle might have said," remarked Sid, who some time previously had planned to have his chums give this signal of disapproval the moment Ford mentioned his relative. "Well, I guess it's all understood," went on Dutch. "We'll have a sort of go-as-you-please affair until we get to the hall in Haddonfield." "I hear Langridge isn't coming," said Ford. "Who told you?" asked Sid. "Why, he did. I asked him if he was going to be on hand, and I told him about a dinner where my uncle said----" "I guess he doesn't want to come because he is afraid your uncle will be there," declared Tom with a good-natured laugh. "More likely because the dinner isn't going to be sporty enough for him," was the opinion of Dutch. "Well, we don't want anybody that doesn't want to come. But I've got to go and attend to some loose ends. Now mind, mum's the word, fellows, not only as regards talk, but don't act so as to give the sophs a clue. See you later," and he hurried off. Few in the freshman class did themselves justice in recitations that day from too much thinking about the fun they would have at the dinner that night. Even Tom fell below his usual standard, and as for Sid, his rendering of Virgil was something to make Professor Tines (who was a good classical scholar, whatever else he might be) shudder in anguish. But Sid didn't mind. "I tell you what it is, old man," spoke Sid to Tom that evening as they prepared to leave for the spread, "we'd better go it alone, I think." "Just what I was about to propose. If we leave here together, some sneaking soph will be sure to spot us. Will you go first or shall I?" "You'd better take it first. There's a hole in one of my socks I've got to sew up. I never saw clothes go the way they do when a laundry gets hold of 'em." "Can you darn socks?" "Well, not exactly what you'd call _darn_," explained Sid. "I just gather up a little of the sock where the hole is and tie a string around it. It's just as good as darning and twice as quick. I learned that from a fellow I roomed with at boarding school. But go ahead, if you're going." It was quite dark now and Tom, after a cautious look around the entrance of the dormitory, to see if any sophomores were lurking about, stole silently down toward the river. He intended to take the road along the stream, cross the bridge and board a trolley for Haddonfield, which plan would be followed by a number of the freshmen. Tom was almost at the bridge when he saw a number of dark shadows moving about near the structure. "Now, are they sophs or our fellows?" he mused as he cautiously halted. He thought he recognized some of his classmates and went on a little further. "Here comes one!" he heard in a hoarse whisper. Tom stopped. It was so dark he could not tell friends from foes. But he knew a test. A countersign had been agreed upon. "What did the namby-pamby say?" he asked. Back came the answer in a hoarse whisper: "Over the fence is out!" It was the reply that had been arranged among the freshmen. Confident that he was approaching friends, Tom advanced. A moment later he found himself clasped by half a dozen arms. "We've got one!" some one cried, and he recognized the voice of Gladdus. "Take him away, fellows, and wait for the next. I guess the freshies won't have so many at their spread as they think!" "Kidnapped!" thought Tom disgustedly as he was hustled away in the darkness. "Now they'll have the laugh on me and some of the other fellows all right. They have discovered our countersign or else some one gave it away." CHAPTER XXVIII THE ESCAPE After the first shock of surprise was over Tom struggled against being taken away by his captors. He almost succeeded in breaking loose, but so many came at him, crowding close around him, that by sheer weight of numbers they formed an impassable barrier. "It's all right, freshie, you're hooked good and proper, so don't try to get away," advised a tall youth whom he recognized as Battersby. "All right," agreed Tom good-naturedly, though he by no means intended to give up trying to escape. But he would bide his time. "Where are you going to take me?" he asked. "Oh, a good place. You'll have plenty of company. Take him along, fellows. I'll go back and help capture some more. The idea of these freshies thinking they could pull off a dinner without us getting on to it. The very idea!" and Battersby laughed sarcastically. He and Gladdus had fully recovered from the electric shocks and were probably glad of a chance to make trouble for the freshmen. Tom, in the midst of half a dozen sophomores, was half led, half pushed along a dark path, over the bridge and then down a walk which extended through the woods. He recognized that he was being taken toward a little summer resort on the shores of the lake. Once he thought he saw a chance to break loose as the grips on his arms loosened slightly, but when he attempted it he was handled so roughly that he knew the sophomores had made up their minds to hold on to him at any cost. "You're our first prisoner," explained one lad, "and for the moral effect of it we can't let you get away. You'll have company soon." A little later Tom was thrust into a small shanty. He recognized the place as one that had been used for a soda water and candy booth at the picnic grounds, but which shack had not been opened this season yet, though others near it were in use. There was nothing doing at the grounds on this night and the resort was deserted. "Lock the door," exclaimed some one as Tom was thrust inside. "Then a few of us will have to stand guard and the others can go back and help bring up the rest." Tom staggered against some tables and chairs in the dark interior of the shack. He managed to find a place to sit down. "We're a bright lot of lads," thought the scrub pitcher, "to be taken in after this fashion. We should have stuck together and then we could have fought off the sophs. But it's too late now. I wonder if Sid was caught?" He listened and could hear the retreating steps of his captors. That all had not gone and that some were left on guard was indicated by the low talk that went on outside and by the tramping about the shack of several lads. "Can he get out?" Tom heard some one ask. "No. The place is nailed up tight." "Maybe I can't and maybe I can," mused Tom. "Anyhow I'm going to have a look. Wait until I strike a match." Holding his hat as a protection, so that no gleams would penetrate possible cracks in the door, Tom struck a light and examined the walls of his prison. The shack consisted of only one room and was cluttered up with chairs, tables, benches, counters and other things. Tom at once eliminated from his plan of escape the front, as there he knew the sophomores would remain on guard. He must try either the sides or the back. The sides, he saw, were out of the question, as they contained only small windows, hardly big enough for him to get through. In addition the casements were closed by heavy wooden shutters, nailed fast. "No use trying them," thought Tom. "The back is the only place." This he examined with care, and to his delight he saw what he thought would enable him to get out. This was an opening near the top, and it was closed by a thin wooden shutter swinging on a hinge. "It's nailed fast," Tom remarked when, by dint of lighting many matches inside his hat, he had examined the shutter. "But I can reach it by standing on two chairs, and if I can get it open, I can crawl out and drop to the ground. But how am I going to pull out those big nails?" Indeed it did seem impossible, but Tom was ingenious. His fingers, when he had thrust his hands into his pockets, had touched his keen-bladed knife, the one that had gotten him into trouble about the wire and which had been returned to him by the proctor. "I can cut away the wood around the nails," he thought, and at once he put his plan into operation. He managed to get two chairs, one on top of the other, and mounting upon this perch, he attacked the shutter. Fortunately the wood was soft, and working in the darkness by means of feeling with his fingers around the nails, Tom soon had one spike cut free of the shutter. Then he began on the others, and in half an hour he could raise the solid piece of wood. A breath of the fresh night air came to him. "No glass in it," he exclaimed softly. "That's good. Now to get away and show up at the dinner. I hope they didn't get any other fellows. They haven't brought any more here, that's sure." He listened at the door a moment. "I wish some of our fellows would come back," he heard one of the guards saying. "Yes, it's lonesome here. I wonder if Parsons is still there?" "Sure he is. How could he get away?" "That's so. He couldn't." "Wait a bit," whispered Tom. He again mounted the chairs, and pulling himself up by the edge of the opening, after fastening up the shutter, he prepared to crawl through and drop down outside. "I hope it isn't much of a fall and that the ground is soft," he murmured. Just then he heard a commotion in front of the shack. "They're bringing up some more of our class," he reasoned. "Maybe I can help 'em. Had I better stay in?" He was undecided, and he remained on the edge of the window, partly inside and partly outside the shanty. He heard the door open, and looking back in the semi-darkness, saw that a struggle was going on. He guessed that the sophomores were trying to thrust inside one or more freshmen. Then another shout told Tom that his escape was discovered. "I'll drop down outside," he decided, "and see what I can do toward a rescue." He looked down. In the gloom below the high window was a figure. "Look out, soph, I'm going to drop on you!" cried Tom warningly. He heard a half-smothered exclamation and then he let go, prepared to defend himself against recapture. The fall was longer than he anticipated, for there was a depression at the back of the cabin. He toppled in a heap, and before he could straighten up, he saw some one rushing toward him. Then around the corner of a shack came two figures, one carrying a lantern. "What's up?" they cried together. Tom was aware that the dark figure which he had seen underneath the window was jumping toward him. The light of the lantern shone full on Tom's face. He was in the act of struggling to his feet when he felt some one kick him in the side, and as the toe of a heavy shoe came against his right elbow with crushing force the pain made Tom cry out. The lantern swung in a circle and by the light of it Tom, glancing up, saw Langridge standing over him. It was he who had administered the kick. Then the light appeared to fade away, and Tom felt a strangely dizzy feeling. He seemed to be sinking into a bottomless pit. CHAPTER XXIX ANTICIPATIONS Tom became dimly aware that he was climbing up from some great depth. It was hard work, and he felt as if he was lifting the whole world on his shoulders. No, it was all on one arm--his right--and the pain of it made him wince. Then he realized that some one was calling him, shaking him, and he felt as if he had tumbled, head first, into some snow drift. "Wake up, Tom! Are you all right, old man? What happened? Here, swallow some more water." He opened his eyes. He saw in the darkness some one bending over him. "What's the--where am----" he began, and he was again seized with a feeling of weakness. "You're all right, old chap," he heard some one saying. "You had a bad fall, that's all." "Phil!" he exclaimed. "Yes, it's me, Clinton. They tried to put me in there, but I fought 'em, and then there came a yell for help for the sophs who were bringing up a lot of our fellows, and the ones who had me and those on guard cut for it. I guess our lads got away. I heard a row back here and came to see what it was. Are you all right now? Can you walk? If you can, we'll go on to the dinner. We've beaten out the sophs. Can you manage?" "I--I guess so," replied Tom, who was feeling stronger every moment. If only that terrible pain in his