CHAPTER IX

ANTHONY STUDIES A TIME-TABLE

Anthony returned to his room after the first recitation. He had discovered while in his class that he had forgotten his watch, and remembered that he had left it lying on his study table. The first thing that caught his eyes when he entered his room was an envelope bearing the inscription in a round, boyish hand, “Anthony Tidball. Present.” Wondering, he tore it open. Something fell from it and rolled to the floor. When found it proved to be a brown Florida bean with a little gold-plated swivel at one end. Anthony stared from the bean to the envelope; then the thought that the latter probably held a note came to him and he went back to it.

He read the note very slowly, a frown deepening the while on his face. He read it the second time and then carefully restored it to the envelope, thrust his big hands into his trousers pockets and lurched to the dormer-window. For a minute or two he stood there looking out across the Common into a tender green mist of quickening branches. Finally he sighed, shook his head, and turned back to the room.

“Poor kid,” he muttered.

But perhaps, he reflected, it was not too late to intercept him. When did the trains leave? He pulled out a table drawer and found a time-card. There was one at 9.22; that had gone. There was another, an express, at 10.16. If Jack had missed the first it was possible, thought Anthony, to reach the station in time to bring him back. It was now----

He felt for his watch, and for the first time since finding the note recollected the reason of his return. He glanced quickly over the table. The watch was not in sight. He distinctly remembered placing it on the blotting-pad while he changed the rather heavy vest he had been wearing all winter for a lighter one. He pushed aside books and papers and searched the table from end to end. Then he went through his drawers and finally, while realizing the uselessness of it, unlocked and searched his trunk. After he had felt in the pockets of what few clothes he possessed he accepted the fact that the watch was gone. But where? Who could have taken it? Who had been in the room--besides Jack? Jack----!

He sat down in the rocker and stared blankly, frowningly, at the window. It was the stupidest thing in the world to suspect Jack. And yet--! With a mutter of disgust at himself for the entertainment of such a wild suspicion, he jumped up and surveyed the room. But the bed was still unmade and the momentary hope that Mrs. Dorlon might have come across the watch and put it away for him had to be relinquished. He hurried down-stairs and found his hostess in the kitchen. No, she told him, she hadn’t been up-stairs yet and hadn’t seen the watch. Had any one been up there? Well, she didn’t know of any one. Still, the door had been open all the morning and-- Why, yes, come to think of it, she had thought once that she heard footsteps up-stairs and presumed that they were Mr. Weatherby’s, though to be sure she hadn’t seen him come in or go out. Could she help Mr. Tidball look for it?

Anthony politely declined her proffered assistance and returned to his room. He searched again about the table, striving to convince himself that he had not left the watch there; that he had worn it to recitation, that the chain had become detached from his buttonhole and that the watch had fallen from his pocket. But it wouldn’t do. He remembered clearly just how the timepiece had looked lying in its chamois case upon the blotter, with the heavy gold chain curling away toward the ink-bottle. Perhaps Jack had come in to find out the time and had unconsciously taken the watch back to his room with him? Of course, that must be it!

He strode across the hall and into the other chamber. There were evidences of hurried flight; the little steamer trunk stood in the middle of the floor and a few odds and ends of rubbish lay about the bed and table. But the watch was not in sight. The latest explanation of its disappearance had seemed so plausible that Anthony experienced keen disappointment. Turning, he retraced his steps toward the door. Half-way there he stopped and stared as though fascinated at something lying at his feet. Stooping, he picked it up and looked at it carefully in the forlorn hope that it would prove to be other than what it was, a little chamois watch-pouch.

Finally he dropped it into his pocket and went back to his room, stepping very quietly, as though leaving a chamber of sickness. He stared aimlessly about for a moment, and then, with a start, took up his note-books and descended the stairs. Mrs. Dorlon, blacking the kitchen stove, heard the door open and looked up to see the lean, spectacled face of her new lodger peering through. He looked rather pale and sickly that morning, she thought.

“Just wanted to tell you that it’s all right,” he said. “I found my watch. It was in the--the washstand.”

After he had gone she suddenly paused and sniffed perplexedly. “Now that’s funny,” she thought. “How could he have found it in the washstand when the washstand hasn’t any drawer nor nothin’?”

At the luncheon-table Jack was conspicuous by his absence. The story of Gilberth’s action at breakfast had filtered through college in a dozen varied forms until by noon it was pretty widely known. The general opinion was that Gilberth had acted brutally; there were even some few who flatly called his behavior contemptible; there were others, fewer still, who thought that he had “given Weatherby just what he deserved.” There was considerable relief felt by the more charitably disposed members of the training-table when Jack failed to appear, for his suffering at the breakfast-table had not been a pleasant thing to watch. Gilberth, however, was in high feather. He believed Jack’s absence was a result of his treatment in the morning, and was quite proud of his abilities as a public prosecutor. But the rest of the table somehow did not appear to be quite so pleased with him. This fact was shown by a disposition to avoid entering into conversation with him. His remarks were received in silence, and after a while he gave up the attempt to entertain the company and finished his meal in ruffled dignity.

