[Illustration: CRACK! CAME A REPORT THAT SOUNDED OVER THE WHOLE FIELD.]




                                  THE
                            CRIMSON BANNER

                      A Story of College Baseball


                                  BY
                           WILLIAM D. MOFFAT

             Author of “A Schoolboy’s Honor,” “The County
                   Pennant,” “Dirkman’s Luck,” etc.


                             _ILLUSTRATED_


                     THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING CO.
                               CLEVELAND
                           MADE IN U. S. A.




                          Copyright, 1907, by
                        CHATTERTON-PECK COMPANY


                               PRESS OF
                    THE COMMERCIAL BOOKBINDING CO.
                               CLEVELAND




                   CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                PAGE
      I. A SINGULAR LETTER                  9
     II. SHALL WE JOIN THE LEAGUE?         17
    III. THE NEW PRESIDENT                 26
     IV. LEN HOWARD AGAIN                  34
      V. UNEXPECTED NEWS                   42
     VI. AN INTERCEPTED LETTER             52
    VII. OPEN ENEMIES                      63
   VIII. CHOOSING THE NINE                 70
     IX. A COUNCIL OF WAR                  80
      X. A NIGHT EXPEDITION                88
     XI. A STARTLING DÉNOUEMENT            93
    XII. A PRISONER                       105
   XIII. BEFORE THE FACULTY               112
    XIV. THE PENALTY                      121
     XV. A VISIT TO PROFESSOR FULLER      130
    XVI. SERVING OUR TERM                 140
   XVII. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR            148
  XVIII. THE FIRST GAME                   160
    XIX. FRED HARRISON                    170
     XX. CAUGHT IN THE ACT                177
    XXI. A TERRIBLE CONFESSION            183
   XXII. AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND             194
  XXIII. RENEWED HOPES                    203
   XXIV. A TURN OF LUCK                   211
    XXV. THE SECOND GAME                  220
   XXVI. GENEROUS HOSTS                   231
  XXVII. OUR RECEPTION AT BERKELEY        239
 XXVIII. THE THIRD GAME                   246
   XXIX. THE RETURN TO BELMONT            256
    XXX. BURNING THE MIDNIGHT OIL         262
   XXXI. GOOD NEWS                        268
  XXXII. THE FINAL GAME                   277




                          THE CRIMSON BANNER




                               CHAPTER I

                           A SINGULAR LETTER


One pleasant evening during the first week in April I left my room
in Colver Hall, and started across the campus of Belmont College
toward the main street of the town. As I approached the gateway at the
entrance to the grounds, I noticed several of the boys sitting upon and
around the two large cannons that stood on either side of the gateway,
mounted upon their old fashioned iron carriages.

These old cannons were landmarks of the college, and dear to the
heart of every inmate. Many years before they had been discovered by
a rambling party of students in a deserted part of the hilly country
about ten miles west of Belmont. It was believed that they had been
left there by a section of the army during the war of 1812. However
that might be, they were appropriated and dragged home to the college,
where they were enthusiastically adopted by the students, and soon
became favorite lounging posts. Almost every warm afternoon or evening
would find several fellows perched on the old artillery or seated near
by, reading, chatting, or singing college songs.

Through the deepening twilight I recognized two of my classmates
leaning against one of the cannon.

“Hello, Miller,” I called out, “where is Tony Larcom?”

“Down by the lake, I think,” was the answer. “He was here about twenty
minutes ago, and said he was going to the boat house to look after his
canoe.”

Retracing my steps, I hurried around old Burke Hall, the main building
of the college, and crossed the back quadrangle. Then, leaving the
circuitous path to the boat house, I struck out on a straight line down
through the underbrush toward the shore of the lake. There I stood a
moment, close to the dock, looking out over the water.

The dusk prevented my seeing further than fifty yards ahead, and in
that space no sign of Tony’s boat appeared, so, putting my hands to my
mouth, I called out at the top of my voice,

“Hello, Tony Larcom!”

The cry rang out over the quiet sheet of water, and echoed back from
the rugged sides of Mount Bell, which loomed up in the evening sky
beyond the lake.

Receiving no reply, I repeated my call several times with increasing
force.

Suddenly a queer chuckling noise sounded almost immediately beside me,
and peering through the bushes, I saw the face of Tony Larcom not four
feet in front of me. He was seated quietly in his canoe, and with
difficulty repressing his laughter.

“Did you speak?” he asked, straightening his face into an expression of
gravity, when he found he had been discovered.

“Oh, no,” I answered sarcastically. “I was only breathing hard. What do
you mean by sitting there without a word while I was shouting myself
hoarse?”

“Why, I didn’t recognize you at first, Harry. You had your mouth open
so wide I couldn’t see you at all. What do you want?”

“Do you realize the fact that there is to be a mass meeting of the
college in the Latin room at half past seven to consider baseball
matters, and that you, as secretary of the association, must be there?”

“I do,” said Tony.

“Then what are you doing down here by the lake? I’ve been looking all
over for you, and was afraid you were going to play us your old trick
of forgetting all about an important engagement.”

“Oh, no, not this time. I wouldn’t miss the mass meeting for the world.
There was plenty of time, and I wanted to see how my canoe had stood
the winter, so I came down to try her on the water. She will be all
right with a little paint. Give me a hand here and help me get her out.”

Tony paddled along toward the boat house, while I accompanied him,
pushing my way through the bushes that grew thickly by the water’s
edge.

When we had reached the dock I helped him drag out the canoe and carry
it into the boat house.

As he made it fast to the wall, Tony remarked,

“There will be something besides baseball to interest the boys tonight.
I have a letter to read.”

“From whom?”

“From Park College.”

“What about?”

“Read it and see,” said Tony, taking a letter from his pocket and
handing it to me.

I opened it, and, standing in the light of the single oil lamp fastened
against the wall, I read as follows:

    _To the Students of Belmont College_:

    On a number of occasions during late years your attention has
    been called to the claims of Park College to the cannons which
    stand upon your campus. Enough evidence has been produced to
    convince an unprejudiced mind of our right of ownership of said
    cannons, but this evidence has in every case been rejected by
    you. We, the students of Park College, have at length decided
    to take a positive stand in the matter, and, accordingly,
    submit to you this formal demand for the surrender of the
    cannons to us. Should this be disregarded, we shall take more
    active steps to secure our rights. We trust this will secure
    your immediate attention, and await the favor of your reply.

I looked up in amazement. Tony winked.

“How is that for a game of bluff?” he asked.

“What in the world do they mean by ‘active steps’?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Legal proceedings would be simply absurd. My idea is
that they think because their college is a trifle larger than ours
that they can bully us. They have always wanted the cannons, you know.”

“Yes, but I thought they had given up all claims several years ago
when the subject was thoroughly discussed in the college papers. You
remember, they claimed that the cannons were in their country, two
miles from Berkeley, and so belonged to them. But it was decided then
that they belonged to nobody, and as our students had found them,
they were ours by right of treasure trove as well as forty years’
possession.”

“Yes, but you know how it is in college: a new batch of students comes
in and revives old sores. Now they are at it again, and now it is _our_
business to meet them as it was our predecessor’s.”

“Well, we will, and with a vengeance, too, if necessary. Did you show
the letter to Edwards?”

Edwards was the managing editor of the college paper, the _Belmont
Chronicle_.

“No; I received it only two hours ago in the late afternoon mail.
Come up to Burke Hall, and we will have some fun with it. Watch the
sensation when I read it to the boys in the mass meeting.”

Closing the side door of the boat house, Tony padlocked it, and we
started back again toward the campus.

“Have you seen Ray Wendell this afternoon?” I asked.

“No; but of course he will be on hand. What would a baseball meeting
be without Ray Wendell? By the way, what a scare he gave me last month
when he hinted about resigning the captaincy.”

“That was a queer notion. What started it, I wonder?”

“He said he was afraid it would interfere with his studies, especially
his preparation for his final examinations.”

“Bosh!”

“Well, you know he is working for one of the honorary orations at
commencement, and he said he would have to work hard, for there is to
be a good deal of competition this year.”

“Nonsense, Wendell is sure of an oration, and probably the valedictory.
There isn’t a smarter man in the Senior class. There is no reason why
baseball should interfere at all.”

“Certainly not. If we are to have a winning team this year it will only
be with Ray Wendell as captain――and so I told him. I showed him that
all the fellows looked to him, and the college reputation rested in his
hands. That soon brought him to terms, and he has never mentioned the
matter since. I can’t help thinking, however, that there was more back
of that freak of his than he said.”

“He knows as well as the rest of us how necessary he is to the nine,” I
rejoined.

“And for that very reason I think something must have influenced
him. At first I thought perhaps his father had asked him to give up
baseball, but then I remembered that Mr. Wendell always seemed to be
as proud of Ray’s athletics as he was of his high rank in his class.
Still, I don’t care, now that he has let the matter drop.”

“What is that crowd doing outside of Burke Hall?” I asked. “Do you
suppose that old Ferguson has forgotten to unlock the Latin room door?”

“Looks like it,” said Tony. “Still he must be there, for the windows
are bright. He must be lighting up now.”

The question was promptly settled, for, while we were speaking there
was a sudden outburst of cheers, and the crowd surged into the
building. The doors had evidently just been opened.

Pandemonium reigned within as we entered. The room was crowded to
suffocation with a noisy, jostling mass of students. Every seat was
full, and many of the boys were standing along the side walls. The din
was almost deafening. Suddenly Tony Larcom’s presence was detected and
immediately his name was on every one’s lips.

“There’s Tony. Take the chair, Tony. Pass him up to the platform,
fellows.”

He was seized unceremoniously by a dozen pairs of hands, and half
dragged, half carried, to the desk. There he stood a moment, laughing
and kicking, until he was released, when he sobered down, took out his
note book, and seated himself at a small desk in front of the platform,
ready for business.

I made my way to the front row where Dick Palmer had reserved a place
for me with considerable difficulty, by sitting in one seat and putting
his feet in the next one.

At this moment Clinton Edwards, who had been asked by Tony to open the
meeting, went upon the platform and summoned the crowd to order by
hammering on the desk with a heavy ruler.

As all were intensely interested in the subject for which the meeting
was called, the room soon became perfectly still.




                              CHAPTER II

                       SHALL WE JOIN THE LEAGUE?


“Gentlemen,” began Clinton Edwards, “as you are all aware, this meeting
has been called for the purpose of considering baseball matters. At
the close of last year’s season the nine held its customary annual
meeting, and the usual elections of secretary and captain were made for
the ensuing year. It now remains with you to approve and ratify these
elections, and, in that event, the captain, as has been our custom
heretofore, becomes also president of the association. The names of
these officers were announced in the _Chronicle_ at the time of their
election, as you doubtless remember, but I will repeat them. Mr. Larcom
was elected secretary――――”

The speaker paused a moment, when some one in the back of the room
called out, “I forbid the banns!”

The meeting was in an uproar at this. Laughter, stamping of feet, and
shouts of “Bully boy!” “Hi, hi for Tony!” threatened to destroy the
secretary’s gravity. Rising, note book in hand, he said,

“Mr. Chairman, I rise to a point of information. Do I enter these
remarks in the minutes?”

Edwards, ignoring the point, continued:

“The captaincy, which was made vacant by the graduation of Mr. Terry,
was filled by the election of Mr. Wendell.”

There was now a long and uproarious burst of applause. Cheer followed
cheer as the name was announced.

A more popular man than Ray Wendell rarely passed through Belmont
College. Bright and industrious in his studies, active and strong in
athletics, generous, good humored, and with agreeable and fascinating
manners Ray had been my ideal of a college man since Freshman year.

As he rose modestly from his seat in answer to the repeated cheers, I
thought I had never seen him look handsomer. His tall, graceful figure
and fine face never appeared to better advantage than at that moment as
he blushingly acknowledged the applause that greeted his name.

Several times he attempted to speak, but the continued cheering
discouraged his effort. At length silence was obtained, when Ray said
smilingly, and quickly turning attention from himself:

“Gentlemen, you forget that you have not yet decided to be represented
in the Berkshire League. You have first to vote on the question: do we
send out a nine?”

“We scarcely need put that question,” said a student, as Ray sat down.
“It has been only a form in past years, and I move, therefore, Mr.
Chairman, that we approve these elections――――”

“One moment, Mr. Chairman,” broke in a voice from the back of the room.

“Mr. Pratt has the floor,” said Edwards.

“I have finished,” said Pratt. “My motion is before the meeting.”

It was seconded at once by a dozen voices. Then the speaker at the back
of the room rose slowly. It was Len Howard, a Senior, and a prominent
lawn tennis player. He looked and acted as if he had a hard and ugly
task before him.

“Have I the floor now?” he asked.

“You have,” answered Edwards.

“Then before putting this question I beg to say a few words,” and
Howard settled himself more firmly on his feet, while most of us looked
at him in surprise.

“I am a warm admirer of baseball, as warm an admirer as there is in
college. But I am also a warm admirer of tennis, and it is in behalf of
this latter game that I want to speak. I beg to call attention to the
respective records of Belmont College in these two sports. Year before
last our baseball team amounted to little――stood third in the League,
last year we were again third, and this year we have but three players
of the old nine left us, and prospects of a still poorer record. Lawn
tennis, on the other hand, without any encouragement from the college,
has grown steadily in popularity and success, and today it can send
crack players to the intercollegiate tournaments which take place in
May. Its prospects are bright, and it deserves the college support.
Now, Mr. Chairman and gentlemen, should we not cultivate the sport in
which we stand the best show of success? Last year the assistance of
the college was promised to tennis, but the funds were appropriated
by the ball team, or at least the ball team used up all the money the
college could contribute, and with the poor results just mentioned.
As the college apparently will not extend its support to both, and it
comes to a choice between tennis and baseball, I think we ought to give
tennis the show it deserves for one year at least. I think we ought
to support tennis with our funds, and not join the Berkshire Baseball
League this year.”

Ray Wendell sprang up, his face flushed and his eyes flashing.

“Mr. Chairman, if this represents the sentiments of the college
toward baseball――if this echoes the feelings of even one tenth of the
students, I resign from the nine immediately.”

There was a hush of several seconds’ duration, during which the rest of
us sat confounded with amazement at the audacity of Howard. Suddenly
the silence was broken.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Tony Larcom, and his chair toppled over
backward, precipitating him with a crash upon the floor.

Then arose an uproar on all sides. Fully three dozen fellows were
shouting and gesticulating wildly to attract the attention and
recognition of the chairman.

Tony, unmindful of his ridiculous position, and intent upon being
heard, scrambled to his knees, and, waving his arms beseechingly at the
chairman, roared out at the top of his voice:

“Mr. Chairman, have I the floor? Let me have the floor――Mr. Chairman,
please let me have the floor for just five minutes.”

Dick Palmer reached forward as well as he could for laughter, and
touching Tony said,

“I should think you had got enough of the floor, Tony. You’ve just had
a whole back full of it.”

Tony, however, did not hear him, but continued his appeals to the
chairman. At length Edwards, who had been standing puzzled in the midst
of the confusion, caught Tony’s eye, and brought down his ruler with a
bang.

“Mr. Larcom has the floor,” he called out. The rest subsided with some
difficulty, and Tony was left master of the field for a time.

He rose hastily and brushed off his clothes. Then, buttoning up his
coat, he planted himself in front of his desk and launched out.

“Mr. Chairman and gentlemen: the words we have just heard are a
disgrace to any son of Belmont College. What does Mr. Howard mean by
calling baseball to account? Have we a record to be ashamed of? True,
we have been unfortunate in the last two years――every college has its
bad spells――but why doesn’t Mr. Howard go back further? Doesn’t the
gentleman remember that Belmont was the first college to win the
Crimson Banner when it was made the trophy of the Berkshire League
twelve years ago? Doesn’t he remember that Belmont held that banner
for five consecutive years, lost it for three years, and then won it
for two years more――that the name of the Belmont team has, therefore,
seven times out of twelve been inscribed upon that banner in letters
of gold? (Cheers.) And why did we lose last year? Not because we had
a poor nine, but because it was not well handled. Every honest minded
man in this room knows that we would have won the banner had we been
headed by the efficient captain who leads us now. (Cheers.) And yet
this gentleman wishes us to relinquish the game for a year. Does he
realize that we thereby lay ourselves open to being refused admission
to the League when we want to get back, and that Park College for one
would be only too glad to get a chance to shut us out? Relinquish our
nine? Never! I would rather lose my right hand than our nine. The
speech we have just listened to is an insult to every patriotic man in
college, and a double insult to the members of our old nine, and the
able captain whose election we are here to ratify.”

Immediately at the close of Tony’s speech, and while the applause was
still sounding, Dick Palmer rose and tried to gain a hearing, but I
caught him by the coat.

“Sit down,” I whispered. “Don’t you see Elton is on the floor? He will
use Howard up in two minutes.”

My hint was quickly taken by Dick, for Elton was one of the clearest
thinkers in college, and had an established reputation as a speaker. He
commanded universal respect in mass meetings, and consequently there
was an expectant hush as he began to speak.

“Mr. Chairman, under some circumstances such a speech as Mr. Howard’s
might pass unnoticed. It certainly can have no weight with us now, nor
in any way affect the motion. But it affords an opportunity of saying a
few words concerning the relative positions of baseball and lawn tennis
in the college.

“There is no college tennis association like our baseball association.
The baseball grounds and appurtenances belong to us, have been
purchased by money contributed by us, and are conducted by officers
elected by us. It is a child of the college――the pet child――and its
record in the past shows how well it has repaid our interest in it.
Tennis, on the other hand, is of individual interest in the college,
and the tennis courts here are the private property of the clubs that
play upon them. Some of these clubs exclude all from playing on their
courts except their own members. I don’t criticise this. The courts
are private property, but for this very reason the college cannot be
expected to support tennis. What Mr. Howard says about the funds last
year is not true. The truth is that the question was raised about a
college appropriation of money to tennis, and most of the tennis clubs
_rejected the idea_, preferring to pay their own expenses and run
their own courts. Only one or two clubs wanted college assistance and
support, and Mr. Howard _is a member of one of these clubs_.

“Again when our ball nine is successful, the Crimson Banner, the trophy
of victory, comes to the college, and every student feels a share of
the glory. Victory in tennis is of individual interest, and appeals
chiefly to individual vanity. It means a silver cup for a man, or
perhaps two men. The college gains little glory by it except in the
most individual way. Now, it is well known that the gentleman who made
this speech, is a strong tennis player. If then he wishes the college
at large to back him in competing for a prize in the coming tournament,
instead of his own club, as has been the custom in the past, well and
good. We can consider the matter, though it would not be in order at a
baseball meeting. But if he proposes that we shall relinquish our ball
nine in order to devote our money to the purpose of assisting him to
secure a prize cup, then I feel compelled to say that I for one can
find a better way of spending my cash.”

As Elton finished, Howard made several movements as if he would rise to
speak, but several of his companions were urging him to keep still, and
at length, influenced by their advice, he sank back and remained quiet.

Then rose on all sides the cry of “Question! Question!”

Edwards responded:

“Gentlemen, the question is called for, and will be put. All in favor
of Mr. Pratt’s motion that will approve and ratify these elections say
aye.”

There was a loud roar of assent.

“All opposed, by the contrary sign.”

There was no sound. Howard sat sullen and silent, gazing at the floor.

“The motion is carried, and Mr. Wendell is therefore elected president
of the Association.”

Edwards laid down the ruler, and surrendering the chair, descended from
the platform.




                              CHAPTER III

                           THE NEW PRESIDENT


Ray Wendell received an ovation as he took the chair. Prolonged
cheering greeted him, accompanied by cries of “Speech! Speech!” When
the noise had subsided, Ray began:

“Gentlemen, I have no speech, nor, unless I am much mistaken, do you
want one. I thank you most sincerely for your kindness, and promise you
in behalf of the nine that we will strive very hard to deserve your
interest. This is speech enough, I am sure.

“Of course you want to know what I think of our prospects in baseball
this year, and accordingly I say here to-night what I have said to many
of you personally――that I consider our chances very good. It is true
that we have only three of our old nine left, but the material which we
have to choose from in the class nines is good this year, and we ought
to have a fine team.

“Now as to the condition of the treasury――I have been informed by the
secretary that the funds of the Association are almost exhausted. Will
Mr. Larcom report on this? What is the exact balance in the treasury?”

Tony turned over the pages of his note book and figured busily for
several seconds.

“There is a cash balance of $39.50,” he finally called out.

“You can see from this,” continued Ray, “that the usual contribution
list will have to be started. You will all hear later from Mr. Larcom
concerning this, and I hope we can look for as generous support as in
previous years, for the nine needs an almost complete new outfit, and
a number of repairs will have to be made at the ball grounds, to say
nothing of the pay of the janitor and assistants at the club house, and
the expenses of our baseball tour.”

At this moment Alfred Carter, the leader of the College Glee Club, took
the floor and said:

“Mr. President, I want to offer the services of the Glee Club for the
benefit of the team. I have made arrangements to give a concert just
before the Easter vacation――that is, in about ten days, the proceeds of
which are to go to the baseball association. The concert will be given
in the large examination hall up stairs, and,” he added, with a smile,
“all members of the college are cordially invited to attend――price 50
cents per head.”

Carter sat down amidst a great stamping and clapping of hands.

Ray answered immediately:

“This is a most unexpected favor, Mr. Carter, and I thank you sincerely
in behalf of the Association for this benefit, which, I am sure, will
go a great way towards supplying the deficiency in our treasury. Is
there any further business before the meeting?”

“Mr. President,” asked Elton, “when does the convention meet this year?”

“I am forced to say that I do not know as yet. For some reason no word
has reached me from the secretary of the League, Mr. Slade of Halford
College, although it is much later than the usual date for sending such
notifications. Has Mr. Larcom received any word today?”

“No, sir,” answered Tony.

“I shall probably hear tomorrow, and it is more than likely that the
convention will be held on some day in the early part of next week. As
soon as definite notice reaches us, your representative will go on to
Berkeley, and a full account of the business of that meeting will be
reported in the _Chronicle_. This is as complete information as I am
able to give on the subject this evening. Is there any other business?
If not, the――――”

“Mr. President,” interrupted Tony, “may I have one moment? I have no
baseball business to bring before the meeting, but I have received
today a letter which is addressed to the ‘students of Belmont College,’
so I presume that this is the time and place to read it. Am I in order?”

Ray nodded.

“It is from Park College,” added Tony, taking from his pocket the
letter which I had read down at the boat house.

I watched the faces about me with interest, and I shall never forget
the rapid changes of expression that passed over them――first curiosity,
then eager attention, astonishment, anger, and finally scornful
amusement, as the challenging letter was finished.

When Tony sat down, there was a chorus of howls, accompanied by various
exclamations such as “What cheek! Want our cannons, do they? What are
they going to do about it? Tell them to come and get them! Maybe they’d
better ask for the whole town!――――”

Ray hammered on the desk.

“You have heard the letter, gentlemen. What shall we do with it?”

A sharp discussion followed. Some were in favor of answering it with a
heated reply, challenging Park College to do their worst, whatever that
might be, but the majority were of the conviction that any notice of
the letter at all would be unwise.

“Mr. President,” exclaimed one of the latter, “I move we lay it on the
table――_permanently_.”

“I have an amendment to offer,” said Elton. “I move we lay it under the
table. There is a waste basket there.”

“These motions are out of order. They have not been seconded,” said Ray.

“Then I don’t make any motion,” said Elton, rising again. “I merely
suggest that the best way to treat such a letter as this is to ignore
it utterly.”

All were coming around to this view of the matter, so that when Ray
asked again, “Gentlemen, what action shall we take in reference to this
letter?” no one spoke.

Ray looked about for several seconds. “There being no motion, the
matter is dropped,” he said. “If there is no further business the
meeting is adjourned.”

Immediately there was a roar of mingled conversation, whistling, and
shuffling of feet as the meeting broke up, and the crowd pressed out
through the large double doors.

When the room was nearly empty, and just as I was passing out, Ray
Wendell, who was still standing at the platform, and talking with Tony
Larcom, called out,

“Hullo, Elder, wait a minute.”

I turned around, and, as I walked back, Ray said,

“We were just speaking about you, Harry. You know each college sends
three delegates to the convention――the president and secretary of the
Association, and a member of the nine. I have selected you to go with
Tony Larcom and myself. What do you say?”

“Only too glad,” I answered; “but how about Dick Palmer? I don’t want
to crowd him out if he wants to go. You know, he has been a member of
the nine as long as I have.”

“Oh, that is all right. You have the advantage because you were
a regular member of the nine from the start, while Dick was only
substitute year before last. I have spoken to him, and he acknowledges
that you have the choice by all odds.”

“All right,” I said, “I can go next week.”

“I don’t know yet for sure when it will be, as I said in the meeting.
It is curious I haven’t received a word. I ought to have heard long
ago. If I don’t get a letter tomorrow morning I will telegraph to
Slade.”

“Well, a few hours’ warning is enough for me,” I answered. “Good
meeting tonight, wasn’t it? Lots of excitement and enthusiasm.”

“Yes,” said Tony, “and what puzzled me more than anything else was Len
Howard. No wonder I fell flat. I was simply paralyzed. He must have
been crazy to make such a proposition.”

“Perhaps,” said I, looking at Ray, “he was trying to work off a grudge
he has had against you ever since you went out one Saturday afternoon
last month and beat him in tennis on his own court.”

“Oh, I don’t think there was anything personal in it. I don’t think
Howard nurses any grudge against me.”

“Well, don’t bank on that, Ray,” said Tony. “I happen to know that he
had a lot of money upon that tennis game, and it ground him terribly to
be beaten.”

“Is that so?” rejoined Ray, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “I never
suspected there was anything back of it when he asked me to play with
him that afternoon. Now, I remember he did seem to take his defeat
pretty badly. Still, it was his business. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Howard is very conceited about his tennis playing, so you injured him
at his most sensitive point.”

“Well, I’m sorry and yet, I don’t believe he bears a grudge against me.”

“He may have more reason now, after his humiliation this evening.”

“Well, let him, then,” said Ray. “He brought it on himself. If he
was foolish enough to bet, he must suffer the consequences, and if
he _will_ make foolish speeches, as he did tonight, he must stand
the result of that, too. He can’t blame me. I haven’t time to bother
with him――which reminds me that I have to prepare for a recitation in
astronomy tomorrow, and I must get about it at once or I won’t be in
bed before midnight.”

He looked at his watch as we walked out of the room.

“Phew!” he exclaimed. “It is half past nine――I’m off――you will hear
from me later――good night.”

And Ray walked hastily away toward Warburton Hall, the handsome new
dormitory in which his apartments were located.

As I parted company from Tony Larcom, my first intention was to go
immediately to my room, but the air being balmy and inviting, I walked
leisurely down the wide pathway toward the gate. Once there, I seated
myself by one of the old cannons, and gave myself up to the pleasant
influences of the quiet night.

I was thinking over the incidents of the meeting, its interesting
results, and how they would affect our baseball prospects. Then I
fell to contrasting the noise and excitement of an hour before with
the silence that now reigned over the peaceful campus. A sense of
drowsiness came over me as I pursued these contemplations, a drowsiness
that gradually increased until my head sank down, and at last,
stretching myself out at full length, I fell asleep.

How long I lay so I do not know, but I was suddenly aroused by the
sound of low voices close beside me. I lay still indifferently,
thinking that it must be a couple of students enjoying the night air
like myself. The low whisper and the general tinge of mystery with
which they moved about, however, aroused my suspicions. Thinking some
mischief was brewing, and that it would be fun to startle them, I
roused up and exclaimed,

“Hello! who’s there?”

The results far surpassed my expectations. There was a quick
exclamation of alarm, a sharp scuffling of feet, a black shadow shot
past me, and then I felt a terrible, crushing blow on the side of my
head, which rolled me over and over into the pathway, where I lay
stunned and bewildered.




                              CHAPTER IV

                           LEN HOWARD AGAIN


For several moments I lay still, struggling to collect my thoughts.
Then, pressing my hand to my head to relieve the numb, sickening
sensation produced by the blow, I sat up and stared about me in the
darkness.

The next instant a dark figure not ten feet before me scrambled up
from the grass and dashed out of the gate. I was too much shaken up to
think of pursuit, so I sat still, listening attentively to the rapidly
receding footsteps.

From the sound of these I felt confident that there were but two
persons; and they were certainly badly frightened, for they lost no
time in covering ground, and were in a few seconds far down the road,
out of earshot.

“Now what on earth could those fellows have been up to?” I wondered, as
I sat silently awaiting developments.

As nothing further occurred, I concluded that the mischief must have
been summarily postponed on account of my appearance.

Whoever the mischief makers were, and whatever their plans may have
been, they could not have regretted my presence on the scene more than
I did myself. My head was aching and throbbing, while the stinging
sensation at the one side of my forehead, and a little stream of blood,
which I could feel trickling down my cheek, showed me how severe the
blow had been.

As I rose to my feet I groped about in the dark until I found my hat,
which had rolled several feet away from me; and then, brushing off
the dust, I stepped over to the spot where I had been sleeping, and
examined the grass carefully to see if the mysterious visitors had left
any traces behind them.

No results rewarded my search; so, as I was more interested in my own
condition than in their plans, I decided to let the matter drop.

“We are quits,” I said to myself, as I walked away toward Colver Hall.
“I gave you a bad scare, and you gave me a bad scar, though, after all,
I think you have the best of the bargain. One thing is certain: the
next time I fall in with any fellows bent on mischief, I’ll leave them
to the tender mercies of proctor Murray. The rôle of night watchman
doesn’t suit me at all.”

On reaching my room I lit the gas, and examined my face in the mirror
which stood over the mantelpiece. The skin had been broken, but the cut
was not deep, nor the wound so bad by any means as it might have been,
considering the force of the blow. On washing away the blood, I found
my forehead somewhat swollen and purple, but in other respects fairly
presentable, so I felt there was cause for congratulating myself on
escaping so luckily.

It seemed quite evident to me that the injury I had sustained had been
purely accidental. It was more than probable that the two students,
whoever they were, had been planning some escapade, and, when I
suddenly rose and interrupted them, they had become startled, and had
dashed off without waiting to learn who it was. Not seeing me in the
dark, the last of the two had run straight over me, kicking me in the
head. The appearance of the wound, the manner in which I had received
the blow, and the effect it had in tripping up the runner and sprawling
him out on the grass――all confirmed me in this solution of the matter.

“It will probably be explained to-morrow,” I thought; “for when I am
seen at morning prayers with a black and blue forehead, the fellow who
kicked me will no doubt recognize the mark and let me into the secret.
I suppose they were Freshmen, and up to some of their tricks.”

I slept soundly all night in spite of my wound, and was awakened on the
following morning by the sound of the college bell ringing for prayers.

Without losing a moment’s time I sprang out of bed and scrambled into
my clothes as best I could in the few minutes I had to spare.

The night’s rest had refreshed me completely, and had relieved my head
of all sense of pain, although the purple bruise had deepened in
color, and the swelling had scarcely diminished.

As I hurried down stairs and across the campus, the last taps of the
college bell were sounding, so that I reached the chapel just as the
doors were being closed. A small crowd of tardy students were pressing
in, and they kept the main door open just long enough to prevent my
being shut out. I was the last one in, and all alone I walked down the
aisle to my seat, the object of the curious gaze of over one hundred
and fifty pairs of eyes. This I was well accustomed to, for I prided
myself on the exactness with which I could calculate the time needed to
reach morning prayers, and I was usually one of the very last to enter.

But this morning my appearance must have been interesting, and it
certainly aroused attention. A snicker ran along the lines of students
as I passed the various pews, and several of those nearest the aisle
plucked at my coat and gave vent to such whispered exclamations as “Oh,
what an eye!” “Who built that lump on your forehead, Harry?” and so on.

As I took my seat Rod Emmons, who sat next to me, said,

“That’s a bad bruise, Harry. How did you get it?”

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“What an answer!” he exclaimed.

I laughed.

“I mean it all the same,” I said. “I got that bruise in the dark last
night, and I am looking this morning for the fellow that hit me.”

Further conversation was interrupted by Professor Fuller, who came
forward to the pulpit at this moment, and began prayers.

At the close, when the students were streaming out, some to breakfast
and others to recitations, I received inquiries and expressions of
sympathy from all sides; but though I made no secret of my mishap,
no one seemed to know more of the affair than myself. As the morning
progressed without my obtaining any new light on the subject, I
concluded that the students whom I had interrupted the night before
must have had a special reason for keeping silent.

“And besides,” I thought, “perhaps after all they were not students at
all, but town fellows trespassing on the campus, and frightened off by
my voice, thinking I was the proctor.”

In the belief that the matter would solve itself, if a solution
was forthcoming, I decided to let it drop, and accordingly gave up
inquiring about it.

During the recitation hour between four and five o’clock that
afternoon, as I was speculating on the chances of my being called upon
next to recite, some one nudged me, and a small, folded piece of paper
was slipped into my hand. This, on opening, I discovered to be a note,
which read as follows:

    DEAR HARRY:

    Meet me at the north entrance to Warburton Hall at five o’clock
    sharp. Don’t fail, for I have something of importance to tell
    you. Pass this word on to Tony Larcom. He must be there, too.

                            Yours in haste,

                                                       RAY WENDELL.

Tony was reciting at the time, and making a fine botch of it, too, to
the general amusement of the class. The meeting of the evening before
had evidently interfered seriously with his preparation, for though
he was making a brave fight, Professor Fuller caught him on a knotty
question before which Tony’s wits availed him nothing. So down he sat,
as smiling and unabashed as if he had scored a brilliant success. Then
I handed Ray Wendell’s note to my neighbor, and saw it pass rapidly
along the line. Tony read it, looked toward me, and nodded his head.

Immediately after the recitation he joined us, and together we hurried
over toward Warburton Hall. Ray Wendell was standing at the north
entrance, evidently awaiting us.

As we came up, Ray said,

“I’m glad you are prompt, for we’ve no time to lose.”

At this moment Len Howard came down the stairs, tennis racket in hand,
and was about to pass us when he saw Ray.

“Hullo, Wendell,” he said; “when can you play tennis with me again?”

“I don’t know,” answered Ray. “Baseball will take all my time now, I
think.”

“Then why not play me before the baseball season sets in? Couldn’t we
have a few sets to-morrow?”

“I shall be away to-morrow,” said Ray.

“Then some time next week. How about Monday noon?”

“I can’t say; I may be too busy.”

“See here, Wendell, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll play you for fifty
dollars a side, and put up the money at once. Now, there’s a chance for
you.”

“I don’t play for money,” answered Ray coldly, “and, to be perfectly
frank, Howard, I don’t care particularly to play at all. I understand
that you had money up on that last series of games, and――――”

“Well, and what if I did?” broke in Howard. “Is it any of your
business?”

“It is none of my business whether you bet or not, but it _is_ some of
my business whom I play tennis with, and I say again, I don’t care to
play.”

“Oh, pshaw, you are afraid to play me,” said Howard.

“If I wasn’t afraid to play you before, when I thought you were the
better player, why should I be afraid now, when I know I can beat you?”
rejoined Ray, with a slightly sarcastic accent.

“You can’t beat me――it was all luck――you couldn’t beat me again to
save your life!” burst out Howard excitedly. “I tell you I’ll bet you
anything that――――”

“And I tell you that I won’t bet anything, and that baseball is all I
have time for at present.” Here Ray turned away.

Howard stood irresolute for a moment, as if about to say something
more; then wheeling sharply on his heel, he exclaimed with a sneer,
“Oh, you’re a coward!” and walked off.

Ray’s face flushed a moment as he looked after him. Then he bit his
lip, and, turning to Tony, said,

“I think, perhaps, you were right about him, after all. He certainly
seems to be nursing a grudge against me for some reason. Perhaps I had
better play him again, and let him beat me badly. It might do him good.
Anything to please him, of course.”

“Well, it wouldn’t help him much,” returned Tony, “unless you let him
win back the money he lost on the last games with you.”

Ray made no answer to this, but caught up his notebooks, which had been
resting on a box behind the door.

“Come up to my room,” he said, “I’ve a telegram from Slade to show
you,” and he led the way up stairs.




                               CHAPTER V

                            UNEXPECTED NEWS


Ray’s rooms were the handsomest in college, and fully repaid in beauty
and comfort the painstaking care with which he had fitted them up.
Ray’s father was a well to do merchant in Albany, and, knowing his
son’s good sense and steady habits, had never hesitated to supply him
liberally with money. Ray was thus able to fully gratify his love of
comfortable and tasteful surroundings, and had furnished his apartments
in a most attractive manner.

The floors, which were hard wood, were oiled, and covered with rare and
expensive rugs, the windows were framed by portières of rich and heavy
tapestry, while the walls were hung with handsome pictures, and the
many little articles of bric à brac and mementos of college life dear
to every student’s heart.

