CHAPTER XIX

ANTHONY TELLS A SECRET

“I wish I’d never taken the captaincy,” said Joe Perkins.

“Oh, rot! What’s the good of talking that way?” asked Tracy Gilberth. “The nine’s coming along all right. What if Artmouth did rub it into us? We had an off day; every team’s liable to have them. Look at last year.”

“I know,” answered Joe, “we had plenty of them then, and see what happened! We lost to Robinson, seven to nothing; we scarcely made a hit! If I thought--if I thought we were going to lose this year, I’d--I’d cut and run; honest, Tracy, I would!”

“That’d be a nice thing to do, wouldn’t it?” asked the other disgustedly. “Fellows would be proud of you, wouldn’t they?”

“It would be better than losing again,” muttered Joe.

“Oh, get out, Joe! Brace up; you’re off your feed, that’s what’s the matter with you. I heard ‘Baldy’ telling Hanson yesterday that you were going stale. He didn’t mean me to hear it; but I couldn’t very well help it. That’s why you’re out here with me in my ‘bubble’ instead of taking batting practise this morning.”

“Oh, I know all that. A trainer doesn’t send a fellow out for rides on Saturday mornings unless he’s gone stale or has something else the matter. I suppose I am out of sorts, Tracy. And I guess I’d rather stay and take a licking like a little man than run away, but--” He stopped and scowled ahead of him at the dusty road. Then, “It’s all well enough to talk about ‘honorable defeat,’ and all that, but it’s mighty hard to lose your big game when you’re captain and have worked hard and put your whole heart into it.”

“Of course it is; I know that,” answered Tracy soothingly. “But you’re not going to lose. You’re going to win. So buck up, old chap!”

“And there’s poor old Tom Higgins,” Joe continued dispiritedly. “What will he say? I promised him I’d win this year. He’s coming up next week, if he can, to coach for a few days; I told you, didn’t I? What’ll he think when he sees how things are going?”

“Oh, Tom Higgins be blowed!” cried Tracy. “He couldn’t win himself, and I’d like to know what business he has finding fault with you if you don’t win, either?”

“But I promised him----”

“Well, supposing you did? If you can’t win, you can’t, and that’s all there is to it. Every fellow on the team is going to work as hard as he knows how; every fellow is going to stand by you until the last man’s out. If we lose, it’ll be simply because Robinson’s got a better baseball nine. Cheer up, now, Joe, or I’ll run this machine into the ditch there and send you out on your silly old nut.”

The two were speeding comfortably along River Street in Tracy’s automobile. It was ten o’clock of a fresh morning in the first week of June. They had left the village a half mile behind and were _chugging_ along over a somewhat dusty country road with green hillsides to the right and the gleaming river to the left. Occasionally the fragrant air was sullied with the smell of gasoline, and Joe sniffed disapprovingly and made uncomplimentary remarks about motor vehicles in general, and Tracy’s in particular. But Tracy, who had had his orders from Simson to cheer Joe up and bring him home in good spirits, refused to take umbrage, and declared that gasoline had a rather pleasant odor.

Joe was certainly suffering from nerves, and had been ever since the disastrous game with Artmouth, two days before, when Erskine had gone down ingloriously to the tune of 17 to 1, the 1 being the result of good fortune rather than good playing. Perhaps, as Tracy put it, the team had merely had an off day; at all events its performance had been anything but encouraging to the supporters of the Purple, and had thrown Joe into the depths of despair. With the final game of the season, the contest with Robinson, but two weeks distant, he saw only defeat ahead.

They were in sight of the Cove now, and Tracy suddenly pointed ahead. “What in thunder’s that, Joe?” he asked. Joe roused himself from unprofitable thoughts and looked toward the point indicated by his friend’s finger.

“Must be a duck,” he said finally.

“Duck be blowed! There aren’t any ducks around here at this time of year. Perhaps-- I tell you what it is, Joe, it’s a man’s head! See? Some one’s in swimming.”

“Queer place to swim, among all those rushes,” Joe responded. “But I guess you’re right. We can tell for sure farther on.”

“Yes. Look; there he comes out. There’s a sort of beach there, remember? He’s walking out, and----”

“If it doesn’t look like Jack Weatherby, I’ll eat my hat!” Joe interrupted.

“Weatherby!” echoed Tracy. “What’s he doing down here? He’s at practise.”

“No, only the first squad from ten until eleven; he’s in the second. That’s who it is, Jack Weatherby.”

“Rot! It doesn’t look the least bit like Weatherby to me. I tell you what, we’ll go over and see.”

“Can you get there in this tea-kettle?” asked Joe doubtfully.

“Sure; run in where the old bridge used to be; it’s just a nice little jounce.”

“All right, only remember that I’m not made of india-rubber.”

That is why Jack, when he rejoined Anthony in the shade of the old shed near-by, reported uneasily that an automobile, with two occupants, was crossing the clay field from the road, and that it must be Gilberth’s. Anthony finished dressing and then went to investigate. As he turned the corner a voice hailed him.

“Hello, Tidball! Was that you, for goodness’ sake?”

“Hello!” answered Anthony. “Was what me?”