When luncheon was over “Baldy” Simson, the trainer, who occupied the seat at the foot of the board, called Joe Perkins’s attention to the fact of Jack’s absence.

“I know,” Joe answered, looking rather worried. “I’m going to look him up; you needn’t bother. By the way, Tracy, just wait a minute, will you? I want to see you.” Gilberth, in the act of leaving the room, returned and tilting a chair toward him slid into it over the back with a fine appearance of unconcern.

“Fire away, Joe,” he said. “But I’ve got a two-o’clock, and it’s getting late.”

Simson went out and left the two together and alone, save for the waitress who had begun clearing off the table. Joe pushed his plate away and looked gravely across at his friend.

“Look here, Tracy, this thing has simply got to stop, you know.”

“What thing?” asked the other, raising his eyebrows.

“Why, you know what I mean. I won’t have Weatherby persecuted the way you’re doing. I can’t turn out a decent team unless you fellows get together and work in harmony. You know that as well as I do. Whatever your sentiments toward Weatherby may be, you’ve got to treat him politely in his position as a member of the varsity nine. I won’t have any more scenes like the one you brought about this morning. You’re worrying Weatherby half sick. He may be what you think he is; I’m not in position to know; but it’s all nonsense for you to take on yourself the duties of judge, jury, and hangman. You attend to yourself and let Weatherby attend to himself. That’s what I want you to do.”

Joe’s voice had been getting sharper and sharper as he proceeded and when he had finished his eyes were sparkling dangerously. As always, when Joe’s temper threatened to get the better of him, Tracy’s usual aggressiveness disappeared and gave place to a sullen stubbornness. Now he traced figures on the stained cloth with a fork and was silent a minute before he made reply. Then:

“There’s no use in your lecturing me like that,” he muttered. “You can stick up for Weatherby if you want to, but you needn’t think you can make me coddle him too. The fellow’s a coward and a cad, and you’ve no business asking decent fellows to sit at table with him.”

“You’ll sit at table with him or you’ll get out,” cried Joe hotly.

“Then I’ll get out!”

There was silence for a moment, during which Tracy continued to mark up the cloth and Joe struggled more or less successfully to get command of his temper. Finally he asked, almost calmly:

“Do you mean that you’ll leave the team, that you’ll throw me over and threaten the college with defeat for a mere whim?”

“It isn’t a whim,” growled Tracy. “It--it’s a principle.”

Joe smiled in spite of himself and the last of his ill-humor vanished.

“Oh, don’t talk poppycock, Tracy,” he said. “Look here, you must see how difficult you’re making it for Hanson and me. We can’t do what we want to do if there are dissensions among you chaps. Like a good fellow, promise me to leave Weatherby alone. He isn’t going to interfere with you; you know that. The other fellows aren’t kicking up a row about having him at table, so why should you? Besides, Tracy, consider what a thundering hard row the chap has to hoe. Maybe he acted the coward; I didn’t see it and don’t know; but even if he did it’s more than likely that he’s a lot worse ashamed of it than you are, and probably wants to make up for it. Give him a show, can’t you? Be generous, Tracy!”

“Well, let him keep away from me, then,” Tracy growled.

“How can he when you’re both on the team?” asked Joe impatiently. “We want him because he’s got the making of a good player; he’s sure, quick, and--honest.”

“Huh!”

“Yes, honest! We’ve watched him just as we’ve watched all you fellows--perhaps a bit more, because he’s under suspicion, as it were--and he’s played us fair every time. He’s done as he’s been told and done it just as hard as he knew how. And it’s all wrong to call a man dishonest until he’s done something dishonest.”

“How about that affair at the river?” asked the other sneeringly.

“A man may be a coward at a--a crisis and a brave man all the rest of his life. Physical cowardice isn’t dishonesty. For that matter, I can imagine a chap running from bullets and yet standing up like a little man in front of bayonets. I’m not sure I wouldn’t run away from bullets myself, and if I were you I wouldn’t be too sure, either.”

“I’m not a coward,” cried Tracy.

“I don’t say you are; I don’t think you are. And yet you’re not brave enough to let public opinion go hang and give that poor duffer, Weatherby, a fighting chance!”

Gilberth received this in silence, staring moodily at the table. The bell in the tower of College Hall began its imperative summons and Joe pushed back his chair and arose. Tracy followed his example.

