CHAPTER XXVII

THE ACCUSATION

Yale won from West Point. It was almost a foregone conclusion after that sensational inning when Joe went down and out with his sprained arm, after saving the game. His mates rallied to the support of, not only himself, but the whole team, and, the cadets, having been held runless, the wearers of the blue made a determined stand.

Weston was called on to go in and replace Joe, and the former 'varsity pitcher, in spite of his feeling against our hero, had that in him which made him do his best in spite of the odds against him.

Weston was half hoping that the game would be a tie, which would give him a chance to go on the mound and show what he could do at pitching against a formidable opponent of Yale. But it was not to be, though he brought in one of the winning runs for the New Haven bulldog.

The crowd went wild when they saw what a game fight the visitors were putting up, and even the supporters of the army lads hailed them with delight as they pounded the cadet pitcher, for everyone likes to see a good play, no matter if it is made by the other side.

"Oh, wow! A pretty hit!" yelled the throng as Weston sent a two-bagger well out in the field. His face flushed with pleasure, as he speeded around, and, probably, had he been taken in hand then, subsequent events might not have happened, for his unreasonable hatred against Joe might have been dissipated. But no one did, and the result was that Weston felt he had been wrongly treated, and he resolved to get even.

"Well played, boys, well played!" exclaimed the captain of the cadets, as he came up to shake hands with Hatfield. "You did us up good and proper. We can't buck such a pitcher as you have. What happened to him!"

"Sprained arm," explained Spike, who stood near.

"Too bad! Tell him to take care of it," rejoined the cadet. "Such twirlers as he is are few and far between. Well, you beat us, but that's no reason why you can do it again. We'll have your scalps next year. Now, boys, altogether! Show 'em how West Pointers can yell."

The cheer for the Yale team broke out in a gladsome yell, tinged with regret, perhaps, for West Point had been sure of winning, especially toward the end, but there was no ill-feeling showing in the cries that echoed over the field.

In turn the New Haven bulldog barked his admiration of the gallant opponents, and then came a special cheer for Joe Matson, whose plucky play had made it possible for Yale to win.

Joe, in the dressing room, heard his name, and flushed with delight. Trainer McLeary was rubbing his sore arm.

"Hurt much?" the man asked, as he massaged the strained muscles.

"Some," admitted Joe, trying not to wince as the pain shot along his arm. "How are we making out?"

"We win," declared McLeary, as a scout brought him word. "And you did it."

"Not by pitching," asserted Joe.

"No, perhaps not. But every game isn't won by pitching. There are lots of other plays besides that. Now you've got to take care of this arm."

"Is it bad?"

"Bad enough so you can't use it right away. You've got to have a rest. You've torn one of the small ligaments slightly, and it will have to heal. No baseball for you for a week."

"No!" cried Joe aghast.

"No, sir! Not if you want to play the rest of the season," replied the trainer.

Now Joe did want to finish out the season, whether he came back to Yale or not, for there were big games yet in prospect, particularly that with Princeton, and, if it was necessary to play a third one, it would take place on the big New York Polo Grounds.

"And, oh! if I could only pitch before that crowd!" thought Joe, in a moment of anticipated delight.

"There, I guess you'll do, if you keep it well wrapped up, stay out of draughts and don't use it," said the trainer finally, as he bound up Joe's twirling wing. "No practice, even, for a week, and then very light."

Joe half groaned, and made a wry face, but there was no help for it, he realized that. He was surrounded by his mates, as the game ended, and many were the congratulations, mingled with commiserations, as they greeted him.

Weston even condescended to say:

"Hope you won't be knocked out long, old man."

"Thanks," replied Joe dryly. "It'll be a week anyhow."

"A week!" exclaimed Weston, and he could not keep the delight from showing on his face. Then he hurried off to see one of the coaches. Joe had little doubt what it meant. Weston was going to try for his old place again while Joe was unable to pitch.

"Well," remarked De Vere, as his crony came out of the dressing rooms, whither he had gone. "I should think you could drop your other game, now that's he out of it."

"Not much!" exclaimed Weston, with some passion. "This won't last. He'll be back pitching again, and do me out of it. What I'm going to do won't hurt him much, and it will give me a chance. I'm entitled to it."

"I guess you are, old man."

The Yale team went back jubilant, and there was a great celebration in New Haven when the ball nine arrived. Fires were made, and the campus as well as the streets about the college were thronged with students. There were marches, and songs, and Joe Matson's name was cheered again and again.

Meanwhile our hero was not having a very delightful time. Not only was he in pain, but he worried lest the injury to his arm prove permanent.

"If I shouldn't be able to pitch again!" he exclaimed to Spike, in their room.

"Forget it!" advised the other. "You'll be at it again in a little while. Just take it easy."

And Joe tried to, but it was hard work. It was galling to go to practice and watch others play the game while he sat and looked on--especially when Weston was pitching. But there was no help for it.

And then, like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, it came.

The week had passed and Joe, who had done some light practice, was sent in to pitch a couple of innings against the scrub. Weston was pulled out, and he went to the bench with a scowl.

"I'll get him yet," he muttered to De Vere. "He's put me out of it again."

"I'd go slow," was the advice.

"It's been slow enough as it is," growled the other.

The day for the first Princeton game was at hand. It was to be played at Yale, and everyone was on edge for the contest. Joe was practically slated to pitch, and he felt his responsibility. His arm was in good shape again.

The night before the game the Dean sent for Joe to come to his office.

"What's up now?" demanded Spike, as his friend received the summons. "Have you won a scholarship, or is the Dean going to beg of you not to throw the game?"

"Both, I guess," answered Joe with a laugh. In his heart he wondered what the summons meant. He was soon to learn.

"I have sent for you, Mr. Matson," said the Dean gravely, "to enable you to make some answer to a serious accusation that has been brought against you."

"What is it?" faltered the pitcher.

"Do you remember, some time ago," the Dean went on, "that some red paint was put on the steps of the house of one of the professors? The gentleman slipped, fell in the paint, and a very rare manuscript was ruined. Do you remember?"

"Yes," answered Joe quietly, wondering if he was to be asked to tell what he knew.

"Well," went on the Dean, "have you anything to confess?"

"Who, me? Confess? Why, no, sir," answered Joe. "I don't know what you mean."

"Then I must tell you. You have been accused of putting the red paint on the steps, and, unless you prove yourself innocent you can take no further part in athletics, and you may be suspended."