His rooms were a source of great pride to Ray, and a pleasurable treat
to all of his college mates who were in the habit of frequenting them.
They had become very familiar to me and were associated with some of
the most agreeable recollections of my college life, for Ray Wendell,
although a member of the class ahead of me, was one of the oldest and
best friends I had in Belmont. Our acquaintance had been formed upon
the baseball field in my Freshman year, at the time when I was first
chosen member of the nine, and this acquaintance had ripened into a
genuine and lasting friendship, which only grew firmer as time went
by, and which was strengthened on my part by a warm and enthusiastic
appreciation of Ray’s many superior qualities of head and heart. This
feeling I shared with all who knew Ray Wendell well, and especially
with Tony Larcom, who would have followed him through fire, if
necessary.

As we entered his large front room and seated ourselves, Ray took up a
telegram, which lay upon his desk, and handed it to Tony.

“There, what do you think of that?” he asked.

Tony read aloud:

    The baseball convention will take place at the Wyman Hotel,
    Berkeley, at 10:30 A.M. to-morrow.

                                                       W. H. SLADE.

There was silence for a moment as Tony looked up in astonishment. Then
his mouth opened.

“Gee whizz!” he exclaimed solemnly.

“No wonder you are surprised,” remarked Ray. “You may imagine what I
thought when I first opened it.”

“Why, that is the most extraordinary and unexpected summons I ever
heard of,” I exclaimed. “Is that the first notification you have had?”

“I knew nothing of the date of the meeting till I received this
telegram. It was fortunate that I telegraphed Slade early this morning,
for we might have missed the whole convention.”

“What a stupid, blundering oversight!” cried Tony. “Just imagine a
convention without any representatives from Belmont!”

“Well,” responded Ray, “it would have been more serious for _us_ than
the convention, for the other three colleges would have constituted a
quorum, and they could have voted away our rights without our knowing
anything about it. I fancy the Park College men would have been glad
enough of a chance like that to secure an advantage over us.”

“It was a contemptible trick, I believe,” burst out Tony, tossing the
telegram upon the desk.

I was inclined to be more reasonable.

“I can’t see the trick,” I said. “Slade is known to be a very careful
fellow. Had he been a Park College man, I might have suspected him of
underhand work, but the Halford men have always been friends.”

“I don’t know what to think of it,” remarked Ray thoughtfully, “but
you may be sure I will sift the matter to the bottom, and if there
has been any crooked work we’ll make things hum at that convention.
If it was merely negligence on Slade’s part, it is too important to
be overlooked. He would deserve an early dismissal from his office
for such carelessness. Were we to miss the meeting, the damage to our
interests might be very great――but come, we can talk about that on
the train. Our business now is to get ready as fast as possible. You,
Harry,” he continued, turning to me, “said you needed only a few hours’
warning, and it turns out that is about all you’ll get. Can you be
ready for the 7:15 train?”

“Easily,” I responded. “I have only to pack a small valise, and get my
dinner.”

“And how about you?” to Tony.

“I’ll be at the station without fail,” was the reply.

“All right, then. Don’t forget to draw the necessary money for
expenses.”

“Why, I can’t do that. You know, the bank closes at three o’clock,”
answered Tony.

“To be sure, I had forgotten that,” said Ray. “Well, then we will
have to stand our own expenses, and charge it up to the baseball
association. Remember to report your absence to Mr. Dikes. I have
already done so, and you had better go at once, for the college offices
close at six.”

I went immediately to the college offices, which were on the first
floor of Burke Hall, at the left hand side of the main entrance, and
just opposite the large Latin room in which our meeting had been held
the night before.

Mr. Dikes was the registrar of the college, and, according to the
rules, students were obliged to report to him before leaving town, in
order that he might keep a record of their whereabouts. Mr. Dikes was a
meek little man, but his office invested him with considerable dignity
and importance. His very name smacked of annual reports on behavior
and grade, or summons before the faculty and other formal notifications
that carried fear and consternation to the guilty student’s heart. But,
although his duties rendered him an object of profound respect and even
awe, we liked Mr. Dikes none the less, for he was always kind, gentle,
and considerate, and never failed to put in a good word for a student
in trouble.

He was bending over a large ledger in which an account of absentees was
kept, when I entered the office.

“I am going away, Mr. Dikes,” I said.

“Why, vacation will soon be here,” he answered, looking up with a smile.

“Oh, I mean merely for a day. I am going on the 7:15 train, and will
return tomorrow evening.”

“Where do you go?” asked Mr. Dikes, getting down from his high stool.

“To Berkeley.”

He smiled again.

“You are going to the convention, I suppose. Mr. Wendell reported this
afternoon.”

“Yes, sir,” I responded, “and you will get a report from Tony Larcom,
too, in a short time. He goes with us.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Dikes, making a memorandum. “Make sure we are
given fair play at the convention.”

After a few more words, I hurried to my room and packed my valise.
Then I went to my eating club, which was situated some distance from
the main street. Tony Larcom, who was a member of the same club, was
there before me; and, as I entered, I found him wrestling with an
exceptionally refractory duck.

“If you expect to get the meat off that bird you’ll never catch the
7:15 train,” said I, after watching his efforts for a few moments.

“I don’t care for the meat; I’m doing this for exercise,” he answered
sarcastically. “Harry, just think what a baseballist that duck would
have made, with its web feet to catch the balls, and all that muscle to
throw with――――”

“Oh, stop your nonsense, and hurry up with your dinner,” I answered.
“We have only twenty minutes to spare.”

Tony accordingly set to work in real earnest, and we soon finished our
meal, and were on our way to the station.

Ray was already there when we arrived, and had purchased tickets for
the party. He was conversing earnestly with Edwards, who had come down
to see us off, and the latter was listening with surprise to Ray’s
story about the telegram.

“I wish I could go over with you,” said Edwards. “I would like to see
the fun. Give me all the facts when you come back, and if there has
been any trickery or negligence on the part of the officers of the
League, I will run off two or three columns in the next issue of the
_Chronicle_ that will make their hair curl up in knots.”

Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the train, and
so, bidding Edwards a hasty good by, and assuring him that a full
report of the proceedings would be made to him on our return, we
boarded the cars, and soon left Belmont station far behind us.

Berkeley was situated ten miles from Belmont, and on the banks of
the same stream that flowed into our lake, so that travel could be
effected between the two towns either by water or by rail, although the
latter was a far shorter route, for the small river Mahr wound in and
out amongst the picturesque hills of Berkshire, almost doubling the
distance to Berkeley.

The trip by rail took scarcely more than twenty-five or thirty minutes,
and this time was employed by us in anticipating the business of the
next day’s meeting.

As this was my first experience of the kind, I was in no position
to express positive opinions, but was content to listen to the
conversation of my two companions, and to obtain from them all the
information I could concerning the various questions that would come up
for consideration in the convention.

The time passed quickly, therefore, and almost before we were aware
of it, the train slackened speed, the door of the car opened, and the
conductor shouted,

“Berkeley! All out for Berkeley!”

It was about ten minutes past eight when we reached the Wyman House,
which stood in the center of the town and some distance from Park
College, the latter being situated nearly a quarter of a mile from the
town limits of Berkeley.

As Ray registered our names, some one touched him on the shoulder. He
turned and found himself face to face with Slade. The latter held out
his hand.

“How do you do, Mr. Wendell? I’m glad to see you. I suppose you got my
telegram all right.”

“Yes, Mr. Slade,” answered Ray coldly, “I got your telegram; otherwise
we might have missed the convention altogether. Is it your custom to
delay notifying the delegates from the various colleges until they
telegraph and ask you when the meetings are to take place?”

“‘Custom,’ Mr. Wendell?” exclaimed Slade in amazement. “What do you
mean? I have been secretary of the League for two years, and you know
my custom well enough.”

“I know what your custom should be in notifying us,” said Ray.

“And always has been,” added Slade with an accent of annoyance. “Mr.
Wendell, suppose we stop this hinting. What is the meaning of your
tone?”

“Why did you neglect to notify me of the date of this meeting?” asked
Ray.

“I did notify you,” was the instant response.

“Yes, by telegram to-day, after I had asked for the information, but
why did you fail to send me the customary formal notification that
should precede the meeting by a week at least?”

Slade looked Ray steadily in the face for several seconds, as if trying
to determine whether he was in earnest.

“Mr. Wendell,” said he firmly, “there is evidently some misunderstanding.
_I sent you the regular notification ten days ago._”

Ray’s face changed.

“Mr. Slade, are you sure of that?” he asked.

“Why do you doubt it?” was the answer. “Have I ever failed before? I
tell you again, notifications were sent to all the college delegates
ten days ago, and you among them. I was puzzled at receiving your
telegram of inquiry this morning, but supposed that you had lost the
notification and forgotten the date. Do you mean to say you never
received my letter?”

“Never,” answered Ray. “And are you sure you did not overlook me?”

“Perfectly. See, here is the proof,” and Slade opened the valise which
he carried in his left hand, and, taking out his letter book, hastily
turned over the pages. “I took the precaution of having those letters
copied, and mailed them myself.”

He pointed to the copy of a letter addressed to Ray, dated ten days
before. It contained the usual notification of the meeting, and ended
with

    Unless we hear from you to the contrary the committee will
    consider this date as convenient to you.

                             Yours truly,

                                   ERNEST FITCH, Park Coll.,
                                        _Prest. of the League_.

                                   W. H. SLADE, Halford Coll.,
                                          _Sec. of the League_.

Ray read the letter through carefully. He then said,

“Mr. Slade, I owe you an apology. I was too hasty. I hope you will
pardon me.”

“Certainly,” answered Slade, with a smile. “You can see that the fault
is not mine, and there must have been some hitch at your end of the
line.”

“Yes, I did you injustice,” answered Ray.

We spent the evening in the reading room and about the lobby and piazza
of the hotel, greeting the various delegates that had arrived from
Park, Halford, and Dean Colleges, the three institutions which, with
Belmont College, had made up the Berkshire League.




                              CHAPTER VI

                         AN INTERCEPTED LETTER


Promptly at 10:30 o’clock the following morning the delegates assembled
in the back parlor of the hotel, which had been reserved for the
convention. The folding doors which connected it with the front parlor
were closed, and the meeting was called to order by Ernest Fitch, the
president of the League.

The officers of the Berkshire were chosen in the following manner: at
the close of each session a convention was held for the special purpose
of awarding the Crimson Banner to the victorious college, and to elect
officers for the succeeding year. The plan was therefore quite similar
to that adopted by the several colleges in choosing the officers for
their association. In the case of the League, the president was chosen
from the victorious college, and the secretary from the college that
held second place. Neither of these officers, however, was to be a
member of the nines of the respective colleges. According to this
custom, therefore, Park College had the presidency in the present
season, and Halford College the secretaryship.

The meeting was not very lengthy, since only the usual matters came up
for discussion, and they were disposed of quite readily, and without
much controversy. First we decided what kind of a ball we should use,
and in this we favored a well known firm in New York. A few unimportant
changes were made in the rules, two or three professional umpires were
selected, and finally the schedule of games was arranged. According to
this schedule Belmont College was listed to play championship games on
the second, third, and fourth Saturdays in May, and with her opponents
in the following order: first, Dean College; second, Park College; and
third, Halford College.

This completed the business of the meeting, which occupied about two
hours, so that when we adjourned it was approaching one o’clock, and
time to prepare for lunch.

During the meal Tony Larcom looked over his time table.

“We can easily catch the 2:30 train,” he said to Ray. “What do you say
to going back home?”

“By all means,” answered Ray. “I see no object in hanging around here
any longer.”

Accordingly we finished our lunch leisurely, and then repaired to the
piazza, where we sat down for a few moments, awaiting the time to start
for the station.

Suddenly Tony Larcom clapped Ray on the arm.

“Our valises!” he exclaimed.

Ray and he rose together and reëntered the hotel. As I was talking at
that moment with Slade, I did not accompany them, but called out,

“Bring down my valise, too, will you, Tony?”

Tony called back an assent, and I continued in conversation.

“You have quite a bruise on your head, Mr. Elder. Did you get hit with
a ball?” asked Slade, examining my forehead.

“No,” I answered; “I was kicked in the head by some one running over
me――at least, I think so, though it was late at night, and too dark for
me to be sure.”

As we continued to talk about the matter, Slade said in a low tone,
looking over my shoulder,

“Somebody is very much interested in you, I think.”

I turned sharply around, to encounter the full, steady stare of a young
fellow about my own age, who had been standing about three feet behind
me.

He lowered his eyes, and at once passed into the hotel.

I looked after him curiously.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” responded Slade. “I think he is a Park College fellow;
at least, he came into town this morning with quite a crowd of students
from the college. He was fairly devouring you with his eyes when I
spoke.”

“Well, I hope it will do him good, though I don’t see why he――――” Here
I was interrupted by Tony, who came out quickly and thrust my valise
into my hand.

“Come on,” he said. “We must hurry.”

As I turned to shake hands with Slade, I saw the fellow who had
attracted our attention standing in the doorway still gazing fixedly at
me, but the moment my eyes met his he turned and walked away.

“And now,” began Ray, when we were seated in the train, “we must make
up our nine without delay. It will be an embarrassment of riches and
no easy task to choose, I think, for we have some mighty fine players
on the class nines. Suppose you come to my room to-night just after
dinner, and we will make a start. Of course there are some men who
stand no chance, and would only be in the way, so the best plan, I
think, is to select from the class nines twenty of the likely men, and
invite them to compete for the ’Varsity. We can post this list on the
bulletin board Monday morning, and get down to practice without delay.”

This seemed an excellent idea, and so, when we arrived at Belmont, we
separated at the station with the understanding that we three were to
meet at Ray’s room early that evening.

Immediately after dinner I went to the post office to obtain any
letters that might have arrived during the day. Nothing but a newspaper
from home was in my box, so, on receiving this, I was about to walk
away when I heard a familiar voice, and, turning around, I saw Ray
Wendell in conversation with the postmaster.

As I came up and took hold of his arm, the postmaster was saying,

“I really don’t see how I can help you, Mr. Wendell. If your letter
arrived――and I have no doubt it did――it was properly looked after. We
make no mistakes. I do not, of course, remember every letter, but I
have quite a firm recollection of such a letter as you describe――in a
pink envelope――and it was given to Ridley to deliver.”

Ridley was the young colored boy who carried the mail for the occupants
of Warburton Hall.

“Well,” answered Ray, “then I’ll have to question Ridley.”

“That is the most likely quarter to find the mistake,” said the
postmaster. “Perhaps he delivered it to the wrong party, or dropped it.”

Ray turned away.

“Hullo, Harry,” said he to me. “You see, I am tracing up that letter.
I’d give anything to know where the blame lies.”

“Probably on Ridley, as the postmaster suggests,” I responded. “You
know he is nothing but a small boy, and liable to be careless at times.”

“Well, we will see. Come on over to my room,” and Ray linked his arm in
mine.

When we reached the entrance to Warburton Hall, Ray went to the head of
the stairs that led down into the cellar, and called into the darkness,

“Hullo, Ridley!”

After repeated calls, there was a sound in the regions below. First
came the hollow clang of an iron shovel, then the crash of a coal
scuttle, and the noise of scattering coal, accompanied by muttered
exclamations of a character that betokened disaster. Finally, out of
the cellar, and as black as the darkness he left behind him, came the
unlucky Ridley, his coat off, his woolen shirt torn, and rubbing his
shins where they had come to grief against the coal scuttle. He looked
like a veritable imp of the night as he stood there in the glare of the
single gas jet that lighted the hallway. Ray looked at him with mock
severity.

“Ridley!” he exclaimed.

The boy looked at Ray beseechingly, shifted uneasily from foot to
foot, and finally, unable to withstand Ray’s fixed gaze, he snuffled
violently.

“I ain’t dun nuffin,” he mumbled.

“That remains to be seen,” said Ray, with a half smile, as he took the
boy by the ear. “Now, Ridley, listen to me. Do you remember that very
rainy Wednesday of last week?”

“Yes, sah.”

“Do you remember getting the mail that morning?”

“Yes, sah.”

“Do you remember any letters for me that morning?”

“No, sah.”

“No letters for me?”

“Dere wan’t no letters for you that mawnin, sah.”

“Ridley!” exclaimed Ray, with real severity this time. “There _was_ a
letter for me in that mail. Now, what became of it?”

Ridley was growing more and more frightened, but no sign of guilt
appeared on his ebony countenance.

“I’s tellin’ no lies, Mistah Wendell. I swar to golly I’s tellin’ no
lies. Der wan’t no letter for you.”

“Are you sure you remember the mail?” asked Ray.

“Yes, sah, perfeckly.”

“Who had letters that morning?”

“Dere was only five or six letters. I didn’t look at ’em at de post
offiss, but when I kem up to de door right here, Mistah――le’s see, who
was it?――Mistah, Mistah, oh, Mistah Howard was standin’ by de doorway.”

“Howard was there, was he?”

“Yes, sah, an’ he sez, ‘Ridley, hev ye got de mail?’ an’ I sez, ‘Yes,
sah,’ an’ he sez, ‘Let me look at it,’ an’ I gived de letters ter
him――――”

“You gave the letters to Howard that morning? Ridley, are you sure?”
exclaimed Ray, letting go of the boy.

“Perfeckly. Mistah Howard took de letters, an’ he luks ’em over, an’ he
sez, ‘Dese two is mine,’ an’ he gives me back de rest.”

“He kept two, did he? Well, did you see those letters?”

“No, sah, I didn’t see de names. He gived me back t’ree or four, and
none of _dem_ was fer you. I s’posed Mistah Howard unly kep’ his own
letters.”

“And there were two of them?”

“Yes, sah, I knows dere was two; one was white an’ de udder pink.”

“What!” cried Ray. “You say one was _pink_?”

“Yes, sah. I remember dat letter well. I tuk notiss of it wen I got
it at de post office, and when Mistah Howard gived me back de udder
letters dat pink one was gone.”

Ray was silent for several minutes, his lips pressed firmly together.
At length he said quietly.

“All right, Ridley. Much obliged to you. That will do.” Ridley
disappeared down the cellar stairs, and Ray turned to me a long look of
astonishment.

“Well, what――do――you――think――of that?” he asked slowly. I shook my head.

“And so Howard took that letter!” I exclaimed.

“So it seems,” Ray answered, “and I must say it takes my breath away.
Whatever may have been said of Howard, I never thought him a petty
thief.”

“Hold on, Ray Wendell!” cried a voice just behind us.

We both started and turned about.

Not six feet away stood Len Howard.

We were somewhat taken aback by this sudden and unexpected appearance
of the very individual whose name was upon our lips. Silence reigned
for several seconds.

At the first sound of Howard’s voice, Ray, like myself, had been
startled. He quickly recovered himself, however, and looked Howard
quietly and firmly in the face. The latter’s expression was angry and
belligerent.

“Did I hear my name a few moments ago?” he asked.

“I have no doubt you did. Your name was mentioned,” Ray answered.

“And do I understand that you apply the name thief to me?”

“My words were quite plain, I think,” responded Ray.

“I think not. I think they need considerable explanation,” said Howard,
moving a little nearer.

“That depends upon how much of our conversation you have heard,”
answered Ray. “If you were here when I questioned Ridley a few moments
ago, I hardly think any explanation is needed.”

It was evident that Howard had not overheard all that had been said.

“I don’t know anything about Ridley,” he rejoined in a louder tone of
voice; “but I know that you have called me a thief, and I intend to
have satisfaction for it.”

“Satisfaction!” echoed Ray, his lip curling.

“That’s what I said,” continued Howard, growing bolder and more
threatening as he saw how quiet his opponent was. He made, however, a
great mistake in taking Ray’s calmness of manner as an indication of
timidity.

He coolly measured Howard from head to foot with a glance of contempt.

“Why, what do you mean, Howard, by _satisfaction_?” he said. “You
simply amaze me. You stoop low enough to rob my mail, and then, when
you overhear me accusing you of the theft, you have the audacity to ask
for _satisfaction_! What right have you to satisfaction? It is I that
want satisfaction. I am the one who was wronged.”

Howard winced perceptibly as the mail was mentioned, but by the time
Ray had stopped speaking, he had entirely recovered himself, and seemed
even angrier and more aggressive than before.

“Mail!” he burst out. “What mail have I robbed? What letters of yours
have I taken? Ray Wendell, take care how you accuse me of stealing――――”

Howard’s hardihood was exasperating to Ray. That he had taken the
letter was beyond doubt, and now that he should stand there and boldly
deny it was almost more than Ray’s patience could stand.

“There is nothing to be gained by dodging in this manner, Howard,” he
said. “You understand me perfectly. You know that you took from Ridley
last week that letter which I and the college had been expecting from
Slade, relating to the date of the convention. What your reasons may
have been I can only guess, but that you robbed my mail is beyond
question.”

“It’s an infernal lie!” shouted Howard, closing his fists
threateningly, “and I’ll make you eat your words, I’ll make you――――”

“You’ll do _what_?” exclaimed Ray, his eyes flashing.

“I’ll teach you not to accuse me of stealing,” he went on fiercely.
“Why, what do you suppose I should want with your paltry letters?”

“Never mind discussing the reasons,” cried Ray, his temper now well up.
“I say you stole that letter.”

“And I say you are a liar――――”

The words had barely escaped Howard’s lips when Ray leaped forward and
seized him by the throat.




                              CHAPTER VII

                             OPEN ENEMIES


The onslaught was so sudden that Howard was almost taken off his feet.
He was dashed back against the wall and shaken until he was nearly
breathless. When he was almost strangling, Ray loosened his grip
somewhat, but still held him firmly by the throat, pressing him against
the wall.

“There, you cowardly sneak,” he said, “don’t try to bully me any
longer. Now after this leave my mail alone.”

With these words Ray released him. Howard, who was thoroughly
frightened, sank almost to his knees, and crouched there for several
seconds, breathing heavily. Then, as his breath gradually returned
to him, he recovered himself, straightened up, and smoothed out his
rumpled collar, while his face took on an evil expression.

“All right, Ray Wendell,” he said, panting. “We understand each other.
I’ll be even with you fifty times over for this――――”

“I don’t care what you do,” retorted Ray, interrupting him.

“Haven’t you already gone far enough, Howard?” said I. “Can’t you see
that every word you say only makes matters worse? What do you suppose
the fellows will say when they hear of this?”

Howard paused a moment. The humiliating results of such an exposure
dawned upon him. He struggled to master himself, and finally said in an
altered tone:

“I didn’t intend to steal the letter. I didn’t notice it was Wendell’s
till Ridley had gone away. I didn’t open it. I saw it was from the
baseball League, so I tossed it on the box behind the door where
Wendell usually puts his books.”

On hearing this I immediately looked behind the door, but found
nothing. If the letter had been thrown there it had been swept away
during the week.

“It is of little importance whether you opened it or not,” said Ray
coldly. “The result is just the same in either case. You knew the
contents, and you purposely prevented my getting it.”

Howard was about to say something more, but suddenly concluded to
accept my advice and keep silent. His lame explanation had not helped
matters at all, so, turning hastily, he walked away into the darkness
of the campus, while Ray and I started up stairs.

“Well, if you ever had any doubts about your relations to Howard they
should be removed now,” I said. “You have made an enemy of him for once
and all.”

“Nothing more than he has been in the past, I imagine,” answered Ray.
“Only he is open about the matter now. And to think that all this
started with a few games of tennis――at least I suppose so, for Howard
was friendly enough to me previous to that.”

We reached Ray’s door as his last words were spoken. This recalled to
us the business we had in view for the evening, and Ray looked at his
watch.

“Why doesn’t Tony turn up?” he asked.

“I think he will be here in a few minutes,” I answered. “I saw him
shortly before I met you and he said he would be on hand promptly.”

We had scarcely seated ourselves when Tony entered, whistling a popular
tune with all the strength and fervor, and about as much expression
as a fog horn. The whistle stopped short when Tony saw our faces,
and judged correctly from our expressions that something unusual had
happened. I described in a few words the scene that had taken place
down stairs.

“Why, the rascally scamp!” exclaimed Tony when I had finished. “You
ought to expose him before the whole college.”

“No, no,” interrupted Ray. “What could we gain by that? We could
scarcely make Howard more unpopular than he is now, and, besides,
granted that we could, I don’t believe in that sort of revenge. I would
rather let the matter rest just as it is, and I wish neither of you
would say anything about it.”

“But I think we ought to expose him for the protection of the rest of
the college, so that all the fellows may know what a thief he is,”
urged Tony.

“Now that is just where you make the mistake, Tony,” said Ray. “You
would do Howard a great injustice, for you would spread the impression
that he was a regular thief, while my belief is that his purpose was
simply to prevent my getting that letter, and his act was prompted not
by dishonest inclinations so much as a feeling of enmity against me.”

Tony was not satisfied on the point, however; nor was I, in fact, but
as Ray urged us, we agreed to say nothing about the matter, although we
felt that Wendell was acting with entirely too much generosity.

“And now,” said Ray, drawing his chair up to the desk and taking up pen
and paper, “let us get to work at these baseball candidates. Suppose
each of you take a sheet of paper and write down the names of, say,
twenty-five of the men you think to be the most likely competitors
for places on the nine. Then we will compare our lists, and if we
find that we have agreed upon twenty men we will post their names in
the gymnasium and on the bulletin board in Burke Hall, with a formal
request that they present themselves without delay if they desire to
compete for the vacant positions.”

“And how about the others?” I asked. “Do you suppose there will be any
offense taken by any one at being excluded from the competition?”

Ray thought a moment. Then he said,

“Oh, we can word the bulletin in such a way as to avoid all chance of
giving offense. We can say ‘the following are particularly invited to
compete for the vacant positions on the University nine,’ and then
we can insert a phrase something to the effect that ‘others wishing
to enter as competitors will please make known their purpose to the
captain.’ Putting it in that way will serve as a gentle hint to others
that those on the list are preferred. The college understands the
matter, I think. The fellows know that we are not trying to make a
close corporation of it, but only aim to make it easier for those who
stand a fair show to be chosen. Last year, as everybody remembers, a
great deal of money and time was wasted on a shoal of men who stood no
chance of getting on the nine at all, and who knew it too, only they
wanted to get the advantage of our training and practice. This plan
of mine is merely a polite way of hinting to such outsiders that they
must get their exercise some other way than by interfering with the
practice of the men who really mean business――and I think the hint will
be appreciated by the college at large.”

“I hope so,” commented Tony, as he thought of the low condition of the
treasury, “for we have not enough money to meet the necessary expenses
of the nine. I’m going to start that subscription list early Monday
morning.”

“Well, perhaps you will feel better, Tony, after the Glee Club
Concert,” answered Ray with a smile. “I think that will set us on our
feet again――and now take your pencils and make up your lists.”

Then he handed us each a sheet of paper.

There was a silence for several moments only broken by the scratching
of pen and pencils. At length we finished, and laying our lists upon
the desk, we set to work comparing them. It soon became evident
that our views coincided very closely, and the final result of our
examination showed that we had all three agreed upon twenty-two names.
These men were all good players who had shown their proficiency in the
class games of the fall previous, and several of them were sure of
places on the University nine.

“Well, let it stand then at twenty two, since we have agreed on that
number,” said Ray, “and now let me draw up a form for the bulletin, and
then see what you think of it.”

Ray wrote busily for some time.

“We must be prompt, you know,” he said, as he finished, “for we must
choose the nine just before the Easter vacation, so I have requested
competitors to be at the ball ground Monday noon in order that we can
begin practice at once.”

Ray then read us what he had written. Several changes were made,
and the matter rewritten several times before it was in a shape
satisfactory to us all. When finally completed, Ray handed the sheet of
paper to Tony.

“There,” he said, “will you make two clean copies of that, Tony, and
have them posted up the first thing Monday morning?”

Tony consented, and we rose to go. As I lingered at the door after Tony
had taken his departure, Ray suddenly said,

“By the way, Harry, what are you going to do this Easter vacation?”

“Nothing in particular,” I answered.

“Well, I have a brilliant scheme to propose then,” he continued. “You
know I never did like the effect the Easter vacations have on the nine.
It demoralizes them and I want to lessen the evil as much as possible
this year. Now here you are, Dick Palmer, and myself: pitcher, catcher,
and a second baseman, who, if you take hold of my idea, can keep in
splendid trim.”

“Well, and what is your idea?” I asked with interest.

“Suppose both of you come down home with me for the vacation. It is
a pleasant country place, and we will do nothing but exercise and
practice, so that by the time we return, we will be in fine shape. I’ll
promise you lots of fun in the bargain, so you’d better accept. What do
you say?”

“I’d like nothing better,” I answered, “and I’ll write home about it at
once. Summer vacation is so near that I think my people can spare me
this one week. Have you asked Dick Palmer?”

“No, for I just thought of the scheme this moment. I will speak to him,
however, without delay, for it will be a rare chance to get in good
practice, and I don’t think we ought to miss it. We’ll have a fine
time.”

“No doubt of it, and for my part, I need no urging, for I should be
delighted to go. I will let you know about it in a day or so,” I said,
as we parted company for the night.




                             CHAPTER VIII

                           CHOOSING THE NINE


Early on the Monday morning following, I went over to Burke Hall
to see if the bulletin had been posted on the great board fastened
against the wall of the main hallway. I found not only our bulletin,
but a large crowd of students assembled in front of it, and from their
comments I soon became convinced that both our notice and our selection
of men for the competition were satisfactory. The college was always
generous and sympathetic in its support of the nine, and followed its
progress with interest and encouragement. At noon a large number of
the students accompanied the competitors down to the baseball field,
which was situated about a quarter of a mile from the college, eager to
witness the first day’s practice, and to speculate on the merits of the
respective men.

The club house had been opened a week or so before, and had been
thoroughly renovated and cleaned, preparatory to the beginning of the
season. The two assistants who kept things in order about the place,
looked after the bats and other articles, and rubbed us down after
exercise, had also been re-engaged.

This latter expense had cost Tony a good deal of uneasiness.

“Just think of my nerve,” he confided to me. “Here I was re-engaging
those two fellows, with only about forty dollars in the treasury. I
hardly dared look them in the face. If the college doesn’t back us up
handsomely, the nine will have to go into pawn before the first month
has passed.”

“Nonsense; don’t fret about that,” I answered. “We had to have the men,
and the college knows it. The money will come fast enough. Have you
started that subscription list yet?”

“Indeed I have,” was Tony’s prompt response. “I could hardly wait till
this morning to begin canvassing. I was up about half past seven,
posting those bulletins, and then I set out at once for victims. There
weren’t many fellows up at that hour, but I saw one lone creature
making his way across the campus, and I swooped down on him like a
wolf, subscription list in one hand and pencil in the other. Well, who
do you think it was? Nobody but Reddy Weezner. You know what an old
skinflint he is. How was that for a tough nut to begin with. You ought
to have seen his face when he heard my errand. He turned fairly green.
You see he hadn’t had his breakfast, and I suppose he felt kind o’
weak to run up against a subscription fiend. I determined to hang to
him, however, and get some money out of the encounter. And what do you
think? I made him shell out!”

“Do you mean to say that Reddy Weezner contributed something?” I
exclaimed in amused astonishment.

“Yes, sir,” answered Tony in high glee. “The first time on record.
Reddy Weezner contributed, and what is more astonishing, he gave _three
dollars_. Think of that! I suppose if he had eaten his breakfast he
might have had the courage to refuse, but he didn’t stand any show with
me at that hour of the morning. Oh, Reddy Weezner is all right. He may
be a hard nut to crack, but when he does crack he cracks wide open. But
it was fun to see him totter off when I got through with him. I suppose
he will kick himself for a month for his generosity.”

“How does your list stand?” I asked.

“Very well, considering the short time I’ve been at work on it. I’ve
collected thirty dollars, and I’m not more than a quarter through the
list. You go on into the club house and get ready for practice, and
I’ll strike the crowd while the fellows are in the humor.”

It was with a feeling of genuine affection that I unwrapped my old
baseball suit which I had brought down with me from my trunk, where
it had lain through the winter, and arranged my things in my locker
preparatory to a new season. Of the old nine that had assembled in the
club house in the previous year, only two besides myself now remained,
but these were my best friends――Dick Palmer and Ray Wendell. Other than
those, I saw about me only faces of new men, some of whom I felt sure
would be improvements on our last year’s team.

I had little time for such reflections, however, for the others were
already on the field, so I hurriedly dressed myself and went out on the
diamond, where the new grass lay as smooth and evenly trimmed as velvet.

During the preliminary competition the manner in which we practised was
as follows:

The competitors were divided into two companies――those who were
competing for positions in the infield, and those who were competing
for positions in the outfield.

The former stood in a group and received each in turn a ground ball
batted by some one who stood about a hundred feet distant from them.

Beside this batter stood a competitor for first base position, with
his gloves on, who caught the ball as it was sharply returned to him
by the others. The practice would thus progress with the regularity of
clockwork. Each man in his turn would step forward, receive the ground
ball struck by the batter, return it quickly to the competitor for
first base who stood beside the batter, and then give place to the next
man.

The practice of the outfielders was conducted at another part of the
field. The man stood out at a considerable distance from a batter who
struck balls high into the air in various directions. Here, as in the
infield, the competitors took turn, and returned the ball at once with
all their force to a catcher who stood beside the batter.

Meanwhile, on the diamond, Dick Palmer and I held our positions as
catcher and pitcher respectively, while all the men came up in groups
of four and took turns in batting. This served as practice for Dick and
myself, and also enabled us to judge of the batting abilities of the
various men. Ray Wendell moved about from one part of the field to the
other, watching the men carefully, in order that he might arrive at a
fair judgment of their respective merits. This sort of work constituted
our daily practice until the nine was chosen, which choice usually took
place just before the Easter vacation.

The competition this year was, from the first, sharp and close, for
there were many positions to be filled, and the men were for the most
part quite evenly matched. As the days passed, however, the competition
narrowed down somewhat. A few dropped out, and some developed more
rapidly than others, so that by Saturday it would not have been so
difficult a task to pick out the likely new members of the nine.

On Saturday night the Glee Club concert took place. The large
examination room on the top floor of Burke Hall had been decorated
especially for the purpose and the floor filled with chairs. The
concert was a brilliant musical as well as financial success. The
club had been carefully trained, and sang with great spirit and dash.
The audience was large and enthusiastic, consisting chiefly of the
students and the professors’ families, with a generous sprinkling of
town people. Every number was encored, and the singers were compelled
to introduce many additional features, which they did with a good will
that made the entertainment delightful throughout. It seemed to me that
the old college songs never had sounded so sweet as when sung that
night at our baseball benefit. The other members of the nine must have
shared my feelings; and as for Tony, his beaming face fairly lighted up
the lower end of the hall.

Before the entertainment was over I made my way toward him with a view
to securing definite information concerning our finances. Tony seemed
wrapped in an ecstatic revery as I approached. No doubt he was dreaming
of the riches that lay in the strong tin box on which he was sitting,
and which were soon to be deposited in the treasury of the baseball
association.

“Well, Tony,” I whispered, nudging him, “how are the funds now? Have
you got rid of your uneasiness about hiring those men?”

“Harry,” answered Tony, “I got rid of that some days ago when I
finished my subscription list at $120. I am thinking now of hiring a
corps of servants and a brass band to accompany us on our tour. How
much do you think there is in this box?”

I shook my head. Tony leaned forward and whispered impressively,

“Over $300. And that, with the $120 I have collected and the $40
already on hand, makes it $460.”

“Well, I suppose you are happy now,” I said, laughing. “But what are
you going to do with that $300 to-night?”

“Oh, as soon as Maynard, the treasurer of the Glee Club, comes back we
are going to take it down stairs. Mr. Dikes said that we might put it
in his safe over Sunday.”

The proceeds from the concert far exceeded my expectations, and placed
our association upon a secure financial basis. The amount now in the
treasury would alone cover all expenses and carry us through the
season, to say nothing of our share in the proceeds from the various
games.

Easter vacation began on the following Saturday, accordingly, on
Thursday night, Dick Palmer, Tony, and I met at Ray’s rooms by
appointment to choose the nine. There was but little difference of
opinion among us, and a little more than half an hour sufficed to
select the names.

Of course this choice was at first experimental, and subject to change
if any man disappointed us. In order that we might have a number of
substitutes to fall back upon, the other competitors were organized
into a second nine with which the University team was to play practice
games every day. In this way every man was put on his mettle to hold
the position he had gained.

As in the case of the first bulletin, the announcement of the nine was
posted up the following morning in Burke Hall. The names and positions
of the men were as follows:

                Catcher,             Dick Palmer.
                Pitcher,             Harry Elder.
                1st Baseman,         Fred Harrison.
                2d Baseman,          Ray Wendell.
                3d Baseman,          Harold Pratt.
                Short Stop,          George Ives.
                Left Fielder,        Alfred Burnett.
                Center Fielder,      Lewis Page.
                Right Fielder,       Frank Holland.

A short meeting of the new nine was held at five o’clock on Friday
afternoon, when Ray gave them general instruction concerning practice
and training, and directed them to be on hand at the grounds at noon on
the Monday following vacation.