arm would cease. "Where's Langridge?" he asked. "Langridge? He isn't around. I haven't seen him to-night at all," answered Clinton. "Feeling better?" "Yes, I'm all right. Only my arm." "Is it broken?" "No, only bruised. Some one kicked--I guess I must have fallen on it," Tom corrected himself quickly. His mind was in a tumult over what had happened. He had seen Langridge plainly in the light of a lantern carried by one of the sophomores, and he felt that Langridge must have seen him, for the gleam struck full on his face. Yet why had the 'varsity pitcher attacked Tom? Could he have mistaken him for a sophomore? Tom hardly thought so, yet the kick had been a savage one. His arm was swelling from it. "Are you sure they didn't catch Langridge?" asked Tom as he stumbled on beside Phil. "Sure. He said he wasn't going to the dinner at all. Had a date in town with some girl, I believe." Tom winced, not altogether with pain. "Why are you so anxious about Langridge?" went on Phil. "Nothing, only--only I thought I saw him around the shack." "Must have been mistaken. You and I were the only ones they managed to get this far, and they wouldn't have had me, only about a dozen of them tackled me at once." "That's what they did to me," admitted Tom. "Our fellows made a mistake," declared Phil. "We should have been more foxy. However, I think we all got away. The last bunch the sophs tackled were too much for them, and they had to call for help. That's why those at the shack left it. But come on, we'll get to Haddonfield. It isn't very late." Tom did not feel much like going to a dinner, but he repressed his disinclination and bit his lips to keep back little exclamations of pain. Phil and Tom, eluding the sophomores who prowled about in scattered parties, found most of their chums gathered in the hall where the spread was arranged. They were greeted with cheers on their entrance and made to tell their adventures, but Tom did not mention Langridge. He explained his injured arm by saying he had twisted it in his fall. "Hope it doesn't knock you out from pitching, old man," spoke Sid sympathetically. "It would if I had a chance to pitch," responded Tom, "but, as it is, I guess it isn't going to make much difference." Several other freshmen who had been caught by the sophomores, but who managed to escape, came straggling in, filled with excitement, and the dinner was soon under way, with many a toast imbibed in cider, ginger ale or water, to the confusion of the sophomores and the success of the freshmen. "We fooled 'em good and proper!" cried Sid, who had been elected toastmaster. "We put 'em to rout, and now let us eat, drink and make a big noise!" Which they proceeded to do, undisturbed by any further attack of their traditional enemies. Tom's arm pained him so before the dinner was over that he whispered to Phil that he was going to leave. The big center fielder agreed to accompany Tom back to college, and without saying anything to the others to break up the fun, they slipped quietly away. Dr. Marshall, of the faculty, who was a physician as well as an instructor in physics and chemistry, looked critically at Tom's arm when Phil insisted that his chum get medical aid. "You say you got that in a fall?" asked Dr. Marshall, examining Tom's elbow, which was red and much swollen. "In a sort of a fall--yes, sir." "Humph! It was a queer fall that caused that," said the physician. "More like a blow or a kick, I should say. You haven't been trying to ride a horse, have you?" "No, sir." "Ha--hum!" ejaculated the doctor, but he asked no more questions, for he had been a college lad in his day and he knew the ethics of such matters. "You can't play ball for a couple of weeks," he went on, "and you'll have to carry that arm in a sling part of the time." "Can't I pitch on the scrub?" asked Tom in dismay. "Not unless you want to have an operation later," replied Dr. Marshall grimly. Tom sighed, but said no more. Healthy blood in healthy bodies has a marvelous way of recuperating one from injuries, and in a little over a week Tom's arm was so much improved that the doctor allowed him to dispense with the sling. In the middle of the second week Tom started in on light practice at pitching, his place meanwhile on the scrub having been filled by another player. "Now go slow, young man," advised Dr. Marshall as Tom one day sought and obtained permission to take part in a game against the 'varsity nine. "You're only human, you know, but"--he added to himself as Tom hurried away--"you're like a young colt. A fine physique! I wish I were young again," and the good doctor sighed for the lost days of his youth. In the meanwhile Tom had said nothing to Langridge. He reasoned it all out--that the 'varsity pitcher might have been captured as he was, and, in breaking loose, he might have mistaken Tom for one of the sophomores. Nor did Tom communicate in any way his suspicions to his chums. He knew if he began asking questions intended to disclose whether or not Langridge had been among those captured some one would want to know his object. "I might be mistaken," thought Tom, and he honestly hoped that he was. "Anyhow, my arm is better, and I can pitch--at least on the scrub." The game between the first and second teams that day was a "hot" one. Langridge seemed to have recovered mastery of himself and he pitched surprisingly well. Tom, because of his hurt, was not at his best. The 'varsity lads were joyful when they beat the scrub by a big score. "Well, now, if we do as well as that Saturday against Boxer Hall," said Kindlings Woodhouse, "we'll be all to the pepper hash, poetically speaking." "We've got to do a great deal better than this against Boxer," declared Coach Lighton with a shake of his head. "Why?" asked Langridge. "Because much depends on this game. I don't know whether you boys have figured it out, but we have a mighty slim chance for the pennant this year." "Have we any?" asked Sid. "Yes," replied the coach, "and it's just this. If we win the game against Boxer----" "Which we will," declared Langridge confidently. "If we do," went on Mr. Lighton, "and also win the one the following Saturday from Fairview, we will capture the pennant by a narrow margin." "Hurrah!" cried Kindlings. "Not so fast," admonished Mr. Lighton. "You boys will have to play ball as you never played it before and against rather heavy odds." "How's that?" inquired Sid. "Well, both games are away from your own grounds. You are to play Boxer Hall on their diamond and the Fairview game takes place over at the co-ed institution. That means that they'll have a big crowd of rooters out, and you know what an incentive that is." "We'll take a lot too!" cried Holly Cross. "Sure, we'll organize a cheering club," added Bricktop Molloy. "And bring megaphones," declared Jerry Jackson. "And phonographs," echoed his twin brother. "Win the games, that's what you want to do!" said Mr. Lighton. "Win the games! Play ball! Bat your best, you hard hitters. You that aren't so sure, practice. Fielders, get on to every fly as if you had glue on your gloves. Kerr, play close up to the bat. Henderson, you want to practice jumping for high ones, for they do come high when the boys get excited. Langridge----" "Yes, what about me?" drawled the pitcher. "Pitch your very best," said Mr. Lighton, and there was a different meaning in his admonition than before. "Now don't let any chance go by without practice," he added as he turned toward the other members of the nine. "We've got our work cut out for us. I want to see Randall win the pennant." "So do we!" shouted the others in a chorus as the coach left them. And the days that followed were filled with anxiety and anticipation for the members of the nine and those substitutes who hoped for a chance to play. As for Tom Parsons, he felt that if he could pitch in one of the games he would ask for nothing more. But he had small hopes. CHAPTER XXX A GREAT GAME Sid Henderson fairly burst into the room where Tom Parsons was studying. The first baseman strode over to the window, looked out as though he was glaring at some attacking force and then throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed: "It's rotten, that's what it is!" "What?" asked Tom, looking up from his book. "Has Pitchfork been at you again about the Latin?" "No, this is worse. I don't see how we're going to win the game to-morrow. And if we lose!" "Why, what's the matter?" asked Tom, for he had seldom seen his chum so excited. "Matter enough. Langridge is pitching fierce ball. We just had some light work and arranged a code of signals for him and Kerr. Why, you'd think our pitcher didn't have to practice! He seemed to think that all he had to do was to stand up in front of the Boxer players and they'd strike out just to please him. It makes me sick! But that's not the worst of it." "Well, what is?" asked Tom, smiling at Sid's vehemence. "Might as well get it out of your system and you'll feel better." "Oh, you know what it is as well as I do," went on Sid. "There's no use trying to ignore it any longer. I've tried to fight shy of it and so have some of the other fellows, but what's the use? It's enough to make a fellow disgusted so he'll never play on the nine again." "You mean----" began Tom. "I mean that Langridge isn't playing fair. He doesn't train. He's been drinking and smoking on the sly and staying up nights gambling. There's no use mincing words now. I caught him drinking in his dressing-room to-day, and he was in a blue funk for fear I'd tell. Said he had a weak heart and the doctor had told him to take it. Weak heart! Rats! He drinks because he likes it. I tell you if we don't look out, we'll be the laughing stock of the Tonoka Lake League. Langridge can put himself on edge with a drink of that vile stuff and do good work for one or two innings, maybe. Then he'll go all to pieces and where will we be? I know. We'll be tailenders, and it will be his fault. It's a shame! Some one ought to tell Lighton." "Why don't you?" asked Tom quietly. "Oh, you know I can't. No one could go peach like that." "I know. I asked you about it once when I discovered what ailed Langridge. You remember what you said?" "Yes, and I almost wish I'd told you to go and tell. The team would be better off now, even if it was against tradition and ethics and all that rot. It makes me sick! Here we are to go up against a hard proposition to-morrow and every other fellow on the team is as fit as a fiddle except Langridge. He seems to think it's a joke." "What do the other fellows say?" "Well, they don't know as much about him as you and I do. But they are grumbling because Langridge doesn't put enough ginger into his work." "What about Mr. Lighton?" "I don't know. Sometimes I think he suspects and then again I'm not sure. If he really knew what Langridge was doing, I don't believe he'd let him pitch. But you know Langridge has plenty of money and he hasn't any one like a father or mother to keep tabs on him, so he does as he pleases. He's practically supported the team this year, for we haven't made much money. I suppose that's why Kindlings stands for him as he does. Maybe that's why Mr. Lighton doesn't send him to the bench. Langridge's money will do a great deal." "Oh, I shouldn't like to think that because of it he is kept on the team when there's a chance of our losing the pennant." "Neither would I. Maybe I'm wrong about the coach, but what's the use of saying anything? Langridge will pitch for us against Boxer Hall, and--no, I'll not say what I was going to. I believe if we lose that game there'll be such a howl that he won't dare pitch against Fairview. That will give you a chance, Tom, for the last game of the season." "What about Evert?" "Oh, he's practically out of it. He hasn't had any practice to speak of and wouldn't last two minutes. You're in good trim. You did some great work on the scrub yesterday." "Yes, but it's not likely to