CHAPTER XXIII

THE FRESHMAN GAME

“Your aunt was in Los Angeles California Monday expected stay week address Mission House. Is anything wrong? MOTHER.”

This message Allan found awaiting him when he hurried home from dinner that evening. So far so good, he reflected. But Monday was three days gone, and if his aunt had changed her mind and gone on!--well, he didn’t like to consider that contingency. Seating himself at his desk, he composed two messages, one to his aunt and one to the manager of the Mission House. In the latter he requested that his message to Miss Mary G. Merrill be forwarded to her, in case she had left the hotel. In the other message he finally expressed, at the expense of thirty-four words, what he wanted his aunt to do. Then he hurried again to the telegraph office and begged the emotionless operator to get both messages off at once. The operator nodded silently.

“You haven’t received any other message for me, have you?” asked Allan. The operator as silently shook his head. Allan wandered back to his room. Studying was a task this evening, and he was glad when Tommy demanded admittance. A few minutes later Pete, too, arrived, looking very satisfied with life. Allan did not notice the exchange of glances between the last comer and Tommy, and if he had he would not have understood them, nor would he have connected them with the matter uppermost in his thoughts. Tommy raised his eyebrows inquiringly and Pete nodded with a smile and mysteriously tapped the breast of his coat.

Allan was full of his quandary and found much relief in telling everything to Tommy and exhibiting the telegrams received and copies of those sent. Pete, strange to say, and somewhat to Allan’s disappointment, did not display the amount of interest in the subject which Allan thought he should have; and even Tommy seemed soon to tire of the matter. Allan fell into silence, reflecting pessimistically on the readiness of your friends to abandon your troubles. Pete and Tommy left early--Tommy had been on the point of leaving ever since his arrival--and with their parting injunctions to “cheer up” and “don’t let it bother you” in his ears, Allan went sorrowfully to bed.

The next day was Friday, and it dawned cloudy and chill. May has its moods, even in Centerport, but it was unfortunate that it should have displayed the fact to-day, for the gloominess of the weather increased Allan’s despondency until Two Spot, blinking inquiringly from the Morris chair, saw that the world was awry and decided to go to sleep until things were righted again. And the answer to his St. Thomas Club message, which came just before noon, did not tend to lighten Allan’s spirits.

“Ware of Erskine,” it ran, “won third in mile run December twenty-sixth.”

Allan, as he tossed the sheet of buff paper angrily aside, wondered whether, after all, he had not taken part in the meeting while temporarily unbalanced; he had heard of such things, he thought. Or perhaps he had fallen asleep and--but no, his imagination couldn’t conceive of any one running a mile race and negotiating inclined corners without waking up! It was a strange and maddening mystery, and the more he puzzled over it the stranger it seemed and the more exasperated he became.

Stearns called after lunch and listened to an account of the developments with perfunctory interest. He had given up hope of having Allan enter the meet, and had decided that it didn’t much matter. For it was evident that Allan was worried and nervous, and the chances that he would give a good account of himself, if he ran, were slim. Stearns was sympathetic, but Allan could see that he, like Pete and Tommy, wasn’t inclined to let the matter trouble him overmuch.

After the track captain had left, Allan fell into still deeper despondency and mooned about his room--which was the last thing he should have done--until four o’clock, when a half-hour of jogging on the track took him out. No reply from Aunt Mary had reached him by dinner time, and although he stayed awake until eleven, in violation of training orders, listening eagerly for the opening of the gate which should announce the advent of the messenger, he was at last forced to go to sleep without the message. You may be certain his sleep did him little good. He dreamed all night, or so it seemed, and morning found him tired and haggard. His first look was toward the door-sill, but no buff envelope rewarded it.

“That settles it,” he muttered, bitterly; “I’m not going to hope any longer.”

Having reached this decision, he threw back his shoulders and walked to breakfast whistling a tune. To be sure, the tune wasn’t always tuneful, and sometimes it died out entirely, but it was a brave effort. Breakfast at the training table was an uncomfortable meal for him. The others were in the best of spirits, and there was present a half-suppressed excitement that showed itself on the countenances and in the bearing of the fellows.

None there save Stearns and Pete knew of Allan’s trouble, and they gave no sign. Pete even seemed to Allan to be indecently happy, and his attempts at conversation met with scant encouragement. Half-way through the meal Rindgely’s absence was discovered, and Kernahan was despatched to hunt him up. He had not returned when Allan left the house. Every one was cautioned to spend the forenoon out-of-doors and report promptly at eleven-thirty for lunch.