“You must remember,” he said, “that the real work has only begun,
so you must all buckle to and do everything in your power to help
things along. One thing I want you all to observe in particular: leave
individual interests alone, and play solely for the nine. Profit by
last year’s experience. We had good individual players, but some
of them were uncongenial, and some of them were working solely for
individual record, so we did not have a good nine. What we want this
year is perfect harmony, and I want each one of you to help me to
secure it. If you do that I have no fear for the result.”

If any one was calculated to secure this harmony it was Ray Wendell,
for, without being in the least dictatorial, he had perfect command
over the members of the nine, and we were all in thorough accord with
him.

During the week I had received word from home that I might accept
Ray’s invitation, and as Dick Palmer had also accepted, we had an
extremely pleasant outlook for the vacation. Although Tony Larcom was
not necessary to our plans, Ray Wendell could not resist asking him to
join us, and accordingly it was a very jolly party of four that set out
on the following day for Albany. On reaching that city we changed cars
and rode some distance down the Hudson River, alighting at a small way
station, where a carriage met us and transported us to Cedar Hill, the
handsome summer home of Mr. Wendell.

Ray’s parents received us hospitably, and did everything to make our
week a pleasant one. The days passed rapidly in various delightful
country pursuits. We did not forget the main object of our coming
together, however, but practised hard at baseball for several hours
each day. The result was that at the end of the vacation, which had
flown by only too rapidly, we were playing in splendid form, and were
in the best possible condition physically. The week was a perfect
paradise to Tony, who enjoyed every minute of it, and during our hours
of practice, he stood by, an interested spectator, and chased all the
wild balls like a good fellow.

Early on the Monday morning following the Easter holidays we left Cedar
Hill and returned to college. We reached Belmont shortly after ten
o’clock, and were hurrying to our rooms to unpack our valises, when we
were attracted by the sound of voices on the front campus. Rounding
the corner of Colver Hall, we saw a great mass of students assembled
near the front gateway, many of them talking loudly and gesticulating
in an excited manner.

“Hallo, what’s all this?” I asked.

“Something unusual, that’s certain,” said Dick Palmer. “Come, let’s
hurry and see what is the matter.”

Hastily tossing our valises into a corner of the entry to Colver Hall,
we ran down toward the crowd, and pushed our way through to the open
space in the center.

“What is the trouble?” I asked the nearest man.

“Trouble! Trouble enough. It’s a burning shame!” he exclaimed angrily.

“What is a burning shame?”

“Why look! Look there,” and he pointed to the ground.

We looked in the direction indicated.

_The old cannons――the pets of which Belmont had been so proud for forty
years past――were gone._




                              CHAPTER IX

                           A COUNCIL OF WAR


Almost unable to believe my eyes, I gazed fixedly at the damp, bare
spots of ground where our dear old cannons had rested for so long a
time. Like all the students at Belmont I had grown so accustomed to the
old pieces of artillery, and they had become so intimately associated
with my college life, that I had learned to look upon them as a part of
the institution itself, and I could not get used to the fact that they
were gone――that the two Belmont cannons had actually been moved away,
and that I was simply staring at vacancy. It all seemed so unreal, that
for a moment I wondered whether I was awake or dreaming. As if in echo
to my thoughts, I heard Dick Palmer’s voice beside me.

“The old cannons gone! Why, it doesn’t seem like Belmont College now.”

“No,” answered Tony Larcom, “it isn’t the same place at all. The campus
looks as if it had had two big front teeth pulled out.”

“Then we must set about refilling the cavities,” said some one.

We looked around.

Clinton Edwards was standing with his hand on Ray Wendell’s shoulder.
It was to Ray in particular that he addressed the words. Ray said
nothing.

Edwards shook Ray’s shoulder slightly.

“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked.

“It staggers me,” answered Ray slowly. “Who could have taken them?
Where have they gone?”

“To Park College,” said Edwards.

My heart leaped at these words. Vague suspicions that had been haunting
my mind for days past now suddenly became confirmed.

“How do you know the cannons are there?” questioned Ray as he started
and turned around.

“Isn’t it clear enough?” responded Edwards. “Remember that threatening
letter, and the ‘positive stand’ they said they had determined to take
in the matter. Who would take the cannons but the Park men? If you want
further proof, do as I did an hour ago――follow the deep wheel tracks
down to the dock by the boathouse, and then ask old Jerry Bunce about
the steam tug which he saw coming down from Berkeley night before last.”

“Oh, it is all too clear now,” I burst out. “Everything is
explained――the letter, and those two fellows whom I frightened away
from the cannons the night of the mass meeting. They were undoubtedly a
reconnoitering party from Berkeley――and then that fellow who stared me
out of face on the piazza of the Wyman House――he must have been one of
them, and overheard my words to Slade about the bruise on my forehead.”

There was a silence in the group for a few seconds. Attracted by our
words the greater part of the crowd had by this time gathered closely
about us. From a noisy, clamorous indignation meeting the crowd
gradually shaped itself into a council of war, of which we formed the
center.

Of this council, Clinton Edwards was one of the ruling spirits.
No student in Belmont possessed more college feeling or was more
vigorously patriotic than Edwards. He was an active leader in all that
concerned the best interests of the students.

Another prominent member of our group was Percy Randall, fully as
patriotic a student as Edwards, but more reckless. Randall was a jolly
scamp, nearly always in some scrape or other, very generally liked
and admired on account of his dashing, happy go lucky manner, and the
chosen head of a select set of mischief makers that kept the college
constantly guessing what would happen next. At a moment like this
Randall was in his element, and the contemptible trick that the Park
men had played upon us made the fellows only too eager to accept a
leadership like his.

“Of all the mean, dastardly, cowardly pieces of work this is the
worst,” he exclaimed. “Just think of it, fellows; like a lot of
pusillanimous sneaks they steal over here by night, in vacation time,
while we are away, and drag off our cannons. Oh, I wish a few of us had
been here. It would have taken only about fifteen or twenty of us to
have cleaned out half their college.”

“They wouldn’t have come had there been any of us here. Even proctor
Murray was on his vacation,” said Edwards. “It was a mean piece of
work, but they planned it well, and here we are without our cannons.”

“But we’re not going to sit down and nurse the loss,” exclaimed
Randall. “There is only one thing to do in my mind.”

“And in mine too,” echoed Edwards quietly.

“And that is?” asked Dick Palmer.

“Go and bring them back!” cried Randall.

There was a roar of applause.

“And how shall we do it?” asked one.

“How!” answered Randall boldly. “How! There is only one way. Organize a
party, go over to Berkeley, and take the cannons away from them.”

“And bring the whole college down on us in a mass?” said Edwards.

“Who cares?” exclaimed Randall. “Let them come down, and we will wipe
out the whole gang of them. I’d like nothing better than a chance like
that. We’ll teach them to meddle with Belmont College men.”

“All well enough in spirit, Percy, but it _won’t work_. We can’t get
the cannons that way,” said Edwards.

“Do you mean to say you’re going to sit tamely by and do nothing?”
asked Randall.

“No.”

“Will you go over to Berkeley?”

“Yes, but not in the way you propose,” answered Edwards.

“Any way then, just so we go,” said Randall.

Edwards was looking at Ray Wendell. He knew what an influence Ray’s
voice would exert, and he felt sure of Ray’s feelings in the matter.

“Will you join us?” he asked.

“Join whom and what?”

“I propose that we organize a party of say fifty――it would be hard to
handle more――go over to Berkeley this very night late, search out those
cannons, take them from right under the snoring noses of those Park
men, and bring them back.”

“How shall we carry them?”

“Easily enough; by boat as they did. We can hire Jerry Bunce’s
excursion boat for the night for twenty five or thirty dollars. We will
go down the river to the landing near Park College, search for the
cannons right on their campus, where no doubt they are, and drag them
down to the boat, loose our moorings, and off we’ll go. There, what do
you think of that?”

Ray’s face was flushing with excitement. His anger at the outrage
perpetrated upon us, his feeling of college honor, and his love of
adventure, combined, left him no room for hesitation.

“I will go,” he said promptly. “I only waited for some clearly defined
plan. Your idea is a good one. I believe we can make it a success.”

“Then you’ll join us?” said Edwards quickly.

“Yes, by all means.”

“Good, and you too?” he continued looking at Tony, Dick Palmer, and
myself. We assented at once.

“Who else?” called out Edwards.

A chorus of voices responded eagerly.

“This won’t do,” said Ray. “We can’t go over in a mob, without
discipline. That would spoil our chances. We must pick out and organize
a regular party as Edwards proposed, and fifty would be enough. Who
will make up the company?”

“Let Percy Randall look after that,” suggested Edwards, “and we can
arrange the other details. First let us see Jerry Bunce and obtain
the use of his boat. We will fix the hour of departure at eleven
o’clock to-night――not at our dock, for proctor Murray will be back
this afternoon and he would see us. We will have the boat anchored
around the bend down the river just beyond Packer’s woods, and the
fellows must go through the town by twos and threes so as not to arouse
suspicion. There will be a rowboat at the shore to take us aboard――――”

“Hold on, Edwards,” said I. “Suppose you can’t get the steamer? You
speak as if it was definitely arranged.”

“I do so,” he answered, “in order that we may not have to meet again.
I don’t think there will be any trouble about the steamer, but if
there is any change of plan, Percy Randall can let his men know. Since
we have made up our minds, we had better not linger around here any
more.” Then, turning to Percy, he added: “Pick out fifty or sixty of
the strongest fellows and have them on hand at eleven o’clock sharp.”

“All right,” answered Randall, “and now, fellows, those of you that
don’t happen to be chosen must not be disappointed. You can all see
that this is the best plan, and that a large mob would spoil it. If you
lie awake to-night you’ll probably see some fun when we get back.”

“Come now, fellows, let us disperse,” said Ray. “There is nothing to
be gained by standing around here any longer. We will only betray our
plans.”

At this the crowd quickly broke up, and the campus soon resumed its
usual aspect――with that one marked exception――the absence of the old
cannons, a change more noticeable than ever now that the throng had
dispersed.

“Perhaps we had better satisfy ourselves at once about the boat,” said
Edwards. “Suppose we go down to see old Jerry?”

Accordingly Ray, Tony, Dick, and I accompanied Edwards down to the
small shanty in which Jerry Bunce lived, situated on the shore of the
lake, some distance from the boat house dock.

Jerry Bunce was at home, but at first, to our consternation, would not
listen to our proposition.

“I ain’t a goin’ to hev no wild crowd o’ students a playin’ the
mischief with my boat,” he said emphatically.

It required considerable argument to convince him that we would do the
boat no harm. He feared all manner of trouble from the expedition, and
raised objection after objection. Edwards, however, had set his mind
on having the boat, and he had a persuasive and convincing manner that
eventually overcame old Jerry’s opposition.

“Wall, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said at length. “If ye must hev
the boat to-night, and you’ll do it no harm, I’ll let it to ye fer
fifty dollars――not a cent less.”

We closed with him gladly at this figure, and the bargain was soon
completed. The steamer was to be ready at the place arranged that night
at eleven o’clock.




                               CHAPTER X

                          A NIGHT EXPEDITION


“Hist! Look out for the fence!”

It was Tony Larcom’s whispered exclamation of warning to Ray Wendell,
Dick Palmer, and myself. We were hurrying along the narrow country lane
that skirted Packer’s woods, and Tony, who was leading, had almost come
to grief against the bars which separated us from the broad meadow. The
starlight was all we had to guide us, the crescent moon having set two
hours before. Vaulting the fence, we turned to the left and pursued our
way through the somber shadow of the woods, making a short straight
cut to the bank of the river. When within about twenty yards of the
water, we came out upon a stretch of clear, open ground. There we stood
a moment, straining our eyes to catch a glimpse of the excursion boat
Geraldine. Just then the sound of the college clock broke on the still
night air. It was on the stroke of eleven.

“We are prompt,” said Ray softly. “Now where is the boat? Try the
signal, Tony. I think I see a shadow over there to the right.”

Tony picked up a stone and threw it well out into the river toward a
large black body that loomed up in the direction indicated.

Immediately a lantern appeared, and swung to and fro. Then came the
sound of oarlocks, and presently a small rowboat approached the shore.
We were taken aboard, and in a few moments stood upon the deck of the
Geraldine.

Clinton Edwards was already there, having boarded Jerry Bunce’s craft
down at the lake. We had scarcely been disposed of when there came
another signal――the splash of a stone beside the boat――and the two men
who had brought us turned again toward the shore. And now the signals
came fast and thick, and the oarsmen were kept busy for the next ten
minutes transporting the students to the steamer. As the first batch of
them clambered up on deck, I was surprised to see that they all wore
masks.

“Why, what is all this disguise for?” I asked of the nearest student.

His stalwart figure and strong voice easily betrayed him. It was Percy
Randall.

“I ordered the fellows to have masks. There will be fun later, and we
will need them. Better take one,” and he held one toward me.

“No,” I answered sharply, “and moreover, I think――――” but I was
interrupted by the sudden departure of Randall to another part of the
boat.

There was no catching him again at that moment of confusion, and among
the rapidly increasing crowd of students similarly disguised. I was
uneasy at the spirit in which the enterprise was undertaken. I moved
forward to the front of the boat, where I found Ray and Tony seated
together, and some distance from any of the others. I joined them
immediately.

“Hullo, Harry,” said Ray. “I was just saying to Tony that I don’t like
the looks of things at all. We have begun all wrong.”

“So say I,” was my prompt response. “These masks don’t suit me. The
fellows know that the college has made strict laws against the wearing
of masks. What is it for?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” responded Ray. “We have no need of them. I
am sure we have no fear of the Park men, nor any need to conceal our
features from them, while we certainly have no reason to be ashamed to
show ourselves when we return home with the cannons. I can’t understand
such concealment. It seems underhand and sneaky.”

“Oh, I suppose it is some of Percy Randall’s doings,” said I. “He told
me that he had ordered the masks.”

At this moment Clinton Edwards came up. Ray rose impatiently.

“Edwards, what on earth are these masks made for?” he exclaimed.

Clinton shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know. I have just been urging Percy Randall to give them up,
but he wouldn’t listen to me, and the fellows all stand by him. They
are all of his spirit of mischief. He is the leader and we are simply
nobodies.”

“It is too bad,” said Ray. “I had my doubts when you told Percy to
organize. This is no Freshmen’s scrape. This is to regain college
rights――to vindicate college honor, and it was only on that basis that
I joined it. Percy Randall is too reckless and mischief loving to run
such an enterprise.”

Edwards laughed.

“Well, we can’t unseat him now. The fellows are all in his wake. After
all, maybe I exaggerated. He promised good behavior, and I don’t think
he intends any wild capers. Our best plan is to join the rest and use
our influence in keeping them closely to the night’s work.”

“Oh, we can’t back out now,” said Ray, leaning on the rail and looking
down at the water that spurted upward in front of the prow as the boat
made rapid headway toward Berkeley. “We will have to see it through,
and perhaps it may turn out all right, though I don’t feel at all at
ease. Your plan is undoubtedly the wisest, so let us make the best of
it.”

Here the conversation dropped, and except for a few occasional remarks
in low tones, the remainder of the trip was made in silence. After the
first twenty minutes all the students moved forward to the front of the
boat, where they stood in silent expectation of the sight of Park Hill,
where the slumbering college lay.

It was a curious group that huddled there at the bow of the Geraldine,
mysteriously masked, and bearing an air of grim determination that
boded no good for any unfortunate Park College man that happened to be
abroad at that hour of the night.

Suddenly we shot out from the shadow of the trees that darkened the
bank of the river at that point, and came upon a stretch of open
land rising gently to a plateau on which the college rested. In some
respects the situation of Park College was not unlike our own, although
Belmont had more shade, stood on higher ground, and close to a lake of
considerable size, while Berkeley had no water beyond the narrow river.
There was a dock somewhat similar to ours, though smaller, which jutted
out into the stream, and toward this we faced. The bell sounded faintly
from the engine room, the wheels ceased their beating, and we glided
gently through the smooth water that rippled softly away from our bow.
Slower and slower we moved until we had almost reached the dock, when
one of our men dropped quietly over, with a rope on his arm. Then came
a gentle bump as the boat grated against the dock, a quick knotting of
the hawser, a slight straining and creaking of timbers, and the first
step in our expedition was taken. We had “crossed the Rubicon.”




                              CHAPTER XI

                        A STARTLING DÉNOUEMENT


“Now then, Jerry,” said Clinton Edwards to old Captain Bunce, “you
and your men stay quietly here and watch for us. Be ready to put off
quickly, for we shall have no time to spare when we return.”

Falling naturally into ranks of three and four abreast, we moved
cautiously up the rising land until we reached the level of the college
ground, and stood in the shade of the trees at the outskirts of the
rear campus. There we halted a moment, while Percy Randall gave the
fellows a few whispered directions.

“What is your plan of action, Percy?” asked Edwards.

“To keep the rest here while four of us search the grounds. The moment
we discover the location of the cannons we will return.”

“Good,” said Edwards; “and who is to go ahead to reconnoiter?”

“My idea was to have you, Ray Wendell, Harry Elder, and perhaps Tony
Larcom accompany me, but you have no masks.”

“Oh, pshaw!” exclaimed Ray, “what has that to do with it? We don’t need
to hide our faces. Go ahead; we’ll follow.”

“All right,” answered Percy; “don’t waste a minute, then, but come on.”

Then, turning to the rest, he said in a louder whisper:

“Lie low, fellows, till we want you.”

All dropped flat upon the ground, where the high grass hid them
completely from view. Percy Randall had them well in hand, and had
evidently given them minute instructions. Whatever might be said of
Percy, he was certainly in thorough command of the situation, and his
coolness and courage made him a valuable leader for our party at this
critical period of our expedition.

Leading the rest, the five of us crept stealthily forward under the
shadow of the campus trees, looking sharply to right and left for the
least indication as to the whereabouts of our old artillery pieces.

“It is more than likely that we will find them on the front campus,”
said Edwards, under his breath. “It would be no triumph for the Park
men unless they display their spoils prominently.”

“Yes,” answered Ray; “and it is just like their impudence to place the
cannons in an exactly similar spot to that which they occupied on our
campus so long.”

In accordance with this idea, we stole softly along the paths and
around the buildings toward the front of the grounds.

In our progress we met no one. The campus and buildings were dark and
silent. Not a sound nor a ray of light betrayed the fact that the
gloomy halls about us were inhabited by slumbering inmates. Trusting in
the protection of the deeper shade of the large elm trees in the front
campus, we moved forward more confidently.

Suddenly Percy Randall turned and grasped Ray Wendell by the wrist.

“Well, well, what is it?” asked Ray in a startled whisper, as the rest
of us joined them.

“There, there! look there, by the gate!” exclaimed Percy with a low
chuckle of exultation. His exclamation was not without good cause.
Percy’s eyes were sharp, and they had not served him in vain on this
occasion, for down by the gate, close together, stood our dear old
cannons, and looking so natural in that position that we felt for a
moment that we must be upon our own campus. Perhaps an ordinary passer
by might not have noticed them on a night like this; but our eyes, long
grown accustomed to the shape of the old carriages, quickly discerned
them even in the dark shadows of the elm trees.

Forgetting everything but our discovery, we hastened forward, and in
silent delight clasped the old iron cylinders in our arms.

“Now for the other fellows!” exclaimed Percy Randall. “You wait here
till I come back with the rest.”

Just at that moment the bell up in the tower of the main building
struck one single note, that rolled and echoed over the campus with
startling emphasis. It was one o’clock. Suppressing our excitement, we
stretched ourselves out beside the cannons and awaited Percy’s return
in absolute silence.

The minutes dragged along wearily, and the stillness was growing
almost burdensome, when we heard numerous stealthy footsteps behind
us; and rising up, we found ourselves surrounded by Percy Randall and
his masked followers. Even to us, who knew them to be our companions,
this sudden appearance of a band of disguised men, creeping towards
the cannons in the dim starlight, had a strikingly weird and fantastic
effect. Had Percy Randall been enacting some dire melodrama, he could
not have prepared his materials or set his scene better.

“Now then, quick with the ropes!” said Percy, as the fellows gathered
about. At that moment, Tony Larcom, who had been investigating the
wheels, gave a groan.

“Great Scott! they are chained!” he exclaimed.

“Chained?” cried Percy.

“Yes. The right wheel of this cannon is chained to one gate, and the
right wheel of the other cannon is fast to the other gate.”

“That is so,” said Ray Wendell. “They are chained and padlocked. That
is bad, for the gates are iron, and make mighty solid anchors.”

There was a silence for a moment. Our hearts began to sink.

“Can’t we file the chains?” I asked.

“No,” said Tony. “It would take too long, and we can’t stay here even
ten minutes without running great risk of being caught.”

“Let us take the gates too, then,” exclaimed Percy Randall in his
impetuous way.

This remark struck none of us seriously until Ray Wendell, who had been
examining the hinges, replied:

“Not a bad idea at all. The gates merely rest on their hinges. Two or
three of us could slip one off. Lend a hand here, and let us try.”

Two fellows sprang forward and put their shoulders to the gate. Ray
had judged correctly, for, to our surprise and delight, the gate rose
slowly off its hinges, and in a moment was resting beside the cannon.

“Good, good!” cried Percy Randall softly. “Now take the other off, and
we will bind each on the back of the cannon to which it is chained.”

“Oh, this is rich!” said Tony Larcom to me with a chuckle. “I can’t
help admiring Percy’s nerve. If the rest of the college had been fast
to the gates, I believe he would have proposed taking it in tow.”

We lost no time in getting our ropes attached to the cannons, and in
swinging the muzzles around. Then, stretching out the ropes in the form
of two long loops, we divided our party into two sections, one for each
cannon. This done, we lined up and took our places. Percy Randall gave
the signal for one section, and Ray Wendell for the other. The two
columns swayed forward, the ropes became tight and rigid, and then off
we moved slowly, pulling our old cannons after us.

Throughout our movements we had thus far been undisturbed. Park
College being situated some little distance out of Berkeley, we had no
fear of alarm from town folks, and only anticipated the possibility
of some one awaking in the college buildings. We had been very quiet
in our actions, but, in dragging the cannons, some noise could not be
avoided. It was, therefore, a period of terrible suspense, while we
tugged frantically at the old pieces, fearing every moment that a note
of alarm would be sounded.

We had passed all the buildings in safety with one exception――a
dormitory that stood somewhat apart from the rest, and directly in the
line of our path toward the river. We approached along the gravel walk
with the greatest caution, moving very slowly while in front of the
building, that we might avoid all chance of being detected. We were
getting along toward the end of the dormitory, and were beginning to
breathe freer, when we struck upon a short stretch of flag pavement
that led to the entrance at that end of the building. The rattle of the
wheels on those stones struck a chill to our hearts――a chill, however,
which was nothing to the cold shiver we experienced a moment later,
when we heard the sound of some one moving in a bedroom on the ground
floor, and a short, quick cry of alarm.

“Hullo, there! who is that?”

The voice sounded just beside us. It came from a white robed figure
standing in a window immediately to the right of the entrance.

He seemed for a moment unable to comprehend the situation, and stood
staring wildly out through the grating that protected the first story
windows. Then, as his wits returned to him, he sprang hastily toward
his door, evidently to give a general cry of alarm. Had he remained
within his room and contented himself with shouting, he might have
utterly destroyed our plans, but in opening his door he placed himself
at our mercy. This was just such an emergency as Percy Randall loved.
Quick as a flash he turned, and, crying to the nearest man, “Help
me shut this fellow up!” he dashed into the entry, followed by his
companion. They met the bewildered student just as he opened the door.
There was a short, sharp struggle while Percy and his companion bound
him tightly; then he lay perfectly still.

“There, that nips his little game in the bud,” said Percy. “Now what
shall we do with him? Take him along, too?”

“No,” answered his companion, who proved to be Ray Wendell. “Put him in
on his bed and leave him. We must hurry.”

Accordingly the two lifted the student into his room, and, after making
sure that the gag was arranged to give him no pain, they left him and
we were off again.

We were now safe outside of the college grounds, and so, unmindful
of the noise of the wheels and the clanking of the gates, we pulled
furiously toward the river, where we could see the Geraldine awaiting
us.

As we struck the downward grade the ropes slackened in our hands,
and, instead of our pulling, the cannons gathered speed and began to
press us hard. It was too late to stop them, so down the grade we
scrambled in confused ranks, straining every nerve to avoid our old
iron pursuers, who came bumping along behind us until they struck the
soft earth just before the dock, where they buried their muzzles in the
ground.

Then, laughing at the situation, we gathered about them, pulled them
out, and dragged them down the pier, with a great rumble and roar of
the heavy wheels upon the echoing timbers.

As we looked backward with relief at the college buildings, now far
behind us, we wondered if the dull thunder of our cannon wheels broke
in upon the dreams of any of the sleepers there, and if they had any
appreciation of the true significance of the sound.

A few minutes sufficed to roll the cannons aboard the Geraldine, and
then, without more delay, we turned toward Belmont. The object of our
trip had been accomplished. Our delight knew no bounds. Percy Randall
was for giving three rousing cheers, but Ray Wendell repressed him.

“No,” he said. “Don’t disturb their rest. Let their surprise be
complete when they get up to-morrow morning and find cannons and gates
gone.”

“That reminds me. What shall we do with those gates?” asked Percy.

“My dear boy,” exclaimed Edwards with a laugh, “it was your suggestion
to bring them, and so they are yours.”

“Thanks, awfully,” said Percy, “but I don’t want them. Let us file the
chains or break the padlocks, and throw the gates overboard.”

“There you go again, Percy,” said Edwards. “Don’t you see that that
would put us in the wrong at once? We want to hold the gates subject to
return so as to show that we didn’t come to steal anything. Loosen them
from the cannons, that is the first thing. Then for the time being we
can leave them down at our boathouse. When Park College wants them back
we can return them.”

Percy and several others went below to work over the cannons, while the
rest of us remained on the upper deck during the trip home. By the time
we had reached the lake and were making toward our dock, the gates had
been loosened, and the cannons considerably lightened by their freedom
from these encumbrances, stood ready for their old positions.

Accordingly, after the gates had been placed by the boathouse, the
fellows manned the ropes and started off briskly with the cannons. As
we left the pier the rope on which I was pulling snapped close by the
carriage. A halt was called to repair the break. Ray Wendell drew out
his match-box――a handsome silver case which he always carried with
him――and lit a match, while I crept under the carriage and refastened
the rope. Then we started on again, Ray pulling on the same rope with
me, and immediately in front of me. When we had got about half way up
the hill from the lake the fellow who was just behind me leaned forward
and whispered:

“Will you ask Wendell for his match safe, please?”

I immediately touched Ray on the arm.

“Let me have your match safe, will you, Ray?”

He handed it to me at once, and I passed it back to the fellow behind,
who, being masked like the others, was unrecognized by me.

“When you are done, give it back to Ray Wendell,” I said.

After a few moments more of hard pulling we reached our campus, and
with a tingling sense of pleasure at the final accomplishment of our
plans, hurried the cannons along to their old resting place.

“And now, fellows,” said Edwards, “we must give three cheers before we
disperse. Why don’t you take off your masks? Don’t you know that you
run unnecessary risks by wearing them?”

Percy Randall and another student were busy at the touch holes of the
cannons. Percy looked up.

“Hold on, fellows; the fun hasn’t more than begun,” he cried.

“What do you mean?” asked Ray Wendell in wonderment.

Percy stood up and scratched a match.

“I propose a volley of cheers for our successful campaign,” he cried.

I started to cheer, but I found my voice drowned out in a deafening
blare of tin horns which every man drew from his pocket. This was a
totally unexpected development, for a horn spree was the last thing
I anticipated at that time. Still we were in for it now, and I was
disposed to enjoy the fun while it lasted. Before my ears had become
accustomed to the hideous twang of the horns another shock occurred.

Percy Randall leaned forward with his match. There was a sharp
sputtering for a few seconds, then two vivid, blinding sheets of flame,
and the double roar of the two cannons, which at some time during the
trip home on the Geraldine had been loaded by Percy’s directions. It
was the first time in many years that the voice of the old artillery
had been heard, but it seemed as if all the force reserved during that
long spell of silence was concentrated in this one blast, for the
ground under us fairly shook, while we could hear windows rattling and
crashing in every direction.

Immediately everybody took to his heels, and as the roar of the cannons
rolled away, the sharp nasal bray of horns reëchoed from every quarter
of the campus, dying away in the recesses of the various buildings
whither the crowd had taken flight. It was “every man for himself” in
that scramble, and for my part, the shortest route to my room in Colver
Hall was what suited me best, so off I dashed.

Unfortunately I had to pass near the college offices. I thought I was
in safety, and was about to pass my entry when a rough hand was laid on
my collar. I was brought to a sudden and unexpected stop, the shock of
which nearly jerked my head off. I struggled to free myself, but in
vain, so, turning about to see who my captor was, I discovered to my
dismay that I was standing face to face with proctor Murray.




                              CHAPTER XII

                              A PRISONER


The fatal power and tenacity of proctor Murray’s grasp was known to
every student of Belmont College, if not by personal experience, at
least by reputation. From the moment I discovered that it was his hand
upon my shoulder, I realized that further resistance would be worse
than useless, so I stood perfectly still, and endeavored to accept the
situation calmly. Still holding me firmly with one hand, he coolly
scratched a match with the other, held it close to my face for an
instant, and then extinguished it.

“Oh, it’s you, is it, Mr. Elder?” he said. “This is the first time I
ever caught you in a scrape.”

“Yes, Dan,” I answered, “and no one regrets it more than I do. If I
could have had only fifteen seconds’ more start, I’ll venture to say
you never would have caught me.”

“Perhaps not,” he said, with a short laugh, “but here you are all the
same. You’re a Junior, Mr. Elder. That’s pretty late in your college
life to be out on a spree.”

“I own that, Dan, and the worst of it is that I never knew there was
going to be any mischief until I found myself in the midst of it――――”

“Oh, I suppose not,” said Murray, with slight sarcasm. “It has been my
experience always to catch the innocent men. It was always the _rest_
that were to blame. Now, since you had nothing to do with this little
trouble I suppose you wouldn’t mind telling me who were the chief
parties concerned, before I let you go.”

I knew that he was joking, but I could not help a slight sense of
resentment at this proposition.

“Well, now, Dan,” I replied, “you don’t suppose that you are going to
get any such information as that from me, do you? You don’t suppose
that I am going to betray the others――――”

“Oh, then you were one of them?” said Dan, still enjoying his little
joke. “I supposed from what you said that you were only a spectator,
and, somehow, got mixed up in the trouble.”

“I am willing to stand my share of the responsibility,” I answered.

“Well, Mr. Elder, I’m sorry you got caught. There are many worse young
men in college than you, and I wish I had caught one of them instead,
but as it is, I am afraid you’ll have to stand the racket.”

“All right, Dan,” I answered.

“I won’t say anything unless the faculty ask me to report, but I
know they will, for there have been a good many college laws broken
to-night――and a good many college windows, too, if I’m not mistaken.
It’s pretty serious trouble all around, and I don’t think there’s any
doubt but what the faculty will need you at their meeting to-morrow.”

“Very well, then; I suppose I’ll have to oblige them,” I answered
soberly, as I thought of the possible results of that meeting.

“You can go now, Mr. Elder. I hope you’ll get off easy,” added Murray,
as he took his hand from my shoulder and walked away.

I started for my room, but before I had taken three steps an idea
occurred to me.

“Hullo, Dan!” I called after Murray’s receding figure. He stopped.

“Well, what is it, Mr. Elder?”

“When you are asked to report to-morrow, would you mind saying in my
favor that I wore no mask?”

“Hullo! So the rest wore masks, did they?” exclaimed Murray gruffly.
“That won’t help matters any.”

I saw the fatal mistake I had made, and I could have bitten my tongue
off for speaking. I was so out of patience with myself that I turned
abruptly and dashed up stairs to my room, where I threw myself on my
sofa and brooded for half an hour in mortified silence.

It seemed, then, that Dan Murray had not known that the other fellows
wore masks. It was probable that he did not arrive on the scene till
quite late, and was unable to scrutinize any one closely except myself.
Of course if I had kept silent the fact that masks were used would
not have been known, but, now that I had betrayed it, the affair
immediately took on a far more serious aspect.

“It is too bad,” I thought bitterly, “and yet how could I help it? It
never occurred to me that Dan had not noticed the masks.”

One consideration alone arose to console me in my self recrimination,
and that was rather a poor sort of consolation.

“After all,” I said, “since I am the only one caught to-night, none
suffers by it except myself. I only made matters worse for myself by
saying anything about the masks.”

Concerning the nature of the results of the night’s adventures I could
only surmise; but now that the excitement was over and I could look at
the matter soberly, I felt grave doubts arising in my mind. The spirit
in which most of the fellows had acted had been one of open defiance of
college laws, so I had no reason to doubt that the faculty would view
the affair very seriously. Wearing masks and blowing horns had always
been regarded as an indication of the most disorderly spirit, and had
usually been met by the severest penalties, in the form of suspension
from college for some time, and in one or two cases outright expulsion.
My uneasiness rapidly increased as my mind dwelt on the possible fate
awaiting me.

“It’s all Percy Randall’s fault,” I exclaimed impatiently. “Confound
him and his mischievous pranks! If we had gone quietly to our rooms
after setting the cannons in place, or had contented ourselves with
three cheers, all would have been well. As it is now, I don’t know what
is to become of me.”

I passed an anxious and almost sleepless night on the sofa where I
had flung myself when I entered. As the hours dragged slowly along,
the condition of my nerves scarcely improved, and by the time the
first gray streaks of dawn appeared, I had worried myself into a state
bordering on distraction. My bones were aching from insufficient rest,
and my head was burning and feverish.

I rose about seven o’clock, and, bathing my face, redressed myself, and
waited impatiently for the breakfast hour. I was anxious to get away
from myself, to find something to do or some one to talk to――anything
but the long, lonely silence of the past few hours. I left my room as
soon as I heard the first signs of life about the building, and went
over to my eating club. On the way I noticed that nearly every window
on the first floor of Burke and Colver Halls had been shattered by the
cannons the night before――a fact that scarcely contributed to lessen my
anxiety.

To my great relief I found Tony Larcom before me at the club. Tony
looked as if he had slept scarcely more than I, but he was bright and
cheerful as usual. He looked at me curiously.

“See here, Harry,” said he, “you don’t want to carry around such a
guilty face as that to-day. You’ll be arrested on suspicion.”

“It’s too late now,” I answered, “because I’ve already been caught. I
fell into Dan Murray’s clutches last night.”

Instantly Tony was all concern.

“Oh, thunder, Harry, that’s too bad!” he exclaimed, putting his hand
on my shoulder. “Really, I’m awfully sorry about that. I heard a rumor
that somebody had been caught, but I thought it was surely one of Percy
Randall’s select band――and it would have served them right, too; but to
think that _you_ got caught. Oh, that was hard luck.”

I thought so myself, but to hear some one else say so did me good, and
Tony’s sympathy was so genuine that my spirits improved somewhat under
it.

I determined to say nothing about my capture to any one else, knowing
well that it would become known quickly enough when the faculty took
action in the matter. Whatever action they contemplated, I received no
advice concerning it during the morning or early afternoon, and the day
was, therefore, a period of uneasy suspense to me. Without Tony Larcom
and his unfailing good humor for companionship I do not know what I
would have done. I never appreciated his friendship so much as then.

All doubt was dispelled from my mind when, at the close of the
afternoon recitation, Mr. Dikes, who stood just by the door as my
classmates filed out, touched me on the shoulder, and beckoned me to
one side.

“The faculty wish to see you at their meeting in the main college
office, Mr. Elder.”

“All right, Mr. Dikes,” I answered with all the calmness I could
summon. “I am ready.”

“If you will step into my office,” he said, “I will let you know when
they want you.”

As I started after Mr. Dikes, I felt some one touch me. It was Tony
Larcom.

“I wish you good luck, old fellow,” he said, hastily pressing my arm.
“Keep up your spirits, and don’t let them rattle you.”

I nodded my thanks, and followed Mr. Dikes into his office.




                             CHAPTER XIII

                          BEFORE THE FACULTY


I was not kept waiting long. Scarcely five minutes had passed when the
door again opened, and Mr. Dikes reappeared.

“Come in, Mr. Elder,” he said quietly.

With considerable trepidation I followed him, and in a few seconds more
I stood in the presence of the faculty.

There was an ominous hush as I took my stand in the middle of the room,
facing the seven professors who sat opposite me in a row. I looked
apprehensively from one to another with a view to ascertaining what
was to be the nature of my reception. My glance was not encouraging.
Severity was the predominant expression on every countenance. In the
center, behind a small table, sat Dr. Drayton, the college president.
He was a man habitually sober and impressive in manner, and, at this
moment, his face was exceptionally grave. Gazing at me sharply over his
glasses, he began:

“Mr. Elder, there was a riot among the students last night, which
resulted, as you know, in the destruction of college property. It
was conducted in a spirit of open revolt against our laws. Horns
were blown, and the old cannons on the front campus were loaded and
discharged, breaking a number of windows. Such culpable infringement of
our rules has not been known in some time past, and we are determined
to sift the matter to the bottom, and punish the offenders to the
fullest extent of our laws. Proctor Murray reports that you were one of
these offenders. Have you anything to say?”