amount to anything. However, I'm going along and root for you to-morrow." "Yes, we'll need all the support we can get. I declare I'm as nervous as a girl, and I've got to buckle down and prepare for a Latin exam, too." "Can't you let it go?" "No, it's too risky. I'm only on the team now by the epidermis of my molars, as the poet says. If I flunk in Latin it will mean that I can't play against Fairview." "Then don't flunk, for the team needs you." "It needs more than me, but I'm going to try and forget it now and bone away." Tom hoped to have the pleasure of taking Miss Tyler to the game with Boxer Hall, which was to take place on the grounds of that institution, but the girl sent back a regretful little note, saying she had arranged to go with Langridge or, at least, he was to bring her home. "Hang it!" exclaimed Tom. "I thought she was done with him." And, somehow, there was a rather bitter feeling in his heart as he prepared to accompany the other fellows to the great game that Saturday afternoon. He almost made up his mind that he would not bother to speak to Miss Tyler again and then he thought such a course would be silly and he tried to be more philosophical about it, though it was difficult. Never had there been such a crowd out to witness a game on the Boxer diamond. The grandstand was packed long before the teams trotted out for practice and the bleachers were overflowing. A fringe of spectators packed the side lines, and what with the yelling and cheering of the rival factions, the waving of the colors, the tooting of the auto horns in the throng of machines that had brought parties to the contest, there was an air of excitement that might have excused even more veteran players from getting nervous, for the game meant much to both colleges. If Boxer won, it would have a chance to play Fairview for the championship, but if Randall won the privilege would fall to that college. And that both teams had determined to win goes without saying. Almost at the last minute Coach Lighton had told Tom to get ready to go as a substitute, and it was in his field uniform then instead of his ordinary clothes that Tom went to the game. But he had slender hopes of pitching, for Langridge seemed in unusually fine form and that morning at Randall had done some good work. But the orders of the coach could not be disobeyed. So Tom took his place on the bench with the other Randall lads, and, after some practice on the field, his eyes roved over the grandstand in search of a certain face. He fancied he saw where Miss Tyler sat, but he could not be sure. "Langridge will probably go home with her," thought Tom. "He didn't bring her here, for he came in with us." He had little more time for thought, however, as the umpire was getting the new ball from the foil cover and was about to call the game. Boxer had won the toss and elected to bat last, so it was the turn of the visitors to get up first and show what they could do. Langridge was greeted with a cheer from a crowd in the Randall section of the grandstand as he went to the bat. He was popular with the large mass of students in spite of his ways. He seemed in good form and there was a confident air about him as he swung his willow stock to and fro. "Play ball!" called the umpire. Dave Ogden, with a calculating glance at the batsman, tied himself into rather a complicated knot and threw the horsehide. It was right over the plate and Langridge struck viciously at it, but made a clean miss. There was a groan from the Randall supporters and the team looked glum. Langridge, however, was not disconcerted. He was as confident as ever. Once more the ball was hurled toward him. He stepped right up to it, for he knew a pitcher's tricks and there was a resonant crack that made the hearts of his chums leap. He had lined out a "beaut." "Go on! go on! go on!" yelled Coach Lighton. "Leg it, Langridge, leg it!" Langridge was running low and well. The Boxer right fielder had muffed the ball, but made a quick recovery and threw to first. It seemed that Langridge was safe, but the umpire, who had run down toward the bag, called him out. A groan went up from the Randall sympathizers and the team joined in. "That'll do!" cried Captain Woodhouse sharply to his men. "Don't dispute any decisions. Leave that to me. We'll accept it. You're up, Kerr." Kerr was a notoriously good hitter and Ogden gave him his walking papers. Sid Henderson was next at the bat and he knocked a little pop fly, which the second baseman neatly caught, and Sid, shaking his head over his hard luck, went to the bench. Captain Woodhouse himself was next to try, and there was a grim look on his face as he went into the box. It was justified, for he made a safe hit and went to second on a swift grounder that Dutch Housenlager knocked, the ball rolling between the shortstop's fingers. The Randalls would have scored if Bricktop Molloy had hit harder or higher, but the shortstop made as pretty a catch as was seen on the grounds that day, leaping high for the ball, and with Bricktop out it was all over, and a goose egg went up on the scoreboard as the result of the first half of the initial inning. "Now, Langridge, don't let them get any hits off you," implored Kindlings as he and his men went to the field. "Of course not," promised the pitcher easily. His first ball was wild and there was an anxious feeling in the hearts of his chums. But he steadied almost at once and his next two deliveries were called strikes. "Here's where you fan!" he called to Pinky Davenport, who was up. "Do I? Watch me," replied Pinky, but he only hit the wind. "That's the way to do it!" called a shrill voice from the grandstand. "Fine, Langridge!" "All right, don't tell us what your uncle said," retorted the pitcher. "Keep that back, Fenton," for it was the boy with the ever-present relative who had yelled, and there was laughter at the pitcher's jibe. Langridge had never done better work than in that first inning when, after passing the hardest hitter of the Boxers to first purposely, in order to make sure of one of their weakest stick-wielders, the Randall twirler struck him neatly out, and the rivals of Randall were rewarded with a neat little white circle. In the next inning Jerry Jackson was first up and he ingloriously fanned, but Phil Clinton earned fame for himself in the annals of his _alma mater_ by bringing in a home run--the only one of the game. Langridge kept up his phenomenal work and another pale zero went up for Boxer, while Randall had a single mark that loomed big before the eyes of the cheering throng. But the hopes of those who wanted to see Randall win suffered a severe setback, for in the next two innings they could not score, while in each frame for the Boxers there were two runs chalked. "Four to one," remarked Tom to Phil Clinton. "They're crawling up. I wonder if we have any show?" "The game is young yet," answered Phil. "I think we will do them." Randall got one run in the fifth and Langridge was the lucky player who brought it in. He showed his elation. "Oh, we've got 'em on the run!" he cried, and then he went into the dressing-room. There was a queer look on Tom's face as his eyes sought those of Sid, and the latter shook his head. Coach Lighton, too, seemed anxious. He watched for the reappearance of Langridge, but his attention was occupied for a moment when Woodhouse knocked a neat fly. The captain was steaming away for first, but the ball was also on its way there and both arrived about the same time. "Out!" cried the umpire, and a dispute at once arose. The Randalls had to give in, though it was manifestly unfair. When Langridge came out of the dressing-room there was a noticeable change in his manner. His breath smelled of cloves, and Sid, who noticed it, made a despairing gesture. A little later Housenlager hit the breeze strongly and went out, the score at the ending of the fifth inning being 4 to 2 in favor of the Boxer team. "Now, Langridge," said the coach earnestly, "it depends on you. If you can hold them down, we are pretty sure of winning, even if we have to go ten innings, for some of our batters have Ogden's measure." "I'll do it!" cried Langridge. "You watch me!" But he failed miserably. He did manage to strike out two men, for there was snap and vicious vim in the way he delivered the balls, but suddenly, when the influence of the stimulant he had taken wore off, he went to pieces and the Boxers piled in five runs before they were stopped by a remarkable brace in the Randall fielding contingent. There was a steely look in the eyes of Coach Lighton as the Randalls came in for their turn to bat in the sixth inning. "I'll do better next time," promised Langridge, but he spoke rather languidly. "No, you'll not!" exclaimed the coach. "Why not?" and the pitcher seemed suddenly awakened. "Because you're not going to pitch next inning!" "I'm not?" "No, you're not." "I guess I'm manager of this team." "And I'm the coach. I say you shan't pitch any more in this game, or, if you do, I'll resign here and now. Captain Woodhouse, are you with me in this?" "Oh, well, can't you take a rest for a couple of innings, Fred, and pitch the last one?" asked the captain, adding: "if the Boxers will allow us to suspend the rules for you." "If I pitch at all, I'll pitch the whole game!" cried Langridge fiercely. "If you do I resign," was the decision of Mr. Lighton. "Well, it's up to you," said Woodhouse with a shrug of his shoulders, as if ridding himself of the burden. "Whatever you say goes." "All right, then I say Langridge goes to the bench. He's not fit to pitch and he knows it." "What's the matter with me?" demanded the youth haughtily. "Do you want me to tell?" asked Mr. Lighton quickly, with a sharp look. Langridge, without a word, walked into the dressing-rooms. "Parsons will pitch the remainder of the game," went on the coach to the Randall players and he made the necessary announcement to the game officials. "Tom," he called, "come on; you're up in place of Langridge." Tom Parsons' heart gave a great throb. At last he had the chance for which he had waited so long. He was to pitch in a big game! Tom was a good batter. He was also acquainted with many pitchers' tricks, for Mr. Lighton had given him good instruction. Tom was ready for whatever came. The first ball Ogden delivered was an incurve. Tom instinctively stepped back to avoid it, but it went neatly over the plate and a strike was called on him. He shut his teeth hard. He reasoned that Ogden would expect him to be on the lookout the second time for an outcurve, for it might naturally be supposed that the pitcher would vary his delivery. "But he thinks I'm looking for an out," thought Tom. "Therefore he'll give me another in. I'll be ready for it." He was. He stepped right into the next ball, which was an incurve, and with a mighty sweep sent it sailing far over the right fielder's head. It was good for three bases and Tom took them. "Go on! Keep running! That's a beaut! Take another! Make it a homer!" yelled the crowd, which was on its feet shouting like mad, waving hats, hands, handkerchiefs and college colors. "Stay there!" cautioned Coach Lighton, for the ball was being relayed home. Tom's sensational hit seemed to put new life into the team and Bricktop Molloy also brought in a run. That, however, ended the good work. Then came Tom's turn in the box. That he was a little nervous was natural, but he kept control of himself and only allowed one hit, though it was good eventually for a run. There was a noticeable stiffening in the work of the team and the coach congratulated Tom as he came in with his chums to take their turn at the bat again. The seventh inning saw four runs safely laid away for Randall, while the marker put up a neat little ring in the square for Boxer, for Tom struck out two of the three men who were up, one going out on a pop fly, the pitcher having misjudged his batter. Neither side scored