The town soon took on a gala appearance. The sidewalks were thronged by ten o’clock, and none seemed to have anything to do save discuss the outcome of the afternoon’s performances. Erskine banners hung from the shop windows and fluttered over front doors. Pete wanted Allan to go out to the field with him and see the Erskine-Robinson freshman game, but Allan had no heart for it, and refused to leave his room. He had no recitations, for the professors had very generally given cuts. He wrote a letter to his mother--a very dismal production it was, too--and then sat at the window with Two Spot in his lap and watched the crowds pass on their way to the game.

The college band, followed by a mob of singing, cheering freshmen, went by in a cloud of dust, and presently a barge containing the home nine passed, and Allan had a glimpse of Hal’s gray-clad shoulders. The Robinson youngsters had already gone out. The steady stream of townfolk and students became broken; groups of three and four passed at intervals; now and then a couple of students, laughing and chatting, or a solitary mortal hurried by the house. Then, quite suddenly, as it seemed, all traffic ceased, and Poplar Street resumed its wonted quiet.

Half an hour later Allan’s eyes, roaming from the magazine which he was striving to read, sighted a faded blue coat across the little park, and his heart leaped into his throat. A messenger boy, whistling a blithe tune, toiled slowly along, as though his shoulders bore the weight of a great sorrow. Once, when almost at the corner, he stopped, leaned against the fence and seemed on the point of going to sleep. Then he roused himself and came on. Allan restrained an impulse to dart out into the road and waited on the porch, with his heart beating like a trip-hammer. The boy reached the corner, glanced with mild interest at Allan--and went on up Main Street.

After the first moment of blank and sickening dismay, Allan went to the end of the porch and looked after him. Perhaps, after all, he was mistaken, and would discover the fact and turn back. But eventually the lad sauntered across the street and disappeared around the corner of McLean. Allan went back to his chair, his heart like lead and a lump in his throat that wouldn’t be swallowed.

* * * * *

Out at Erskine Field great things were happening. The purple-lettered youngsters were more than holding their own against the far-heralded team of Robinson. It was the sixth inning, and the score stood 9 to 5 in Erskine’s favor. Hal had played a magnificent game at second and already had a double-play to his credit, and had, besides, succeeded beyond all of his team-mates at hitting the redoubtable brown-stockinged pitcher. Side by side on the warm turf back of third-base, Tommy and Pete were sitting cross-legged, having passed the ropes by virtue of Tommy’s ever-present note-book, with its staring inscription, “Erskine Purple,” on the cover. The last man of the Erskine side went out, the teams changed places, the seventh inning began with Robinson’s tail-enders coming to the plate, and Pete resumed his narrative, which had been interrupted by Hal’s hard drive to left-field.

“He didn’t have any idea what I had come for,” Pete said, “and was going to be very nice and polite; he can be when he likes, you know. But I wasn’t there to pass compliments or swap stories, so I got right down out of the saddle and talked business. ‘Rindgely, I know that you ran in the St. Thomas Club meet in Brooklyn the night after Christmas, under the name of A. Ware, and won fifteen dollars,’ I said, ‘and you’ve got to come out in the open and say so.’ Of course, it was a rank bluff; I was pretty certain about it after I’d talked with you, but I didn’t know absolutely, and couldn’t prove anything. If he had kept his nerve and told me to go to thunder, it would have been all off on the spot, and I’d had to crawl off with my tail between my legs. But it took him so sudden that he just gasped and got pale around the gills. Then I knew I had him roped. So I just waded in and gave it to him hot and heavy. Told him he was a horse-thief and an all-round galoot; that he ought to be ashamed of himself, and a lot more. When I got through he was a pretty sick steer. I had him hog-tied and branded. Then he began to play fair.--Ginger! look at that hit! Good work! That’s two out, ain’t it? Only one? Well, it ought to be two.”

“And then what?” asked Tommy, making strange marks in the score-book on his knee.