My voice trembled somewhat as I answered:

“I was among the students on the campus last night.”

“Proctor Murray reports that masks were worn. Is this true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He also said you were an exception to this――that while the rest wore
masks, you had none.”

“I had no mask, sir. Knowing it to be against college laws, I refused
to wear a mask.”

“We are glad to know this in your favor, Mr. Elder. The charge against
you, however, is serious enough. You were one of this disorderly crowd,
and you were associated with all its doings last night.”

“I was with them, sir,” I answered.

There was a pause for a moment, while Dr. Drayton said something in a
low tone to Mr. Dikes. The latter left the room for a few seconds. On
returning, he made an affirmative sign to Dr. Drayton, and stood by the
door as if awaiting directions.

“Show him in,” said Dr. Drayton.

I turned in surprise as the door again opened. Could it be that some
one else had been caught? I could not avoid a slight sense of relief at
the thought, for I was becoming terribly depressed in my endeavor to
support alone the whole weight of professional dignity arrayed against
me. The thought of companionship was extremely welcome to me.

I was not kept long in doubt. I heard Mr. Dikes’ voice say, “This way,
please.” A quick, firm step sounded in the outer office, the door was
thrown wide open, and _Ray Wendell_ stood on the threshold. There was
a mutual expression of surprised recognition between us, as he moved
forward and stood beside me. Dr. Drayton’s tone was even more severe in
addressing Ray than it had been to me.

“Mr. Wendell,” he said, “you are here to answer a charge of a very
grave character. You are charged with taking an active part in the
disorderly disturbances last night.”

Ray was perfectly calm.

“And may I ask, sir, on what ground that charge is brought against me?”

Dr. Drayton held up a small silver object which had been resting on his
table, and which had escaped my notice.

“This is your match box, I believe,” said the president. “Your name is
upon it.”

Ray started as he recognized the box, but recovered himself almost
immediately.

“Yes, sir. It is my match box,” he answered quietly.

“It is, no doubt, from this box that the matches were taken to light
the cannons last night,” continued Dr. Drayton, looking Ray steadily in
the face.

Ray said nothing.

“Answer me, Mr. Wendell,” said Dr. Drayton after a pause. “Were you one
of that party of students who created the disorder last night?”

“I was with them, sir,” said Ray, making the same answer as I had.

“And you were masked like the others?”

“No, sir.”

Dr. Drayton looked at him quickly.

“Mr. Wendell,” he said, in a still sharper tone of voice, “we are
speaking upon information furnished us by Mr. Elder.”

Ray turned with a quick movement and looked at me. I shall never forget
that look――a look of mingled surprise, disappointment, and reproach. It
cut me like a knife, for I saw only too clearly what it meant. Coupling
the display of the match box, which he remembered giving me the night
before, with Dr. Drayton’s last words, Ray had concluded, as was only
natural in the face of such evidence, that I had betrayed him. The
thought that he should suspect me of such baseness, for one instant,
was more than I could stand, so I hastened to correct the impression at
once.

“Dr. Drayton,” I said quickly, “my words misled you. When I said that
I wore no mask I did not intend to imply that _all_ the rest wore
masks.”

“That was certainly the impression you gave me, sir,” answered Dr.
Drayton, “and I think the other gentlemen of the faculty placed a
similar construction upon your language.”

“I am very sorry, sir,” I stammered. “There were several others besides
myself who wore no masks, and Mr. Wendell was one of them.”

I glanced quickly at Ray as I said this, in order to mark the effect
of my words. He would not look at me, and it was only too evident
from his manner that his doubts had not been cleared by my attempted
explanation. Dr. Drayton’s positive tone, and my hesitancy and
embarrassment, Ray had undoubtedly interpreted to my disadvantage. It
must have seemed to him that Dr. Drayton was right, and that I had
weakly shifted my position. I was distressed to see that I had not
improved matters appreciably.

“I must wait till we are alone; then I can explain it,” I thought.
Meanwhile I was in a far from enviable position――in disgrace with the
faculty, and at the same time suspected of falseness by my best friend.

The inquiries were again directed toward Ray.

“Then you _did not_ wear a mask?” said Dr. Drayton.

“No, sir.”

“Was the match box in your possession when the cannons were discharged?”

“No, sir,” answered Ray. “I lent it to some one a short time before.”

Dr. Drayton leaned forward and continued with greater earnestness.

“Mr. Wendell, this match box was found this morning just beside one
of the cannons. It was open, and the matches were scattered about,
as if it had been dropped in haste immediately after the guns were
discharged. We are confident that the man who lighted the cannons, held
this match box in his hand.”

Ray was silent.

“Mr. Wendell, when was it that you lent the box?” asked Professor
Fuller, speaking for the first time.

“About fifteen minutes before, while we were coming up the hill from
the lake,” answered Ray.

“To whom did you lend it?” asked Dr. Drayton quickly.

It was not a fair question, and Ray made no immediate reply. He saw
that a full and accurate answer would turn upon me the suspicion of
having lighted the cannons. It was an excellent opportunity, had
he been disposed to accept it, for him to retaliate upon me for
my supposed falseness to him. But this, I knew, was the kind of
retaliation which Ray Wendell despised. However much he may have
doubted me at that moment, it could in no way affect his own sense of
honor.

In answering, he measured his words carefully.

“It was dark, sir――too dark to recognize anybody, except close by. Some
one behind me asked for my match box――I did not see him, but handed it
back without turning around.”

“But you recognized his voice, did you not?” questioned Dr. Drayton,
pushing the inquiry eagerly.

Ray hesitated.

“Dr. Drayton,” he said at length, “granted that I knew who it was,
could I be expected to tell――to――――”

I could stand it no longer, so I broke in again.

“It was to _me_, sir, that Mr. Wendell gave his match box.”

All, Ray included, looked at me in surprise.

“To you!” exclaimed Dr. Drayton.

“Yes, sir,” I answered, “to me, but only to pass it back. Some one of
those behind me asked for the box, and I got it from Mr. Wendell. I
only retained it for a moment, and I do not know to whom I gave it, for
the rest were masked.”

Ray was looking at me with an expression of relief on his face. He was
beginning to see that he had misunderstood the position of affairs.

Dr. Drayton was plainly disappointed. He had at first thought that his
inquiries had unearthed the chief offender, but now he found himself as
far astray as at the beginning.

Scanning us both sharply he asked:

“Had either of you gentlemen any idea of the purpose for which that
match box was wanted?”

“No, sir,” we answered together.

“But you knew the cannons were to be discharged?”

“No, sir,” answered Ray, “not even that. It was a total surprise to us.
We had no idea that masks were to be worn either.”

The professor looked at us incredulously.

“Then how came you to be identified with this party, Mr. Wendell?”
asked Professor Fuller. “How is it that you, a prominent member of the
Senior class, became associated with this masked company?”

“The object of our gathering last night,” said Ray, “was to regain the
cannons which had been stolen by the Park College men. It was on that
basis alone that I joined the party. I had no idea that there were any
mischievous intentions until too late to withdraw.”

“Please recount to us what occurred, Mr. Wendell,” said Dr. Drayton.

Ray accordingly narrated the doings of the night before, while the
professors listened with eager interest. When he had finished, Dr.
Drayton said:

“I believe we have now all the facts before us, as far as they can
be ascertained; and, while they do not by any means exculpate you,
they throw a somewhat more favorable light upon your motives. You had
no right, however, to take the law in your own hands, as you did in
this undertaking, and you cannot free yourself from a share of the
responsibility for what occurred.”

“But the cannons, sir,” urged Ray. “They were ours, and they had been
stolen from us.”

“The cannons belong to the college,” said Dr. Drayton severely, “and
the college authorities were the proper persons to take steps in the
matter. We had already begun action for their recovery when this
disorderly demonstration took place.”

Ray had nothing more to say.

“Young gentlemen, you may go now,” continued the president. “You
will please present yourselves at my house this evening, when I will
acquaint you with the action of the faculty in this matter.”

We bowed, and were shown out of the room by Mr. Dikes.




                              CHAPTER XIV

                              THE PENALTY


No sooner were we outside than Ray turned to me and laid his hand on my
shoulder.

“Forgive me, Harry, for doubting you a single moment,” he said.

“Certainly,” I answered; “I don’t wonder at your doubts, for appearances
were dead against me.”

“What was I to think?” he continued. “The only evidence for summoning
me was the match box which I had given you. Then when Dr. Drayton spoke
about information obtained from you, what could I――――”

“Oh, don’t mention it again,” I broke in. “It disturbed me enough at
the time to think that you suspected me of such meanness. It is all
right now, so let it go.”

“I owe you a thousand apologies,” he said.

“Well, I’ll give you a receipted bill of them, and call it square,” I
answered, laughing. “The question that agitates me most just at this
moment, is what are the ‘potent, grave, and reverend signiors’ inside
there going to do with us.”

“I give it up,” answered Ray. “It is unfortunate all around. Here we
are, the least offending in the lot, hauled up to be made examples
of, while scapegraces like Percy Randall go at large, as if they were
spotless innocents. I could wring his neck for getting us into this
fix.”

“The faculty seem to be disposed to favor us somewhat,” I said, as I
recalled Dr. Drayton’s words.

Ray shook his head.

“We can’t get much encouragement, I fear, from that. It only means that
we won’t be expelled for good, as we would have been, undoubtedly, if
we had been ringleaders.”

It was with anxious hearts that we awaited the hour to go to Dr.
Drayton’s house. I did not go to dinner. I had no appetite, and I did
not care to face a club of noisy companions in my present mood. About
a quarter of eight o’clock Ray came to my room, where I was pacing the
floor impatiently, and we went over to the president’s residence.

We were ushered into his study, where presently Dr. Drayton joined us.
Inviting us to be seated, in his usual grave manner, he took his place
at his desk, which was situated in the middle of the room, and began
forthwith:

“Young gentlemen, I may as well say at once that I sincerely regret
your connection with this unfortunate affair. You are both young men
of high standing and good reputation in your separate classes, and I
am very sorry that anything should injure your record. It seems quite
evident to us that you were not ringleaders in the disorderly and
mischievous behavior of last night, and that you carried yourselves
as well as could be expected under the circumstances. But you were
concerned in these disgraceful doings; you deliberately joined a party
bent on taking the law into its own hands and setting our authority at
naught, and you must therefore stand the consequences.”

Here Dr. Drayton paused a moment, while we watched him in breathless
suspense.

“As I told you this afternoon,” he continued, “we had already taken
steps for the recovery of the cannons, and we were the proper ones to
conduct the affair. We were intensely annoyed at hearing of your hasty
behavior, for you have placed Belmont College partially in the wrong by
acting so forcibly. It was hasty, injudicious, and disorderly, and even
if you had not aggravated it by a wanton spirit of mischievousness, it
would have been our duty to make an example of you for taking authority
into your own hands. The faculty have given your case a full and just
consideration, and have come to the decision that it will be necessary
for us to suspend both of you from college for a period of five weeks.”

Dr. Drayton paused again. His words had fallen upon our attentive ears
like a thunder clap. We dared not look at each other. Each was busy
with his own thoughts.

Five weeks’ suspension! Why, what would become of us? There were
only nine weeks in the last term of the year, and the ninth week was
occupied in the final examinations. For Ray Wendell the affair was
likely to prove far more serious than for me. He was in the Senior
class, and therefore had his final examinations two weeks earlier than
I would. I glanced at him quickly. His face was quiet but pale, and I
knew how he must be suffering, to see the fondest hopes of his college
life being swept away.

Dr. Drayton, who had been watching us closely, began again:

“Young men, I can appreciate your thoughts at this moment, and you are
right in your estimate of the serious results of this penalty upon
your studies. In your case particularly, Mr. Wendell, this suspension
would be almost fatal to your success in final examinations. I speak,
therefore, in behalf of the faculty in offering you some remittance of
this sentence.”

We both looked up eagerly.

“Upon a certain condition,” he added. “We saw clearly that this
punishment would interfere seriously with the college work of both
of you, and we were glad, therefore, to consider the favorable
circumstances in your case, and to make every allowance possible on
account of your evident disposition to conduct yourselves in an orderly
manner last evening. Upon a certain condition, therefore, we offer to
remit a large part of your punishment.”

We still gazed at him, anxiously expectant.

“You are both baseball players, and are devoting a great deal of time
to the game,” he said, looking from one to the other.

We acquiesced silently.

“And you, I believe, Mr. Wendell, have accepted the position of captain
of the nine for this year.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Ray.

“Do you remember our conversation last spring, Mr. Wendell? I warned
you that baseball was taking too much of your time. I found that you
were neglecting certain branches of study on account of the game,
and that it was interfering with your progress. Did you forget that
warning?”

“No, Dr. Drayton. I accepted your suggestions, and, at first determined
to give up baseball this year; but my college mates begged me not to
go back on them, and upon thinking it over I made up my mind that I
could, by being careful, keep up baseball, and lose nothing by it in my
studies.”

“It is a mistaken idea altogether, sir,” exclaimed Dr. Drayton with
some show of impatience. “You made an experiment of it last year, and
what was the result? You dropped five places in your class during the
baseball season. You, Mr. Elder, dropped ten. I say it is useless to
attempt it, and I am sorry to see so promising young men throwing away
opportunities and wasting time on a mere game.”

“But, Dr. Drayton,” said Ray, “I can’t help thinking that baseball does
us as much good in one way as our studies do in another.”

“All exercise is good――in moderation,” answered Dr. Drayton sharply,
“but when a game interferes with your class work, then it is time to
stop. The matter was well gone over in our interview last year, and I
am sorry, Mr. Wendell, that my warning was so little heeded. It comes
now, however, to a choice. The faculty is willing to make your penalty
in this case merely a nominal suspension of two weeks, upon condition
that you young men consent to give up baseball.”

There was a dead silence for several moments. At length Dr. Drayton
said,

“Well, young gentlemen, what is your choice?”

Ray rose.

“Why should we be put to the necessity of a choice, Dr. Drayton? If I
am careful, I see no reason why baseball should conflict with my class
work.”

“We are no longer to discuss the matter, Mr. Wendell. You know my views
well enough, and it would be useless to repeat them. The question
is merely which of these will you choose. I am sure good sense will
relieve both of you of any hesitation in the matter.”

“But I have promised my fellow students to play ball. The nine has
already begun work. It would break up all our plans,” exclaimed Ray.

“I cannot see the importance of your baseball plans,” said the
president coldly.

“I feel in honor bound to my college mates. I cannot desert them,”
answered Ray desperately.

“Dr. Drayton,” said I, “the season has so far advanced that it would
not be fair to the rest for us to back out now.”

“Then what am I to understand is your answer?” asked Dr. Drayton,
looking fixedly at us.

Ray turned to me. It was evident that we were of the same mind. Ray’s
thoughts no doubt dwelt longingly a moment on the commencement honors
he had hoped to win, but his face showed no struggle, no hesitation.
Dr. Drayton’s effort to force him into renouncing baseball had aroused
all his latent pride and sense of honor. He felt, as I did, that the
condition was unfair, and based upon a wrong assumption――namely, that
baseball and studies could not be conducted together without a loss to
the latter. Turning to the president, Ray spoke for both of us.

“If this is the condition, Dr. Drayton, then we must choose the five
weeks’ suspension,” he said quietly.

Dr. Drayton wheeled sharply around in his chair and took up some papers
that lay on his desk. From the way his hands trembled I could see that
he was very angry.

I started to speak.

“You have said quite enough, young gentlemen,” he said in a constrained
voice. “If this is your decision, I must own that I am deeply
disappointed at your choice, which does you very little credit. Please
make arrangements to leave college to-morrow. Mr. Dikes will notify
your parents of your suspension.”

“Dr. Drayton, is there _no_ alternative?” asked Ray almost imploringly,
his voice nearly breaking under the pressure of his pent up feelings.

“There _was_ an alternative, sir, but you have rejected it. Nothing now
remains but the penalty which the faculty have imposed. You would have
shown more wisdom had you accepted that alternative.”

“Oh, no, sir; we cannot accept,” exclaimed Ray in despair.

“Then good day, sir,” said Dr. Drayton, without relaxing a muscle.

Recognizing the hopelessness of further words, we turned and went out.
As we walked down the long gravel walk, Ray said slowly, as if talking
to himself.

“It was a terribly high price to pay for a season of baseball. I hope
the boys will appreciate that if we don’t win the Crimson Banner.”

“I can’t realize it yet,” I rejoined. “It seems too terrible. Just
think of it! Five weeks from the college! We will have to live
somewhere in town, and go to the baseball grounds by a roundabout way,
for if we are caught on the campus during our suspension we will be
expelled――――”

“Little difference it would make to me,” said Ray bitterly. “I might
just as well have been expelled for all the chance it leaves me.”

“There, old fellow, don’t take it hard,” I exclaimed, detecting in his
voice the symptoms of breaking down. “I know it puts you in a terrible
fix, but, somehow, it seems as if something _must_ happen. I can’t make
up my mind that it is true. There must be some way out of the hole.”

Ray shook his head sadly.

“I see none. We have refused the only chance offered us.”

“No, no,” I exclaimed eagerly, after a moment’s thought; “there is a
chance left.”

“Where?” exclaimed Ray, looking at me eagerly.

“Professor Fuller,” I answered.

Ray was silent for a few seconds. Then his face brightened a little.

“Good!” he said. “You are right. There is a chance in him. We will go
to see Professor Fuller to-morrow.”




                              CHAPTER XV

                      A VISIT TO PROFESSOR FULLER


Whatever may have been Ray Wendell’s feelings that night, my own were
varied and conflicting. Not that I repented of our decision. By no
means. If the question had again been presented to us in the manner
in which it had been proposed by Dr. Drayton the evening previous, I
should have made the same answer. But, at the same time, the importance
of our college duties, and their claim upon our attention, made me
regret more deeply the necessity that had compelled such a choice as
ours.

Frequently during the night would arise the question: “Should I have
sacrificed my college interests for baseball?” and almost immediately
would come the feeling that we had been treated unjustly in being
forced to such a choice, and that we were right in rejecting it. The
more I considered the matter, however, the more in doubt I became. From
this doubt Professor Fuller offered the only chance of relief, and I
maintained unwavering trust in him.

“I won’t get discouraged about the matter until I hear what the ‘old
governor’ has to say,” I repeated to myself.

Professor Fuller was the oldest and by far the most popular member of
the faculty. He was always the student’s first friend on his entrance
into Belmont; and many a homesick boy had cause to remember most
gratefully the kind attention of the professor at a time when the
surroundings were strange to him and he was sadly in need of friendly
advice. The old gentleman had always made it a principle to interest
himself in all newcomers, to welcome them, and make them feel at home.
By innumerable little acts of kindness he would manifest his fatherly
interest in the boys, who loved him one and all with a warmth of
feeling second only to that which they possessed for their parents.

There was no student who had not at some time felt the kindly
influence of Professor Fuller, but it was the boy in trouble who
always had special cause to be grateful. To him the students turned
instinctively when in need of guidance or advice, and no one ever came
away disappointed. It was this that had won for him the title of “the
old governor,” which was no disrespectful name, but a genuine term of
endearment, and was used by the fellows with feelings of the utmost
affection.

It was no idle thought, therefore, that suggested Professor Fuller’s
name to me, nor a vain hope that led us to seek his counsel in our
trouble.

Immediately after breakfast the following morning I sought out Ray
Wendell that we might lose no time in making our call on the professor.
We met at the post office, and one glance at his face showed me that
Ray’s mind was scarcely more at ease than my own. Few words were
exchanged as we walked along the shady lane at the left of the college
grounds, leading to Professor Fuller’s house. This was situated quite
a distance back from the gate, in the midst of a large lawn, which was
cut off from the street by a high hedge of evergreens.

As we approached we heard just on the other side of this hedge a
female voice calling to Sport, the professor’s large collie dog, who
was burrowing under the bushes. On entering the gate, we saw Miss
Nettie Fuller leaning forward over a bank of flowers. She was a bright
and attractive girl of sixteen and was held in the highest regard by
the students who were fortunate enough to know her. Both of us being
acquaintances of long standing, we stopped to speak to her. She did not
notice us at first, for her face was hidden by a large sunbonnet, and
her attention was engaged in her work, and in keeping the dog out of
mischief.

“Sport, Sport, come here and leave that poor squirrel alone!” she
called, turning her head toward the hedge.

At this moment the squirrel broke cover, and rushed across the path
directly in front of us, Sport after it in hot pursuit. Immediately we
dashed for him. Sport saw us coming, shied to one side, and brought
us all down in a heap on the gravel path, Ray, however, retaining a
firm hold on the dog’s collar. There was a sharp scuffle, a yelp from
Sport, and the three of us rolled over and over in a confused mass.

Miss Nettie screamed faintly as she turned round; then, taking in the
situation, she burst into a peal of laughter, while we disentangled
ourselves, and got up.

“We were trying to make ourselves useful, Miss Nettie,” said Ray, as he
picked up his hat and dusted off his clothes. “I hope we were, for we
have ruined our chances of being ornamental.”

Thinking that she had perhaps laughed too hard at us, Miss Nettie
blushed and sobered down.

“I hope you are not hurt,” she said. “Please excuse my laughing so. I
fear you think I am very rude to receive visitors in such a manner.”

“Not when visitors call so informally,” returned Ray, with a smile.

There was a silence. Miss Nettie had taken off her sunbonnet, and was
swinging it by the strings. She evidently wished to say something, but
was in some doubt how to begin. Surmising what the subject might be, I
asked:

“Is Professor Fuller in, Miss Nettie?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, looking up quickly. Then, continuing her gaze,
she said slowly, “I think I know what you want to see him for.”

“No doubt of it,” answered Ray gravely. “The whole town will know it by
to-night.”

“I can’t tell you how awfully sorry I am,” went on Miss Nettie, with
an accent of genuine sympathy. “I heard all about it at breakfast this
morning, and I think you are having a great deal more trouble than you
deserve.”

We looked at her gratefully.

“It wasn’t your fault if the other boys didn’t behave,” she continued
earnestly. “You did all you could to keep them quiet, and it was very
mean of them to get you into such trouble.”

“The boys didn’t intend to, Miss Nettie,” I said, laughing.
Notwithstanding her injustice to the other boys, I was pleased to have
her take our part so warmly.

“I don’t care,” she said emphatically. “They should have done as you
said.”

“I am sure I wish they had,” said Ray fervently.

“As for bringing back the cannons, I think you ought to have the vote
of thanks of the whole town instead of being suspended as if you had
done something wrong. To think of your going away over to Berkeley and
taking the cannons right off their campus! Oh, it was splendid! I got
awfully excited while father was telling me about it. If I had been a
boy I would have gone along too――and I told father so.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Nettie,” said Ray. “I only hope your father
is as generous in his opinion of us as you are.”

Miss Nettie looked at us with an expression of significance.

“To tell the truth,” she said lowering her voice, “I think father
enjoyed the story as much as I did, and I believe he admires you for
what you did. But don’t let him know that I told you.”

We were considerably relieved to hear this.

“You will find father in the library, I think,” she added. “Come in and
I will see.”

The professor was seated at his table when we entered the library, but
he rose at once and greeted us with his cordial smile, and a warm clasp
of the hand.

“Good morning, boys,” he said. “I half expected to see you this
morning. Be seated.”

Miss Nettie here left us with her father, who resumed his chair, while
we sat down opposite him. Then there was an awkward pause.

“Well, out with it,” said Professor Fuller at length. “I can easily
guess your errand.”

“We have come to see you about our suspension,” said Ray. “We want your
advice.”

“Why, what advice can I give you?” he asked. “You have made your own
decision. Doesn’t that dispose of the matter?”

“We fear it does,” said Ray, “but we have come to see if there is any
hope for us under the circumstances. Is there no possible chance of our
obtaining some remittance of this penalty?”

“A chance was offered you, was it not?”

“Yes, sir, but the conditions imposed forced us to decline that
chance,” answered Ray.

Professor Fuller’s face was grave but kindly.

“And do you think,” he asked, “that baseball is more important than
your success in college?”

“No, sir, by no means,” answered Ray earnestly. “Nor did we intend to
give Dr. Drayton that impression. While meaning no disrespect either
to Dr. Drayton or the faculty, we cannot help feeling that we were
placed in an unfair position. Our penalty was five weeks’ suspension
for taking part in the disturbances of night before last. Now, if we
deserved five weeks why was it not assigned as our penalty without
further question? If we deserved two weeks, why was not that assigned?
But this baseball matter was dragged in to influence the question. What
has our playing baseball to do with the question as to whether our
penalty for a misdemeanor shall be five or two weeks? Playing baseball
is not a misdemeanor. We felt that our penalty should be assigned
simply on our behavior in this case, without being conditioned upon
outside matters that have nothing to do with it. We feel that Dr.
Drayton has taken advantage of our helpless position to force us into
giving up baseball. Our parents do not object to our playing, and we do
not see why we should be compelled to make such a choice as was offered
us. This is what we think is not fair.”

Ray had grown bolder as he continued, so that, by the time he finished,
I feared Professor Fuller would be angry. The latter, however, was
quite calm, and listened quietly with folded hands.

When Ray ceased speaking he said:

“Of course, boys, you know that, however much I may sympathize with
you, I must speak, as a member of the faculty. But I appreciate the
whole weight of what you say, and am sure that you believe that you are
doing what is right under the circumstances. I can easily understand
your making such a choice, considering the manner in which the matter
was presented to you, and I do not wonder at your feelings at the
present moment. I will be frank enough to say that the proposition was
Dr. Drayton’s and that he carried the matter through. The penalty that
would have been assigned under ordinary circumstances was five weeks’
suspension. We took into consideration, however, the many mitigating
circumstances in your case, and we were inclined to lessen the sentence
greatly. It was then that Dr. Drayton bethought him of this condition.
I will not say anything about the matter further than that it was Dr.
Drayton’s action entirely. As he was earnestly bent upon your accepting
this condition, I can easily understand why your choice should have
annoyed him.”

“And is it hopeless?” I asked anxiously.

“That is a question I do not like to answer directly,” said Professor
Fuller, smiling. “What would become of the college if the boys should
look to me to reverse the decisions of the faculty? I have no such
power, you know, nor should I want it. I would be in hot water all
the time. I will say this much, however: that I sympathize with you
heartily, and that I will see if anything can be done.”

“That is the most we expected,” put in Ray, his face brightening.

“Don’t expect too much,” said the professor. “All that I can do is to
see Dr. Drayton and talk the matter over with him. The whole question
rests with him, and his authority alone will decide it. The rest of the
faculty would be willing enough to relinquish the condition. What my
interview with Dr. Drayton will result in remains to be seen. He is a
man of strong convictions, as you know, and apt to be especially set in
his way when seriously annoyed.”

“I am afraid he is very angry,” said I.

“No doubt of it; still there isn’t a better man at heart to be found
than Dr. Drayton, and you can expect justice. I speak from long
experience, for I knew him as a classmate years ago, and I have lived
close to him the greater part of my life. I will bring the matter up in
a few days, when I think the annoyance will have passed away. Meantime
what are you going to do?”

“We will move out into town temporarily,” I answered. “Of course we
cannot attend recitations, nor go upon the college grounds, but we must
stay here at Belmont for the sake of the ball nine if for nothing else.”

“It will be best for you to stay for several reasons,” said the
professor. “Have you written to your parents about the matter?”

“No, sir.”

“Better do so at once, and so anticipate the formal notification which
Mr. Dikes will have to send them. Tell your story in full, and then,
when the notification comes, your parents will understand it. Now as
to your studies. I suppose you intend to keep abreast of your classes?”

“We would like to,” answered Ray, “but we feared that we would be
unable to do so without the privilege of attending lectures.”

“Not at all,” said the professor. “Let some one of your classmates
bring you his written notes to copy each day. You can get Mr. Dikes
to tutor you. He does that sort of work frequently. I strongly advise
this for your own good, and because I know that the fact that you are
conscientiously working to keep up with your classes will influence Dr.
Drayton in your favor.”

This suggestion we caught at gladly. Under Professor Fuller’s
encouraging words, the affair was rapidly taking on a more cheerful
aspect. We continued to talk the matter over for some time longer, and
when at length we rose to go, it was with hearts considerably lightened.

“I don’t know how we can thank you for your kindness,” said Ray
earnestly, as we stood by the door.

“Why, I have done nothing as yet but talk,” answered the professor,
smiling. “Wait a few days, and we’ll see what can be done. However it
may turn out, don’t be discouraged. Make the best of it, work hard and
you need not be despondent.”

Once more shaking us warmly by the hand, he bade us good morning, and
returned to his library, while we hastened over to the college to make
preparations for our change of quarters.




                              CHAPTER XVI

                           SERVING OUR TERM


The next morning found us settled in our temporary lodgings at the
house in which my eating club was located. We had secured a double room
on the second floor, and had transferred our necessary effects there at
the earliest moment.

This had been an especially severe trial for Ray, who was compelled to
relinquish the comforts and luxury of the beautiful apartments which he
loved so well. It was useless, however, to brood over lost privileges,
for we found our condition much better than we had expected.

We wrote home, as Professor Fuller had suggested, and received in reply
letters that showed us that our parents were in sympathy with us, and
were not inclined to judge us severely. Ray’s father informed him that
he had also written to Dr. Drayton concerning the matter.

When the news became generally known it created a great flood of
feeling among the students, and we were the objects of sympathetic
attention on every hand. No fear that the fellows would fail to
appreciate our sacrifice. We were fairly lionized. Not only did the
students come in one after another, personally, to condole with us,
and to offer their services should we need anything, but we received a
formal vote of thanks from the baseball association for what they were
pleased to term our “patriotic spirit.”

We received so much attention, in fact, that for the first two or
three days we feared that we would never have a moment to ourselves to
keep up our studies. We found no difficulty in making arrangements for
securing the notes of the college lectures. Tony Larcom, who wrote a
very fair shorthand, promised to copy out his notes and lend them to
me, while Ray made a similar arrangement with a member of his class.
Mr. Dikes showed himself more than willing to help us, so we set apart
certain evenings of the week when he would come to our room and tutor
us in the various subjects which our classes were pursuing.

In order that we might secure the necessary leisure we were compelled
to make a rule of being at home to nobody during certain hours; for we
would otherwise have been fairly overrun with visitors. One of our most
interesting visits occurred on the first evening we spent in our new
quarters.

Tony Larcom was the only one with us at the time, when a soft rap
sounded at the door, and, in response to our summons to “come in,” the
door was opened gently about a foot, and the head of Percy Randall was
thrust through the aperture. Immediately Tony Larcom let fly with a
book, which hit the door with a startling thump. The head disappeared
like a flash, and a foot appeared instead.

Finding that hostilities were not renewed, the door was at length
opened wide, and Percy came in. He approached us with such penitence
and humility expressed in his looks that we could hardly repress a
smile.

“Now, then, you rascal,” said Ray. “What have you got to say for
yourself?”

“Nothing at all,” answered Percy meekly. “I came here to give you
a chance to have your say. I supposed you’d have lots of great big
language saved up for me, and I am ready to take anything.”

“Oh, well, words won’t do any good,” said I.

“Then maybe you want to kick me,” rejoined Percy. “Go ahead. Help
yourself. I deserve anything.”

“We don’t care for satisfaction of that kind,” answered Ray, with a
laugh. “We can’t undo anything that has happened. We are in a nice mess
on your account, and you can’t help us out, so we will have to make the
best of it.”

“See here, Ray,” exclaimed Percy earnestly. “I’ll tell you what I’ll
do. I’ll go straight to Dr. Drayton and make a clean breast of it――tell
him that I was responsible, and get him to suspend me and take you
fellows back. I’ll offer to give him information as to the leader in
the mischief, on condition that he lets you off your penalty, and then
I’ll expose myself.”

“No, that wouldn’t work,” I answered. “Dr. Drayton would never make
such a condition in the first place――――”

“Well, I guess if he can make conditions for you, he can take them,
too,” said Percy.

Ray shook his head.

“No,” he said. “It would be useless and foolhardy for you to do that.
We appreciate your disposition, Percy, and we thank you for offering,
but you must not think of going to Dr. Drayton. It would only get you
into trouble, while it would do us no good whatever. They did not
suspend us because they thought we were leaders in the trouble, but
because we had a _share_ in it, and that fact would not be altered by
your confession.”

“Well, it does seem a shame that you fellows who did the least should
suffer for it,” he said, as he turned away regretfully.

“It can’t be helped now. We can only profit by experience and keep out
of your company on future occasions,” Ray answered, with a smile.

“Well, boys, I’m sorry I got you into such a fix, and I wish with all
my heart that I could get you out,” said Percy. He was standing by the
door when I called after him.

“Say Percy, do you happen to know who it was that got Ray’s match box
from me that night?”

“Len Howard, I think,” answered Percy from the hall. “He lit the other
cannon, I know.”

I turned quickly and looked at Ray, who said nothing, but merely raised
his eyebrows.

However severe the penalty we were suffering for the sake of the old
cannons, we had at least the satisfaction of knowing that it was not
in vain. We had no means of learning, except by rumor, of the effect
of the expedition upon the Park College men, but, from what we heard,
we judged that a tremendous sensation had been created the morning
following, by the discovery of what had happened while they were
quietly sleeping. They had put themselves to great pains to rob us of
the cannons, and they had been planning to celebrate their deed with a
great jubilee, so their chagrin and exasperation knew no bounds when
they arose to find the prize had been snatched out of their very hands.

The students, however, were helpless, for the matter had gone up
into the hands of the faculties of the two colleges. Considerable
correspondence occurred, and after several days a committee from each
faculty was appointed to confer together. They met and discussed
the question thoroughly, and the result was that the Park College
committee, on behalf of their college, formally renounced all claims
to the cannons for good. Mutual explanations were made, and the gates
were returned to Berkeley. But, although these committees parted upon
a friendly basis, the feeling of anger on the part of our students,
and the chagrin of the Park men, only served to stir up the old, long
standing spirit of animosity between the two colleges to renewed heat.

“There will be exciting times when we meet those fellows on the ball
field now,” prophesied Tony Larcom. “It has been bad enough in the
past, but now things will fairly hum. Phew! Methinks I smell blood
already.”

“And this is just the season when we want most to beat them,” said Ray
Wendell.

Our prospects of realizing that end were certainly very bright. The
nine had been practising steadily each day, and was rapidly getting
into shape. Ray was right when he said we had good material. In all
my college life I do not think I ever saw a more promising nine. No
changes as yet had been found necessary, and it looked as if we would
continue through the season with the nine as first chosen. The men were
all good individual players, and, under Ray’s efficient captaincy, they
were playing together with the utmost harmony and precision. Since our
suspension the members of the nine became more devoted to Ray than
ever, and his control over them was perfect.

Recognizing the extraordinary good chance we had this season of
redeeming Belmont’s baseball record of the past two years, we bent
every nerve to securing a successful issue, and were regular and
assiduous in practice. As the baseball grounds were situated close
to the lake and beyond the college, we were unable to reach it
conveniently except by a short cut through the college grounds. Since
this was forbidden us, Tony Larcom devised the plan of meeting us
down by the dock with his boat and rowing us across a portion of the
lake to the ball ground. In this romantic and picturesque way we were
conducted each day back and forth from practice.

And so the days passed by while we were busily engaged in our exercises
and studies. We had as yet heard nothing from either Professor Fuller
or Dr. Drayton, but as we found that we were able, with the assistance
of our copied notes and Mr. Dikes’ instruction, to keep well up with
our classes, our anxieties had somewhat subsided. We were content to
wait patiently, for the present at least.

The day of our first baseball game approached. We had finished our last
hour of practice, and were to go over to Dean College the next morning.
Ray had given final instructions to the members of the nine to retire
early and report at our quarters at eleven o’clock the following day.
We were sitting in our room about half past eight in the evening,
discussing our chances in the series of games that was about to begin,
when we heard a terrific roar in the hall down stairs. The street door
was slammed with a noise like a pistol shot, then came the sounds of
footsteps clattering up the stairs three steps at a time; our door was
flung wide open, and Tony Larcom stood before us, his face flushed, his
eyes glistening, waving a letter triumphantly over his head. We gazed
at him in silent astonishment.

“Good news! Good news!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, although we
were scarcely ten feet away.

A premonition of the truth seized us both at once, and we sprang
forward eagerly. Tony tossed the envelope to Ray.

“There, read that!” he exclaimed, throwing himself on our bed and
kicking his heels in the air.




                             CHAPTER XVII

                         AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR


While Tony lay on the bed in convulsions of joy, Ray hastily tore open
the large, thick envelope, and drew out two smaller envelopes, both
sealed, one of which was addressed to himself, and the other to me.
Then for several moments there was a silence, broken only by Tony’s
chuckling, while Ray and I eagerly scanned the contents of our notes.
They were both alike, except for the name, and they ran as follows:

    You are hereby notified, in pursuance of the order of the
    faculty at their meeting last evening, that your term of
    suspension has been reduced to two weeks, and you will be
    permitted therefore to resume your college duties on Monday
    morning next, May 11th.