“I didn’t mean to keep you so long,” said the former. He overtook the other at the door and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Don’t mind my ill-temper, old man. There’s no use in having a friend if you can’t bully him a little now and then. And--er--think over what I said, will you?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” answered Tracy grudgingly. “No harm done. See you later.”

Joe stood on the porch and watched him cross the road and disappear up the broad gravel-path toward the laboratories. Then Joe passed down the steps and through the gate with a little smile of satisfaction on his face.

“Yes, it is all right,” he told himself. “He’ll do as I want him to. But I wish--I do wish I hadn’t lost my pesky temper!”

He turned to the left toward Washington Street and as he neared the corner he caught sight of a tall fellow crossing the Common with long awkward strides. The ill-fitting clothes and the little stoop of the shoulders were sufficient to reveal the man’s identity at first glance, and Joe hailed him:

“O _Tid_-ball! O Tid-_ba-a-all_!”

Anthony paused, looked, waved a note-book responsively, and stumbling over a “Keep off the grass” sign, crossed the turf and clambered over the fence.

“How are you, Tidball?” asked Joe, shaking hands. For some reason fellows usually did shake hands with Anthony when they met him, just as they thumped other acquaintances on the back or punched them in the ribs or pulled their caps over their eyes. “You’re just the man I wanted to see,” Joe went on. “As usual, we’re just about stone broke; the Baseball Association, I mean. We’ve got to have a lot of money for the nine and we’ve got to raise it by subscription. The schedule has the team down for five games away from home, and that means a heap of expense. The Athletic Association has given us all they could afford to, about one hundred and fifty dollars, but that won’t last us any time. So we’re going to get up a mass meeting in about a week or so and try and raise the dust. And we want you to speak for us; whoop things up a bit, you know. Can you do it?”

“S’pose so,” answered Anthony doubtfully. “But I don’t know a blamed thing about baseball.”

“You won’t have to. We’ve got plenty of chaps who can talk baseball; what we want is some one who can open their pockets. We’re depending on you, Tidball, so say yes, like a good chap. Hanson is going to speak, and so is Professor Nast, and so am I. And we’re trying to get the dean to hem and haw a bit for us. But we need you like anything. What do you say?”

“I’ll do what I can,” said Anthony. “You let me know when it’s to be and tell me what you want me to say. Don’t believe, though, Perkins, the fellows will pay much attention to what I’ve got to say about baseball. ’Tisn’t as though I knew a ball from a--a----”

“From another ball, eh? Don’t let that bother you. I’m awfully much obliged; it’s very nice of you. And I’ll let you know all about it in a day or two. By the way, though, where are you living now? Some one said you’d left the old joint.”

“Yes, I had to when Gooch went home. I’m at Mrs. Dorlon’s, down the row there.”

“Oh, are you? I was just going there. Doesn’t young Weatherby room there?”

“Yes.”

“Is he in now, do you know?”

Anthony settled his spectacles more firmly on his nose before he replied.

“No, he’s not in just now.” He hesitated a moment. Then, “Guess you might as well know about it,” he said musingly.

“About what?”

“’Bout Weatherby.”

“What’s he done?”

“Gone home.”

“Gone home?”

“Yes, left college.”

“But what for? When did he go?” asked Joe in surprise.

“This morning. He left a note for me. Don’t know whether it’s my place to tell folks or not. Maybe you’d better keep it quiet. He might change his mind, you know.”

“I see,” replied Joe thoughtfully. “Do you--do you happen to know why he left?”

“Yes, and I guess you do, too.”

“You mean----?”

“Yes. He stuck it out as long as he could, but I guess things got too hot for him. His note made mention of something that happened this morning at training-table.”

“By Jove!” muttered the other. “It’s a blamed shame! You know, Tidball, I never quite believed him the--er--coward they say he is. What do you think?”

“Me? Oh, I don’t know,” answered Anthony uneasily, puckering his lips together. “Maybe he isn’t.”

Joe looked a little surprised.

“I don’t know just why,” he said, “but I had an idea you’d support my judgment of him. Well, perhaps it’s just as well that he’s gone. Although he had the making of----”

“No, no,” cried Anthony in sudden contrition, the blood rushing into his thin face. “I didn’t mean that! I shouldn’t have said it, Perkins! I think he’s--I don’t believe he’s a coward!” He pressed the other’s arm convulsively with his long fingers as though seeking to give added weight to the emphatic assertion and hurried away. “Come and see me,” he called back.

Joe stared after him in bewilderment.

“Strange duffer, Tidball,” he reflected. “Wonder if he and Weatherby had a row? Sounds like it. Poor old Weatherby! I’m sorry he’s gone; by Jove, I am sorry! And I fancy I might have prevented it if I’d got after Tracy sooner. Hang him, he ought to be licked!”