in the eighth, and when Randall got three runs in the ninth, and, in spite of strenuous work on the part of Tom, the Boxers got one run that same inning, the score was tied--11 to 11. "Ten innings! They've got to play ten innings!" went the cry around the field. Then came more cheers. It was a game of games and it began to look as if the hoodoo against Randall was broken and that the college had a chance for the pennant. "Three cheers for Tom Parsons!" yelled Ford Fenton, and what a shout there was! "What would your uncle think of him?" asked a student. "He'd say he was all right!" rejoined Ford good-naturedly. Randall got one run in the tenth, putting them ahead, and then came a supreme struggle for Tom. Coolly and calculatingly he delivered the balls. He struck out the first man, who viciously threw down his bat so hard that it splintered. The second man also went the same way, and there was a salvo of cheers that shook the stands, while the stamping of feet of the anxious ones threatened to bring down the structures. Tom measured his next man and sent in a neat little drop. But the batter was a veteran and got under it in time. He sent it well out into the field. "Take it, Jerry! Take it!" cried the coach, for the horsehide seemed about to fall into the right fielder's hands. But he muffed it, and what a howl there was! George Stoddard, who had knocked it, kept on to second, for which he had to slide, but he was called safe. Then Tom was obliged to pass the next man to first, for he was an excellent hitter, while the one who followed him was not. But just then one of those "accidents" that are always cropping up in sport happened and the poor hitter made good, knocking a curious little twisting fly that the first baseman misjudged, and the run came in, again tieing the score. But no more Boxer players crossed home plate. It was with a "do or die" expression on all the faces of the Randalls that they came to bat in the eleventh inning. The story of that game is college history now, and how Tom brought in a run after a magnificent hit that would have been a "homer" but for the fleetness of the opposing center fielder's feet is told to many a freshman. They could do no more, though, after getting one ahead. It needed but a single run on the part of the Boxers to tie the score and two to win. But Tom resolved that they should not get even that one tally. He went to his box, his teeth clenched, making his jaw look firm and square. He resolved to try a new sort of twisting curve that he had used several times against the 'varsity. Each time it had proved deceptive. He worked it on the first man and sent him ingloriously to the bench. Then the second batter fell for it, but Tom dared not try it on the third. He felt himself getting nervous, and his next delivery was a bit wild. A ball was called on him, but that was all. The next three deliveries were strikes, and the batter, though he fanned desperately at them, missed each time. [Illustration: THE BATTER MISSED EACH TIME] "That settles it!" cried Phil Clinton as Tom, with a wildly throbbing heart, walked out of the box, while a hush fell over the assemblage, for the crowd could hardly realize that the game was over and that Randall had won by a score of 13 to 12. "Good work, Parsons! Oh, pretty work!" yelled a host of supporters, and then such cheering as there was! "Come, fellows, a cheer for Boxer Hall!" cried Captain Woodhouse, and it was given, followed by the college yell. Boxer generously retaliated, and as the teams ran for the dressing-rooms Langridge, pale and with trembling hands, stepped out. He was dressed in his street garments, and without a word to his chums, he started across the diamond for the grandstand. "He's going over to her," thought Tom, and the joy of the victory he had helped to win was embittered for him. "Parsons, you did splendidly!" cried Mr. Lighton. "I congratulate you with all my heart. If it hadn't been for you, we'd have lost the game." "Oh, I don't know about that." "Yes, we would. You're the regular pitcher on this team for the remainder of the season, subject, of course, to the confirmation of Captain Woodhouse." "Whatever you say," assented Kindlings, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. "There are only two more games," went on the coach, "one out of town next Saturday, and then comes the final struggle with Fairview. If we win that, we'll have the pennant." "Oh, we'll win!" cried Holly Cross. "Look who's going to pitch for us." "I don't know about that," replied Tom with a laugh, but he was silenced with cheers. "Well, I want you to win that game," concluded the coach as he walked off the diamond and the team got ready to go back to Randall. CHAPTER XXXI LANGRIDGE APPEALS While the stage coach in which the players had come from Randall was being gotten ready to take the victorious nine back Tom strolled across the diamond toward the grandstand. He wanted to be alone for a moment and think, for he had many ideas in his mind, and they were not all connected with his recent work in the pitcher's box. A certain bright-eyed girl figured largely in them. "I thought she'd given him up," he said to himself. "Well, of course, it's none of my affair, but----" There generally was a "but," Tom felt. The crowd was nearly gone and he was about to turn back and join his chums. Suddenly he became aware of a girlish figure alone in the big stand. He looked to make sure who it was, for at the first glimpse he had felt that it was she of whom he was thinking. As he did so the girl looked at him. It was Miss Tyler, and Tom noticed that there were tears in her eyes. He saw nothing of Langridge as he hastened toward her. "Why, Madge--Miss Tyler!" he exclaimed, "what is the matter? Have you lost anything? Are you alone? I thought Fred Langridge was going----" She stamped her little foot. "Please don't speak his name to me!" she exclaimed. Tom opened his eyes. "Why--why----" he stammered. "He came over to me in--in no proper condition to escort me home," she went on tearfully. "Oh, Tom, I'm--I'm so miserable!" She acted as though she were going to break down and cry in real earnest, and Tom was on the anxious edge, for he hated to see girls weep. But she mastered herself with an effort. "May I take you back to Haddonfield?" he asked. "Yes," she said, and she came down from the upper part of the stand to join him. They walked off the field, both silent for a time, and Tom was wondering what would be the safest subject to talk about. But Miss Tyler spoke first. "You did fine work," she said. "I'm--I'm glad you got the chance to pitch." "So am I," declared Tom, "but I'm sorry for----" He did not know whether or not to mention his rival's name. But she understood. "So am I--I'm very sorry for him. It's all his horrid money that's doing it. He wants to be what the boys call a 'sport.' But he isn't. He's unfair to himself--to me. But I'm done with him! I shall never speak to him again." Tom was both glad and sorry. "Do you think you will win from Fairview?" asked the girl after a pause. "I think so." "I hope you do. I want to see that game, but I don't----" "Won't you let me take you?" asked Tom quickly. "We are going in a number of autos and there'll be lots of room." "Oh, I didn't mean to hint so broadly," she exclaimed, and her face crimsoned. "I was going to ask you, anyhow," declared Tom. "Will you go?" "Yes," she replied softly. "And help me to pitch to win," added Tom, and he tried to look into her face, but she averted her eyes. There was great celebrating in Randall that night. Some of the boys wanted to light historic bonfires along the river, which blazes were always kindled on great occasions, but Mr. Lighton reminded the lads that they had still to win the contest with Fairview before they would be champions, and he urged that the game was no easy one. So milder forms of making glad were substituted. Tom was the hero of the hour, and he felt that there had been made up to him everything that he had suffered in being kept so long on the scrub. It was dark in the apartments of Langridge. No one had seen him since the game and few cared about him. "He got just what was coming to him," declared Sid vindictively. "He'd have thrown the game for a drink of liquor and a cigarette. Pah! I've no use for such a chap." "Well, maybe he didn't mean to do it," replied Tom, who could afford to be generous. "He may have taken some to steady his nerves and it went to his head." "Rats! It ought to have gone to his pitching arm. But I've got to bone away. Exams are getting nearer and nearer every day, and the closer they come the less I seem to know about Latin. From now on I'm going to think, eat, sleep and dream in Latin." The following Saturday the team went to the Indian school at Carlisle and played a game with the red men. It was a hard-fought battle and the aborigines made the mistake of putting in a lot of substitutes for the first few innings, for they had a poor opinion of Randall. But the visitors rolled up a good score and Tom was a whirlwind at pitching, holding the red men down to a low score. Then the Indians awakened and sent in some of their best players, but the Randalls had the game "in the refrigerator," as Holly Cross said, and took it home with them, despite the war cries of the redskins and their efforts to annex the scalp-locks of the palefaces. The winning of this game against what was generally considered to be a much stronger team than that of Randall did much to infuse an aggressive spirit into the latter players. The trip, too, acted as a sort of tonic. "Boys, I think we're fit to make the fight of our lives a week from to-day," declared Captain Woodhouse as he and the team were on their way back to college. "We'll wipe the diamond up with Fairview and then maybe that banner won't look fine at the top of our flagstaff." "That's what!" cried Phil Clinton. "I'm ready to play 'em now." "Same here!" cried Pete Backus, giving a great jump up into the air, seemingly to justify his title of "Grasshopper." "My uncle says----" began Ford Fenton, but Holly Cross gave such an imitation of an Indian war whoop that what the former coach had said was lost "in the shuffle." "Great work, old man!" cried Phil Clinton to Tom as he linked his arm in that of the new 'varsity pitcher. "That was a fine catch of yours, to return the compliment," said Tom with a laugh. "Don't go forming a mutual admiration society," advised Mr. Lighton. "Play ball--that's the thing to do." "It's queer what's become of Langridge," remarked Tom to Sid when they were in their room a few nights later, talking over the approaching final game with Fairview. "He seems to have dropped out of sight." "That's where he'd better stay," declared Sid. "He'll never be any more account to the team. We'll have a new manager when we whip Fairview." "If we only do!" "Oh, we will. I only hope I can play." "Why, is there any chance that you won't?" "Well, I'm pretty shaky in Latin, and Pitchfork has warned me that if I slump, it's me to the bench for the rest of this term. I'm going over and see Bricktop Molloy. He's a fiend at Latin. Rather study it than eat. He's been coaching me lately, and I want to get the benefit of it. So I'll just go and bone with him a bit." "Go ahead, old man. Wish I could help you, but I've got to look after my own rations. I'm none too safe." Sid went out and Tom was left alone with his books. But somehow he could not study. He took no sense of the printed page. There was an uneasiness in his mind and he could not put his thoughts into form. "Hang it all!" he exclaimed. "I guess I'm thinking too much of baseball." He got up to take a turn in the corridors to change the current of his thoughts when there came a knock at the door. "Come!" he cried, thinking it would prove to be some of his chums. The portal slowly swung and Tom, looking at the widening crack, saw the pale face of Langridge. "May