“The chap we saw in the water a minute ago. I could have sworn it was Weatherby,” Joe replied.

“I was in there,” Anthony said. “Water’s nice and warm down here.”

“Well, but how did you get dressed so quickly?” Joe went on, suspiciously. “Oh, you be blowed! It wasn’t you we saw. It was Jack Weatherby, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe it was. He’s just dressing himself around the corner there.” Anthony saw that further attempt at concealing Jack’s identity was idle. During the conversation Tracy and Anthony had not noticed each other’s presence save by perfunctory nods.

“Going back?” asked Joe.

“Yes, as soon as Jack gets his clothes on.”

“Well, get in here and go with us, can’t you? There’s lots of room, eh, Tracy?”

Tracy nodded. He had not told Joe of Anthony’s call, and his friend was unaware that relations between the two were somewhat strained. Joe wondered at the lack of hospitality displayed.

“Oh, I guess we’d rather walk,” Anthony answered, smiling a bit behind his spectacles.

“Nonsense, you’ll get in here, both of you, and Tracy will show you what he calls ‘squirting through space.’ Hello, Jack!”

Jack came into sight carrying the bathing-suits and towels and somewhat red of face. He feared that Joe and Gilberth had guessed his secret.

“Hello!” he answered. “Hello, Gilberth!” The latter returned his salutation affably enough and Joe exclaimed:

“You’re a couple of nice mud-hens, aren’t you? Why don’t you pick out a decent place when you want to bathe? Come on and get in; we’ll take you back.”

Jack hesitated and looked inquiringly at Anthony. The latter’s expression gave no clue to his wishes, and so, in the end, Jack assented, and the two crowded into the carriage, and Tracy started back across the field toward the road. Joe seemed to have forgotten his troubles for the while, and the talk, ranging from baseball to final examinations, grew lively, even Gilberth finding his tongue at last. There was no hurry about getting back, he said, and so they crossed westward to the turnpike, and there, with a hard, safe road underneath, sped homeward at a rate that took Jack’s breath away and made Anthony hold tightly to so much of the seat as he could find. They turned into Main Street at the Observatory just as the clock in the tower of College Hall, glimpsed over the tree-tops, indicated a quarter of eleven.

“I guess I’d better get out at William Street,” said Jack, “or I’ll be late at the field. Will you come along, Anthony?”

“Can’t. I’ve got a recitation and I’ve already cut once this week.”

“Once?” cried Gilberth. “Great Scott, I’ve cut four times!”

“Well, you’d better quit it, Tracy,” Joe remonstrated, “or they’ll be putting you on probation, and then we’ll be beaten, sure as fate!” He turned to Jack. “Come to the room with me and then I’ll go out with you.”

“You’re not allowed out there this morning,” cried Tracy. “Hanson said I was to keep you away until the game.”

“You can’t,” Joe replied quietly. “Besides, I’m feeling fine now, and it would give me the horrors to have to mope around the college while you fellows were enjoying yourselves.”

“Enjoying ourselves!” Tracy grumbled. “You’ve got a queer notion of enjoyment. If you think I’m happy when Hanson is throwing it into me because I don’t hold my bat the way they did when he was a boy, you’re away off, Joe.”

“Well, I’m going out, anyhow,” Joe answered. Suddenly, just as they reached the corner of the yard, he turned to Anthony. “I say, Tidball, I wish you’d tell me what you two were doing at the Cove. I--I’ve got a reason for wanting to know.”

Jack shot an admonitory glance at his friend, but Anthony didn’t see it; perhaps he didn’t want to. He looked gravely back at Joe and replied:

“All right, Perkins, I’ll tell you. I was teaching Jack how to swim.”

“Anthony!” cried Jack, the color flooding into his cheeks. “You promised!”

“No, I didn’t promise, Jack,” he answered calmly. “I know you didn’t want me to tell, but I think the thing’s been a secret long enough.”

Gilberth was frowning intensely and studying the clear road ahead, as though he expected a stone wall to rise out of the ground at any instant and bar his progress. Joe was looking curiously at Jack’s averted face.

“King was right,” he said softly. Then, “Why in blazes didn’t you explain, Jack? Why didn’t you tell the fellows you couldn’t swim?”

But Jack only shook his head without turning.

“Pride,” said Anthony. “Jack’s full of it. I wanted to tell what the trouble was the next day, but he wouldn’t listen to it.” He reached around and placed one big, ungainly hand on Jack’s shoulder. “He’s an idiot, Jack is, but he’s _all right_!”

Gilberth swung the machine over to the sidewalk, and stopped it in front of the north gate.

“You’ll have to get out here,” he said gruffly. “I’ve got to take this thing down to the stable. You might as well stay in, though, Tidball; I’m going your way. So long, you fellows.”

The automobile whizzed off again down Main Street, and disappeared around the corner of College Place. Joe and Jack watched it out of sight and then turned together and passed through the gate, bending their steps toward Sessons Hall at the upper end of the quadrangle. For the first part of the way neither spoke. Then Joe put his hand through the other’s arm and bent forward smilingly until he could see Jack’s flushed face.

“You’re an awful fool, Jack,” he said affectionately.