                     By order of the Faculty,

                                    FERDINAND DIKES, _Registrar_.

Ray and I looked at each other for an instant, unable to say a word.
Our letters dropped to the floor; a glad exclamation escaped us, and
then we fell forward into each other’s arms, and hugged each other in
transports of delight.

Tony Larcom, who was sitting on the side of the bed, watched the
demonstration for a while in amused silence; and then, unable to keep
still, he rose and joined us. A good natured scrimmage took place, and
the scene was rapidly becoming exciting when a step sounded on the
stairs outside.

“Break away, you fellows; somebody is coming,” exclaimed Ray.

“Ray, Ray, are you there?” called a strong, cheery voice from the dark
hallway. All three of us recognized the tones at once. They recalled
vividly the delightful days we had passed at Cedar Hill three weeks
before.

“Why, as I live, it must be father,” cried Ray, as we turned gladly
toward the door, which at that moment swung open.

“Well, at last!” exclaimed Mr. Wendell――for it was he. “I thought
I would never find you. I have opened nearly every door in the
building, thrust myself suddenly in on scenes where, I judge, I had
no business to be, and have ventilated every skeleton the household
closets contain. I fear I left the old lady on the first floor with a
palpitation at my unexpected entrance.”

“No fear of that,” answered Ray, laughing, and clasping both his
father’s hands affectionately. “Mrs. Brown is accustomed to surprises:
she has kept a student’s club for twenty years, and you couldn’t
startle her now if you dropped a dynamite cartridge in front of her.
She would simply raise her glasses and say, ‘Well, what is it?’――――But
the surprise is mostly mine this time. What brought you on here?”

“My son’s disgrace,” said Mr. Wendell, with mock earnestness.

“Oh, you mean our suspension,” answered Ray quietly. “Well, then, I
have good news for you. Read this,” and Ray picked up the letter.

Mr. Wendell, who had shaken hands warmly with Tony and myself, now took
a chair, and, putting on his glasses ran his eyes over the contents of
the note.

“When did you receive this?” he asked.

“About twenty minutes ago,” answered Ray.

“Then I have known all about the matter for about two hours longer than
you,” said Mr. Wendell.

“How is that?” asked Ray, in surprise.

“I have been having an interview with Dr. Drayton,” said Mr. Wendell.

“From all appearances, we seem to be last to hear the good news,” said
Ray. “Tony, how did you come to know it without opening those letters?”

“I got it out of Mr. Dikes, who gave me the envelopes to hand you,”
answered Tony. “No one else knows anything about the matter.”

“And how did it all come about?” questioned Ray eagerly, seating
himself on the sofa near his father. “Tell me everything. How is
everybody at home? How did you come to run on here without letting me
know anything about it? How did you find Dr. Drayton? And――――”

“One question at a time,” interrupted Mr. Wendell good naturedly. “Let
us start at the very beginning. In the first place, everybody is well
at home. Your mother sends her love and sympathy. I telegraphed her
the good news just a short time ago. You did very well, Ray, to write
me at once about the matter, explaining everything. It saved both your
mother and myself a great deal of anxiety. I suppose, Mr. Elder, you
did the same thing?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, “and I received letters from both my parents.
My father was called South on business, but he wrote me a long letter,
and took very much the same view of the case as you did in your
letter to Ray. You see we have compared correspondence for our mutual
comfort,” I added.

“Well, you were both in rather hard luck,” said Mr. Wendell, “but I
think we have it all straightened out now. I won’t keep you in doubt
any longer, but will tell you the whole story from the first. I
mentioned, I think, in my letter to Ray that I had also written to Dr.
Drayton. The result of that was some considerable correspondence with
him, also with this Professor Fuller whom Ray mentioned in his letter,
and whom I find to be a very influential member of the faculty. As I
had business in Boston to-morrow, it occurred to me that I would do
well to come a day earlier, stop over here for a few hours, and see
what an interview could effect. Judging from the tone of the letters
I received, I imagined that it would be best to visit this Professor
Fuller first. I fancied that he would be franker and more open with
me, and I could get a better and more complete understanding of both
sides of the affair from him. Accordingly I went to his house as soon
as I arrived here; and I must say I found him a delightful man, and
all that your enthusiastic descriptions of him have led me to believe.
From him I learned that the faculty had resolved last evening to let
you off with two weeks. Although Professor Fuller did not say so, I
could easily infer from his words that he had been chiefly instrumental
in bringing about a reconsideration of your case. He has certainly
used his influence in your behalf, and he told me that he had talked
the matter over several times with Dr. Drayton, until the president at
length consented to bring it up before the faculty. Boys you have a
good friend in Professor Fuller.”

“No one knows that better than we do,” responded Ray quickly. “Professor
Fuller promised us nothing, but we knew him of old, and we felt
confident of his friendship. We shall never forget his kindness as long
as we live.”

“He is certainly a very fine man,” continued Mr. Wendell,
“and――and”――here he hesitated a moment while a mischievous twinkle came
into his eye――“and, from the brief but pleasant conversation that I
enjoyed with somebody in the hallway at the end of my call, I should
say that Professor Fuller had not only a nice disposition but a very
nice daughter. Miss Nellie is the name, I think, eh?”

“Miss Nettie,” said I, correcting him.

“Nettie, yes, that’s the name; and a fine girl she is, too. Full of
life and spirits. She takes your part royally. Hers is a friendship
you ought to be proud of. How is it, Ray, you said nothing about Miss
Nettie in your letter?”

Ray said nothing now. He was looking at a picture on the opposite wall.
His father was enjoying the situation in his good natured, teasing way.

After a silence of several seconds’ duration Mr. Wendell, with an
expression of increased mirth, suddenly asked:

“What was that you said?”

“I said nothing,” answered Ray, with a quiet smile, still gazing at
the picture. “Miss Nettie is a very nice young lady, and we are very
grateful for her kindness.”

“Oh,” said his father, with a laugh, “then I suppose we will have to
let it go that way. To return; I thanked Professor Fuller for the
interest he had shown in the matter, and went over to see Dr. Drayton.”

Here Mr. Wendell took off his glasses, wiped them, and returned them to
his pocket.

“Boys,” he continued after a pause, “tell me honestly, what do you
think of Dr. Drayton?”

“To be perfectly candid, Mr. Wendell,” I answered, “I think that,
while Dr. Drayton does everything for the best, he has very little
tact, and hardly any knowledge of the character of students. It seems
very presumptuous in me to criticise our college president in this
way, no doubt, but the instances have been so numerous in which he
has totally misunderstood the fellows that I cannot help saying so.
It really seems surprising that a man who has been president of a
college for ten years should know so little about the nature of boys.
He is an excellent scholar, a splendid teacher, and as a rule a good
disciplinarian, but every now and then he shows himself altogether out
of sympathy with the students, and in such cases is very apt to judge
us unfairly.”

“And what do you think, Ray?” asked his father, turning to his son.

“Well, I have avoided saying much about Dr. Drayton to you in the
past,” answered Ray, “for the very reason that my views coincide with
Harry Elder’s.”

“And how about you?” asked Mr. Wendell of Tony Larcom.

“Oh, I think Dr. Drayton is an old _dodo_,” answered Tony recklessly.

Mr. Wendell mastered an inclination to smile.

“Your opinion is ruled out of court,” he said with as much gravity as
he could summon.

Tony subsided.

“I am sure I do not know what you mean by ‘want of tact,’” continued
Mr. Wendell.

“Well, take our own case for example,” answered Ray. “Now, no one who
understands human nature at all would ask a student point blank to
betray some of his companions in mischief. Almost any one would know
that such a question would not only obtain no satisfactory answer, but
would arouse in the student a bitter feeling of opposition.”

“And did Dr. Drayton ask you such a question?”

“Yes, sir. My match box of course betrayed me, and when I told
the faculty I had loaned the box shortly before the cannons were
discharged, Dr. Drayton pressed me to tell the name of the person to
whom I gave it. Of course I wouldn’t answer that.”

“Of course not,” echoed Mr. Wendell thoughtfully.

“Then again,” continued Ray, “think of the way in which this condition
about baseball was presented to us. The length of our penalty was made
to hang upon our decision as to playing baseball, which had no more to
do with the question than sailing on the lake or some other amusement.
I think I understand Dr. Drayton partially. He is a man who, when he
wants a thing, goes the straightest way to get it, regardless of all
considerations. He wanted to know who some of the other fellows were,
so without thinking twice he simply asks me to tell on them. He felt
that we were giving too much time to baseball, and he doesn’t seem to
sympathize with our games much anyhow, so he drags in this condition,
and hopes to _force_ us into giving up baseball. It was not fair. He
might just as well have said that the faculty would make our suspension
only two weeks, provided we would promise to eat only two meals a day
and devote the time we would gain thereby to our studies. We are as
anxious to stand well in our classes as he is to have us do so, and if
I felt that baseball would really interfere, I would give it up. But
I don’t, and as I had your permission to play baseball, I would not
accept Dr. Drayton’s conditions.”

Mr. Wendell paused a moment before answering.

“Like father, like son,” he said at length. “You have said in substance
almost exactly what I told Dr. Drayton myself, except, of course, I
spoke to him in the respectful manner becoming his office. I told
him that I had no objections to your playing ball, and that I saw no
reason why it should affect the terms of your suspension. I won’t go
all over the ground again. Suffice it to say that we had a very plain
and, on the whole, agreeable interview. You see, there wasn’t very much
to be said, for I knew the faculty had decided to let you back, and I
was inclined to let well enough alone. I am precisely of your opinion
concerning Dr. Drayton. He _does_ mean well, and is particularly
anxious that his students shall succeed; but, as you say, he is lacking
in tact somewhat. He gave me a clear understanding of his side of the
matter, however, and I think it is just as well for you to know it.

“He told me he was deeply interested in seeing you both do well
in your studies, that he recognized the damage that a five weeks’
suspension would do you, and was most willing to decrease the time. He
said, however, that he felt that it was only just, when the faculty
showed its interest in your success by remitting a large part of this
penalty, that you should show your appreciation of this by making some
concession on your part. The concession he asked was that you should
give up baseball, which he believed was doing your studies almost as
much harm as the suspension. I removed this impression from his mind,
or at least, finished doing so, for Professor Fuller had already done
most of it, and Dr. Drayton is quite ready to take you back, and treat
you well. His annoyance has entirely passed away. I gave him a frank
idea of a parent’s view of college sports indulged in in moderation,
and I think I have partially altered his opinions in the matter.”

“Well,” I said, “if Dr. Drayton had presented the question to us in the
way you mention it would have been different.”

“And yet,” remarked Ray, “it is better as it is, for now we are
readmitted without any condition.”

“It is all over now, and you certainly have come out of it pretty well,
all things considered,” said Mr. Wendell, “and my mind is immensely
relieved. I am especially pleased to know that you have kept up your
studies. Dr. Drayton spoke of that with considerable commendation. I
hope you have lost no ground.”

“None at all, I think,” answered Ray. “I am sure we are well abreast of
our class.”

“So am I,” broke in Tony. “Having the advantage of lectures and
recitations, I used to ask Harry questions and try to coach him, but I
soon found that he knew more about the subjects than I did, so I left
him alone, in order to keep my own self respect.”

Mr. Wendell was looking at his watch.

“How far is it to the depot?” he asked.

“About ten minutes’ walk,” answered Ray. “But surely you are not going
home so soon?”

“Yes,” said his father, “I must be in Boston early to-morrow morning,
so I must leave here on the 10:30 train. As my valise is at the hotel I
had better start now.”

All three of us accompanied Mr. Wendell, who kept up a stream of
questions about our plans and purposes.

“The last time I saw you three, you were busy with baseball practice
out on our lawn at Cedar Hill. You must come out again, and stay
longer. I always like to have plenty of live stock on the place,” he
said jokingly.

“Nothing would please us better,” I answered. “We shall never forget
the delightful week we spent at Cedar Hill.”

“How is your baseball nine?” he asked.

“Very good,” answered Ray. “We have seldom had a better nine.”

“Going to win the championship?”

“I hope so,” said Ray. “We stand a good chance.”

“Well, the boys ought to win, if for no other reason than to show their
gratitude for your devotion to their interest,” said Mr. Wendell. “When
does your season open?”

“To-morrow,” I answered. “We play Dean College the first game.”

“I suppose you will make short work of them?”

“We don’t anticipate much trouble in that direction,” I said. “Dean
College has always stood last on the list, and we count confidently on
a victory over her. We would stand a small show for the championship if
we could not beat the Dean men.”

“Well, I wish you luck,” said Mr. Wendell, as we reached the depot, “and
I am very glad that this other matter has been settled satisfactorily.”

In a few moments the train came in.

“Good by,” said Mr. Wendell, shaking hands all round. “Be good boys
now, and keep out of mischief. Give my kindest regards to Professor
Fuller, Ray, when next you see him――and don’t forget Miss Nettie,” he
added, as the train moved off.




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                            THE FIRST GAME


About half past ten the next morning Ray and I stood at our accustomed
place beside the dock awaiting the approach of Tony Larcom’s rowboat,
which was to take us over to the baseball grounds, as it had done daily
during the past two weeks.

“This is your last trip,” said Tony, as he shot his boat along close to
the dock, and drew in his oars, “and for my part I am quite agreeable
to a change. I think five weeks of this would have made me tired of my
boat. My conscience has troubled me greatly about this aiding of two
disreputable scamps to defeat the purposes of a college faculty. It is
too much like convict trade. I am glad it is over and my conscience can
rest.”

“Yes, Tony,” said Ray, “your conscience needs rest sadly, for, if it is
any good at all, it must have been severely taxed during late years on
your own account, to say nothing of the ‘disreputable scamps’ you speak
of.”

“Well, we’ll let it rest, then,” laughed Tony. Two strokes of the oars
sent us well out, and we were on our way to the ball ground.

Our first duty that morning had been to see Professor Fuller, who
congratulated us on getting back, and added to our pleasure by telling
us that we might move back our things to our rooms that very evening,
so as to be able to begin our duties on Monday morning without further
interruption. This, of course, was particularly welcome news to Ray,
who longed to be back in his old apartments. Professor Fuller would
listen to no thanks, but assured us that our own good conduct had
brought about a reconsideration of the matter. We left him seated on
his piazza, with Sport’s silky brown head resting on his knee, and
bestowing upon the old dog a share of the affectionate spirit that ever
flowed in a natural stream from the great warm heart of the man.

When we reached our landing place, clambered up the bank, and crossed
the road to the ball field, we found the rest awaiting us. As Dean
College was only four miles away, we rode over in an omnibus, and,
to facilitate matters, we dressed ourselves in our uniforms before
starting. On this occasion we used our new suits for the first time,
and found ourselves remarkably well pleased with them, both in the fit
and colors. The dark blue stockings and braid trimmings, together with
the light gray material of which our knickerbockers and blouses were
made, presented a very neat and pretty effect.

We received a round of cheers, as we emerged from the clubhouse, and
started off, accompanied by two more omnibuses filled with fellow
students who were going over to see the game. The day had been very
bright and clear when we started, but towards twelve o’clock clouds
began to gather, and the sky assumed a rather threatening aspect. We
watched these symptoms at first with anxiety, but, as no rain fell, we
were led to hope that the afternoon would pass without any interruption
of our game by the weather.

We reached Dean about half past twelve, and were received pleasantly
by several members of the nine, who were awaiting us at the entrance
of the college grounds. As there was no hotel in the village, we were
conducted to one of the eating clubs, where provision had been made for
us.

Immediately after lunch, we walked over to the ball grounds, which were
situated close to the college. We were very early, for the game was
not to be called until two o’clock, so we spent the next half hour in
preliminary practice while the crowd of spectators slowly assembled.
Each man stood in his position while I batted balls about in various
directions. Everything went smoothly. The fellows played in excellent
form, with the exception of Fred Harrison, the first baseman, who
seemed a little flurried.

“It is quite natural,” I said to Tony Larcom, who stood beside me, and
had remarked on the matter. “This is Fred Harrison’s first game, and he
may be a trifle nervous. It will soon wear off.”

At about quarter before two o’clock, the gong on the grand stand
sounded, and we left the field to make way for the Dean men. We watched
their practice with interest, and noted that they were playing no
better than usual. We felt no cause to fear for the result of the
game, and accordingly, when time was called, we began with confident
assurance of victory.

Dean won the toss, and, therefore, took the field, while Dick Palmer
picked out his bat and stepped to the home plate. The second ball
pitched he struck far out and past left field, and reached second base
in safety. Ray came next to the bat, and made a single base hit, thus
bringing Dick home, and scoring the first run.

A chorus of cheers sounded from the two omnibuses at the side of the
field, where our friends were gathered, and Dick took his seat with a
smile. I was next at the bat, and secured a base hit, which sent Ray to
second base. Then Harold Pratt knocked a high fly, which was captured.
He was succeeded by George Ives, who had the exceedingly bad taste to
strike out. Frank Holland, however, made a safe hit, and gave Ray his
third base, while I reached second base.

The bases were now full――a glorious opportunity for the next batter,
Alfred Burnett, who had the chance of bringing in three more runs with
a safe hit. And yet, in the face of this opportunity, Burnett struck
up in the air, and the ball was caught, thus closing out our side with
three of us on bases.

I mention this as an instance of the miserable luck that pursued us
throughout this game. Certainly the fickle goddess of fortune that
presides over baseball fields had determined to place every possible
difficulty in our path. She manifested her evil influence in three
ways. In the first place, in situations such as described above,
and which occurred again and again during the game until we were
fairly exasperated. Secondly, in the weather. The clouds, which had
been threatening from the start, began to drop rain at occasional
brief periods; and these small showers invariably occurred when most
disadvantageous to us. Thirdly, the umpire――that old time bone of
contention――without intending in the least to be partial, decided in
several successive and important instances against us.

To add to all this, the nervousness which I had noticed in Fred
Harrison grew steadily worse as the game advanced. He seemed to lose
his head almost entirely at the bat and struck out three out of the
four times he came up, while he showed himself sadly demoralized while
playing in the field. It was surprising, for Harrison had played well
during our days of practice, and of course this change had a bad
influence on the rest of the nine.

Notwithstanding these disadvantages, we maintained a lead throughout
the game until the eighth inning. The score then stood 6 to 4 in our
favor, and it looked as if we would finish at those figures. All things
considered, we would have been glad to get away with such a record. In
the last half of the eighth inning the Dean men succeeded in getting
two single base hits. Then came a long hit to right field, which Lewis
Page captured in fine style, but which enabled the two runners to gain
a base, so that they now stood on third and second respectively. I
succeeded in striking the next man out, so we had but to dispose of one
more batter to close the inning.

We all bent ourselves eagerly to the work. I used all possible care and
judgment in pitching, and confidently hoped to win the point, for the
man at the bat was a weak striker. At the third ball pitched he struck
wildly, and tipped the ball high in the air for a pop fly, straight
over Fred Harrison’s head. Of course the two men on the bases risked
the chance of the ball landing safe, and ran around toward home. It all
depended on Fred Harrison, who moved backward, and stood waiting for
the descent of the ball.

From the manner in which he moved about and shifted his hands, I
could see that he was more nervous than ever, and I trembled for the
results. I will be fair enough to say that it was no easy fly to catch,
especially for a baseman inclined to be nervous. Fred Harrison was all
this. He was thinking no doubt of all that depended on his play, while
the ball hung there in the air, so that, by the time it reached him,
he had lost his head completely, and made a frantic grab at it which
proved utterly futile. The ball went through his hands, and dropped to
the ground, while the two runners scored, and the game stood 6 to 6.

The next man was put out without trouble, and the inning closed. The
crowd in the grand stand had suppressed their joy as well as possible
out of respect to our feelings, but we could not have found fault with
any demonstration, for their gain had come so unexpectedly that an
outburst of cheers would have been natural. We were out of spirits, and
played poorly at the bat during the first half of the ninth inning, the
result being that we were retired without a run. It was only when the
last of the three men was out that we realized our predicament, and
prepared for a desperate tug.

“Fellows,” said Ray quietly, but setting his lips firmly, “our
reputation is at stake now. You know your duty, so don’t fail. We
simply _must_ put those men out in one, two, three order. Then we can
make up our lost ground.”

The first man, however, got his base, and, on a passed ball of Dick
Palmer’s, he reached second. The next two men we disposed of readily;
one of them, however, made a sacrifice hit that sent the runner to
third base. There were now two out. I pitched a slow outcurve to the
next man, who caught it on the end of his bat, and sent it flying along
the grounds to my right, but not close enough for me to reach it.
George Ives dashed to one side, picked it up neatly, and tossed it to
Fred Harrison.

George was a strong thrower, and may perhaps have thrown a little to
one side, but the ball was within easy reach of Harrison’s hands. The
latter, however, in his nervousness, again misjudged the ball; it
struck on the tips of his fingers and bounded away, while the runner
on third base reached the home plate, and the game was lost to us by a
score of 7 to 6.

The delight of the Dean men may be imagined. They ran about shouting
and hugging one another, while we stood for several seconds in our
various positions almost unable to realize the truth. Laughing and
cheering, the crowd moved off toward the gate, while we despondently
gathered up our things and walked silently toward our omnibus.

There we found our friends, but none of them inclined to say anything.
There was simply nothing to say. Having gone into the game with
feelings of the utmost confidence, our chagrin and humiliation passed
all expression. I looked at no one. I simply wanted to be alone――to
bury myself in some place where I could not see the reproachful and
disappointed eyes that I knew would look upon our return.

But even reproach and disappointment were not the worst I feared. I
expected ridicule, for the idea of being beaten by Dean College seemed
absurd. Such a thing had never been known at Belmont.

“Don’t tell me there is no such thing as luck in baseball,” said Tony
Larcom’s voice behind me.

“Nonsense,” I exclaimed impatiently. “What has luck to do with us? With
all our hard luck we would have won, but for―――― Well, never mind. He
feels it no doubt worse than the rest of us, so let us spare him any
criticism.”

“Just think what a jubilee the Park men will hold to-night when they
hear the news! Oh, what can have gotten into the boys anyhow, to let
these fellows get away with us?” said Dick Palmer bitterly.

“It is all clear enough to me,” I answered, “but it will do no good to
talk about it.”

“Small chance we stand for the Crimson Banner now,” said somebody.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, let us get away and say no more,” I exclaimed,
turning abruptly on my heel. “I can’t bear to think of it.”

We hurried into our omnibus, and, in silence, the three vehicles left
the grounds that had been the scene of our disastrous encounter. Though
probably much conversation took place in the other omnibuses that would
have been unpleasant for us to hear, in our own very little was said.
This was chiefly out of respect to poor Fred Harrison, who sat on the
front seat, with his chin on his hand.

I was sitting next to Ray Wendell, so I took advantage of the
opportunity to ask him in a low tone, unheard by the rest:

“Well, Ray, what do you think of it?”

“I can’t understand it,” he answered slowly. “Fred was so good in
practice. He has disappointed me severely. I do not despair, for I
think we can beat Park College yet, and there will be some satisfaction
in that, but,” he added in a still lower tone, “we will have to make
one change in the nine. That is settled.”

I nodded my head, for I understood him perfectly.

“I am very sorry for Fred, and I pity him sincerely now, for I know
that he is fully aware of the blame that rests on him, and that he is
correspondingly unhappy, but he must go. We can’t keep him on the nine
a day longer. He has about ruined our chances now――――”

Ray was here interrupted by a general exclamation of alarm.

“Stop the horses, quick,” cried some one.

Turning hastily we looked forward to see what had occurred. The front
seat of the omnibus beside the driver was _empty_. Fred Harrison, who
had been leaning well forward, had suddenly disappeared.




                              CHAPTER XIX

                             FRED HARRISON


The driver of the omnibus gave his reins a sharp tug that brought
his horses up on their haunches. They became frightened, and kicked
viciously in their traces. This added to the general feeling of alarm.

There was an awful hush for a moment as we thought of the possible
fate our unfortunate companion might meet from the cruel hoofs of the
startled animals. Then several of us sprang hastily to the ground.

Between two of the spokes of the front wheel protruded a leg, clad in
the dark blue of our ball suits, while, huddled up under the omnibus,
lay the body of Fred Harrison. How he could have got into such an
entangled position it is impossible to say, but it was only by a
miracle that he had escaped being crushed and mangled. One more turn of
the wheel would have doubtless proven fatal.

Without an instant’s delay two of us crept under the body of the
omnibus, and, carefully avoiding the blows of the horses’ hoofs, drew
Fred gently out, and laid him upon his side on the grass. He seemed
scarcely to breathe; his face was pale and still. Ray dropped on his
knees, and put his hand upon the poor fellow’s breast.

“Run, get some water quick,” he said.

We turned in consternation and looked about us. Where should we go? We
were on a deserted country road. There were no houses in sight to which
we could apply for assistance, no stream near by from which we could
procure water. We were utterly helpless and alone. The other omnibuses
containing our companions had disappeared in the distance ahead of us.

“Oh! what shall we do?” I exclaimed. “Is there no way we can help the
poor fellow?”

“I think he has only fainted,” said Ray, with his face close to Fred’s.
“We must find something to bring him to.”

Suddenly Tony Larcom uttered a quick exclamation of relief, and leaped
back into the omnibus, where he began searching under the seat for
something.

“I have it,” he cried, as he joined us again, carrying in his hand a
large bottle full of the raw whisky which we used to bathe bruises and
sprains. “Here, use this. It is pretty bad stuff to swallow, but it
will help him.”

Ray seized the bottle, and placing it to Fred’s mouth, forced his lips
open. A few swallows produced an almost immediate change. Fred took a
long breath, moaned once or twice, then opened his eyes.

For a moment he seemed surprised, but this expression quickly gave way
to one of pain. He uttered a sharp cry and again closed his eyes. The
color had entirely forsaken his lips. Evidently he had sustained some
injury of which we knew nothing. We attempted to raise him up in order
to make his position more comfortable, when he gave vent to another cry.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Tony Larcom. “No wonder the poor fellow
suffers! Look at his right arm. It must be broken.”

For the first time we noticed that Fred’s arm hung limp and distorted.
The shirt at the elbow was torn, and disclosed an ugly looking bruise
from which the blood was slowly oozing.

“He must have been kicked by the horses,” said Ray. “Here, fellows, we
ought not to delay a minute, but get him into the hands of a doctor as
soon as possible.”

Accordingly, we lifted him as gently as the circumstances permitted,
and laid him upon one of the cushioned seats of the omnibus. He made
little noise while we handled him. He seemed to have fainted again with
pain. We rested him upon his left side so that his right arm should
lie quietly and without contact. Then Ray sat at his head, bathing his
face, while I sat at his feet to hold him still and to prevent the
rolling of the omnibus from jarring him.

Fortunately the road was smooth, so we were able to make good time on
the way home.

The episode had driven everything else from our mind. Even the game
and our humiliating defeat were forgotten in our solicitude for the
unfortunate student who lay groaning on the seat beside us.

“How did it all come about?” asked Ray. “What made him fall in that
way?”

“It is a perfect mystery,” answered George Ives, who had been sitting
just beside Harrison. “He was sitting there quietly on the front seat,
with his head in his hand. I thought he had a headache, or perhaps
was feeling badly broken up over the game, but I didn’t suppose for a
moment that there was anything else the matter with him. Suddenly I saw
him sway from side to side unsteadily, and before I or the driver could
catch him, he fell head foremost down upon the traces, and rolled under
the omnibus. How he caught in that wheel I can’t imagine, but he must
have been dragged several feet before we stopped.”

“Has Fred been complaining of being unwell?” I asked.

“Not to me,” said George. “I must say I can’t understand him to-day at
all.”

“I think he simply lost his head,” I answered. “It was his first game
of ball. He was very anxious to do well, and became nervous. Of course
this grew worse as he found himself playing badly.”

“Yes; but how do you explain his tumbling over in this strange way?”
asked Tony.

“I suppose the fatigue of the game, and its discouraging results, may
have reacted on his nerves and produced vertigo,” I answered.

“I hardly believe that,” said Ray. “There must be some reason. I don’t
know what to think. I thought I had judged Harrison correctly when we
chose him for the nine. I counted on some little nervousness, for he
is a Freshman, and has had no experience on the ball field, but I did
not look for such a complete demoralization as this to-day. Did any of
you speak much to him during the game? Did you notice how confused his
ideas seemed to be? Why, in the fourth inning, when we took the field,
he started to go to third base instead of first, and only stopped when
I spoke to him. Were such a thing possible, I could almost believe the
fellow had been drugged.”

I had reached out at this moment to place Fred’s right arm in a
more comfortable position, when my hand struck something hard which
protruded partly from his inside coat pocket.

“Why, what is this?” I exclaimed, drawing it out to view.

It was a small brandy flask, half emptied.

“Jerusalem, the boy has been drinking!” cried Tony Larcom, as the whole
truth of the affair suddenly dawned on him.

“Not a doubt of it,” said Frank Holland, who was a classmate of
Harrison’s. “It was only last night that Fred told me that he was going
to be nervous to-day, and said that he wished he could take something
to strengthen him. I told him that he would be only the worse for it,
and so he said no more about it.”

Ray had taken the bottle from me.

“I am afraid it is true,” he said.

“No wonder he was upset,” said Tony. “He must have been fairly
stupefied. What on earth possessed him to do such a thing? He knew the
rule that no member of the nine should touch stimulants.”

“He has certainly made a bad mistake,” said Ray. “I wish I could have
advised him in time.”

Little more was to be said. The matter seemed clear enough now, and
foolish as Fred Harrison had been, we could only pity him in his
present helpless condition.

We reached Belmont about six o’clock, and drove immediately to the
dormitory where Fred roomed. One of our number was despatched for a
doctor, while others carried the still partially unconscious student up
to his room.

The doctor arrived in a few minutes, and made a hasty examination.

“The arm is not broken,” he said. “It is slightly dislocated. Two or
three of you hold him tightly a moment.”

We followed his directions at once. Then the doctor planted his foot
firmly against the bed, grasped the arm with both hands, bent and
twisted it until we thought he would sever it from the body, and then
suddenly turned it skilfully back into its proper position.

During the operation Fred had cried incessantly with pain, but when the
bone had resumed its place, his muscles relaxed, and his head sank back
with a long sigh of relief.

The doctor was now examining his wrist.

“There is a sprain here that will probably give him trouble for two or
three weeks,” he said.

“Is there anything else to do?” I asked.

“Nothing but to make him easy,” he answered. “I will treat his arm and
wrist and bind them up. Then one of you had better remain with him to
attend to his wants.”

Tony Larcom, being the only one of us in his ordinary clothes,
consented to stay, while Ray and I agreed to change our suits and
return immediately after dinner to relieve Tony. Dick Palmer had
already gone over to the telegraph office to send word to Fred’s
parents, who lived at Springfield. Feeling that everything had been
done to contribute to the invalid’s comfort, the rest of us took our
departure, leaving Fred in the hands of Tony and the doctor.




                              CHAPTER XX

                           CAUGHT IN THE ACT


“Ah, this is like old times!” exclaimed Ray with genuine satisfaction,
as he sunk back into the large easy chair that stood by the hearth in
his front room.

“Yes,” I answered. “It seems months since we were in these rooms
before. They appear to have been well cared for; no dust anywhere.”

“Oh, I told the janitor I was going to return this evening, so he was
in here during the morning cleaning. Now let us light up the gas and
make ourselves comfortable.”

Ray scratched a match, and lit every burner in the room. “An
illumination in honor of our return,” he called out, while I put down
the parcels I had carried over for Ray, and dropped on the sofa,
stretching myself out at ease.

At dinner Ray had asked me to help him to get a few of his things over
from the room we had occupied, as he was anxious to take possession
of his old apartments without delay. Accordingly we gathered his
necessities together, and brought them with us on our way back to Fred
Harrison’s room, where we expected to find Tony.

We discovered, however, that Harrison’s roommate had come in during
our absence, and had relieved Tony, who had gone away shortly before
we arrived. We found Fred resting quietly, and, though still suffering
some pain, much improved in condition. He seemed greatly distressed
when he saw us, and in a broken and almost tearful voice confessed
having taken brandy before the game, and condemned himself for his
folly in unmeasured terms.

The sorry exhibition he had made of himself, and the injury he had
sustained, affected him but little. These he regarded as but the
natural consequents of his foolish act, which he fully deserved; but
that the college should have suffered so humiliating a defeat through
his weakness grieved him most, and he could find no words of self
reproach severe enough. We comforted him as best we could, and then
left him with the promise that we would call the next morning.

“And now,” said Ray, as he drew the heavy curtains to, “I could almost
feel reconciled even to our absurd defeat, it is so pleasant to get
back here again. We can lie off and look at the matter calmly and
comfortably.” Here he resumed his chair.

“Comfortably, I own, but scarcely calmly yet,” I answered. “I am
already suffering in anticipation, under the reproachful looks of the
students. We will have to face them all to-morrow, and, for my part, I
must say I am scarcely equal to the ordeal.”

“Oh, pshaw! I don’t mind that,” said Ray. “Besides, I think you
exaggerate the matter. I don’t think the fellows will make us feel
uncomfortable. We did our level best and they know it. They know as
well as we do what lost us the game; and, in view of his hard luck,
they will treat poor Fred with the utmost indulgence.”

“But just think of our condition now. Our chances for the championship
are lost. This defeat is a damper from which we are not likely to
recover during the whole season. I don’t see how you can look at that
calmly,” I said, with some show of impatience.

“Well,” rejoined Ray, with a smile, “I must be brutal enough to say
that I do. Perhaps you are right about the championship. The prospects
are certainly not encouraging now, but I still hold the conviction that
we can beat Park College, and there will be infinite satisfaction to me
in that.”

“What change of positions on the nine have you in mind?” I asked.

“I’d put Harold Pratt on first base,” said Ray. “He is tall and has
a long reach. Then, for a new third baseman, I should choose Percy
Randall by all means.”

“Haven’t you had enough of Percy Randall?” I asked with a smile.

“In one way, yes, quite enough,” answered Ray, “but on the nine and
under my control, I think he would make an excellent man.”

“I agree with you,” I said, after a moment’s consideration. “The man
isn’t born who could rattle Percy Randall.”

“I suppose he will be glad enough to play,” observed Ray.

“Glad!” I answered. “He will never cease to thank us for another
opportunity to get even with those Park men. He will play like a young
tiger.”

“I think the best thing we can do then is to notify him at once,” said
Ray. “I have some of the letter heads of the Baseball Association in my
desk. I will write without delay and tell him to be on hand Monday noon
for practice.”

Ray rose, and went to the roll top desk which stood near one of the
windows. Taking his key from his pocket, he fitted one into the lock
and tried to turn it. It caught in some way and would not move.
Pressing on the sliding top, the desk, to his surprise, opened readily.

“Why, it is unlocked!” he exclaimed. “That is very curious. I am very
sure that I locked it when I left two weeks ago, and nobody――why,
confound it! What is all this?”

I got up hastily and joined him.

“What is the matter?” I asked.

“Matter enough. Look at the confusion here――the ink bottle upset all
over a lot of my papers, and everything turned topsy turvy. Oh, this is
simply exasperating! I put everything away with scrupulous care in this
desk. There are papers here that I wouldn’t have touched for anything.
I suppose that stupid old janitor has upset things in moving the desk.”

“But why was it unlocked?” I asked anxiously.

“I haven’t the least idea. I am sure I did not leave it so, for I kept
valuable things here. In this drawer I kept my bank deposit book.”

Ray opened the drawer as he spoke. It was _perfectly empty_. He looked
at me in speechless astonishment as he fumbled about in the vacant
drawer.

“Why, the old thief,” he burst out angrily, “he must have been robbing
me this morning. Here, wait a minute, I’ll find out about this,” and
Ray dashed out into the hall.

In about ten minutes he returned with a puzzled and bewildered
expression on his face.

“Learn anything?” I asked.

Ray shook his head.

“I am further off than before. Old Jarvis swears that he hasn’t been in
the room,” he said.

“But I thought you said he had been cleaning up here this morning,” I
remarked wonderingly.

“So I believed, but he tells me that Ridley was the only one who came
in, and that he spent not more than fifteen minutes here, dusting
around a little. Ridley says that he tried to open the desk in order to
clean it out, but found it locked.”

“Then it was locked this morning?”

“If they say what is true. I don’t know whether to believe them or not,
appearances are so bad.”

“I can hardly believe that either Ridley or old Jarvis would steal in
that way,” I said.

“I hate to think so, but what other solution is there? They certainly
did not act or speak as if they had done it. Both of them were badly
worried over it, but they seemed to be innocent. I told them that the
thief could be traced by the bank book.”

“That is no severe loss,” I said, “for you can advise the bank about
the matter without delay, and they will watch out for the fellow that
took it.”

“No, that does not make me uneasy,” answered Ray. “It is the doubt
about the thief that troubles me. I wonder whether he disturbed
anything else.”