I come in?" asked the former pitcher, and his voice trembled. "Of course," answered Tom heartily. "Where have you been keeping yourself?" "It doesn't much matter. I--I've come to ask a favor of you, Parsons." "A favor of me?" "Yes, and it's a mighty big one." There was a dogged, determined air about him as he stood there facing his rival who had supplanted him, and Tom wondered what was coming next. "Why, I'll do anything I can for you, Langridge, of course." "Wait until you hear what I want. There's no use beating about the bush, Parsons. I've been mighty mean to you. I've played a low-down hand against you, but I'm not going to apologize--not now. I thought it was fair--in war, you know. I didn't want you to pitch in my place, but you've done me out of it." "I think I acted square," said Tom quietly. "Yes, you did. You were white. I wasn't. I didn't play fair about that wire nor yet about sneaking in the dormitory that night. You did. I suppose you know--about the night you were captured--the night of the freshman dinner." "I think you knew it was I before you----" began Tom. "Yes, I knew it was you before I kicked you," went on Langridge, and he spoke as if he was getting through a disagreeable confession. "I--I didn't mean to boot you so hard, though. I thought maybe you'd give up pitching if you got a good crack on the arm, but you didn't." "No, I'm not that kind." "So I see. Well, you've got what you wanted and I got what I never expected. Now I want you to do me a favor." "What is it?" "I want you to refuse to pitch in the Fairview game." Tom wondered whether he had heard aright. "You want me to refuse----" he began. "That's it," went on Langridge eagerly. "Tell Kindlings--tell Lighton you can't pitch--that your arm has given out." "But it hasn't." "Never mind. Tell them. Tell them anything, as long as you don't pitch." "And why don't you want me to pitch? Do you want to see your college lose? Not because I'm the best pitcher that ever happened, but you know there's no one else they can put in at this late day." "Yes, there is." "Who?" "Me! I'll pitch. I want to pitch. I've just got to. You don't know what it means to me. Let me pitch this last game. Please, Parsons! It won't mean much to you and it means everything to me. I can do it. See, I--I haven't touched a drop since--since the Boxer game. I've been getting in shape. I'm as steady as a rock. I can pitch the game of my life. Come, do! Say you won't pitch. They'll give me a chance then. I want to get in the last game--and win. Will you? Will you let me get in this last game in your place?" He was leaning forward, his hands held out to Tom, his rival, begging a boon of him. "Will you resign in my favor?" he asked. "I know it's a big request, but will you, Parsons?" Tom did not know what to answer. CHAPTER XXXII THE FINAL CONTEST Langridge stood before his rival, waiting. It was quiet in the little room, so quiet that the ticking of the alarm clock sounded loud. Outside could be heard the tramp of feet in the corridor, students going to and fro. Langridge glanced nervously at the door. He was plainly afraid lest some one should enter and find him there. It was a hard problem for Tom to solve. The appeal of the lad who had done much to injure him moved him strongly. He knew what it would mean to Langridge not to pitch--that he would be out of athletics for the rest of his college course. If Tom gave way in his favor, it would mean his rehabilitation and for Tom only a temporary loss of prestige. "Will you do it?" asked Langridge softly. Tom did not answer. He paced up and down the room. What ought he to say? He felt that he could afford to sacrifice his own interests--could even forego the high honor of pitching in what was the greatest game of the college year--for the sake of Langridge. If he did not and if Langridge went away disheartened, it might mean that he would plunge deeper into dissipation. Then there came to Tom the thought of the nine. Was it fair to the others, to the college? Something told him it was not, that it was his duty to pitch--to do his best--to win for the sake of the college and the nine. Langridge might possibly do it, but it was doubtful. The former pitcher could not be sure of himself, sure that he had mastered his desire for stimulant. Then Tom decided, not on his own account but for the sake of the team and the college. "I can't do it, Langridge," he replied, and his voice showed the anguish he felt at the pain he inflicted. "Then you'll pitch?" asked his rival. "Yes, I feel that I must. The team depends on me, and--and I can't go back on them." Langridge must have seen that Tom's answer was final, for without a word he turned and left the room. Then Tom felt a wave of remorse sweep over him. After all, had he done right? Had he done the best thing? He was almost on the point of rushing after Langridge and telling him he could pitch in the final game, for the memory of his face haunted Tom. But when his hand was on the knob of the door Sid entered. "What's the matter?" asked Tom's chum, looking curiously at him. "Nothing. Why?" "You look as if you had been seeing ghosts." "Well, I have--a sort of one," answered Tom with an uneasy laugh. "How'd you make out with the Latin?" "Pretty punk, I guess. Bricktop says I've got to put in all my spare time boning. If I slump and can't play that last game, I'll--I'll----" "Don't you dare slump!" cried Tom earnestly. "We can't put a new man on first at this late day. Don't you dare slump, Sid." "Oh, I'll try not to," and Sid dumped himself down in the easy chair and with an air of dogged determination began devouring Latin verbs. The 'varsity had had its final practice against the scrub, with Tom in the box for the first team. He was beginning to take it as a matter of course and acquiring that which he needed most--confidence in himself. The scrub pitcher who had replaced him was good, but he was pretty well batted, while very few hits, and these only one-baggers, were secured off Tom. "Boys," said Mr. Lighton two days before the game, "I think I can see our way clear to the Tonoka Lake League pennant. Now take it easy to-morrow, a little light exercise, be careful of what you eat, don't get nervous, go to bed early and sleep well. Then Saturday afternoon we'll go to Fairview and bring back the banner." "Three cheers for our coach!" called Kerr, and Mr. Lighton, veteran that he was, blushed with pleasure. "I hope we win," remarked Ford Fenton as the team walked to the dressing-rooms. "My uncle says----" But Kerr threw his big catching mitt with such good aim that it struck Fenton full in the face. "Here--huh! ho! What'd you do that for?" he demanded. "I didn't want you to wear out that uncle of yours," was the cool answer. "It's getting warm weather now and you'd better can him so he'll keep until next year." Ford scowled and then laughed, for he was good-natured in spite of his one failing. Sid entered the room where Tom was late that afternoon with a worried look on his face. "What's the matter?" asked Tom in alarm. "Pitchfork has decided to have a special Latin exam to-morrow for my class. Wow! I was counting on it going over, but it won't, and I've got to take it to-morrow." "Well?" "No, not well--bad. If I slump, do you know what it means?" "You can't play against Fairview?" "Exactly. Oh, Tom, I'm as nervous as a girl before her first big party. Here, coach me a bit," and Tom, taking the books, gave Sid what help he could until they were both so tired and sleepy that Tom insisted that bed was the only place for them. The news spread the next day. Sid was the only member of the team who was in the special Latin class, and consequently the only one who had to go through the ordeal. When he went into recitation his mates on the team gathered in silent conclave on the diamond. "If Sid slumps," spoke Captain Woodhouse, "I don't----" "Don't talk about it," pleaded Bricktop Molloy. "If he does, couldn't we play Langridge on first?" suggested Phil Clinton. "He used to practice there." "Langridge is down and out," declared Kerr. "I don't know what's come over him. He won't speak to me any more. I guess he knows he's got to do a lot of studying to pass, and he must be tutoring with some grind. He keeps himself mighty scarce. I don't believe he'd play." "No, we couldn't use him," said Kindlings. "It all depends on Sid. I wish the exam was over. It's like waiting for a jury to come in." The whole team was on tenterhooks. No one felt like talking, and some one would start a topic only to witness it die a natural death. The members of the nine paced to and fro on the diamond. They were waiting for news from Sid. If he did not pass he could not play, and it practically meant a lowering of their chances for the pennant. An hour went by. A few lads began coming from the recitation room where the examination was being held. "Some of them have finished," commented Tom. "Let's ask 'em how Sid's making out." One of the Latin students strolled over toward where the ball players were. "How's Henderson doing?" asked Kindlings. "Sweating like a cart horse," was the characteristic answer. "It's a stiff exam all right." There was a groan in concert and the anxious waiting was resumed. Fifteen minutes passed. Several more students had come from the room. "Where can he be?" murmured Tom. "There he comes!" cried Phil Clinton as Sid appeared, coming slowly toward the group. "I'll bet he failed," said Kindlings solemnly. Certainly in Sid's approach there was not the air of a conqueror. All at once he stopped, bent down to the ground and appeared to be tearing something to pieces. "What's he doing?" asked Tom. "Let's go see," proposed Kerr. They advanced and beheld a curious sight. Sid was tearing up a book and making a little heap of the leaves. A moment later he touched a match to the pile, and the paper began to burn. "What in the world are you doing?" called Tom. "Did you pass?" fairly roared Kindlings. "Sure," replied Sid as calmly as if he had always expected to. "I passed with honors, and now I'm destroying the evidence. I'm applying the torch to Cæsar's Commentaries and I'll never open a book like it again in my life. Come on, fellows, join the festive throng. Tra la la! Merrily do we sing." He began prancing about and the others, with yells of joy, joined in. Sid would cover first base for them in the big game. With a tooting of auto horns, the waving of many flags, shouts, cheers, yells of encouragement, laughter from many pretty girls, the waving of handkerchiefs, renditions of the college yell the ball nine and its supporters started the next day in a long cavalcade for Fairview. Several automobiles had been provided for the use of the team, and in one of these rode Tom and Miss Tyler, whom he had called for at her home that morning. A number of ladies went along as chaperones for the girls of Haddonfield. Dr. Churchill and most of the faculty also went to the game. "Aren't you coming, Professor Tines?" asked the head of the college as he and the other instructors were about to start. "No, I don't care much for baseball. I shall remain here and arrange for another Latin examination for some of the students." Sid groaned and his chums laughed, whereat Professor Tines frowned. "Do you think you'll win?" asked Miss Tyler as she sat next to Tom. "I'm sure of it," he answered promptly. When the Randall team and its supporters arrived they found a big throng present to greet them. Even their opponents sent out a ringing cheer of welcome. The Fairview nine was out on the diamond practicing. "Snappy work," observed Tom critically as the batting and catching was under way. "Oh, we can do just as good," asserted Kindlings. "Don't get nervous now. You've got to pitch your head off." Some one started the Randall college song, "_Aut vincere aut mori_," and as the beautiful strains floated over the diamond when the players poured out from the dressing-rooms