CHAPTER XXII

A NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH

During the short walk across the yard little was said. Stearns now and then shot puzzled and anxious glances at Allan’s face, but the latter looked straight ahead of him, and Stearns learned nothing. In the office Professor Nast approached the subject at once. The Robinson authorities, he stated, had written, saying that Ware had won third prize in the mile event at an indoor meet of the St. Thomas Club, in Brooklyn, on the evening of December 26th, and in support of the contention enclosed a clipping from a newspaper. The clipping was handed to Allan, and he read, opposite a big blue pencil mark:

“Mile run--Won by E. C. Scheur, N. Y. C. C. A. (45 yds.); second, T. Webb, St. T. A. A. (45 yds.); third, A. Ware, E. A. A. (50 yds.). Time--4m. 47s.”

Allan returned the clipping calmly.

“You understand,” said the professor, gently, “that the mere fact of your having entered this meeting without permission would not of itself render you ineligible on Saturday. The trouble is that the meeting”--here he tapped the newspaper clipping with his pencil--“was not an amateur affair; the prizes were purses of money, and, being an ‘open’ meeting, there were, as you may see, a number of professionals participating. That--er--is the difficulty.”

“I know nothing about it,” said Allan, quietly.

Stearns sank back in his chair with a long sigh of relief. “I told you it was all nonsense!” he exclaimed. The professor himself looked well pleased.

“I did not run in that meeting,” continued Allan. “I have been in Brooklyn but once, and that was fully six years ago.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” said the professor, “very glad. Now, while I am not in duty bound to explain the matter to the Robinson authorities, yet it is better for various reasons to do so. And there is one thing--” He paused and tapped the desk frowningly. “About this clipping?” he asked. Allan shook his head.

“I’m afraid I can’t explain that. Perhaps there’s another ‘A. Ware’ and perhaps ‘E. A. A.’ stands for something else besides Erskine Athletic Association.”

“Stands for lots of things, probably,” said Stearns, a bit impatiently.

“We might find that out,” mused the professor. “Where were you, Ware, that evening, the--ah--yes, the twenty-sixth of December?”

“I was in New York, visiting my aunt on Seventy-third Street. I was in the house all the evening, except for about half an hour, when I went out on an errand.”

“Well, you couldn’t have crossed the river to Brooklyn, run a mile race and returned home in half an hour,” said the professor, lightly. “Now, will you get your aunt to write me a letter, stating those facts and assuring me that you were not and could not have been in Brooklyn? It is not, you understand, that I doubt your word, Ware, but I have my duties in these affairs and I must perform them. Simply a letter, you understand, will suffice.”

“I will do my best,” Allan replied; “but----”

“Eh?” shouted Stearns.

“But my aunt has left New York city and is traveling in the West, probably in California now. I shall have to find her address from my mother first, and by that time----”

“Now, look here, sir,” interrupted Stearns. “Surely Ware’s word of honor is enough in a case of this sort? It’s only a--a coincidence of names, sir.”

“For my own satisfaction Mr. Ware’s word is sufficient,” replied the chairman, with dignity, “but the rules require evidence, and I must have it. I only ask Mr. Ware to supply me with a statement from some person who knows of his whereabouts on the evening in question. Perhaps there is some other person who will do as well?” But Allan shook his head.

“No, sir, I’m afraid not. My aunt lives alone except for the servants, and I saw no one I knew that evening. I will telegraph to my mother at once, and perhaps I will be able to get a letter from my aunt before Saturday. But it’s a pretty short time.”

“Produce your evidence any time before the two-mile race is called,” said the chairman, kindly, “and it will be all right. And, by the way, a telegram will answer as well as a letter, if your--er--aunt is in the West. I am anxious to help you in every way possible, and I regret that the duties of my office require me to be or--er--seem exacting. Another thing, Ware; the Athletic Association will incur all the expenses of telegraphing in this affair; and you need not--ah--spare money. Good morning.”

“Oh, it will be all right,” said Stearns, cheerfully, as they hurried together to the telegraph office. But Allan shook his head despondently.

“No, I’ve felt ever since yesterday that something would happen to ball things up. And now it’s happened. And I don’t believe I’ll hear from my aunt in time. However, I wouldn’t have got better than second place, anyway. But I did want to run,” he ended, dolorously.

“Nonsense! Cheer up! We’ll make the wires hum. We’ve got pretty near two whole days, and we can telegraph around the world fifty times in two days.”

The telegram asking for his aunt’s address was duly despatched to his mother in New Haven, and after that there was nothing left to do save wait her reply. Allan parted from Stearns and went dejectedly back to his room. There he found Pete engaged in a carouse with Two Spot. They wouldn’t let Pete practise with the shot to-day, or again before the meet, and he was feeling quite lost in consequence. Allan wanted some one to unfold his tale of woe to, and he was glad to find Pete awaiting him. Pete, as the story was told, grew very indignant, and offered to punch Professor Nast’s head. But Allan finally convinced him that the chairman of the Athletic Committee wasn’t at all to blame.