“Well, I got kind of sorry for the poor old jack-rabbit. He told me all about it, and swore up and down he hadn’t meant any harm; that he wanted to try what he could do against some good men at the mile, and hadn’t cared a hang about the money. ‘But what did you use Ware’s name for?’ says I. ‘Wasn’t your own bad enough?’ ‘Because,’ says he, ‘I didn’t want my folks to know about it; they live there in Brooklyn, and might have seen my name in the paper next day. I didn’t think about making myself ineligible,’ says he, ‘and I didn’t think I was doing Ware any harm.’ Well, that may be a lie, but he was sure in the dumps, and so I agreed to make things easy for him. ‘You write it all out in black and white and sign your name to it,’ says I, ‘and if I can I’ll keep dark about it. If Allan gets a message from his aunt, all right; if he doesn’t, I show your document to Nast. I’ll wait till the two-mile is called.’ Bully for you, Hal! That’s three, ain’t it? Sure! Hit it out, Seven!”

“You see,” he went on, after the nines had changed places and the Erskine captain had seized his bat, “you see, I didn’t want to be any harder on Rindgely than I had to. He said if the faculty got hold of it they’d be sure to either bounce him bodily or hold up his diploma. Well, I guess they would, all right, eh?”

“Sure to,” answered Tommy, promptly, as he marked the first man out at first, scored an assist to the credit of the opposing pitcher and a put-out to that of the Brown’s first-baseman.

“So that’s the way we fixed it up. And I hope Allan gets word from auntie, for I’m blessed if I want Rindgely to get kicked out without graduating. It would be hard luck for a chap to do four years at hard labor here and then slip up just when he was going to grab the prize, wouldn’t it?”

“Hardest kind of luck,” said Tommy. “Hope you don’t have to show the confession.”

Erskine went out in one, two, three order and the eighth inning commenced. The band was doing gallant work and Pete found conversation beyond his powers until the last strains of a lively two-step had died away. By that time the Brown’s second man had been retired, and Robinson’s hopes were dwindling fast.

“Is he going to run this afternoon?” asked Tommy.

Pete shook his head.

“No; you see, I couldn’t let him do that; it would be against the law; if Allan couldn’t run he couldn’t, and that’s certain.”

“No, he hasn’t any right to,” said Tommy, thoughtfully. “He’s plainly ineligible because he ran for money; and then, there would be other reasons.”

“Well, that’s the way I figured it out,” said Pete, with a note of relief in his voice. He was glad to have his decision supported by some one who knew more about such things. “But he saw himself that it was all up with him as a runner. He said he’d be sick to-day, and, as he wasn’t at breakfast, I guess he is. I’ll bet Dr. Prentiss will have a hard time finding out what’s wrong with him.” And Pete chuckled wickedly.

“All out,” said Tommy. “Say, Hal! Oh, _Hal_! Give us a home run, Hal! Get out! Of course you can. We want some more runs.”

“I guess we don’t stand much show of winning this afternoon,” went on Pete. “With Rindgely out of it and Allan all balled up, I can see Robinson getting a few points.”

“They’ll win first in the mile, all right,” answered Tommy. “Hooker’s not in the same class with Rindgely this spring, and Harris isn’t a bit better; though maybe he’ll manage to get placed. As for Allan, he never has had any too good a chance at the two miles, and now, after all this rumpus, it’s a fair bet he’ll be out of it entirely. It’s a mean shame the way things have gone, and when you think that it’s all Rindgely’s fault, expulsion doesn’t seem a bit too bad for him.”

“Maybe,” said Pete, doubtfully, “but I don’t want to be the feller to get him bounced; that’s all. If Allan’s confounded old relative doesn’t come to time I’ll--well, I guess I’ll give Rindgely’s statement to you and let you attend to things.”

“You’ve got another guess, Pete,” said Tommy. “_I_ don’t want anything to do with it. Besides, you worked the racket and ought to see it out.”

Pete sighed dolefully.

“I suppose I’ll have to,” he murmured.

Again the inning closed without a tally, and Robinson came in for her last turn at bat. Her players looked very determined, and it seemed not impossible that they would go in and make up the four runs that threatened to defeat them. And the band played again. Pete and Tommy were driven from their places by the crowd, which had left the stands and were invading the field, and they allowed themselves to be pushed forward to the foul-line.

“I suppose Allan thinks I’m a brute,” said Pete, dismally. “I didn’t go near him last night. But I just couldn’t stand seeing him so miserable, and not blurting out everything I knew. So I fought shy. I just hope it ends all right.”

Whether that ended all right another chapter will have to tell, but there was no doubt about the game ending that way. Robinson went down before superb pitching, and with the score still 9 to 5, the spectators flooded over the field and their cheers drowned even the band.