the team came to a sudden halt. "That's it, fellows," said Kindlings solemnly, "'Either we conquer or we die!' Play for all that's in you and then some more," and he laughed. Auto horns tooted blatantly, girls cried in their clear, shrill voices, the lady contingent of Fairview rendering some weird yells. Then there were the hoarse voices of the boys, to which answered the cheers of Randall. The grandstand and bleachers were waving geometrical figures of brilliant hues. It was an inspiring sight. No wonder that the players felt nerved to do their best, for on the result of the game depended much. Kindlings missed the call when the coin was spun, and he and his men had to start the hitting. But they did not mind this, and when, in the revised batting order, Kerr went up first, he "poked his stick into the horsehide for a two-bagger," as Holly Cross said. There was a yell that could have been heard a mile and every Randall lad was on his feet shouting: "Go on! go on! go on!" But Kerr stopped at second prudently, for he would have been nabbed at third. This opened the game and the play at once became hot. Randall scored two runs that inning and Tom, giving walking papers to a particularly heavy hitter, managed to come out of the initial ordeal without a hit being registered against him. The Randall boys went wild then and began the song, "When Fairview awoke from her sweet dream of peace," which was repeated again and again. But the next three innings saw only the negative sign chalked up in the frame on the scoreboard given over to Randall, while in the last half of the fourth Fairview secured a run, for one of the players "got the Indian sign" on Tom, to quote Holly Cross, who was an expert in diamond slang, and "bit his initials in the spheroid for a three-bagger." The run would not have been scored, for there were two men out, only Joe Jackson made what seemed to be an inexcusable fumble, and the runner came in. Still it looked safe for Randall until the fatal seventh inning. For some teams this is held to be a lucky one, but it was not for Randall. Tom was doing his best, but in delivering one ball he gave his arm a peculiar wrench, and a sharp twinge of pain in the region where Langridge had kicked him made him wince. After that he could not control his curves so well, and three men made safeties off him, a trio of runs being registered. The score was 4 to 2 in favor of Fairview at the close of the seventh. Kindlings looked grave and Coach Lighton paced nervously to and fro. "What's the matter, old man?" the captain asked Tom. "Nothing much," was the answer. "I gave my arm a little twist, that's all." "Come inside and we'll massage it," proposed Mr. Lighton, who was always ready for emergencies, and he and Kindlings rubbed some liniment on Tom's joint. It felt a little better, and Tom said so, though when he went into the box, following an inning when Bricktop Molloy brought in one run, the pitcher was in considerable misery. He shut his teeth grimly, however, and resolved to do his best, though to deliver his most effective curves meant to give himself much pain. Tom only allowed two hits and one run came in, making the score at the ending of the eighth inning 5 to 3 in favor of Fairview. How the co-eds shouted and cheered then and there was corresponding gloom among the Randallites until once more that grand old song, "_Aut vincere aut mori_," welled forth and gave confidence to an almost despairing nine. "It's about our last chance, fellows," said Kindlings grimly as he walked to the bat. He waited for a good ball, though two strikes were called on him, and then, with a mighty sweep of his strong arms, he sent the sphere away out into the field. "A good hit! Oh, a pretty hit!" yelled Phil Clinton. "Run, old man! Run!" And how Kindlings could run! On and on he leaped, around first base, speeding toward second, while the stands were in a frenzy of excitement. "Third! third!" cried the coach, for the left fielder was still after the ball. Kindlings was running strong, and he had now started home. Would he reach it? The fielder had the ball now. With a terrific heave he sent it to the third baseman, but Kindlings was half way home. Then ensued a curious scene. The baseman was afraid to throw the ball to the catcher, for Kindlings, who was tall and was running upright, was in the way. The baseman started to trail the captain down. There was a race. Kindlings looked back and decided to keep on to home. The catcher was leaping about excitedly. "Throw the ball! throw the ball!" he yelled. But the baseman thought he could outrun Kindlings. He almost succeeded and then, when he saw it was too late, he tossed the ball over the captain's head to the catcher. Kindlings dropped and, amid a cloud of dust, slid home. Like a flash the hand of the catcher holding the ball shot toward him. There was a moment of suspense. "Safe!" howled the umpire, and one more run went to the credit of Randall. Tom brought in another not so sensational, but it counted. He knocked a pretty fly, which sailed over the second baseman's head and the pitcher got to first, stole second and came in with a rush on a swift grounder bunt that Phil Clinton sacrificed on under orders. CHAPTER XXXIII VICTORY "The score is tie! the score is tie!" came the yells. And so it was--5 to 5 in the last half of the ninth inning. From the Randall stand came the chorus of the song, "We have their measure, we'll beat them at pleasure!" The game, however, was far from won. There were a bunch of heavy hitters to come to the bat, and Tom's arm was in poor shape. But he said nothing and walked to the box with a step as light as though he knew he was to win. When he gave two men their bases on balls there was some groaning among the Randallites, but Tom knew what he was doing. Lem Sellig and Frank Sullivan were generally good for safeties, and he could afford to take no chances. He had the measure of the next three men and he took it. Seldom had the devotees of the diamond witnessed such pitching as the exhibition which Tom gave after he had allowed the heavy hitters to walk. No one ever knew what he suffered as he delivered his most effective curves, but the cheering that resulted when he had struck his third man out, without allowing a player to get to third base, must have warmed his heart. "A ten-inning game!" was the cry, for the score still stood tie. Over in the grandstand Ford Fenton, who was cheer leader, called for the "Brace, brace, brace" song and it came in a mighty chorus. "Only one run! only one!" pleaded hundreds of Randall lads. "One run to beat 'em, and then Tom Parsons will strike 'em out!" Tom heard it and smiled. His arm had been given another rubbing, and though it pained him, he went to the bat first in the tenth inning with a confident step. Somewhere on the grandstand he knew a girl was watching him, and he tried to single her out. Could that be she standing up and waving a yellow and maroon flag at him? He hoped so, and he gritted his teeth, resolving to hit the ball for all that was in him. There was a steely look in the pitcher's eye as he delivered a vicious ball to Tom. Tom saw it coming and stepped up to it. He remembered a former experience. His bat got under it and he lifted and hit it outwardly in a long, upward curve. "Too high! too high! He's gone!" murmured Kindlings sadly, but Tom was off for first like a deer. In some unaccountable manner the right fielder muffed the ball and there were groans of anguish. Tom started for second, but was warned back. Later he did manage to "purloin the bag like a second-story man getting away with a diamond necklace," to quote Holly Cross, and went to third on a pop fly by Housenlager, who never got to first. Then, on a sacrifice hit by Kerr, Tom slid home, the dust cloud being so thick that the spectators could not witness the play. "Safe!" declared the umpire, and this meant that a run had been added to the score for Randall, making the tally 6 to 5 in their favor. Tom was pale when he arose. "Hurt?" asked Kindlings anxiously. "No," was the answer, but Tom had to bite his lips to keep back a groan of pain. He had jarred his sore arm badly. Though Randall tried desperately to better the score, it was not to be. Their only hope now lay in keeping their opponents from making a run, and, if they did, they would have the game and the championship. Tom felt as if he would collapse, and his first ball, instead of being a puzzling drop as he intended, went straight over the plate distressingly slow, so that Ted Puder, captain of the Fairview team, hit it mightily. Up and up it went, a black speck against the blue sky, while the youths and maidens of the institute were yelling encouragingly to the runner, who had started for first. "Oh, if he only gets it! If he only can get it!" murmured Kindlings as he watched Phil Clinton race after the ball. It was a long, high fly, and Phil had to sprint well toward the back field to even get under it. He had turned and was racing with all his might. Would he judge it properly? Could he hold it after he got it? He had turned again, and with his eye on the ball was running backward now. He stumbled over a stone and seemed about to fall. There was a groan from the Randallites, but Phil recovered himself. The ball was almost over his head when he saw that he had not gone far enough back. It was too late to take another step, but Phil did the next best thing. He leaped up, and, with his right hand extended as far as it would stretch, he caught the ball. It was a mighty fine play and the yells and applause that followed testified to it. "Runner's out!" decided the umpire. Tom breathed easier. His heart had been in his throat when he saw what had happened to the first ball he delivered. But Phil had made good. "What a magnificent catch!" exclaimed Dr. Churchill as he adjusted his glasses, that had been knocked off in the excitement. "Yes," admitted another member of the faculty who sat near him. "And how Clinton can run! I'd like to see him on the gridiron." "Perhaps you will," went on Dr. Churchill. "The boys will soon organize the eleven." Tom's nerve came back to him. Now he didn't mind the pain in his arm. There was one man out and Tom's team was a run ahead. If he could only strike out two more men the championship would be safe. The next batter was easy, for he was a poor hitter, and Tom soon sent him to the bench. The following player was one of the best stick-wielders Fairview had. "If I can only get him," thought the pitcher. Warily Tom delivered to him an inshoot. It was missed cleanly, but a look in the batter's eye warned the pitcher that another such curve would not fool him. Tom sent in a puzzling drop and the batter struck over it. "Two strikes!" called the umpire, amid almost breathless silence. Kerr signaled for another incurve, but Tom shook his head. He was going to deliver a style of ball he had used but once before that day because it twisted his arm fiercely. It was a sort of "fade-away" ball, made famous by a great professional player. Tom drew his arm back, having gripped the ball strongly. The action made him wince with pain, but there was no time now to stop for that. Out straightened his muscles and the horsehide left his hand swiftly. He knew it was a good ball, but in spite of that he almost feared lest he should hear the fatal "ping" as the bat hit it or listen to the umpire's "ball one." Tom felt that he could not toss another curve. His arm was numb and tingled away up to his shoulder. He saw a black wall looming up before his eyes and there was a ringing in his ears. But above the tumult he heard a voice shouting: "Three strikes! Batter's out!" Oh, what yelling there was! How the handkerchiefs and banners fluttered! How the girls' shrill voices mingled with the deep cheering of the boys! What a stamping of feet on the grandstand! Then out from the tumult came booming that heart-stirring