“It’s a beastly way to have things end, after you’ve been practising hard all spring,” he said, as he arose impatiently from his chair and strolled to the desk. A Latin book was lying on the blotter, with a slip of paper marking the page where Allan had been at work when Stearns appeared. Now he opened the book, crumpled the marker into a ball and tossed it disgustedly onto the floor. Then he drew up a chair and plainly hinted that he desired to study. Pete, however, refused to heed the hint.

“It’s a mighty foolish business,” he said, thoughtfully.

Allan grunted.

Two Spot had discovered the little ball of paper and was making believe that it was a mouse. She rolled it from under the couch with playful pawings and frantic rushes, and finally tossing it in the air, so that it fell at Pete’s feet, she stopped, blinked at it and suddenly fell to washing her feet, as though too dignified to do aught else. Pete stooped absent-mindedly and picked up the bit of paper, unfolding it slowly and smoothing it across one huge knee.

“Seems to me,” he said presently, “you chaps have forgotten one thing.”

“What’s that?” Allan asked, ungraciously.

“To wire the St. Thomas Club people and ask them if you ran in their old meeting.”

“Well, that’s so,” said Allan, hopefully. “But, then, there was probably some one there named ‘A. Ware,’ and they’d just answer ‘yes.’”

“Ask ’em if Allan Ware, of Erskine, ran in the meeting, and, if he didn’t, who the dickens the ‘A. Ware’ was who did run. Tell you’ve got to know in a hurry, and that it’s blamed important.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Allan, “that’s a good idea. Funny we didn’t think of it, wasn’t it?”

For answer Pete grunted, as though he didn’t think it at all funny.

“Hello, who’s ‘Horace L. Pearson, N. Y. A. C.’?” asked Pete, holding up the scrap of paper rescued from Two Spot, and which now proved to be torn from the program of the Boston indoor meeting.

“I don’t know; why?” asked Allan.

“I used to know a fellow of that name out in Colorado. He was sort of studying mining. What does ‘N. Y. A. C.’ mean?”

“New York Athletic Club. It’s probably the same fellow. I remember him now. He was the chap that thought Rindgely was me.”

“Eh?” asked Pete. “How was that?”

So Allan told him, and Pete grew very thoughtful as the short narrative progressed. When Allan had finished he asked:

“I suppose these fellows that do stunts at the Boston meet go to pretty near all of them, don’t they?”

“Oh, I don’t know; a good many, I guess. Why?”

“Just wondering,” answered Pete. “Come on and send that telegram. If you address it to the president or treasurer or something, it will do, won’t it?”

“I’ll send it to the chairman of the Athletic Committee,” said Allan, seizing his hat. “I’m glad you thought of it, Pete. You’re some good in the world, after all, aren’t you?”

“Sure. See you this evening. I want to see Tommy. Where do you suppose I’ll find him?”

“Oh, come on down to the telegraph office.”

“Can’t; I want Tommy.”

“Well, try the Purple office; maybe he’s there. Don’t forget to come around to-night. I may get an answer from my mother by that time.”

Pete was successful. To be sure, Tommy wasn’t in the office of the Purple, but Pete hadn’t supposed he would be; Tommy wasn’t so easily caught. But by tracing him from one place to another, Pete at last came up with him in the library, where he was eagerly securing data for an article on rowing which he was preparing for a Boston Sunday paper.

“You see,” he explained, hurriedly, “I don’t know very much about rowing, but it wouldn’t do to say so, and so I come here and consult these gentlemen.” He indicated the half-dozen volumes by which he was surrounded. “If I only wrote what I knew, you see, I’d never make any money.”

“Well, that’s the first time I ever heard you acknowledge you didn’t know it all, from throwing to tying,” said Pete.

“Oh, a fellow has to keep up a front,” said Tommy, shrewdly, with a grin.

Pete slipped into the next chair, and for the next quarter of an hour they whispered fast and furiously. When Pete got up, he said:

“This isn’t for publication in your old paper, Tommy, you know. And don’t say anything about it to any one, will you?”

And Tommy pledged himself to secrecy, adding:

“And I think you’ve got it, Pete. Are you going to see him to-night?”

“As soon as I can find him in his room,” Pete replied.

“Then I’ll come around to Allan’s to-night and hear what’s happened.”

“Maybe I won’t tell Allan,” answered Pete. “Anyhow, not unless I have to. I’ll see what the coyote has to say for himself.”

“Rindgely? Oh, he’ll have plenty to say, all right. He’ll talk himself blue in the face if you let him.”

“Maybe I won’t let him,” answered Pete, grimly.