Ray took out a match and entered the adjoining room. Scarcely a second
had passed after he disappeared from view, when there came a sharp,
quick cry, then a succession of harsh exclamations, the rapid shuffling
of feet, and the sounds of a fierce struggle. It lasted but a moment,
and before I had time to realize the situation, and hurry to Ray’s
assistance, before I had half reached the door, Ray emerged from the
darkness of the other room, panting heavily, and dragging by the neck
a crouching, struggling fellow who was fighting hard to shake himself
loose.

We seized him roughly, and together threw him upon the sofa, Ray
putting one hand upon his breast.

Then for the first time the full light of the gas fell on the face of
our captive. It was Len Howard.




                              CHAPTER XXI

                         A TERRIBLE CONFESSION


Ray staggered back.

“Howard――you here!” he gasped.

Howard said nothing, but remained gazing doggedly at the floor.

“Answer me!” cried Ray, as the first shock of surprise subsided. “What
are you doing in this room?”

Howard replied hesitatingly, as if scarcely knowing what to say:

“I saw the door open――and――and when Ridley went out into the hall for
a moment――I――I stepped in, thinking you might have returned. Ridley
closed the door and locked me in.”

As the door was fastened by a spring lock, easily opened from the
inside, the transparency of this excuse was pitiable, and showed how
desperate was Howard’s position.

“And I suppose, not finding me here, you determined to await my
return,” said Ray, suppressing his feelings with difficulty.

Howard remained silent.

“And in the interval you occupied yourself looking over my things,”
continued Ray, pointing to his desk.

Still no answer.

“Howard,” said Ray contemptuously, “what are we to think of you?”

“Think what you choose,” answered Howard bitterly. “Think the worst of
me. Every one will think the same in a few days.”

Ray did not seem to notice the significance of these words.

“Do you realize that you are committing a crime?” he said. “Don’t you
know that I could have you arrested for this?”

“I know it,” answered Howard; “but why should I care now?”

“Care!” exclaimed Ray, aghast at the other’s tone. “Have you no respect
for your good name?”

“Good name!” echoed Howard, still more bitterly. “Where will that be
in a day or two? No, I have no reason to respect my ‘good name.’ I own
that I came in here dishonestly. Go on, then, and expose me.”

“I did not say I was going to expose you,” answered Ray.

“But you will,” said Howard. “What else should I expect from you?”

“I do not know that I will,” said Ray.

Howard looked up quickly.

“You mean to say that you――you――” then his face clouded again as he
continued――“still, after all what difference could that make to me?
Only a few days. You might as well do your worst.”

“Howard,” cried Ray, with determination, “I do not say yet what I will
do, but of one thing you may be sure. I intend to have an explanation
of this strange behavior of yours. If you were simply a common burglar
I should turn you over to justice without more ado; but you are not,
you are a classmate of mine, and, as such, your act is simply one of
madness. No student in his senses would attempt a thing of this kind.
I am convinced that it was a desperate act on your part, and that
you were driven to it by some extraordinary cause. I am determined,
therefore, before going any further, to know your reason for acting and
talking in this strange manner.”

A curious expression came over Howard’s face as Ray spoke. This
evidence of interest in him on Ray’s part was entirely unexpected by
Howard, and wrought quite a change in him. Like some hunted animal,
who has suddenly found a momentary resting place, his nervousness and
agitation diminished, his manner became more composed, and his bitter
tone gave way to one of passive dejection. He leaned his head heavily
on his hands, and gazed despondently at the floor.

“You are right,” he said in a voice that was scarcely audible, “I was
desperate. I would never have stooped to this if a chance of retaining
my reputation was left. It was my last throw. Ruin is staring me in the
face!”

“Ruin!” exclaimed Ray. “Why, Howard, what can you mean? What have you
done?”

“Ruined myself――utterly――I don’t care what happens now.”

A struggle was going on in Ray’s breast. His face lost some of its
severity.

“Tell me your whole story, Howard,” he said, in a somewhat altered
tone. “Why did you come in here?”

“To steal――yes, give it the worst name――to steal. It _was_ an act
of madness, but what else was there for me to do? I had done almost
everything else, and exposure and disgrace stared me in the face,” and
Howard’s voice broke.

“Exposure! disgrace! For what?” asked Ray, in great concern. “Come,
speak out. Tell me all.”

Howard was silent a moment.

“I might as well speak,” he said at length, “for everybody will know it
soon.”

Ray and I remained silent, breathless and expectant, while a death-like
stillness settled upon the room. After several minutes Howard roused
himself slightly and began:

“I can scarcely bear to think of it. It has been growing a heavier
weight on my mind for weeks past, haunting me at night, destroying my
sleep, and depriving me of all peace, until to-day, when I could stand
it no longer, and was about to――but I will tell you the whole story.
My trouble really began away back in Freshman year. You remember that
wealthy Cuban, Rapello, in the Senior class at that time. You remember
his companion and roommate, Leisenring, and the whole crowd with whom
they went, and you remember warning me against them as dangerous
company. I felt able to take care of myself, and, as I was very much
flattered by the attention of these upper classmen, I went with them
constantly, as you know. You may not know, however, that a great deal
of card playing was done in their rooms, and always for money. As my
father is a clergyman, I was never allowed to look at cards at home,
so I first became acquainted with the game in the company of those
fellows. I became fascinated with it, and naturally too, for I was very
fortunate, and won a great deal of money during Freshman year. During
Sophomore year I was still more fortunate, and began to look upon my
luck as assured, and to play with boldness and confidence. In Junior
year the men whom I had associated with had nearly all graduated; so my
next step was to form my room into a similar establishment to that of
Rapello and Leisenring’s, and to draw in some of my companions and such
of the under classmen as I could influence.

“I worked very cautiously, and kept it very quiet, but my room during
Junior year was scarcely better than a downright gambling den. Late
into the nights we played, with drawn curtains, and our stakes ran even
higher than had been known in the games of Rapello and Leisenring.
I always forced the play boldly, taking pride in my reckless daring
and the luck that almost invariably attended it. A change, however,
came at last, and toward the end of Junior year I began to suffer
heavy reverses. The passion for play had by this time taken thorough
possession of me, and I could not give up the game. My position as the
leader, moreover, made it doubly difficult for me to retire, had I
wanted to. At the beginning of Senior year, when I returned to college,
I had lost all I had ever won.

“Thinking that my luck would turn, I began the game again in my
rooms. Only a few college students rejoined me, for the stakes had
grown high, so I sought a few companions among some of the men of the
town. They were older than I, and had, as a rule, considerable money.
After a month or so the game was transferred from my room――where it
was risky――to a place in town. Here my ill luck began again, and all
during the winter I continued to lose, until I had nothing left. Then,
still unable to give up the game, and always hoping to recover my lost
ground, I began to play on borrowed money. This continued until my
credit was gone amongst my friends, then I played for a while without
money, paying my losses in promissory notes.

“As I saw these notes coming due, and found myself unable to meet them,
I grew desperate, and stooped to a number of half dishonest devices in
order to secure the cash needed. I can’t mention all these. They made
me feel ashamed at first, but necessity forced me, and I soon became
used to it. Things that had previously seemed mean and despicable to
me, became matters of indifference. I found myself excusing acts that
had always aroused my contempt. At length I got down to cheating――I
couldn’t help it. I had to have money. I didn’t cheat in the games
with town men. I couldn’t do that――they were too sharp for me; but I
would play smaller games with under classmen and win money by unfair
practices. In doing this I was very careful, and was never suspected.
Those from whom I have obtained money in this way are good friends, and
have never supposed me guilty of dishonorable dealing. But it weighed
on me and destroyed my peace of mind. I was always uneasy and in fear
of being detected, so I looked about me for other means of obtaining
money.

“It was then that tennis occurred to me. I began to bet on my playing,
not in small sums――I had done that often before――but heavily. Some one
dared me to play you, saying that you could beat me. I made a bet of
twenty-five dollars on the result, and invited you to play me. That
bet I lost, as you know, and you refused to give me an opportunity of
recovering that loss. At that time I was specially hard pressed for
money, and ready to do almost anything to secure it. Suddenly an idea
occurred to me that seemed to promise well. If I could interest the
college in contributing to lawn tennis I might make use of the money
appropriated for this purpose, and obtain temporary relief from the
debts that were pressing me so hard. I did not contemplate actually
stealing the money. I only wanted to gain time until I could raise
more money in some other quarter.

“I had it all arranged that I should be nominated for treasurer in
case the college took up with my idea, and I would have no difficulty
in being elected, as I had always been so prominent in tennis. I took
advantage of the fact that baseball stock seemed low, and tried to
draw the college toward tennis. You know how my effort failed, but
you do not know how desperate that failure made me. I was angry with
everybody, especially with you, whom I believed to be chiefly to
blame――you see I don’t mind telling all this. I can do myself no harm
now.”

“But Howard,” cried Ray aghast, “could even that bring you to such an
act as this? Could――――”

“No. The worst is to come. That only made me angry, and it was because
I was angry with you that I intercepted your letter about the baseball
meeting. It was merely to get square with you. It was mean and small, I
know, but it isn’t the worst I have done.

“Of course I was compelled to carry my debts for a while longer, and
as this was becoming more and more difficult on account of the growing
impatience of my creditors, I was at my wits’ end to know what to do.
Some notes had come due, others were impending, and the men――who had
been friendly enough at the start――refused to extend the time, and
threatened to force me to payment. Of course I did not fear legal
prosecution for a debt contracted at cards, but I dreaded exposure, and
the disgrace that would follow. So it continued until last Wednesday
night.

“It was then that I cast all caution to the winds, and determined to
make a bold move at cards. I had not been playing lately, for I had no
money, and the others had refused to trust me for any further amounts.
But Wednesday night I received a little money from home and I went to
the usual place. I feared that they would keep me from the game on
account of my unpaid debts, so I told them that I had only fifteen
dollars, and as they seemed to be in a good humor they let me in, each
of my creditors, I suppose hoping that I would win enough to pay off
his claim. I was reckless of consequences, and had come to win by any
means fair or unfair. As I might have supposed, in such an experienced
crowd, I was detected before I had cheated half a dozen times, and then
a terrible storm arose. I thought I would be torn to pieces. They rose
in a body, calling me a swindler and blackleg, and put me out of the
place. Before leaving they dictated the terms of payment of the money I
owed them. They told me that unless the notes that were due were paid
by Saturday they would expose me to the town and faculty and so ruin my
character as well as my chances of graduation.

“I knew not where to turn. My first impulse was to run away, anywhere,
so as to be free from the terrible burden that was growing on me. Every
resource had been exhausted, and exposure and disgrace awaited me. Oh,
such a night of agony as I passed! I lay awake, racking my brain for
some method of escape. Suddenly I thought of Professor Fuller. It was
humiliating to think of visiting him on such an errand, but I knew that
I must obtain money somewhere, and that he had been kind to the boys,
so I resolved to call on him. I did so the next morning. I did not
tell him the story, but said I owed money to tradesmen in town, that
they were pressing me hard and threatened trouble, that I didn’t want
to ask my father at once for more money, as I had just received some
from home; and I solicited his help for a short time. The more pressing
debts amounted to $100, and this sum he lent me.

“This was Thursday, and I was going to pay the four notes that were
due at once, when it suddenly occurred to me that Saturday’s game with
Dean College might win me some more money if I could get several bets.
Accordingly I saved the money, and took it over to Dean. I succeeded in
staking it all, and I felt confident of the result, for we had never
been beaten by Dean. To my amazement we lost the game, and my case was
utterly hopeless. Every cent was gone, and I had no means of gaining
more.

“Every resource had been exhausted, and I had only to wait for the
crash that was sure to come. I was dazed and benumbed at the prospect.
There was nothing for me to do. Every vestige of hope had left me.
I was simply ruined. When I came back I started for my room with no
special purpose in mind, when I saw your door ajar. As I told you,
Ridley was in the hall. He was filling your pitcher at the back of
the building and did not see me. I scarcely knew why I came in. When
Ridley closed the door, I began to look about. I did not expect your
return, for I supposed you were still living in town. I took my time,
therefore, and was examining the contents of your desk when I heard you
in the hall.”




                             CHAPTER XXII

                         AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND


Howard paused and looked up at Ray with a dazed, hopeless expression
of face. Neither Ray nor I spoke a word for several minutes. We had
listened to Howard’s narrative with mingled feelings of horror and
pity. Neither of us had known him except as a college mate; and while
we had never been attracted to him, we had not, until recently, found
any cause to dislike him. We knew him to be one of a fast crowd, and
had always avoided a chance of close companionship. Of his gambling
proclivities we had known a little and suspected more.

Rumors had reached us of the card playing that was carried on in his
room during Junior year; but we had supposed that this was broken up,
and knew nothing of his joining a crowd of town men. His confession was
therefore a terrible shock to us, revealing as it did a far greater
familiarity with vicious habits than we ever suspected him of, and
showing to what depths he had sunk. We could scarcely believe our ears,
and only the convicting circumstances under which we had found him in
Ray’s room made the story credible.

Ray was looking at him fixedly, his face clearly indicating the strange
feelings that filled his breast.

“But, Howard,” he said at length, “I am still unable to understand this
last act of yours. Your case is desperate, I own, but what could have
brought you in here? To steal, you say. Yet, it is hard to believe that
you have sunk so low.”

“Understand it! Of course you can’t understand it,” burst out Howard.
“You must go through all that I have to understand it. You must yield
first to one temptation and then to another, and so on down, down,
down, till there seems to be nothing left to stand on; till you have
lost all pride, all self respect, and care for nothing, till you are
perfectly hopeless, and ruin and wretchedness stare you in the face;
till you tremble instinctively at every footstep, fearing that exposure
is on your track, till everybody seems to point you out as a guilty,
contemptible wretch, and you grow reckless, desperate, and don’t care
where you go or what you do; then, then you will understand this mad
act, and then you will understand what I feel now.”

“Howard,” cried Ray, his voice trembling with feeling, “don’t speak so.
It is terrible.”

“It is only the truth,” answered Howard, his tone resuming its former
key of despondency. “When I came in here I was half dazed, and scarcely
knew what I was doing. I had some vague idea of getting money or
valuables some way, and averting the crash for a while. When I saw your
door open I remembered that you had handsome rooms and many costly
things, and before I could think twice I was in. Driven to extremes as
I was, I did not reason the matter, but began searching for money or
something that would bring money. Oh, don’t try to shame me by calling
it bad names! It isn’t necessary. With all that I have done, I felt
that I was a wretched, despicable criminal every minute that I went
about plundering your things. As it is I’m glad――yes, I’m glad I’m
caught. It is all over with me, and it serves me right.”

Howard’s words cut me keenly. Such utter wretchedness I had never
witnessed. His voice was broken, his eyes full of tears.

Whatever may have been the struggle in Ray’s bosom, it was plainly over
now. He rose, and stepped forward to where Howard was sitting. The
latter did not look up.

“Howard,” Ray said firmly, “you have sunk low――very low, indeed. You
have reached the bottom. Do you suppose you could ever build yourself
up again?”

Howard looked up in wonder at the question.

“Build myself up? No. I’ll never have the chance. I’m down, and I have
no such hope.”

“But when you had a chance,” continued Ray, “before it was too late,
did you never think about yourself, and see where you were going?”

“Not until I was going too fast to stop,” answered Howard despondently.
“Then I thought――oh, the many nights I spent thinking, thinking,
thinking! Longing to have a clean record and a fresh start! Oh, I
can look back now, easy enough, and say what I would do if I had a
chance――but it is useless. Here I am helpless――everlastingly disgraced.
And then there is my father, poor old man. He would gladly help me, but
he can’t. He has sent me all the money he had. He couldn’t afford to
send me more, and it will――yes, I know it will nearly kill him to know
the truth. Oh, I wish I could die!”

Howard, with a cry fell forward on his knees, buried his face in his
hands, and burst into a wild fit of weeping.

Howard’s emotion stirred me deeply.

“Oh, Ray!” I exclaimed. “This is terrible.”

Ray did not seem to hear me. He leaned forward and placed his hand on
Howard’s shoulder. His face was pale and quiet.

“Howard,” he said in a low tone, “I am in earnest when I ask you my
question. Would you profit by a chance if it were offered you? I mean,
would you profit by your hard experience and make a man of yourself if
you had the opportunity?”

Howard stopped instantly, and remained breathless for several seconds.
He scarce dared believe all that Ray’s words implied.

“Would I profit by it?” he cried, “Yes, yes, yes. If I only had a
chance to prove it! Oh, the vows that――――”

“I want no vows,” interrupted Ray, speaking quickly. “Your promise is
enough.”

Howard looked up, an expression of yearning in his face. Scarcely
hoping, yet longing to find encouragement in Ray’s words, he exclaimed:

“Why, Wendell――Ray――Ray――you mean to say――――”

“That you shall have a chance, Howard,” answered Ray firmly. “I will
trust you, and pay your debts, and you are to try to make a man of
yourself.”

Howard uttered a quick, inarticulate cry, and sprang to his feet.

“First calm yourself,” said Ray, “and sit down on the sofa there.”

Howard passively obeyed him.

“Now tell me how much you owe altogether.”

“Nearly eight hundred dollars,” answered Howard slowly.

“And one hundred must be paid at once?”

“Yes――to-night.”

“And the payment of these debts will set you on your feet again, and
give you a fresh start?”

“Yes――all but those town fellows. They know that I cheated.”

“The money will quiet them, I think,” answered Ray. “Now, listen to me,
Howard. Your case is not so desperate. Your debts need only to be paid
to secure your reputation, and then you can face the world honestly. I
will pay these――――first of all this hundred dollars. I have somewhat
over that amount in the National Bank, and I will give you a check
at once. This you can take this evening to those men and shut their
mouths. Now as to those other debts――――”

Here Ray started toward his desk, recollected himself, turned toward
Howard and said as gently as possible:

“Howard, kindly tell me where you put my bank book.”

Howard turned scarlet as he tremblingly took Ray’s bank book from his
pocket.

“I don’t know why I took it,” he said in a shame faced manner. “I could
never have used it.”

Ray received it without a word, opened it, and examined the columns of
figures.

“There are two hundred and ten dollars to my credit in the bank,” he
said, “and I can get more from my father when it is needed. Monday
morning you must pay back Professor Fuller first of all. The other
debts I will meet as they come due. Now I must give you that check.”

Ray drew a chair up to the desk, and opening a small drawer, took out a
check book, and settled himself to write.

Until now Howard had accepted the situation while hardly able to
comprehend it. It seemed to be too good to be true, and yet Ray’s cool
and decided manner carried assurance beyond doubt. Such unexpected
generosity from one whom he had regarded as an enemy was a revelation
to him, and it was beginning to work in him just the change that Ray
desired. He sat silent and thoughtful while Ray wrote.

I moved forward, and, bending over Ray’s shoulder, said:

“If I can help you out, Ray, I have some savings which I should be glad
to put in.”

Ray looked up a moment, and answered in a tone too low for Howard to
hear:

“Thanks, Harry, but I think it would be better to do it all up by
myself. You know what I mean. He would feel like a beggar if two or
three contributed. Better let me finish it.”

At this moment Howard looked up.

“Wendell,” he began, “why do you take this heavy risk? You know nothing
but bad of me――――”

“Because I expect to know nothing but good of you hereafter,” answered
Ray promptly. “I have your promise, haven’t I?”

“With all my heart,” responded Howard fervently. “But how can I ever
repay the loan? I can never rest until it is paid up to you, and you
know I am not wealthy.”

“Take your time. I can trust you,” answered Ray. “There is your check,
now, so you must hurry off and get rid of your tormentors. The others
we can attend to later. There is no one else knows anything of this?”

“No one,” answered Howard, “except perhaps Jarvis down stairs. He may
not understand about the disturbance of your desk. You know you spoke
to him about it.”

“Yes, so I did,” said Ray. “Never mind, I will see him and tell him
that it is all right. I will explain the matter satisfactorily. Now
you’d better hurry, for it is getting late.”

Howard started toward the door. After two or three steps he turned
hesitatingly.

“Wendell――Ray――would you mind shaking hands with me?” he asked.

Ray extended his hand immediately. Howard seized it convulsively with
both of his, while his whole frame quivered, and tears started to his
eyes afresh. It was but a moment, and then Howard turned to go away. He
had already reached the door when something seemed to occur to him, and
he wheeled about and came back.

“Ray,” he said, “there is something else I must tell you. You remember
the night we brought the cannons back from Berkeley. It was I that
borrowed your match box that night, and I dropped it by the cannon on
purpose.”

Howard paused.

“I knew it,” answered Ray quietly, “or at least, felt quite sure of it.
Well, what of it?”

“Well, I thought you ought to know it, that was all,” answered Howard.
Then without another word he passed out of the door.

Ray stood looking after him thoughtfully. I came up and touched him on
the arm.

“Ray,” said I, “you are a splendid fellow.”

“Why, no,” he answered. “I only did what I think is a fellow’s duty.
Howard will never forget to-night. He will keep his promise. Just wait
and see.”




                             CHAPTER XXIII

                             RENEWED HOPES


Ray Wendell was right when he said that I exaggerated the effect that
our defeat would have upon our college mates. They were surprised and
disappointed, it is true――bitterly disappointed, for they had shared
our confidence in the nine; but fortunately we had numerous witnesses
in the omnibus load of companions who accompanied us, and who knew well
enough where the trouble lay, and what had caused our defeat. To these
witnesses I soon felt a genuine debt of gratitude, for it speedily
became evident that the reports which they brought back from the game
were as charitable to the team as could possibly be expected under the
circumstances.

The greetings which we received were kind and considerate. Fellows took
pains to make us feel the humiliation as little as possible. Early
Monday morning I met Clinton Edwards, and his first words, as he shook
hands with me, were, “Harry, you played a fine game――steady and true
right through to the end. I am very sorry you had such hard luck. It
was no fault of yours, nor the others in fact, except Fred Harrison,
that we didn’t win.”

And this was the general expression of feeling on every hand, no
one showing the least disposition to find fault with the team, but
all ready to attribute the result to ill fortune, and to extend
their sympathy. Even poor Fred Harrison came in for as much pity as
condemnation for his foolish act.

The disposition on the part of the college put new spirit into us,
and renewed our purpose to go in and regain our lost ground. That we
could entirely recover ourselves and win the Crimson Banner of course
seemed next to impossible, but we pinned our hope to the game with
the Park men. Should we be able to defeat them, we would feel largely
compensated even for the loss of the championship. I shared Ray’s
opinion that our chances of defeating Park College were very fair, for
I felt confident that our team in its altered form, with Percy Randall
on third base, would do fine work, and such rumors as had come from
Berkeley had not reported very favorably on the Park nine.

I did not, however, rely too much on these rumors, for it had been a
favorite dodge of the Park men to start reports of their condition, in
order to deceive and mislead their opponents. Of the truth concerning
their nine we could learn more after the following Wednesday, when the
Park and the Halford teams played together. Ray Wendell determined
to go over to see this game in order to obtain points that it might
be to our advantage to know. I could not accompany him, for I had a
recitation on that day, but Clinton Edwards agreed to go over, and
upon his and Ray’s experienced judgment we could rely for a proper
estimate of the abilities of our opponents.

Fred Harrison improved rapidly, but was compelled to carry his arm in
a sling for some time, and was forbidden by the doctor to play ball
again during the spring, so that Ray was relieved of all difficulty in
disposing of him. Fred was heartily ashamed of himself, and for a long
time after the game could not bear to speak of the matter. The fellows,
knowing well how mortified and humiliated he was, were careful to treat
him with as much consideration as possible, and no thoughtless or
unkind word from them ever reminded him of that unfortunate day at Dean.

What brought mortification to Fred, however, made Percy Randall happy.
The latter had been disappointed in missing a position on the nine in
the first place, and the change which unexpectedly brought him a place
delighted him.

The hope of improvement which Ray had expressed became confirmed in
me the moment I saw Percy step out on the diamond Monday noon. He had
received his notification during the morning, and came down to the
grounds with a smiling face and an air of pride. It had certainly paid
us to encourage him, for the way he took hold of balls, and the dash
and vim with which he played, convinced me that we had nothing to fear
from that quarter. As I watched him, I could only wonder that we had
not seen the stuff that was in him before. As we anticipated, too, his
spirit was contagious, and all the fellows played with a dash that was
remarkable for a team who had just returned from a humiliating defeat.

“Gee whiz!” exclaimed Tony Larcom, as he stood beside me while I was
batting the ball to the various basemen. “Percy Randall is a regular
tonic. If the fellows will keep in this form they can beat the earth.
Good boy, Percy! That was a dandy,” he added, as our new third baseman
made a dive towards short stop and captured a hard ground hit with one
hand. I nodded in approbation to Ray, who wore a smile of confidence as
he stood watching this play from second base.

At the close of our practice, Ray, Tony, and I walked back to the
college together.

“Keep it up, boys,” said Tony, “and we will see that Crimson Banner
yet.”

“Yes,” answered Ray, with a laugh, “I can see it Wednesday when I go
over to Berkeley. It doesn’t cost anything to see it, but I fancy we
may be able to capture it, too, if we can keep on in the way we have
begun to-day. We are still a little unaccustomed to the change, but
I think we will soon get used to it. The only thing I could wish for
is more time to practice. Our game with Park College comes off next
Saturday. That is just a week too soon for me. If we could have six
days’ more practice, I shouldn’t be afraid to tackle the best college
nine in the country.”

“Oh, it’s all right as it is,” answered Tony. “We’ll be in good
condition by Saturday, don’t you fear.”

“I can tell better about our prospects after I see Wednesday’s game,”
said Ray. “At any rate we will practice twice a day until Thursday, so
we ought to be in good trim. Don’t forget to be on hand at five o’clock
this afternoon,” he added as I left him.

It was a pleasant experience to Ray and myself to be walking freely
upon the campus again and attending our lectures. We had neither of us
lost ground, but were enabled to resume our places without suffering
any disadvantage from our period of suspension. This was of course due
entirely to the care with which we had attended to our studies while
lodging in town; and the knowledge of this did much to conciliate Dr.
Drayton, who greeted us both kindly, and even unbent so far as to
express his sympathy with us in our defeat――or to put it in his highly
dignified way, he “regretted that our efforts in the baseball field had
not been so far attended with success.”

Professor Fuller I had not seen during Monday or Tuesday, but after
visiting the post office Tuesday evening, I determined to take
advantage of the next hour’s leisure and pay the professor a short
call. As I turned from the main street into the lane which led to
Professor Fuller’s house I heard a light footstep behind me, and turned
quickly to see who it was. The sun had only just set, and the light was
still sufficient for me to see it was Miss Nettie who was approaching,
probably, like myself, returning from the post office. I stopped and
greeted her.

“I am going your way,” I said. “May I accompany you?”

She nodded pleasantly.

“Are you going to see the ‘Old Governor’?” she asked with a smile.

“Yes,” I answered, laughing. “Do you call him by that name, too?”

“I might almost as well,” she said frankly. “It seems to suit father so
well, and I think he likes it, too. He is at home――at least he was a
half hour ago when I left him after supper. It was only this afternoon
that we were talking about you and Mr. Wendell and the ball nine. In
fact, I haven’t talked about anything else for the past two days.”

“We were in very hard luck,” I said.

“Indeed you were,” she said warmly. “I can’t get over it. I asked
everybody I knew about it, and got all the accounts I could. You know
it is very hard for me to get the news, having no brother to tell me,
but I made up my mind I would know all about it, and I did. I was sure
it couldn’t be your fault that the game was lost. I didn’t believe
anybody could beat our nine. It was too bad about Mr. Harrison――――”

“About Harrison?” I said quickly, wondering who could have told her the
whole truth about Fred.

“Yes, about his being taken sick,” she answered.

“Oh, yes,” I said, somewhat relieved to find that the actual truth had
not reached her. “Yes, it was too bad. It happened just at the wrong
time for us.”

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” she went on, “for I had counted
on our winning that game. I am glad it didn’t take place here, for I
couldn’t have stood the sight of it. I know I should have cried. I
always do when I get terribly excited, and I make a perfect sight of
myself.”

“Well, we appreciate your feelings, anyhow, Miss Nettie,” I answered
with a laugh, “and I wish we had proved ourselves worthy of your
sympathy.”

“Oh, you will do better next time, I’m sure; and I think I would rather
see you beat Park College than get the championship.”

“That is the way I feel,” I said; “and if we can beat both Halford and
Park Colleges we can still tie for championship, so all hope is not
gone yet of reaching the Crimson Banner.”

We had now arrived at Professor Fuller’s house.

“If you will wait one moment I will see if father is in,” said Miss
Nettie, hurrying into the house. In a short time she returned.

“I am very sorry,” she said. “Father is engaged with some one in the
library. The door is closed, and I cannot tell who it is, but from the
voice I think it must be one of the students. Won’t you wait? He may be
at leisure shortly.”

“I have some work to do,” I answered, “so I’ll not wait. My errand
was not urgent, so I can call again. I came merely for a brief social
visit.”

“He will be sorry to miss you, I know,” said Miss Nettie, “and you must
come again soon.”

“I will, thank you,” was my response. “Good night, Miss Nettie.”

“Good night,” she responded; “and tell Mr. Wendell that we are sorry
the game came out so badly.”




                             CHAPTER XXIV

                            A TURN OF LUCK


I had not retraced my footsteps far when I heard Professor Fuller’s
gate open and close. Evidently the caller had taken his departure, and
from the manner in which he was following me, I felt confident he must
be one of the students. He was walking at about the same pace that I
was, keeping some fifty yards behind me. At the entrance to the college
grounds I paused long enough for him to come up.

It was Len Howard. He either did not see me, or did not want to notice
me, for he was going past me with his head bent toward the ground.

“Hullo, Howard,” I said.

He looked up quickly. His face was somewhat pale and worn; his
expression grave and thoughtful.

“Hullo, Elder,” he answered.

“You were Professor Fuller’s visitor, weren’t you?”

“Yes; I have just come from there. I am glad I went. The old governor
is very kind.”

“You haven’t been telling him――――”

“No, no,” answered Howard, interrupting me. “It was not necessary to
tell him everything. It would only have distressed him, and――and I
couldn’t have gone all over it again. I went to pay him the money I had
borrowed, and which Ray gave me this morning. I then merely told him
that I had got foolishly into debt, and asked his advice.”

“Have you disposed of those town men?” I inquired.

“Yes, and a terrible load it lifted off my mind. I have done a lot of
hard thinking during the past two days, more than I ever did in my life
before, and I have made resolutions that I shall never break.”

“I am sure of it, Howard,” I answered, “and I am very glad you got out
of your trouble so well.”

“What worries me most,” he continued, “is the debt I owe Ray Wendell.
As each of my debts is paid I feel this load grow heavier; and while it
is a great relief to be rid of these old accounts, I hate to think of
all I owe to Ray. I would give anything to be able to pay him promptly,
but I don’t know what to do. I am in very moderate circumstances, and
my debts amount to a large sum.”

“Don’t let it worry you, Howard,” I answered. “I know you will do your
best, and so does Ray. Pay him as you feel you can.”

“It was about this particularly that I wanted Professor Fuller’s
advice. I told him I was willing to do almost anything to secure the
money I needed, and he made a suggestion which I am going to follow
out, and which I hope will bring good results.”

“I sincerely hope so,” I answered, as we parted.

I was walking toward Colver Hall, thinking over this conversation, and
scarcely noticing my surroundings, when my foot suddenly tripped over
a large drain pipe which lay on the grass, and which I had not seen on
account of the darkness. I was thrown violently to the ground, my right
wrist doubling under me in such a way as to give it a severe wrench.
It pained me considerably for a few minutes, so on reaching my room I
bathed it freely with liniment until the pain subsided. Finding that it
gave me little more trouble, and, beyond some slight aching, seemed as
strong as usual, I experienced a feeling of relief at having escaped so
luckily, and soon ceased thinking about it.

But the next morning my wrist was brought to my attention again. I was
alarmed to find that it had swollen during the night, and was stiff
and unmanageable. As I could move it only slightly, and then with
considerable pain, the idea of using it for my regular exercise in
pitching was out of the question. This worried me, so hurrying over to
the doctor’s the first thing after breakfast, I submitted my wrist to
his examination.

The doctor felt of the injured spot carefully.

“Only a slight straining of the muscles and tendons,” he said. “It will
be all right in a week.”

“A week!” I exclaimed. “Why, I must pitch a game of ball this Saturday.”

The doctor shook his head.

“Well, you may be able to use it a little by that time if you rest it
until then, but I shouldn’t advise you to subject it to such violent
exercise. You probably cannot last out a whole game, and you would only
strain it worse, so that it would be laid up for several weeks. Now, if
you can wait a few days longer, you will have no trouble.”

“But I can’t,” I said in despair; “the game must take place Saturday,
and I _must_ pitch.”

“I wish I could give you more encouragement,” said the doctor. “You
take considerable risk in trying to pitch a whole game through so soon
after injuring it. I can recommend an excellent liniment, and perhaps
it may bring you into some sort of shape by Saturday, but I fear not.”

I took the doctor’s prescription, and went away very much discouraged
by his words. What were we to do? The nine had no substitute pitcher,
and depended solely upon me. If I found myself unable to play, all the
rest would feel the evil effects of the loss, and the result would
probably be another defeat――and this time by Park College! Oh, it was
too much! I set my teeth, and determined that I would pitch if it broke
my arm to do it.

I concluded to say nothing about the matter to any of the other fellows
except Ray, knowing that it would only have a discouraging effect
upon them; so when twelve o’clock came I went down to the grounds,
and occupied myself in coaching the others instead of pitching. This
appeared perfectly natural to the rest, for Ray had left on the noon
train for Berkeley to witness the Park-Halford game, and I had always
acted as captain in his absence.

At seven o’clock that evening Tony and I went down to the depot, and
met Ray and Clinton Edwards on their return from the game. They were
talking earnestly as they came towards us, and I fancied that they both
wore a hopeful expression of face.

“Who beat?” cried Tony, eager to learn the news.

“Oh, Park College, of course,” answered Edwards. “They nearly always do
on their own grounds.”

“What was the score?” I asked, as we turned back towards the college.

“Five to three,” answered Ray.

“Why, that was pretty close. Was it a good game?”

“Yes, fair; and the Park men only won by shouting Halford out of the
game. It was one of the meanest games, as far as Park College is
concerned, that I ever saw. I honestly believe the Halford men might
have beaten on neutral grounds, but the mob made such a racket that
they couldn’t help making a few errors, and those errors cost them the
game.”

“Then the teams were evenly matched?”

“Very, and for a while it was simply a toss up as to which would win.
Boys, Halford has a pretty good nine this year.”

“How about Park?”

“Not so good as usual――in most respects not a bit better than the
Halford team. If we can beat one of them we can beat the other.”

“And what do you think of our chances now?” I asked anxiously.

“Extremely good. I don’t think either of those nines are as good as the
team that we can put in the field Saturday.”

Saturday! I had almost forgotten about my wrist, and the word suddenly
brought back the recollection of my misfortune. I was reluctant to cast
any cloud over the hopeful spirits of my companions, but I knew it
had to come; so as soon as we reached Ray’s room I told him what had
happened. I tried not to exaggerate it, and repeated the doctor’s very
words, that they might know exactly what to expect. Their faces grew
very serious at once. Ray examined my wrist anxiously, then bit his lip
with annoyance.

“Well, in all my life,” he exclaimed, “I never ran up against such
a succession of unlucky circumstances. It certainly seems as if
everything was conspiring to destroy our chances.”

I tried to be as hopeful as possible.

“Perhaps it may improve in a day or so. I intend to exercise it, gently
at first, and then harder, so as to limber it up. I tell you one thing,
boys, I am going to play under any circumstances. All I fear is that my
wrist will be weak and injure my work.”

“Can’t we have the game postponed?” asked Tony.

“Certainly not,” answered Ray. “The Park men would never consent to it.
If they got any wind of the truth they would insist on having the game,
and one disabled man is not a sufficient excuse for postponement. They
would simply laugh at us for proposing such a thing.”

“Then I am going to pray for rain,” said Tony so solemnly that we could
not help laughing.

“Well, Harry, we must make the best of it,” said Ray. “Use your
liniment and exercise your wrist as much as you can without hurting it.
It may come out better than we think. I will get Raymond, the Freshman
pitcher, out to-morrow, so as to have him ready and in some sort of
condition by Saturday. Do the other fellows know about it?”

“No,” I answered.

“Well, they might better know to-morrow than later,” said Ray. “It
would only discourage them to tell them at the last moment. We must
make up our minds to accept the circumstances, and make as good a fight
as we can.”

During the next two days my wrist improved perceptibly, but far too
slowly for our plans; and as Friday night approached, I was compelled
to face the fact that I would be able to pitch but a very weak game the
next day.