song of Randall: "We have come and we have conquered!" Tom staggered as he pulled off his glove and walked toward the bench. His mouth was parched and dry. "Oh, good old man!" yelled Kindlings, rushing up and embracing him. "Oh, fine! Oh, great! Oh, oh, oh! Wow!" "Up with him, fellows!" called Sid Henderson. "On our shoulders!" "No, no!" protested Tom. But he might as well have talked to the wind. They lifted him up and marched with him around the field, singing again: "We have come and we have conquered!" "Now, fellows, a good round of cheers for Fairview," proposed Kindlings, and the team, gathering in a circle about Tom, who had managed to descend to the ground, raised their voices in a tribute to those over whom they had been victorious. From where they were gathered, downcast but not disheartened at their defeat, the Fairview team sent back an answering cheer. Then came more songs from the contingent of Randall students, and many an "old grad" walked with a prouder step that day, for once more, after many seasons, the bird of victory had come back to hover over the college on the river and the championship banner would float from the flagstaff on the campus. Tom and his chums dispersed to dress. A crowd surrounded the victorious pitcher. "Let me congratulate you, Parsons," said Dr. Churchill, making his way through the throng. "You have brought honor to the college," and he shook Tom's hand heartily. "The rest of them did as much as I," replied Tom modestly. "If it hadn't been for Clinton's run, I'm afraid we'd have lost after all." "You get out!" cried Phil. "May I also congratulate you?" asked a voice at Tom's elbow, and he turned to see Miss Tyler. His face, which was pale from pain, flushed, and as she held out her hand he hesitated, for his was all stained from the dirt of the ball, while hers was daintily gloved. "As if I minded that!" she cried as she saw him hesitate, and she took his hand in both hers, to the no small damage of the new gloves. "I knew you'd do it," she said, while she smiled happily. "Oh, Tom, I'm so glad!" "So am I," he answered, and after that the pain in his arm did not seem so bad. What a triumphant procession it was that wended its way toward Randall that afternoon! How song followed song and cheer was piled upon cheer! Tom sat in the corner of a big auto, with Miss Tyler at his side. He had to put his arm in a sling and he was overwhelmed with questions as to how he felt, while the number of sweaters offered him as cushions would have stocked a furnishing store. "Oh, boy, but you're a daisy!" exclaimed Sid a few hours later when he and Tom, after a good bath, were resting in their room. "As if you didn't cover first base as it never has been covered before," declared Tom. "Oh, well, that was easy for me after I passed that Latin exam. But you and your arm--I don't see how you did it." "And don't forget Phil Clinton. That was one of the greatest runs and catches I ever saw." "Oh, yes, it certainly was great. But did you hear the news? Phil isn't going to play any more, at least for the present." "Why not?" "He is going into training for our football eleven this fall. Some of the older heads think he'll make a great player." "I've no doubt he will," said Tom. "He's built for it." And what Tom said was true, as we shall learn in our next tale, to be called "A Quarter-back's Pluck." In that story we shall meet Tom and Sid and all the boys of Randall College again and also Miss Madge Tyler, and learn the particulars of several fiercely contested games on the gridiron. "No, sir, I don't really see how you did it," repeated Sid, "with such a sore arm as that." "I don't see, either," answered Tom, but he knew that the memory of a certain girl had done as much to keep him up as had his desire to make his team win. Some one knocked at the door. "More congratulatory calls," said Sid as he went to open it. "May I come in?" asked a voice, and Langridge stood in the corridor. Tom arose from the couch where he was lying. "Come on in," he said quietly. "I--I just want to congratulate you, dominie," he said, and he smiled a little, but there was a curious note in his voice. "You did magnificent work. I could never have equaled it in a thousand years. Will you shake hands?" Sid wondered at the queer air of restraint about Langridge, but Tom understood, and there was heartiness and forgiveness in the grip that followed. "I've resigned as manager," went on Langridge. "I--I hope they'll elect you, dominie. We won't be rivals any more." "Are you going to leave college?" asked Sid curiously. "No. I'm going to give up athletics for a while, though, and become a grind. I've been beaten two ways lately," he went on. "Parsons is a better pitcher than I am, and--and----" but he did not finish, though Tom knew he referred to Miss Tyler. Then Langridge went out and Sid and Tom played the game all over again in talk. Suddenly there was a shout out on the campus. Tom looked from the window. "What is it?" asked Sid. "They're getting ready for the procession and the bonfires along the river. Come on." The two chums rushed downstairs, Phil Clinton joining them on the way. Out on the green was a throng of students, every one in the college. "Three cheers for Tom Parsons, the best pitcher that ever tossed a ball!" called some one. How the yells resounded again and again, with innumerable tigers and other wild and ferocious beasts added! "Fall in! fall in! Down to the fires along the river!" commanded Captain Woodhouse. "Oh, but this is a great day!" "That's what," added Ford Fenton. "My uncle says----" But his voice was drowned in the shout that followed, and then came that inspiring song, "_Aut vincere aut mori_." And many fires of victory blazed along Sunny River that night. THE END THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES By LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors._ _Price 75 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] _Mr. Chadwick has played on the diamond and on the gridiron himself._ 1. THE RIVAL PITCHERS _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons, a "hayseed," makes good on the scrub team of Randall College. 2. A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK _A Story of College Football_ A football story, told in Mr. Chadwick's best style, that is bound to grip the reader from the start. 3. BATTING TO WIN _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons and his friends Phil and Sid are the leading players on Randall College team. There is a great game. 4. THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN _A Story of College Football_ After having to reorganize their team at the last moment, Randall makes a touchdown that won a big game. 5. FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL _A Story of College Athletics_ The winning of the hurdle race and long-distance run is extremely exciting. 6. THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS _A Story of College Water Sports_ Tom, Phil and Sid prove as good at aquatic sports as they are on track, gridiron and diamond. _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE JACK RANGER SERIES By CLARENCE YOUNG _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _Price 75 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional_ [Illustration] _Lively stories of outdoor sports and adventure every boy will want to read._ 1. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL DAYS _or The Rivals of Washington Hall_ You will love Jack Ranger--you simply can't help it. He is bright and cheery, and earnest in all he does. 2. JACK RANGER'S WESTERN TRIP _or From Boarding School to Ranch and Range_ This volume takes the hero to the great West. Jack is anxious to clear up the mystery surrounding his father's disappearance. 3. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL VICTORIES _or Track, Gridiron and Diamond_ Jack gets back to Washington Hall and goes in for all sorts of school games. There are numerous contests on the athletic field. 4. JACK RANGER'S OCEAN CRUISE _or The Wreck of the Polly Ann_ How Jack was carried off to sea against his will makes a "yarn" no boy will want to miss. 5. JACK RANGER'S GUN CLUB _or From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail_ Jack organizes a gun club and with his chums goes in quest of big game. They have many adventures in the mountains. 6. JACK RANGER'S TREASURE BOX _or The Outing of the Schoolboy Yachtsmen_ Jack receives a box from his father and it is stolen. How he regains it makes an absorbing tale. _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE GREAT MARVEL SERIES BY ROY ROCKWOOD _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Stories of adventures in strange places, with peculiar people and queer animals._ 1. THROUGH THE AIR TO THE NORTH POLE _or The Wonderful Cruise of the Electric Monarch_ The tale of a trip to the frozen North with a degree of reality that is most convincing. 2. UNDER THE OCEAN TO THE SOUTH POLE _or The Strange Cruise of the Submarine Wonder_ A marvelous trip from Maine to the South Pole, telling of adventures with the sea-monsters and savages. 3. FIVE THOUSAND MILES UNDERGROUND _or The Mystery of the Center of the Earth_ A cruise to the center of the earth through an immense hole found at an island in the ocean. 4. THROUGH SPACE TO MARS _or The Most Wonderful Trip on Record_ This book tells how the journey was made in a strange craft and what happened on Mars. 5. LOST ON THE MOON _or In Quest of the Field of Diamonds_ Strange adventures on the planet which is found to be a land of desolation and silence. 6. ON A TORN-AWAY WORLD _or Captives of the Great Earthquake_ After a tremendous convulsion of nature the adventurers find themselves captives on a vast "island in the air." 7. THE CITY BEYOND THE CLOUDS _or Captured by the Red Dwarfs_ The City Beyond the Clouds is a weird place, full of surprises, and the impish Red Dwarfs caused no end of trouble. There is a fierce battle in the woods and in the midst of this a volcanic eruption sends the Americans sailing away in a feverish endeavor to save their lives. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York _The Boy Hunters Series_ _By Captain Ralph Bonehill_ 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid. [Illustration] FOUR BOY HUNTERS _Or, The Outing of the Gun Club_ A fine, breezy story of the woods and waters, of adventures in search of game, and of great times around the campfire, told in Captain Bonehill's best style. In the book are given full directions for camping out. GUNS AND SNOWSHOES _Or, The Winter Outing of the Young Hunters_ In this volume the young hunters leave home for a winter outing on the shores of a small lake. They hunt and trap to their heart's content, and have adventures in plenty, all calculated to make boys "sit up and take notice." A good healthy book; one with the odor of the pine forests and the glare of the welcome campfire in every chapter. YOUNG HUNTERS OF THE LAKE _Or, Out with Rod and Gun_ Another tale of woods and waters, with some strong hunting scenes and a good deal of mystery. The three volumes make a splendid outdoor series. OUT WITH GUN AND CAMERA _Or, The Boy Hunters in the Mountains_ Takes up the new fad of photographing wild animals as well as shooting them. An escaped circus chimpanzee and an escaped lion add to the interest of the narrative. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE BOB DEXTER SERIES BY WILLARD F. BAKER _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid_ [Illustration] _This is a new line of stories for boys, by the author of the Boy Ranchers series. The Bob Dexter books are of the character that may be called detective stories, yet they are without the objectionable features of the impossible characters and absurd situations that mark so many of the books in that class. These stories deal with the up-to-date adventures of a normal, healthy lad who has a great desire to solve mysteries._ 1. BOB DEXTER AND THE CLUB-HOUSE MYSTERY _or The Missing Golden Eagle_ This story tells how the Boys' Athletic Club was despoiled of its trophies in a strange manner, and how, among other things stolen, was the Golden Eagle mascot. How Bob Dexter turned himself into an amateur detective and found not only the mascot, but who had taken it, makes interesting and exciting reading. 