Thursday and Friday had been days of anxiety and suspense to me,
constantly alternating, as I was, between hope and discouragement; and
when Friday evening came, and I found my wrist still stiff and weak,
I was almost ready to cry with vexation. To Ray’s inquiries I made as
encouraging responses as possible; but while I spoke of pitching the
next day, I knew in my heart that my efforts would prove scarcely more
than a dead weight on the rest of the team, and I feared the results
would only be disastrous. My hopes of our winning the championship,
or of even making a respectable record, seemed to have taken their
departure; and it was with sadly depressed spirits that I went to bed
Friday evening, and tried to get the long night’s rest which was needed
to refresh us for the next day’s struggle.

From a heavy dreamless sleep I was suddenly awakened by the sound of
someone hammering upon my door. I sat up in a dazed state, wondering
who could be disturbing me at such an hour. My curtains were drawn,
and I had no means of knowing what time it was, but I seemed to have
slept but a short while, and I fancied it could scarcely be more than
midnight. Meanwhile the hammering grew more vociferous, and I heard a
voice, which seemed familiar, shouting outside:

“Harry; Harry Elder! Get up and come here quick! I’ve got great news
for you.”

I sprang out of bed and hurried to the door. There in the hall stood
Tony Larcom, waving an umbrella excitedly over his head. From the
window in the entry the murky light of a cloudy day struggled in.

“What is the matter?” I asked in amazement, laughing at the ridiculous
sight he presented.

“Matter, my boy! Everything’s the matter! I was up at daybreak, and
hurried into my clothes to run over here and tell you the good news.
We are saved――we are saved, old fellow!”

“Saved? Why, what do you mean?” I exclaimed, still more mystified.

“Rain! rain!” he shouted, waving his umbrella again. “Our luck has
turned. It is raining pitchforks! No game to-day.”

I rushed to the window, hardly daring to believe his words. One
glance was enough, and then I gave a whoop of joy. The sky was darkly
overcast, and the rain was falling softly but steadily――not in a
shower, that might pass away in a few hours, but with the heavy,
businesslike downpour of a regular easterly storm.

“Didn’t I say that I was going to pray for rain?” said Tony
complacently, taking the credit of it all to himself.




                              CHAPTER XXV

                            THE SECOND GAME


Certainly, as Tony said, our luck had turned. As the morning advanced,
the rain continued to fall, so the question of playing ball was
practically settled. About ten o’clock Tony telegraphed to the
secretary of the Park nine, “Raining hard. Shall we come?” Within an
hour he received the following answer from Berkeley, “Impossible to
play. Game will have to be postponed. Will write you later.”

Mutual congratulations followed. The fellows were all delighted, and
at noon a jubilant, happy crowd assembled in Ray’s room to discuss the
matter.

“Nothing could have pleased me better,” said Ray. “For the first
time in my life I am glad to see it rain on a baseball day. It gives
Harry time to cure his wrist, and the rest of us several days more of
practice. It is just what we most needed.”

“Pour away, old boy!” exclaimed Tony, as a sudden gust of wind brought
the rain swirling against the window panes. “You have done the square
thing by us to-day. I’ll never complain of the weather again――never.
Say, Ray, what new date had we better arrange for the game?”

“I was just thinking of that,” answered Ray. “We can’t get a day off in
the middle of the week. The faculty don’t want us to go away except on
Saturdays.”

“Suppose we appoint the Monday following the Halford game,” I said.
“The faculty might object to our going away twice. Now, as the Halford
game takes place next Saturday, we might stay at Halford over Sunday,
and play the Park men Monday afternoon, on our way back. In that way we
can do it all up in one trip, and be back here Monday night.”

“A very good idea,” answered Ray, “and if the Park men are agreeable,
we had better fix it that way by all means.”

The consent of our faculty to this scheme was easily obtained, and the
correspondence which Tony held with the Park men resulted in their
acceptance of the arrangement, so the game was appointed to take place
on the Monday following our trip to Halford.

The marked improvement in uniformity and excellence of play on the
part of our nine during the next week confirmed Ray’s statement that
all we needed to perfect ourselves was a few days’ more practice.
My wrist give me little trouble in the early part of the week, so
Wednesday morning I made the experiment of pitching a whole practice
game through and found that I suffered nothing in consequence. Thursday
and Friday, therefore, I took my regular practice with the others, and
in proportion as my wrist recovered strength I recovered confidence.
During these last two days I do not think any one would have known
that I had suffered any injury. My enforced rest seemed, if anything,
to have done me good, for Friday I certainly felt more in the spirit of
the game, and pitched more effectively, than I had done before I hurt
my wrist.

“You needn’t come down this afternoon, fellows,” said Ray, as we left
the grounds at one o’clock. “Keep quiet and remember to go to bed early
to-night.”

We had arranged to leave the next morning on the 9:30 train, but I was
up by seven o’clock anxious to know what the weather had in store for
us. To my delight, I found on opening my curtains that fortune again
favored us, this time with bright sunshine and an almost cloudless sky.

“It may be hot,” I thought, “but still what of that, so long as it
doesn’t rain.”

At the depot I found a large and interested crowd of students who had
assembled, as was their custom, to see us off. The nine were all there,
cheerful and in good spirits, Tony Larcom rushing around like a chicken
with its head off, buying our tickets, checking our luggage, and
answering all sorts of questions at the same time.

“At last!” he exclaimed as he caught sight of me, and stopped a moment
to mop the perspiration from his face. “I was afraid you were going to
be late. Got your valise? Here give it to me, I’ll get it checked. Jim;
Jim! come here and get this valise. Hullo, Jim! Where in thunder is
that fellow?――oh there you are――get this checked right away and have
it ready with the other things. Cæsar’s ghost! but isn’t it hot? Yes,
Frank, I’ll telegraph the score immediately after the game, don’t you
fear. Here, you fellows, get out of my way――how do you expect me to
do anything with a dozen or more crowding and jamming――――” and off he
rushed while I joined the other members of the nine.

In a few moments the train arrived and we quickly clambered aboard,
Tony making sure that we were all there before he ascended the
platform. Then, as the train moved off, Tony waved his hat, while
the crowd at the station gave three rousing cheers, and with this
encouraging sound ringing in our ears, we set off for Halford.

We expected to arrive there about eleven o’clock, for Halford was not
many miles beyond Berkeley. Ray took advantage of this opportunity to
say a few final words of caution. During the week he had frequently
mentioned several points of weakness in the Halford nine, and given us
directions as to the best manner of taking advantage of them. One point
in particular he had brought out strong, and this he reiterated now.

“Remember,” he said, “the Halford men chiefly lack nerve at critical
junctures. They are apt to go to pieces if pushed hard. They will play
a strong game while they are in the lead, and while they can keep the
bases clear; but heavy batting will demoralize them, and I think we
can easily manage their pitcher. We must try to fill the bases. We must
hit the ball _every time_. Don’t try to make home runs all the time,
but _hit the ball_, and run bases daringly. Take every possible chance.
We may lose one or two points by so doing, but we will gain in the end,
for it will demoralize them, I know.”

When we arrived at Halford we found Slade and Bennett, the secretary
and captain of their nine, awaiting us. The feeling between Halford and
Belmont Colleges had always been extremely friendly, and kept up by
succeeding generations with as much respect for the tradition as had
our bitter animosity for Park College. Our reception, therefore, was of
the pleasantest nature possible.

“Very sorry to hear of your hard luck over at Dean,” said Slade, as he
shook hands with Ray and me.

“Yes, it was too bad,” answered Ray, “but you have had your share of
misfortune too――last Wednesday, I mean. I think you should have had
that game.”

“Well, so do we,” said Bennett, “but what could we expect, playing as
we did on their ground? We had to play the nine and the whole crowd
too. I fear you will get your dose of it on Monday.”

“I suppose so,” answered Ray.

Halford had received a donation from a wealthy graduate of money enough
to lay out new grounds and construct a new and large grand stand. As
we entered the gate in our carriages after dinner, the sight that met
our eyes was enough to gladden the heart of any baseball enthusiast.

The new diamond was as level as a billiard table, and covered with
fresh, green, closely cropped grass, while the grand stand was gaily
decorated with flags, and filled with a chattering and laughing crowd
of people.

“Great Scott,” exclaimed Percy Randall, “just look at that outfield,
boys! There isn’t a blade of grass on it, and it is as smooth and hard
as a board. If we knock a hard ball outside of the diamond it will roll
into the middle of next week.”

“That’s just what we want to do, fellows,” answered Ray promptly. “Hit
low and hard, and the ball won’t stop this side of the fence. Remember
now for the last time, fellows: don’t hit up in the air――hit hard and
low, and run your bases like tigers.”

We were accorded the compliment of a round burst of applause, as the
Halford men came in from their practice, and we ran out on the field.
This put us in the best of spirits, and we set to work picking up the
balls, catching them on the fly, and throwing them from base to base
with a brilliancy and dash that elicited frequent acknowledgment from
the grand stand. We had only ten minutes for our preliminary exercise;
then the signal sounded, and the game was called.

Now that fortune had turned, it persisted in our favor, for we won the
toss, and chose the field. Full of confidence we ran to our various
positions, and their first batter took his place.

Not being quite warmed to work yet, I made the mistake of placing the
first ball directly over the plate. The batter caught it about the
center of his bat, and sent it away out to center field. It had not
occurred to us in our calculations that the outfield might prove as
advantageous to our opponents as to ourselves in case they hit hard;
but this was brought forcibly to my mind, for, before the ball was
captured on the ground by Lewis Page, the batter reached second base.
This was greeted by a round of applause, but nothing daunted, we
settled down to work, and put out the next man in short order.

Then came a hard ground hit to George Ives, who threw the batter out at
first base, but this enabled the first batter to reach third. Then a
safe hit was made just over Ray Wendell’s head, and the runner on third
base scored. The next man I succeeded in striking out, and we took the
bat.

George Ives opened with a good safe hit, and according to Ray Wendell’s
direction, he dashed down to second base at the first ball pitched. The
catcher hardly expected this, threw over the second baseman’s head,
and George reached third. The next two, Percy Randall and myself, were
thrown out at first base, and it looked almost as if George Ives would
be left on third, but Holland saved us from this by hitting safe and
bringing George home. We made no more runs, and the inning closed with
the score 1–1.

In the second inning neither scored. In the third inning Halford made
one run, while we were blanked. But in the fourth inning we returned
the compliment by making a run and blanking them. In the fifth inning
they made one more run, making the score 3–2 in their favor. In the
sixth and seventh innings they kept this lead, and prevented us from
scoring.

In spite of their being ahead, we had felt no anxiety, for we were sure
of our superiority both in the field and at the bat, and we believed
that our time would come. It was only at the end of the seventh inning
that we felt the least uneasy.

“Boys,” said Ray, “this won’t do. We are nearing the end of the game,
and they are still in the lead. We must break this up. You see, it
is just as I told you: they play a fine game while they keep the
bases clean. We haven’t pushed them hard enough. We must set the ball
rolling. Start her off, Alfred.”

His last words were addressed to Burnett, who was first at the bat in
the ending of the eighth inning. But Alfred evidently did not see his
way clear, for he struck out.

“Oh, pshaw, let me show you,” cried Percy Randall cheerfully, as he
took his position.

Percy was as good as his word, and at the second ball pitched, placed
it nicely over the short stop’s head, reaching first base in safety.
This was Percy’s first chance and we immediately learned his value.
He followed Ray’s instructions by performing two successive feats of
reckless base running such as I had never in my life seen before.

At the very first ball he was off for second base. The catcher threw
straight and true, but Percy hurled himself forward head first, and
slid into the base safely. Hastily picking himself up and without
stopping to dust himself off, he started off at the next ball, and
dashed for third base. Again the catcher threw straight, but, by
another brilliant slide, Percy reached third.

This took the Halford men by storm. They had never seen anything quite
like Percy’s impudence, and the success of it staggered them. I was at
the bat and waiting for a good ball, but the pitcher disconcerted by
Percy’s feat, gave me my base on balls. At the next ball I ran down to
second, the catcher not daring to throw it down for fear of letting
Percy in home. Holland, who was at the bat, noticed that the pitcher
was unsettled, and coolly waited for two strikes to be called. The
pitcher continued to throw wild, and, as a result, Holland was given
his base on balls.

This left us with a runner on each base, and only one man out. Ray
Wendell then came to the bat and looked calmly at the situation.

“Now, Ray,” I said to myself, “you told _us_ what to do. Now show us
_how_. Practice what you’ve preached, my boy, and the day is saved.”

Ray planted himself firmly, and waited for a good ball. The pitcher,
knowing well that if he gave Ray also his base on balls, it would
force us all around, and bring Percy home, was careful to put the ball
straight over the plate.

“One strike,” called the umpire.

The pitcher hurled another ball almost exactly in the same spot.

“Hit it! Hit it!” I exclaimed in a whisper.

Ray’s bat flashed in the air. Crack! came a report that sounded over
the whole field. The ball shot over my head like lightning, about ten
feet above the ground, landing safely between left and center field,
and rolled on――on――on, while the two fielders ran desperately after it,
and Percy, I, Holland, and lastly, Ray himself, dashed around in home,
_making four runs in all_.

We were wild with joy, the other fellows receiving us with open arms.
The grand stand greeted the play with some applause, and, considering
the loss it brought to their friends in the field, we appreciated
greatly their generosity. Ray’s hit was a long and hard one, and he
could almost have walked around before the fielders reached the ball.

“Go around again, Ray!” shouted Tony, entirely forgetting the dignity
of his position as our scorer, in the delight of the moment.

We made no more runs that inning, the Halford men settling down bravely
to steady playing as they found the bases clear again. The game was
practically settled, however, for the score was now 6–3 in our favor.

Confidently we took the field for the ninth inning, and played a
strong, sure game which resulted in our closing the Halford men out
without a run. With evident signs of disappointment the large crowd
dispersed, and we found ourselves a jolly set of victors. We gathered
together and gave three cheers for the Halford men, which were
responded to by a similar compliment from their nine, and then hurried
to our carriages. Laughing, shouting, and joking, we scrambled in.

“There!” cried Percy, as he tumbled in a heap over me. “Who says we
can’t play ball?”

The driver wheeled his team about and we were off for our hotel.

“And now, boys,” said Ray, his face glowing with excitement and
pleasure――“Now for Park College, and the Crimson Banner!”




                             CHAPTER XXVI

                            GENEROUS HOSTS


An hour later and a jubilant, noisy crowd of students were seated
about one of the large tables in the dining room of the Halford
House, all bent upon doing justice to the best dinner that the modest
hostelry could supply. The party lacked only one thing to complete its
happiness――the presence of Tony Larcom.

“Where is Tony?” I asked.

“Gone to the telegraph office,” answered Ray. “He has about a dozen
messages to send to Belmont. He will be back shortly.”

Ray had hardly ceased speaking when Tony entered. A round of cheers
greeted him.

“Any news from Belmont?” we cried.

“Well, scarcely,” he answered, with a laugh as he seated himself. “I’ve
just sent my telegrams. But I have news from the game over at Dean
to-day.”

“I suppose, of course the Park men beat Dean all to pieces,” said Ray.
“What was the score?”

“Twelve to four in favor of Park,” answered Tony. “That is somewhat
different from our score with the Dean men.”

“Yes,” I answered, “but it is not so different from what our score
_ought_ to have been, and _would_ have been had we played them to-day.
We were badly handicapped.”

“And so were the Park men, it seems――at least for part of the game,”
said Tony.

“Why, what do you mean?” asked Ray, looking quickly at Tony.

“My telegram said that Arnold was unwell, and did not pitch after the
fourth inning.”

All conversation ceased in an instant. Arnold was by all odds the most
skilful pitcher in the Berkshire League; and his record for the past
two years had never been equaled in the history of the colleges. He
was a tower of strength to the Park nine, and had won several notable
victories for them by his masterly handling of the ball. Park College
owed her success in baseball chiefly to Arnold’s steady nerve, good
judgment, and skilful playing. He was not the captain of the nine, for,
although the position had been offered him, he had declined in favor of
Beard, the third baseman, on the ground that his work in the pitcher’s
box would require all his attention; but he was really the controlling
authority of the nine――the power behind the throne, so to speak.

The news Tony brought was therefore of the deepest interest to us, who
recognized in Arnold our most formidable opponent. The same idea was
undoubtedly in all our minds.

“Arnold unwell!” I exclaimed, giving utterance to the common thought.
“I wonder if he will be able to play Monday.”

“That I can’t say,” answered Tony. “The telegram was very brief, and
gave me no clue as to the nature or extent of his sickness.”

“Suppose Arnold doesn’t pitch Monday,” said Percy Randall. “Oh, my!
Won’t we have a picnic!”

“Well, you needn’t count on that at all,” answered Ray. “You will only
be the loser for it. I know Park College of old, and I don’t take any
stock in their ‘invalids.’ Two years ago we heard rumors from Berkeley
some time before that three of their men were laid up. All the same,
the next week out came those three ‘invalids,’ and played a rattling
fine game, doing us up to the tune of 6–4. You remember that, Harry?”

“Indeed I do,” I responded, “for one of those ‘invalids’ knocked a home
run on an outcurve of mine. Park College ‘invalids’ are dangerous men
on the ball field.”

“Well,” said Tony, “I know their tricks, too, so I didn’t place much
faith in that part of the message. There is little doubt but that
Arnold will be on hand Monday, and keep up his record.”

As we left the dining room we were met in the hallway by Slade and
Bennett, of the Halford nine. It was the first we had seen of them
since the game. They were both as pleasant as possible, and evidently
determined to let their disappointment over the results of the game in
no way affect their behavior toward us.

“Well,” said Slade to me with a smile, “you deserve to be congratulated,
for you played a strong game. We honestly thought we would win to-day,
for we calculated on finding your nine weaker than usual. It was your
game with the Dean men that made us feel so confident, and the results
to-day took us pretty well by surprise. The fellows feel disappointed,
of course, for it throws us entirely out of the race, but the game was
fairly won, so there’s an end of it.”

“Our nine has greatly improved since the Dean game,” said Ray. “We have
made several changes.”

“I should think so,” answered Bennett; “you played finely this
afternoon, and I don’t think you have ever put a stronger nine on the
field. I don’t feel ashamed of the defeat at all, for it was a mighty
well fought game on both sides.”

“You gave us very generous treatment,” said Ray, “and we shall always
remember it gratefully.”

“It was only a return of the courtesy we have always received at
Belmont,” answered Slade. “We simply gave you a fair show. Everybody
ought to have that. If we had received it at Berkeley, we might have
been more successful. By the way, I suppose you have heard the news
from Dean?”

“Yes,” said Ray. “It was only what I expected. Did you receive any word
concerning Arnold?”

“No. What about him?”

“Our telegram stated he was unwell, and gave up pitching in the fourth
inning.”

“It couldn’t be of any importance,” rejoined Slade, “for the message I
received said nothing about it. Did he leave the field?”

“No,” answered Tony. “My telegram reads, ‘Arnold unwell in fourth
inning――changed places with Cross.’ Cross, you know, is their
substitute pitcher, and plays right field.”

“Then of course it doesn’t amount to much,” said Bennett. “The game was
no doubt virtually won in the first four innings, and so Arnold changed
positions in order to avoid all chances of straining his arm.”

“I suppose he was bent on taking things as easily as possible, and
saving up his strength for you next Monday,” added Slade with a smile.

“That is more like the real truth of the matter,” answered Ray. “Arnold
no doubt felt confident of the Dean game, and didn’t want to overwork
himself. I told the fellows not to put any faith in rumors of sickness.”

“What were you thinking of doing this evening?” asked Slade, looking at
his watch, and changing the subject.

“Nothing in particular,” answered Ray.

“Well, our dramatic club gives an amateur performance in the college
hall, and I came over here especially to invite you all to attend. Of
course it doesn’t amount to much as a dramatic treat, but we always
have lots of fun. What do you say?”

A chorus of assent greeted this proposition.

“Come on then,” said Slade. “I have complimentary tickets for the whole
crowd. The performance begins at eight o’clock, so there is no time to
lose.”

As we were going out one of the hallboys brought Tony Larcom a
telegram. Tony opened it, glanced over its contents, and then, with a
laugh, handed it to me.

The telegram was from Clinton Edwards, and ran as follows:

    News just received. Hurrah for Belmont! Let the good work
    go on. I will meet you at Berkeley on Monday and bring the
    “baseball chorus” with me to yell for the champions.

“What is the ‘baseball chorus’?” asked Percy Randall, as the telegram
passed from one to another.

“Oh, it’s a gang of about forty fellows that Clinton has organized with
a view to making the utmost noise possible,” answered Tony. “He had
them over at Dean to cheer for us, but we didn’t give them a chance
that day. We’ll give them something more to do Monday, and we can trust
Clinton for all the support and encouragement we need. I would back his
little band against a whole grand stand full of Park men. If cheering
is to decide that game, we will stand a chance to win.”

The dramatic entertainment was highly enjoyable, and in every respect
a success. The actors acquitted themselves with the utmost credit; and
the many college gags and local hits that were interspersed throughout
the play gave much additional zest and enjoyment to the performance,
and kept the spectators in an almost continual roar of laughter.
Occasional responses from the audience, and impromptu rallies of wit
between the actors and some of their friends in front, formed a novel
and amusing feature.

Immediately after the play an informal reception took place, in which
we were the center of interest, and received every possible attention
and courtesy. The gentlemanly behavior on the part of the Halford
men was most highly appreciated by us, for it was quite evident that
they had fully expected to win the game, and prepared the evening’s
entertainment with a view to celebrating the victory. The fair and
generous treatment we had received on the ball ground, and the graceful
manner with which they took their defeat, aroused in us the sincerest
feelings of gratitude, and greatly strengthened the traditional feeling
of friendship that existed between Belmont and Halford.

And their attentions were unremitting during our brief visit of two
days.

“We will try to repay you for your kindness, when you come over to
Belmont next year,” I said to Slade.

“And we will try to acknowledge the compliment by beating you, as you
did us this year,” laughed Slade.

“If you want to do us a real favor,” said Bennett, “beat Park College
Monday. They have had that banner entirely too long, and I’d give a
good deal to see you win it.”

“What do you think of our chances?” asked Ray.

“Good; that is, if you play the game you did with us. Both Slade and I
are going over to Berkeley Monday afternoon, and we’ll lend our voices
to cheer you on.”

With such encouragement and good wishes we left Halford early Monday
morning.

“Do you know,” said Tony Larcom, as our train moved away from Halford,
“those fellows have treated us so nicely, that I feel half ashamed of
having beaten them?”

“Well, it does seem a poor sort of return for their kindness,” said
Dick Palmer; “and yet if we had lost the game I do not think that all
their attention could have quite reconciled me to it. We’ll strike a
marked contrast at Berkeley.”

“Yes; I don’t think that the Park men will embarrass us with their
attentions,” remarked Ray dryly.




                             CHAPTER XXVII

                       OUR RECEPTION AT BERKELEY


Whatever shadow of doubt may have remained in our minds concerning
Arnold, was speedily dissipated on our arrival at Berkeley. No one came
to meet us at the depot; but when we reached the Wyman Hotel, we found
Arnold and Beard awaiting us there.

“How are you, Mr. Arnold?” said Ray, greeting him. “I received word
that you were unwell.”

“I unwell? Who said so?” asked Arnold.

“The telegram from Dean brought us that report,” answered Ray.

“Oh, I understand now what you mean. I was well enough, but I didn’t
feel like pitching the whole game through, so I changed places with
Cross and took a rest.”

This answer as well as the tone in which he spoke indicated clearly
enough that Arnold had been merely saving himself for Monday’s game.

“Are all your men here?” asked Beard.

“Yes,” answered Ray.

“Then we shall look for you at the grounds shortly before two o’clock,”
said Beard, as if about to take his leave.

“One moment,” said Tony; “the ball grounds are some distance away. Have
any arrangements been made for carriages to take us out?”

“The hotel has its regular omnibus. If you speak to the clerk at the
desk I think you will find it has been held awaiting your orders,” said
Beard. He and Arnold then walked coolly away.

It had always been the custom at Belmont, as well as at Halford,
for the home team to supply the visiting players with carriage
accommodation. We had hardly looked for this attention from the Park
men, but Beard’s tone of indifference was exasperating nevertheless.
Tony could not repress a half audible exclamation of annoyance as he
hurried off to make the necessary arrangements.

After our lunch we met in one of the hotel parlors and held a short,
informal meeting.

“Now, boys,” began Ray, “I haven’t much to add to what I’ve said many
times before, but I want to repeat one or two things. You know I told
you that there was no particular point of weakness in the Park nine of
which we could take advantage. They have an all round good team, and
we must strain every nerve to win. I firmly believe we can do it, but
we must play right up to the mark all the time. We must play for every
point as if it were the deciding point of the game; we must meet them,
therefore, on their own ground, and not yield an inch. We must push our
chances hard, and keep up an aggressive policy ourselves. Their strong
point is Arnold. If we can hit his pitching good and hard, and all the
time, we will make out all right. I am confident we can, but we must be
careful when at the bat, for he is an excellent pitcher, and if any of
us display any weakness he will be sure to detect it and take advantage
of it. As I told you Saturday, hit hard and low.”

While we were still discussing the game, Tony put his head into the
room.

“Hurry on with your suits,” he said. “The omnibus will be at the door
in about fifteen minutes.”

We were soon ready to start.

“I wonder what is the matter with Clinton Edwards,” said Tony, looking
at his watch. “He should have been here before this.”

“We must have Clinton and his gang to support us,” said Dick Palmer.
“It would take some of the starch out of me to be victimized by a grand
stand full of Park men, and not have a single backer.”

“Oh, I’ll make all the noise you want if it becomes necessary,” said
Tony. He looked somewhat uneasy, however, and whispered to me, “I hope
Clinton hasn’t missed the train. His backing would do us a world of
good.”

The omnibus now drew up to the piazza where we were standing. We waited
a long time, but Clinton Edwards and his companions failed to put in an
appearance, so we were compelled to drive off without them.

“The loss is all their own,” said Ray cheerfully. “They will miss
seeing us win a fine game, that is all.”

In baseball there is a considerable moral influence in being well
backed by friends. We had expected warm support from Clinton Edwards
and his crowd, and the sudden blotting out of this expectation could
not but react somewhat upon our spirits. It did not, of course,
discourage us, for as Percy Randall put it, “We were not afraid of
the biggest mob Park College could get together,” but it affected our
feelings notwithstanding.

“Listen to that!” exclaimed Tony, as we neared the field and heard the
sounds of cheering. “The crowd clamors for our blood.”

“Well, they will get it――and boiling hot, too,” said Percy Randall. “If
anything, it rather braces me to tackle this mob all alone.”

“Come, fellows,” said Ray, as we drove into the grounds. “Step out
lively now, and show the stuff that’s in you.”

We descended from the omnibus, and in a compact group, approached
the grand stand amidst an almost perfect silence on the part of the
spectators. The Park men were already on the diamond, and practising
with a vim that betokened a determined and confident spirit.

I had half hoped to find Clinton Edwards and his party on the field,
thinking that they might perhaps have gone directly there from the
depot. Not a Belmont man was to be seen, however, so I resigned all
hope of backers, and made up my mind that we must fight the battle
alone.

We remained seated on a bench at the side of the field, until Ray, who
was standing near the home plate in conversation with Beard, turned and
beckoned to us. The Park players were leaving the field, and it was our
turn to practise.

Throwing off our coats, we ran out, and set to work in fine shape.
That the crowd was watching us was quite evident from a number of ill
mannered remarks that I could overhear from my place near the backstop;
but, beyond this, the spectators showed no appreciation of our efforts
whatever.

“All things considered, if we can play well enough to keep their mouths
shut I shall be satisfied,” I said to Dick Palmer.

At this moment Ray left Beard, and came quickly toward us.

“We are in luck to start with,” he said. “We have won the toss.”

A few minutes later the umpire came upon the field, carrying in his
hand the new ball with which the game was to be played.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Ray.

“Then get your men in position.”

We took our places, and the ball was tossed to me. No batter had
stepped up, so I looked inquiringly toward the bench where the Park men
were seated. Then, as Arnold, their first batter, rose and picked up
his bat, a student stepped out in front of the grand stand, and waving
his cane, cried, “I propose three cheers for the nine. Now, fellows,
give it to them.”

A roar of cheers burst from the crowd.

“Another one,” cried the leader, and again came the cheers.

“One more round,” and a third time the crowd responded.

This evidently had been expected by the Park nine, for Arnold stood
as if awaiting it; and it was quite as evident to me that it was
simply the beginning of a concerted action on the part of the crowd to
demoralize us by shouting.

Before the sound had died away we heard another cheer far away outside
the field. We looked at one another in surprise. Was it an echo? No,
for again it sounded, and this time nearer and clearer. Suddenly the
truth flashed upon me. I turned quickly toward the entrance to the
grounds. There was a thick cloud of dust in the road outside, and a
rumble of heavy wheels; then the carriage gates burst open, and into
the field rolled three large omnibuses gayly decked out with the
beautiful blue banners of Belmont. Down the smooth roadway that skirted
the diamond cantered the teams, while from the omnibuses burst roar
after roar of cheers.

As the vehicles took up a position on the opposite side of the field
from the mass of the Park crowd, the well known form of Clinton Edwards
emerged from the inside of one of the omnibuses. Climbing on top, he
shouted, “Now, boys, blow on your lungs.”

A terrific roar ensued. Then, having vindicated himself, Clinton
Edwards sat down, and awaited the opening of the game. This novel
response to the grand stand had a telling and dramatic effect. The
crowd could scarcely have been more surprised had a bombshell fallen
in front of them. For a moment they were completely staggered, and the
whole effect of their cheering was destroyed.

Whether Clinton Edwards had premeditated the surprise or not, his
entrance could not have been more timely. Its effect upon us was
magnetic, and our spirits rose mightily as the old familiar Belmont
cheer rang out. Ray Wendell waved his hand to Clinton Edwards, while I,
seeing that Arnold had taken his place at the home plate, grasped the
ball, and made ready.

“Play!” cried the umpire, and the game began.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII

                            THE THIRD GAME


I placed the ball over the inner corner of the base, Arnold struck it
good and hard, and sent it flying along the ground toward third base.
Quick as a flash Percy Randall picked it up and threw it to first.

“Batter out,” cried the umpire, and the three omnibuses again became
noisy. Two more men were easily disposed of, and we closed our
opponents out without a run.

Thus far the fun had been all our own, while the grand stand had kept
silence. Immediately on leaving the field to take our innings, several
of us ran over to the omnibuses to greet our friends.

“Why were you so late?” I called to Clinton Edwards.

“We drove all the way over――didn’t come by rail, for we knew we
couldn’t hire omnibuses in this hole of a town. We didn’t start early
enough, and I was afraid we were going to miss part of the game. It’s
all right now, so go in and win. We are ‘wid yez.’”

We failed, however, to make a run in our half of the first inning,
three of our men, in succession, succumbing to the skilful pitching of
Arnold. This gave the grand stand a chance, and they responded with a
will. They had recovered from their first surprise by this time, and
settled down to their original plan of shouting us into demoralization.
It was a vain task, however, with those noisy omnibuses opposite.
Clinton Edward’s party paid them back in their own coin every time, and
the effect upon us was proportionately inspiring.

No runs were made on either side in the second inning. In the third
inning their first batter secured a hit, the first one of the game, and
reached his base amid howls from the grand stand. He reached second
through a bad throw of Dick Palmer’s. The next batter then struck a pop
fly up in the air just over short-stop. George Ives stood waiting for
it, when the runner from second base ran full tilt into him, upsetting
him and reaching third base while the ball fell to the ground.

We claimed a foul, but the runner declared that Ives was directly
in his path, where he had no business to be, and the umpire decided
against him. George may have been in the runner’s path, but it was
plainly a trick, for no runner would have attempted to run from second
under such circumstances except with the intention of knocking George
down, as he could only in that way gain third base.

Immediately a warm discussion took place in which the runner became so
actively engaged that he thoughtlessly left his base, and stood several
feet off. Percy Randall noticing this, and having picked up the ball
unobserved by the others, called out,

“Mr. Umpire, have you called time?”

“No,” was the response.

“Then how is that?” asked Percy, quickly touching the runner with the
ball.

“The runner is out!” said the umpire beckoning to him to come in.

Chagrined and mortified, the runner walked sulkily in. The Park men
were badly upset by this clever dodge, for they felt confident of
securing a run, there being no men out, and a man on third. They did
not regain their lost advantage, and we closed the inning with the
score still blank.

From that time on the crowd selected Percy Randall for their special
attention, and sought in every way to disconcert him. They had picked
out the wrong man, however. Percy played away as unconcernedly as if
he heard nothing, and if anything with more than his usual dash and
brilliancy. He was the first man at the bat in the fourth inning, and
the second ball pitched struck him on the arm. He was of course given
his base.

“Now is your chance, Percy,” said Ray. “Get away to second at once.
There are no men out.”

Percy was off like the wind, and reached second base in safety by one
of his phenomenal slides, which of course brought the voices of Clinton
Edwards’ chorus into vigorous play.

I came next to the bat. We had thus far been unable to do anything
with Arnold, who was pitching in magnificent form, and we were
beginning to fear we never could handle him. I watched my chances
carefully, and succeeded in driving a hard ball to the short stop.
Percy Randall purposely made a start toward third, and the short stop,
on picking up the ball, turned to keep him at second. In this way he
lost several seconds――time enough to allow me to reach first base. Then
Ray came to the bat.

“If he will repeat his exploit of Saturday, we will have a great lead,”
I thought.

At the first ball Ray struck hard, driving it well up into the air and
out between left and center field. It was an easy fly to catch, and I
fully expected to see the fielder capture it, so I did not start off
very fast. To my surprise, however, the fielder had not run ten steps
when his foot slipped, and down he tumbled, the ball alighting on the
ground some distance behind him. A loud exclamation of disappointment
escaped the crowd, while Percy and I dashed around the bases; and
before the fielder could pick himself up and get the ball, both of us
scored, and Ray stood on third base.

Our friends went wild with joy, while the Park men were glum and
silent. Before the inning closed, Ray reached home on a sacrifice hit
of Frank Holland’s to right field, and the score stood 3–0 in our
favor. The Park men then bent every nerve to the task of tying the
score.

Foes though they were, I gave them the credit of playing a splendid up
hill game. In the sixth inning they secured one run, and in the eighth
inning another, making the score 3–2. During these innings Arnold’s
work had been exceptionally fine, and we had been unable to make more
than two or three safe hits.

“I’m afraid Arnold is almost too much for us to-day,” said Ray to me.
“Our hope lies chiefly in holding the lead. If we can do so for one
more inning, the game is ours.”

We went into the field for the ninth inning with the determination to
do or die. The first batter was promptly put out by a ground hit which
Ray captured neatly, in spite of the disconcerting howls from the grand
stand. As the excitement had increased during the latter part of the
game, the behavior of the Park men had of course grown more riotous.
In every way they had tried to put us out by their noise, but our
attention was so absorbed in our work that it had scarcely affected us.

The second batter in this last inning reached first on a safe hit, and
was followed by Arnold, who, from the scowl he wore, seemed bent on
knocking the cover off the ball. I was sorry to see him at the bat at
such a moment, for he was a strong batter, and I was pretty well tired
out by my hard work of the afternoon and Saturday. Several balls were
called, and I was compelled to send one directly over the plate. Arnold
saw his chance and took it.

With a sharp crack he sent the ball away out toward right field, and
reached second base in safety, sending the former runner to third. This
made two men out, with runners on second and third bases.

Beard then came to the bat. From the care with which he settled
himself, one could see he appreciated the gravity of the situation.
If he succeeded in making a heavy hit, the chances were that he could
bring in two runs.

At the second ball he struck wildly; and, more by chance than good
judgment, drove it well up into the air toward center field. We all
looked after it with anxious eyes.

“Take it, Page!” cried Ray, as he saw both Lewis Page and Alfred
Barnett run for it. Arnold and the other runner ran around toward the
home plate. The fate of the game, therefore, rested on Lewis Page, who
now stood well under the ball, his hands up, ready to receive it. We
watched its descent in breathless suspense. Downward it shot like a
swallow. Lewis Page’s hands closed quickly about it.

“Striker out,” called the umpire, and the game was over.

Immediately the field was a scene of wild confusion. In a mass, Clinton
Edward’s band of followers, who had been with difficulty suppressing
their excitement, charged across the roadway, shouting and cheering.
Seizing hold of us, they hugged and tore us half to pieces in their joy.

“Boys, it was glorious,” croaked Clinton, in a hoarse voice scarcely
above a whisper. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. The Crimson
Banner will soon be ours;” and off he went again into a wild fit of
ecstasy, clasping the man who happened to be nearest to him.

Among those pressing around to congratulate Ray I was interested in
seeing Len Howard. I had not noticed him in any of the omnibuses, but
he seemed to be one of the most enthusiastic. The fellows were eager to
carry us off with them, but Ray objected.

“No,” he said. “We have our omnibus, and we must return to the hotel,
for I have to see Beard by agreement after the game.”

“Do you intend driving back to Belmont?” I asked Clinton.