2. BOB DEXTER AND THE BEACON BEACH MYSTERY _or The Wreck of the Sea Hawk_ When Bob and his chum went to Beacon Beach for their summer vacation, they were plunged, almost at once, into a strange series of events, not the least of which was the sinking of the Sea Hawk. How some men tried to get the treasure off the sunken vessel, and how Bob and his chum foiled them, and learned the secret of the lighthouse, form a great story. 3. BOB DEXTER AND THE STORM MOUNTAIN MYSTERY _or The Secret of the Log Cabin_ Bob Dexter came upon a man mysteriously injured and befriended him. This led the young detective into the swirling midst of a series of strange events and into the companionship of strange persons, not the least of whom was the man with the wooden leg. But Bob got the best of this vindictive individual, and solved the mystery of the log cabin, showing his friends how the secret entrance to the house was accomplished. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, PUBLISHERS New York THE MOTOR BOYS SERIES By _Clarence Young_ [Illustration] _12mo. illustrated_ _Price per volume, 50 cents._ _Postage, extra, 10 cents_ _Bright up-to-date stories, full of information as well as of adventure. Read the first volume and you will want all the others written by Mr. Young._ 1. THE MOTOR BOYS _or Chums through Thick and Thin_ 2. THE MOTOR BOYS OVERLAND _or A Long Trip for Fun and Fortune_ 3. THE MOTOR BOYS IN MEXICO _or The Secret of the Buried City_ 4. THE MOTOR BOYS ACROSS THE PLAINS _or The Hermit of Lost Lake_ 5. THE MOTOR BOYS AFLOAT _or The Cruise of the Dartaway_ 6. THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE ATLANTIC _or The Mystery of the Lighthouse_ 7. THE MOTOR BOYS IN STRANGE WATERS _or Lost in a Floating Forest_ 8. THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE PACIFIC _or The Young Derelict Hunters_ 9. THE MOTOR BOYS IN THE CLOUDS _or A Trip for Fame and Fortune_ 10. THE MOTOR BOYS OVER THE ROCKIES _or A Mystery of the Air_ 11. THE MOTOR BOYS OVER THE OCEAN _or A Marvelous Rescue in Mid-Air_ 12. THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE WING _or Seeking the Airship Treasure_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES By LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Illustrated. Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] 1. BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS _or The Rivals of Riverside_ 2. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE _or Pitching for the Blue Banner_ 3. BASEBALL JOE AT YALE _or Pitching for the College Championship_ 4. BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE _or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_ 5. BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE _or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles_ 6. BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS _or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_ 7. BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES _or Pitching for the Championship_ 8. BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD _or Pitching on a Grand Tour_ 9. BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING _or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record_ 10. BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE _or Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy_ 11. BASEBALL JOE CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM _or Bitter Struggles on the Diamond_ 12. BASEBALL JOE CHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE _or The Record that was Worth While_ 13. BASEBALL JOE CLUB OWNER _or Putting the Home Town on the Map_ 14. BASEBALL JOE PITCHING WIZARD _or Triumphs Off and On the Diamond_ _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York SEA STORIES FOR BOYS BY JOHN GABRIEL ROWE _Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Colored jacket_ _=Price per volume, $1.00 Net=_ [Illustration] _Every boy who knows the lure of exploring and who loves to rig up huts and caves and tree-houses to fortify himself against imaginary enemies will enjoy these books, for they give a vivid chronicle of the doings and inventions of a group of boys who are shipwrecked and have to make themselves snug and safe in tropical islands where the dangers are too real for play._ 1. CRUSOE ISLAND Dick, Alf and Fred find themselves stranded on an unknown island with the old seaman Josh, their ship destroyed by fire, their friends lost. 2. THE ISLAND TREASURE With much ingenuity these boys fit themselves into the wild life of the island they are cast upon in storm. 3 THE MYSTERY OF THE DERELICT Their ship and companions perished in tempest at sea, the boys are adrift in a small open boat when they spy a ship. Such a strange vessel!--no hand guiding it, no soul on board,--a derelict. 4. THE LIGHTSHIP PIRATES Modern Pirates, with the ferocity of beasts, attack a lightship crew;--recounting the adventures that befall the survivors of that crew,--and--"RETRIBUTION." 5. THE SECRET OF THE GOLDEN IDOL Telling of a mutiny, and how two youngsters were unwillingly involved in one of the weirdest of treasure hunts,--and--"THE GOLDEN FETISH." _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BOMBA BOOKS By ROY ROCKWOOD _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. With colored jacket._ [Illustration] _Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ _Bomba lived far back in the jungles of the Amazon with a half-demented naturalist who told the lad nothing of his past. The jungle boy was a lover of birds, and hunted animals with a bow and arrow and his trusty machete. He had a primitive education in some things, and his daring adventures will be followed with breathless interest by thousands._ 1. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY _or The Old Naturalist's Secret_ 2. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE MOVING MOUNTAIN _or The Mystery of the Caves of Fire_ 3. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE GIANT CATARACT _or Chief Nasconora and His Captives_ 4. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON JAGUAR ISLAND _or Adrift on the River of Mystery_ 5. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE ABANDONED CITY _or A Treasure Ten Thousand Years Old_ 6. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON TERROR TRAIL _or The Mysterious Men from the Sky_ 7. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE SWAMP OF DEATH _or The Sacred Alligators of Abarago_ 8. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AMONG THE SLAVES _or Daring Adventures in the Valley of Skulls_ _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BOYS' OUTING LIBRARY _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full color._ _Price, per volume, 50 cents. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] =THE SADDLE BOYS SERIES= By CAPT. JAMES CARSON The Saddle Boys of the Rockies The Saddle Boys in the Grand Canyon The Saddle Boys on the Plains The Saddle Boys at Circle Ranch The Saddle Boys on Mexican Trails =THE DAVE DASHAWAY SERIES= By ROY ROCKWOOD Dave Dashaway the Young Aviator Dave Dashaway and His Hydroplane Dave Dashaway and His Giant Airship Dave Dashaway Around the World Dave Dashaway: Air Champion =THE SPEEDWELL BOYS SERIES= By ROY ROCKWOOD The Speedwell Boys on Motorcycles The Speedwell Boys and Their Racing Auto The Speedwell Boys and Their Power Launch The Speedwell Boys in a Submarine The Speedwell Boys and Their Ice Racer =THE TOM FAIRFIELD SERIES= By ALLEN CHAPMAN Tom Fairfield's School Days Tom Fairfield at Sea Tom Fairfield in Camp Tom Fairfield's Pluck and Luck Tom Fairfield's Hunting Trip =THE FRED FENTON ATHLETIC SERIES= By ALLEN CHAPMAN Fred Fenton the Pitcher Fred Fenton in the Line Fred Fenton on the Crew Fred Fenton on the Track Fred Fenton: Marathon Runner _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE WEBSTER SERIES By FRANK V. WEBSTER [Illustration] Mr. Webster's style is very much like that of the boys' favorite author, the late lamented Horatio Alger, Jr., but his tales are thoroughly up-to-date. _Cloth. 12mo. Over 200 pages each. Illustrated. Stamped in various colors._ _Price per volume, 50 cents._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ Only a Farm Boy _or Dan Hardy's Rise in Life_ The Boy from the Ranch _or Roy Bradner's City Experiences_ The Young Treasure Hunter _or Fred Stanley's Trip to Alaska_ The Boy Pilot of the Lakes _or Nat Morton's Perils_ Tom the Telephone Boy _or The Mystery of a Message_ Bob the Castaway _or The Wreck of the Eagle_ The Newsboy Partners _or Who Was Dick Box?_ Two Boy Gold Miners _or Lost in the Mountains_ The Young Firemen of Lakeville _or Herbert Dare's Pluck_ The Boys of Bellwood School _or Frank Jordan's Triumph_ Jack the Runaway _or On the Road with a Circus_ Bob Chester's Grit _or From Ranch to Riches_ Airship Andy _or The Luck of a Brave Boy_ High School Rivals _or Fred Markham's Struggles_ Darry the Life Saver _or The Heroes of the Coast_ Dick the Bank Boy _or A Missing Fortune_ Ben Hardy's Flying Machine _or Making a Record for Himself_ Harry Watson's High School Days _or The Rivals of Rivertown_ Comrades of the Saddle _or The Young Rough Riders of the Plains_ Tom Taylor at West Point _or The Old Army Officer's Secret_ The Boy Scouts of Lennox _or Hiking Over Big Bear Mountain_ The Boys of the Wireless _or a Stirring Rescue from the Deep_ Cowboy Dave _or The Round-up at Rolling River_ Jack of the Pony Express _or The Young Rider of the Mountain Trail_ The Boys of the Battleship _or For the Honor of Uncle Sam_ CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers NEW YORK THE SADDLE BOYS SERIES By CAPTAIN JAMES CARSON 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. All lads who love life in the open air and a good steed, will want to peruse these books. Captain Carson knows his subject thoroughly, and his stories are as pleasing as they are healthful and instructive. [Illustration] THE SADDLE BOYS OF THE ROCKIES _or Lost on Thunder Mountain_ Telling how the lads started out to solve the mystery of a great noise in the mountains--how they got lost--and of the things they discovered. THE SADDLE BOYS IN THE GRAND CANYON _or The Hermit of the Cave_ A weird and wonderful story of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, told in a most absorbing manner. The Saddle Boys are to the front in a manner to please all young readers. THE SADDLE BOYS ON THE PLAINS _or After a Treasure of Gold_ In this story the scene is shifted to the great plains of the southwest and then to the Mexican border. There is a stirring struggle for gold, told as only Captain Carson can tell it. THE SADDLE BOYS AT CIRCLE RANCH _or In at the Grand Round-up_ Here we have lively times at the ranch, and likewise the particulars of a grand round-up of cattle and encounters with wild animals and also cattle thieves. A story that breathes the very air of the plains. THE SADDLE BOYS ON MEXICAN TRAILS _or In the Hands of the Enemy_ The scene is shifted in this volume to Mexico. The boys go on an important errand, and are caught between the lines of the Mexican soldiers. They are captured and for a while things look black for them; but all ends happily. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK Transcriber's Notes: --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores ( _italics_ ), in bold by equals ( =bold= ), and subscripts by braces ( H{2}O ). --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --Page 231: oe ligature expanded (coelum).