“Certainly,” he answered.

“Then, if you expect to get there before we do, you will have to start
soon, for we go by train.”

“You don’t return till after dinner?”

“No,” I answered.

“Then we will have time. We want to get back before you, so as to
prepare the boys. We must have a bonfire to-night.”

As soon as some measure of order could be restored Clinton got his
crowd together into the omnibuses; and after a farewell round of
cheers, they took their leave, while we drove back to the hotel. The
rest of the spectators had dispersed in angry silence.

“Well, talk about luck!” exclaimed Tony, as he came into the room where
we were changing our suits and packing our things. “How was that for a
close shave?”

“Entirely too close,” answered Ray. “We climbed through a pretty small
hole to-day. One or two more innings, and they might have got away with
us. We won by pure luck, and we haven’t much to boast of. I tell you
what it is, fellows, if we are going to win that Crimson Banner, we
will have to learn how to hit Arnold’s pitching. He had us fairly at
his mercy this afternoon.”

“I don’t think they outplayed us,” said Percy Randall.

“Nor I,” answered Ray, “but they played a stronger game than I
expected, and I didn’t feel at all sure of our success until the last
man was out. I gave a long sigh of relief when Lewis Page gobbled up
that fly ball. All we want to do is to bat stronger. If we can get the
best of Arnold we can beat them any number of times. Batting is what we
need to practise.”

After dinner, Ray, Tony, and I were standing on the hotel piazza where
a number of the students and town men were assembled. Among the former
was Beard, who came forward as he caught a glimpse of Ray’s face. The
result of the game had not improved his disposition. He was morose
and surly. At the first words of the interview, Arnold, who had been
standing a short distance away, came forward and joined us.

“I suppose it would be better to write you concerning the decisive
game,” said Ray, addressing Beard. “I do not feel able at present to
suggest a date.”

“I do not see any reason for a ‘decisive game,’” said Arnold coldly.

“Why, what do you mean?” I asked in astonishment.

“The rules of the League say nothing about decisive games,” answered
Arnold. “We have the Crimson Banner, and we hold it in case of a tie.
We hold it until some other college can win it from us.”

“Mr. Arnold,” said Ray quietly, “the rules of the League say that, in
case of a tie, it can be played off according to any arrangement agreed
upon between the captains of the two competing nines. Allow me to say
that I arranged before the game this afternoon with Mr. Beard, your
captain, that we should play a decisive game at Belmont in case of a
tie.”

“What!” cried Arnold irritably, turning to Beard. “Do you mean to say
that you made any such arrangement?”

“I did,” said Beard, looking away.

“Well, what under the sun did you――Beard, you’ve made a fool of
yourself,” said Arnold.

“As Mr. Beard is captain, and not you, Mr. Arnold, I don’t see what
importance your opinion can be in this interview,” said Ray. “As I
tell you, arrangements for a decisive game have been made. You surely
can have no objections to playing the season to a satisfactory finish.
You must see to what unfavorable criticism your refusal to play would
subject you.”

“We will play you when and where you choose,” said Arnold, turning
angrily on his heel and leaving us.




                             CHAPTER XXIX

                         THE RETURN TO BELMONT


Ray Wendell’s foresight had saved us much trouble and annoyance. It so
happened that the rules of the Berkshire League made little provision
in case of two colleges tying for the championship. This deficiency
had entirely escaped the attention of those who had originally framed
the rules; and as no tie in the competition had ever occurred thus
far in the experience of the colleges, the matter had been altogether
overlooked. While every student believed that tie would always be
settled by an extra game, there was no definite rule requiring it. The
nearest approach to it was the clause to which Ray alluded, and which
provided for only such settlement of a tie as should be mutually agreed
upon by the captains of the competing nines.

Of course this was intended to mean that a deciding game should be
played, for the framers of the rules took it for granted that both
captains would be eager to settle the championship in this way, but the
rule was so unsatisfactorily worded as to leave either captain free
to decline a deciding game without sacrificing the championship. The
matter had not escaped Ray’s attention, and he had been sharp enough
to detect this deficiency. Foreseeing the possibility of the Park men
making just such a claim as Arnold advanced, he had approached Beard
before the game, and had arranged the matter completely.

We were highly elated over Ray’s strategic move; and that, added to the
delight we experienced in reviewing our successful tour, filled our
cup of joy to overflowing. All the coldness, rudeness, bad humor, and
chagrin that met us on every hand during our brief stay at Berkeley
could not dampen our spirits one iota; and when once aboard the train
and bound for Belmont, our feelings found joyous vent in shouting and
singing, till the sober passengers about us rose and betook themselves
to the other cars, thinking, no doubt, that bedlam itself was off on
a pleasure tour. We soon had things to ourselves, and then the fun
increased until the conductor himself could stand it no longer.

“This ain’t no cattle train,” he said. “If you fellers wants to raise a
racket, go ahead into the baggage room, and give the other passengers a
show.”

The noisier ones, accordingly, under Percy Randall’s leadership, betook
themselves to the baggage compartment at the forward end of the car,
where they had free scope for their _specialties_; while several of us
remained to talk our experiences over more quietly.

“I tell you what it is, Ray,” said Dick Palmer, “you are a trump. Your
cute little stroke with Beard was as great a victory as the game.”

“What particularly pleased me,” answered Ray, “was Beard’s agreement
to play the deciding game on our grounds. I had hardly hoped to win
that point. I expected, of course, that he would reject the proposition
positively, or at least that he would demand that the question of the
grounds should be decided by lot. I was prepared to meet him in that
demand if he had insisted; so when he accepted my proposition as I
first stated it, he nearly took my breath away.”

“What could have made him so obliging, I wonder?” said Dick.

“Oh, he carried the high and mighty air. He was so cocksure of winning
the game that he was ready to agree to anything that depended on his
losing it. He smiled in a superior way when I spoke to him, and used a
condescending tone as much as to say, ‘Oh, yes, I might just as well
agree with you as not. It won’t make any difference, for we are going
to wipe up the field with you anyhow.’ You may imagine, then, how he
felt when Arnold called him a fool before all those fellows on the
piazza of the Wyman Hotel.”

“When had we better play the deciding game?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” answered Ray. “We can tell better after thinking it
over――the later the better; for I, for one, shall be very busy during
the next week preparing for final examinations. Tony!”

Tony was busily figuring in his memorandum book, and did not answer.

“Tony, what are you at there?” asked Ray.

“Oh, the accounts, of course,” answered Tony. “I have been so busy with
the scores and other matters lately that I have rather let them slide.
They are all right now, though.”

“How do we stand?” I asked.

“Over $150 still in the treasury,” he answered. “Our trip has cost us
less than $100, and our expenses for this season are almost at an end.
Taking into account the profits we will derive from the deciding game
at Belmont, we ought to have a large balance in our favor to carry over
to next year.”

“Well, I hope the fellows don’t begrudge the money they have contributed
to baseball this term,” said Ray.

“That doesn’t sound as if they did, does it?” questioned Tony
significantly, as the distant sound of cheers greeted us――cheers that
came not from the baggage room, where our companions were, but from the
platform of Belmont depot, towards which we were rapidly approaching.
As the train slackened speed, Percy Randall and the rest came tumbling
back into the car; and we hurriedly gathered together our traps and
crowded out upon the platform.

What college man who has ever played ball can forget the glad moment
when, after a hard fought and successful tour, he returns to receive the
enthusiastic congratulations of his fellow students; the pleasurable
thrill with which he first hears the sound of their voices; the joyous,
clamorous greeting as the old familiar depot is reached; the happy,
noisy throng that receives him with open arms; the shouting, laughing,
singing, cheering, and the thousand other delightful details that
constitute his triumph!

All this was ours; and Belmont has still to look forward to a bigger
bonfire than was piled up and consumed on the old back campus that
night. To be sure, our joy was tempered by the consideration that the
championship was still to be won, that the Crimson Banner was still
to be wrested from the hands of the Park men by a deciding game; but,
nevertheless, our prospects had so suddenly brightened, our tour had
been so brilliantly successful, and our success augured so well for the
future, that an anticipatory triumph was quite natural and justifiable.

“We might just as well have our bonfire now, for the tour alone is
worthy of it,” said Clinton Edwards, when Ray suggested that perhaps
the triumph was a little premature. “We can easily have another one
when we win the championship. There is plenty of fuel lying loose
around town. I would contribute all the furniture in my room if I
thought it would be any help towards bringing the Crimson Banner back
to Belmont.”

These remarks were made in the lowest and hoarsest of whispers, for
Clinton’s voice, like those of his worthy “chorus,” had perished of
overwork. Once or twice during the evening when the fun raged hottest,
I saw him make a heroic effort to join in the cheering, but finding it
useless, shake his head despairingly, and betake himself to banging on
a big bass drum, which a member of the college instrumental club had
brought into service. But Clinton and his chorus had done their work
nobly that day, and no member of our nine will ever forget their timely
appearance and loyal support at Berkeley.

As the hour grew late, the excitement waned, and gradually the mass
of students broke up into small knots, and moved away. I was feeling
fatigued from the exertions and nervous strain of the game and the
evening’s celebration; so, about half past ten, I went to my room, and
there, lying off at ease, I watched from my windows the slow dispersion
of the revelers on the campus below me until the last group had
disappeared.

And long after my fellow students, wearied by shouting, had retired
to their various apartments, the fire burned on in the silent night,
crackling, sizzling, and darting its fitful beams into my room, where
they set grotesque and fanciful shadows dancing on ceiling and walls,
and blending their lurid and wavering gleams with the myriad faces and
images that the day’s memory recalled to my dreams.




                              CHAPTER XXX

                       BURNING THE MIDNIGHT OIL


Final examinations were now impending, and the preparation for them
engaged our earnest attention night and day. The pressure upon Ray
Wendell was particularly severe; for, being a Senior, his examinations
took place during the first week in June. Ray, moreover, was determined
to obtain a high rank in his class, and one of the honorary orations
to which such a rank would entitle him. These orations were allowed
to the first ten men in the Senior class, and as they were delivered
on Commencement Day in the town hall before all the college faculty,
trustees, and assembled guests, they were coveted and striven for as
positions of marked distinction.

The valedictorian was selected by the faculty, and for the oration they
chose the best speaker among the first six men in the class. It was
this particular position that Ray desired; and in the estimation of
his fellow students, his securing it depended solely upon him winning
a place amongst the first six, for Ray was well known to be one of the
best speakers in his class.

The week after our return from Berkeley, therefore, was one of steady,
arduous work for Ray; and with the exception of the regular hours of
baseball practice and meal time, he was to be found in his room, bent
over his text books and lecture notes. And late at night, as I would
retire, I could see his windows over in Warburton Hall shining brightly
long after the rest of the building was darkened.

On one of these occasions I could not resist the temptation to run over
for a few moments and break in on his loneliness; so, slipping on my
coat, I crossed the quadrangle, and ascended to his room.

“Hullo, Harry,” he said, opening the door for me. “What are you doing
out of bed at this hour of the night?”

“Well, to tell the truth, Ray, I came over here to ask you the very
same question. I saw this one solitary light burning, and I was drawn
to it like a bug on a summer night.”

“Come in and sit down,” he answered heartily. “I was pegging away at
mathematics, and you know how I hate it. I was just wishing that some
one would stroll in and vary the monotony when I heard your step.”

“How are you making out with your preparation?” I asked, sitting down
on the sofa.

“Very well. I am losing no time――at it every minute, and I think I
will win my place. Mathematics is all that troubles me. You know they
examine us on the past two years’ work, and I find myself dreadfully
rusty in my Junior year studies.”

“I pity you heartily,” I answered, “and I know how you feel, for I am
looking forward already to my own examinations three weeks from now.
Why, that looks like a trigonometry,” I added, pointing to the book
that lay on the desk before him.

“It is,” he answered. “I am brushing up my Junior year work, and, as I
said, I find myself very rusty.”

“Well, I’m not,” I said, rising quickly, “for that is just what I am
studying now. Here, let us tackle it together. I can help you along
faster, for I have it all fresh in my mind. Besides, it will serve me
for preparation for my own examination.”

“Will you do that?” asked Ray.

“Why, certainly. I don’t want to waste your time talking. Let us put
our heads together, and I will help you finish up your Junior year
work.”

“All right, Harry, that’s a capital idea. Make up your mind to stay
here tonight, and we will do up the whole thing while we are at it.
Throw off your coat, and draw up your chair. Here is a pencil and some
paper.”

I joined him at the desk, and we were soon deep in our work. So
absorbed were we that we scarcely noticed the flight of time. It was
therefore with a start of surprise that I looked at the clock as we
finished our work.

“Well, who would have thought it!” I exclaimed. “I wouldn’t have
believed that I had been here more than two hours, and yet look at the
time. It is nearly four o’clock.”

I rose and went to the window. Off in the east, the first gray streaks
of dawn were appearing. Over our work we had sat the night nearly
through. Ray was leaning back wearily, his hands behind his head, his
eyes closed.

“See here, Ray,” I suddenly exclaimed, “have you been at your books
this late every night?”

He did not answer me. Approaching him and looking more closely into
his face, I discovered that he had fallen sound asleep, sitting
bolt upright in his chair. This, in itself, was answer enough to my
question. I shook him gently by the arm. He started and looked up.

“I said it was very late, Ray. Didn’t you hear me?”

“Why, no,” he answered. “I didn’t hear another thing after you closed
the book.”

“Ray, you must be careful,” I said. “Four o’clock is bad enough for one
night, but it doesn’t pay to repeat it, as I am sure you have. You will
make yourself sick, and then you won’t be any good, either for playing
baseball or speaking honorary orations――you notice I put playing
baseball first,” I added with a laugh.

“Oh, don’t you fear. I won’t get sick,” he answered. “I own I am
tired, for I have been keeping late hours――or _early_ hours you might
call them, for a week, but then I had to in order to get in shape for
examinations. All I need is some sleep and I will be as fresh as ever.
This is Friday night; after tomorrow these late hours will be over,
and then I can get plenty of rest.”

“Well, see that you do, for you evidently need it,” I said. “Come on
and get to sleep now without more delay.”

“Oh, by the way,” said Ray, as he rose and picked up a letter from the
floor. “Here is a matter that I was just going to speak about when you
suggested working together. It is a letter from Berkeley which Tony
Larcom handed to me this afternoon. He has been writing the Park men
about the date for the deciding game. Tony, according to my suggestion,
has urged as late a day as possible. They have examinations over there
almost the same time that we do, so they seemed to be quite agreeable
to a delay. There has been some little correspondence concerning the
matter, and this is their final letter, in which they agree to the date
suggested by Tony; that is, the 21st of June.”

“Why, that is the day before Commencement,” I said.

“Yes,” answered Ray, “and all the better on that account. It will mean
a large crowd of visitors and friends. This, of course, will swell the
receipts of the Baseball Association, and will give us a strong and
enthusiastic backing. There will be a great many graduates here to
rejoice with us if we win the championship.”

“It will be a great day, and we must not fail to do ourselves proud,” I
responded. “Tell me frankly, Ray, which would you rather do: win the
championship, or secure the valedictory oration?”

“Now don’t try to catch me that way,” laughed Ray. “I shall not express
any preference. I want _both_, and I intend to get both if possible.”

“All right, old fellow,” I answered as we retired. “I sincerely hope
you will.”




                             CHAPTER XXXI

                               GOOD NEWS


The next week Ray was passing through his examinations, and I saw
little of him. For several successive days he was even unable to be at
the ball ground for our regular practice. By Friday, however, he had
passed the last examination, and was free until commencement time. I
was in a position to envy him this leisure, for my trial was just about
to begin. The severest and most disagreeable tasks, however, have an
end; and so, after a week’s hard driving with pen and paper in the
large examination hall, I too found freedom. I was confident that I had
done well, and felt reason to believe that I had gained a higher rank
in my class than the year previous.

Ray, though hoping for the best, could not be sure of the results of
his examination, for the competition for rank in his class was very
sharp, and he was working against students of great ability. The ten
days that followed his examinations formed, therefore, a period of much
suspense and anxiety to him. My work was finished on Friday, a little
more than a week before Commencement; and that evening I determined to
call upon Professor Fuller to learn, if possible, how I had succeeded
in his department. Professor Fuller often gave advance information of
this kind concerning his own branch of work; and on this occasion,
showed no hesitation in telling me that I had secured a grade from
him several points higher than ever before. Highly pleased at this
information, I was on the point of leaving the professor’s house when I
heard some one say,

“Good evening, Mr. Elder.”

Turning half around, I saw Miss Nettie Fuller standing at the other end
of the piazza. I joined her at once.

“I have been waiting for you to come out, Mr. Elder,” she said; “for I
have information that I know will interest――will interest some of your
friends.” She hesitated on the word “some.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“There was a faculty meeting this afternoon, and the honormen were read
off,” she said in a low tone of voice.

“Yes; and Ray Wendell?” I exclaimed eagerly. “How does he stand?”

“Mr. Wendell was chosen valedictorian. He was fourth in his class,” she
answered quietly, but with an air of genuine pleasure in imparting such
welcome information.

I could have jumped for joy.

“Is it really true?” I exclaimed. “Really settled beyond doubt?”

“Yes, my father told me this afternoon. It is to be publicly announced
to-morrow. Mr. Wendell was here last evening, and I could see that
he was worrying over the matter, so I thought I would give you an
opportunity to relieve his anxiety. There is no harm in his learning
the news several hours in advance, and it might save him considerable
suspense.”

“Indeed it will,” I answered warmly. “I will take the good news to him
at once, for I know it will lift a great load off his mind. It is very
kind of you to let him know of it so soon.”

“I hardly know whether I ought to have spoken or not,” she said, with a
smile, “but when I saw you coming in, I couldn’t resist the opportunity
of telling such agreeable news. Isn’t Mr. Howard also a friend of
yours?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Well, I don’t remember all the honormen, for the names were unfamiliar
to me, but I do recollect my father saying that Mr. Howard was the
ninth man in his class.”

“Howard!” I exclaimed in surprise. “Is he an honorman? I wouldn’t have
thought it. He always held a respectable position in his class, but I
would never have picked him out for an honorman.”

“My father said that Mr. Howard has improved wonderfully of late,”
replied Miss Nettie.

“Yes, he must have,” I answered; “and I’m very glad to hear that he has
done so well. May I tell him the news, too?”

“Yes,” she said hesitatingly, “but no one else please. I see no harm
in letting them know, for father himself would have told them had he
seen them this evening; but I suppose it is not my place to give the
information.”

“It will be all the more appreciated,” I responded as I took my
leave, “and I promise that no one but Ray and Howard shall know of it
to-night.”

I lost no time in returning to the college to find Ray Wendell. From
the campus I could see that his room was lighted up; so, hurrying up
the stairs, I threw open his door without knocking, and had the news
upon my tongue’s end when I discovered that Ray was not alone. Two of
his classmates were with him; so, checking myself in time, I sat down
quietly near Ray, and when the opportunity afforded itself I said in a
low tone of voice,

“Come in the other room a moment. I have some good news for you.”

Ray looked at me quickly an instant, and then, excusing himself, rose
and followed me. His feelings may be imagined when, without a word of
preparation, I suddenly popped the news upon him.

For several seconds he could say nothing. He seemed to be almost afraid
to believe it. “Harry, are you sure――there can be no mistake?” he asked
in a whisper, his voice trembling with excitement.

I reassured him by telling him the source from which I had obtained the
information. I could only guess at the effect of my words, for the room
was dark and I could not see his face. He clasped my hand and pressed
it warmly.

“Thank you a thousand times for telling me, Harry,” he said fervently.

“Don’t thank me――thank Miss Nettie,” I answered with a laugh.

Ray said nothing, but his face, as we rejoined the others, betrayed
his struggle with his feelings, and it was some time before his voice
resumed its customary calmness of tone.

A number of visitors dropped in during the evening, and by nine o’clock
the room was well filled with students, and echoing with the sounds of
mingled conversation and laughter. In this gay group Ray’s exceptional
buoyancy of spirits passed unnoticed, and only I knew that his high
color and sparkling eyes spoke of a happiness too complete for words.

Among the last of these visitors Len Howard came in. I was somewhat
surprised at this, for he was seldom to be seen at Ray’s rooms; but a
short time sufficed to convince me that he had some particular purpose
in coming.

He took little share in the conversation, sitting quietly on the
sofa――on the same sofa and in the very spot where he had made his
terrible confession to us several weeks before. As the visitors one
after another departed Howard still sat there, seemingly determined
to be the last to go. By eleven o’clock all had left the room except
Howard, Ray, and myself. Almost before the door had closed upon the
last visitor, Howard rose up, and taking a thick envelope from his
pocket placed it upon the table in front of Ray.

“There, Ray,” he said in accents of genuine satisfaction, “I came in to
give you that.”

Ray opened the envelope in wonder. A thick roll of bills fell out.

“Why, Howard,” he exclaimed, “what does all this money mean?”

“It means that I am determined you shall be repaid every cent I owe you
as fast as I can earn it,” answered Howard. “There is my first payment,
four hundred dollars, and I will pay you the rest as soon as possible.
I haven’t had an easy moment until now――――”

“But, Howard,” burst out Ray, “I didn’t intend you to worry so about
it. I meant you to take your time――why, how on earth did you raise all
this money?――excuse my question, but you know you said you were in
straitened circumstances.”

“I understand you,” answered Howard quietly, “but it is all right. I
have earned it. I went to Professor Fuller for advice, and he suggested
my tutoring some of the under classmen, and when I accepted the idea,
he and Mr. Dykes secured me several pupils in the Sophomore and
Freshman classes――fellows who were behind in their studies and needed
coaching.”

“Howard, you are doing splendidly,” said Ray warmly. “I understand your
feelings, and I admire you for them. They are of the right sort.”

“Then you are satisfied with your investment?” said Howard, with a
slight smile.

“Indeed I am,” said Ray. “I knew it was in you, and am delighted to see
you doing so well.”

“So am I, Howard,” I added, “and I have some good news for you.”

He looked at me inquiringly.

“The faculty met to-day, and the honormen were announced,” I continued.

“Yes, yes, and who were they?” he asked, leaning forward eagerly, and
breathing rapidly.

“It is all right,” I said, seeking to relieve his anxiety at once; “you
stand ninth in the class, and have an honorary oration.”

Howard’s face flushed, his head dropped, and he leaned heavily for a
few moments against the mantlepiece.

“Why, Howard!” exclaimed Ray. “Is this true? I congratulate you, my
dear fellow, with all my heart.”

“It is true, Howard,” I continued, “for I got the information through
Professor Fuller.”

There was silence for a second, and then when Howard raised his face, I
could see that his eyes were moist.

“Oh, if you only knew how hard I worked for an oration!” he exclaimed,
as if apologizing for his manner. “When Ray gave me a lift and I
determined to turn over a new leaf, I made up my mind for one thing,
that I would do the best I could in the little time that was left me in
college. In Freshman year I stood well up in my class, and, even since
then, found no difficulty in holding a fair rank, but I was conscious
of having wasted many opportunities, and having neglected my studies.
I thought of my father, who knows nothing of my experience――who has
all along thought that I was a model son, and has denied himself and
saved at every point to secure me an education, and supply me with the
money which I squandered so recklessly. I had deceived him long enough,
so I determined that I would go in and work hard to secure a position
of honor, in order that it might serve as some return for all that he
had done for me. I was severely handicapped, but I worked incessantly,
and――well――now it is all right.” Howard ended abruptly, his voice
trembling with emotion.

“Howard, you ought certainly to feel proud, for you have accomplished
wonders,” said Ray. “You have gained twelve or more positions in one
term. You deserve more credit than any man on the honor list.”

“I don’t think so much of myself,” said Howard, “for I suppose that the
knowledge I have crammed into my head so rapidly will, for the most
part, slip away after a few months; but it was for the old gentleman I
worked chiefly――you see I am paying back my debts in every way.”

“I suppose your father will come on to Commencement,” I said.

“Yes, indeed. He wouldn’t miss it for the world; and I know how proud
and happy he will be. I must write him a letter to-night, and tell him
all about it,” said Howard, moving toward the door.

“And are you sure that this does not inconvenience you?” said Ray,
fingering the bills.

“Not in the least,” answered Howard, as he took his leave. “It is all
extra money, outside of my expenses, and it makes me easier to give it
to you.”

“There!” cried Ray, with a smile, as the door closed upon Howard.
“Didn’t I tell you he would keep his promise?”




                             CHAPTER XXXII

                            THE FINAL GAME


Belmont was looking her prettiest on the day before Commencement. It
seemed as if the town, the college grounds, the buildings, the trees,
and even nature itself had summoned the pleasantest expression to
greet the host of guests that thronged to the Commencement exercises.
Of these exercises the great baseball game formed one of the most
important and interesting in the eyes at least of graduates and
undergraduates; and the special interest that centered in this game had
brought to Belmont a largely increased number of friends.

We were expecting the Park men on the 11:30 train; so, shortly after
eleven o’clock, Tony Larcom, Ray Wendell, and I went down to the depot
with an omnibus to meet them. We were determined that no charge of
rudeness or neglect should be brought to our door, so we had made
provision for the Park men at our club a week in advance, and had
arranged for rooms where they could leave their baggage.

They seemed to take this as a matter of course, and manifested neither
by word nor act the least appreciation of the care we had taken to make
them comfortable.

Long before two o’clock――the hour of beginning the game――the box office
at the entrance to the grounds was besieged by a large and jostling
crowd of students and graduates who had been unable to get reserved
seats in the grand stand and were compelled to take their chances of a
seat on the benches that flanked two sides of the diamond.

“Just listen to that, Harry,” remarked Tony, as the clink of silver
greeted our ears. “A great treasury we’ll have to-night.”

During the next quarter hour, the grand stand and benches filled
rapidly; and by the time we stepped out on the field in our uniforms a
double row of spectators, who had been unable to get seats of any kind,
almost encircled the grounds.

We were greeted with three times three cheers, and settled down to
practice in good spirits. The Park men, in their turn, received a
generous greeting, and were given a chance to exhibit themselves. As we
came in from the field Ray nodded to me with a pleasant smile.

“Our fellows are in good feather, Harry,” he said. “If we can’t beat
them to-day, we never can.”

At this moment the umpire came out with the new ball in his hand. Ray
and Beard approached him; a few words were exchanged, the coin was
tossed, and then Ray turned on his heel and came back toward me.

“They won the toss,” he said. “Get your bat ready, Harry; you are first
on the list.”

I stepped forward to the homeplate, the Park men took their various
positions; the crowd became still; the umpire tossed the snowy white
ball along the ground to Arnold, then raised his hand and cried, “Play!”

Instantly the ball came in like a flash of light. I was unprepared for
it, but struck at it fiercely, and to my own surprise, drove a fine two
base hit out toward right field. It was an auspicious beginning, and
was greeted by an uproar from the benches.

This sobered Arnold, who began more cautiously with George Ives, who
followed me, and succeeded in striking him out. Then came Alfred
Burnett, who knocked to shortstop, and was thrown out at first base;
I in the mean time reaching third base. Dick Palmer was next at the
bat, and proved himself worthy of the trust we had always reposed in
his batting abilities by making a single base hit, and bringing me
home, thus scoring the first run. The half inning was closed by Percy
Randall’s knocking a high fly which was captured by the Park left
fielder. We then took the field.

I had pitched only a few balls when I discovered that the Park men had
improved considerably in batting since we last met them, and that I
would need all the strength and skill I could summon to manage them.
They hit hard nearly every time, and it was only good fielding on the
part of our men that prevented their scoring several runs in the first
inning. As it was they earned one run, and the score stood 1–1. In
this condition it remained for two more innings, but in the ending of
the fourth inning, their strong batting secured two more runs for them.

In the fifth inning Ray Wendell opened with a base hit, stole second
base by a good run, and was followed by myself, who made another base
hit which sent Ray to third. George Ives knocked a fly ball straight
up in the air, which was caught by Arnold. This was unfortunate, for
neither Ray nor I gained a base thereby. Then Alfred Burnett struck
out――a most exasperating piece of ill luck.

The fate of the inning now hung upon Dick Palmer, whose safe hit had
been so timely before. I scarcely dared hope that he would repeat his
exploit, but almost before I had time to think of the matter, bang!
went another base hit and Ray ran in, scoring our second run, while I
reached third base. Then came Percy Randall, who struck the second ball
pitched and sent it out between center and right fields.

Amidst a great outburst of cheers, he dashed around the bases, Dick
Palmer well ahead of him. I reached home in safety of course, and was
expecting Dick to follow me, when, to my surprise, I saw him standing
still on third base. His action was explained by the fact that the
right fielder had stopped the ball sooner than we had anticipated, and
had promptly passed it in to the first baseman, who stood ready to
throw it home if Dick attempted to run.

Percy Randall had not seen this, but supposed the ball was still in
the outfield; so, with his head down, and not noticing Dick, he kept
on running around the bases. We shouted to him in warning, but, to our
consternation, we saw that he misunderstood us, and it was not until he
reached third base and found Dick Palmer also there that he realized
the situation. He was badly cut up about the blunder, as were the rest
of us, for it robbed us of an opportunity to win the lead by securing
two more runs. It was too late to be helped. Dick Palmer was promptly
thrown out at home plate, and we were retired with the score 3–3. The
loss of this opportunity was still more keenly felt in the last half of
the inning, when, after one man had been put out, we found ourselves
with two men on bases and Arnold at the bat.

I knew only too well that it was fatal to give Arnold a good ball, so
I tried to deceive him by making a swift motion and delivering a slow
ball in front of the plate, hoping that he would strike over it. I
threw it too far, however, and it proved to be a good ball directly
over the plate. I saw Arnold set his lips, lean back, and then I knew
what was coming. He struck the ball with a terrific crack and drove it
far out over the center fielder’s head, where it rolled on toward the
gate. My heart sank as I turned and gazed after it, for I saw there was
no hope of recovering it before Arnold had encircled the bases. He made
a home run, bringing in two men besides himself, and making the score
6–3 in their favor. It was with long faces and depressed spirits that
we closed that inning.

“Well, boys,” said Ray, as we walked to our bench. “It was a bad turn,
but we have four innings more and we can make it up. All the same, we
don’t want to let it happen again.”

“No, indeed,” I answered; “another hit like that and we are gone coons.”

The spectators were growing alarmed as to the results of the game, and
were quiet and serious. The few Park men who had accompanied the nine
were, on the other hand, jubilant and noisy.

“See here, boys,” exclaimed Percy Randall, coming over from the side of
the field where the Park men were ranged, “we want to lay these fellows
out and no mistake. What do you think they have done? They’ve just sent
a boy to the telegraph office with a message to Berkeley, ‘Score 6–3.
Prepare dinner for the nine.’ I overheard them give the directions. How
is that for cheek?”

Ray Wendell began to laugh.

“Well, it is a pity to disappoint them, but we’ll have to all the
same,” he said. “Here, give me my bat and see me knock that dinner into
a cocked hat.”

Ray fulfilled his prophecy by striking a two base hit. This was a
cheerful start, and we succeeded in making two runs before the inning
closed. The spirits of the spectators rose in proportion, and when we
began the seventh inning with the score 6–5 in their favor the interest
grew rapidly. To the delight of our friends we closed the Park men out
without a run, and made one ourselves, thus tying the score.

The excitement was now intense, and remained so during the eighth
inning, in which neither side made a run. The ninth inning was opened
by Percy Randall, who made a single base hit. The two men that followed
him were put out, but in the mean time, Percy, by his magnificent base
running, had succeeded in reaching third base. There being two men out,
Percy was on the alert for the least chance to run in home. In throwing
the ball back to Arnold after the first pitch, the catcher of the Park
nine made a slip, and the ball rolled several yards behind Arnold.
Seizing this small opportunity, Percy suddenly dashed toward home.

It was an audacious move and altogether unexpected by Arnold. A cry
from the catcher, however, warned him, and in an instant he had picked
up the ball and hurled it to the home plate. There seemed to be no
chance for Percy, but when he was within twelve feet of the base he
threw himself headlong and slid into the home plate amidst a cloud of
dust. It seemed almost the same instant that the catcher caught the
ball and touched Percy.

It was a terrible moment of suspense for us. The crowd had been
cheering vociferously, but suddenly ceased and hung breathlessly upon
the umpire’s decision. For a second there was a dead silence. Then the
umpire’s voice rang out:

“Safe on home.”

For a few minutes it seemed as if we could scarcely hear our own
voices, such an uproar arose from the spectators. The grand stand
fairly rocked with the swaying, shouting mass of people that filled
it. Out around the grounds the other spectators were dancing and
throwing their hats in the air. For a short period the movement of
the game was interrupted, it being almost impossible to play in such
confusion. Then the calm, steady voice of the umpire was heard again:

“Play!”

We made no more runs, and the last half of the ninth inning opened with
the score 7–6 in our favor. The first batter struck a hard line hit
about two feet above the ground and straight at me. I caught it neatly,
but I took no particular credit to myself for so doing, for the truth
of the matter was that I couldn’t get out of the way of the ball. Then
came a long line hit which sent the batter to second base. The next man
struck out, but he was followed by a batter who secured his first base
and sent the runner to third base.

This worried me, especially as I saw that Arnold was again at the bat.
There were two men out, and two men on bases. If Arnold made another
long hit――which he was quite able to do――the game and the championship
would be lost to us. I stood fingering the ball and looking at Arnold.
I had profited by my former experience, and did not try to deceive him
again by an easy ball.

“I must pitch him a swift ball, and take the chances; so here goes!”
I said to myself, and hurled the ball in with all my might. Arnold’s
bat whizzed through the air and struck the ball with a disheartening
crack. I had given up hope, and turned about in the full expectation
of finding the ball landed safely out in center field. Then came the
great play of the season. Ray Wendell ran desperately backward, and,
with a frantic bound, leaped in the air, and _caught the ball with one
hand_.

The Crimson Banner was ours!

Such a day of triumph Belmont had never known before. Throughout the
rest of the afternoon, and during the evening, at the promenade concert
on the campus, we were the heroes of the hour, and the recipients of
plaudits and congratulations from every side.

In those proud and happy hours we reaped a golden reward for our
services to our _alma mater_. Our doubts and disappointments were
all forgotten in that glad season of triumph, when, surrounded by
countless friends, we felt the warm clasp of the many hands extended
to congratulate us, and heard our names on many lips, coupled with
words of warmest commendation. And now when I think of the long hours
of training we went through, the anxious days of expectation, and the
exciting moments of contest, I sometimes catch myself wondering whether
I would go through it all again; and then, as I think of those dear old
days and that supremely happy night of triumph, every vein in my body
tingles with the answer:

“Yes, a thousand times again, if Belmont needed me!”

                   *       *       *       *       *

The town hall was crowded almost to suffocation the next day; and by
the time the exercises began it seemed impossible to admit another
person. I had practical reasons for knowing this, for I was one of the
ushers, and was at my wits’ end to dispose of the masses of people that
packed the building.

The hall was gayly decorated with flags and flowers, and at the
upper end, behind the stage, hung a glorious banner of crimson, with
inscriptions upon it in letters of gold. The banner ordinarily would
not have come to us for some little time after the game; but Tony
Larcom determined that it should grace Ray Wendell’s valedictory
speech, and, partly by strategy, partly by bluff, succeeded in
obtaining it from Berkeley in time for the exercises. Even cold Dr.
Drayton could not resist a smile as he saw it hanging there; and, in
his words of introduction, he alluded in a dignified but graceful
manner to the victory of the previous day. From what he said I had a
sneaking notion that he even went to see the game himself――a remarkable
concession on the doctor’s part.

There all the dear boys sat in a row, robed in their black gowns, and
awaiting their turn to speak. Among the first were Clinton Edwards and
Elton, both of whom delivered fine orations. Then, near the last, came
Len Howard, whose oration had evidently been prepared with scrupulous
care, and whose delivery was marked for its manly and vigorous tone.
And as he spoke, I saw his eyes wander frequently to the third row of
seats, where sat an old man with snow white hair, who was leaning
forward intently, his hand to his ear, that not a syllable should be
lost, a tender smile upon his lips, and his kind eyes dimmed with tears.

And last of all came the valedictory; and as Ray Wendell, pale and
handsome, stepped quietly forward and stood before the audience, a
roar of applause that shook the building went up from the crowd, and
gently fluttered the Crimson Banner that hung behind the speaker and
gracefully framed him in.

And when the touching and pathetic words of farewell had been spoken
by Ray, one further tribute remained. A messenger had come to the door
during the delivery of the valedictory, and had put into my hands a
magnificent basket of flowers. I hurried up the aisle, and, as Ray
closed his oration and bowed, I held the flowers toward him. He blushed
deeply as he leaned over to take the basket from my hands, and then for
the first time I noticed a tiny card fastened to the bouquet by a strip
of blue ribbon, and bearing the name, “Miss Nettie Fuller.”


                   *       *       *       *       *


 Transcriber’s Notes:

 ――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

 ――Printer’s, punctuation, and spelling inaccuracies were silently
   corrected.

 ――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

 ――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.