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Just In Time
"Joe Matson, I can't understand why you don't fairly jump at the chance!""Because I don't want to go--that's why.""But, man alive! Half the fellows in Riverside would stand on their heads to be in your shoes.""Perhaps, Tom. But, I tell you I don't think I'm cut out for a college man, and I don't want to go," and Joe Matson looked frankly into the face of his chum, Tom Davis, as they strolled down the village street together that early September day."Don't want to go to Yale!" murmured Tom, shaking his head as if unable to fathom the mystery. "Why I'd work my way through, if they'd let me, and here you've got everything comparatively easy, and yet you're balking like a horse that hasn't had his oats in a month. Whew! What's up, Joe, old man?""Simply that I don't believe I'm cut out for that sort of life. I don't care for this college business, and there's no use pretending that I do.I'm not built that way. My mind is on something else. Of course I know a college education is a great thing, and something that lots of fellows need. But for yours truly--not!""I only wish I had your chance," said Tom, enviously."You're welcome to it," laughed Joe."No," and the other spoke half sadly. "Dad doesn't believe in a college career any more than you do. When I'm through at Excelsior Hall he's going to take me into business with him. He talks of sending me abroad, to get a line on the foreign end of it.""Cracky!" exclaimed Joe. "That would suit me down to the ground--that is if I could go with a ball team.""So you haven't gotten over your craze for baseball?" queried Tom."No, and I never shall. You know what I've always said--that I'd become a professional some day; and I will, too, and I'll pitch in the world series if I can last long enough," and Joe laughed."But look here!" exclaimed his chum, as they swung down a quiet street that led out into the country; "you can play baseball at Yale, you know.""Maybe--if they'll let me. But you know how it is at those big universities. They are very exclusive--societies--elections--eating clubs--and all that sort of rot. A man has to be in with the bunch before he can get a show.""That's all nonsense, and you know it!" snapped Tom. "At Yale, I warrant...
A Home Conference
"Well, I wonder if I'll ever see him again," mused Joe, as the train swung out of sight around a curve in the track. "It sure was a hustling time. I wonder who he was? Seemed like some sort of an athlete, and yet he didn't talk sports--nor much of anything, for that matter."I'm glad I could help him get his train. Funny he should want to pay me, and yet I suppose he isn't used to having favors done him. He seemed like a nice sort of fellow. Well, I've got to get over with these patterns. I'll be late getting home, I expect."Joe's first visit was to the livery stable, where he told the proprietor of the accident."Hum! Well, I s'pose he was driving reckless like," said Mr. Munn, who hired out old horses and older vehicles to such few of the townspeople as did not have their own rigs."No, he was going slowly," said Joe. "I guess that wheel was pretty well rotted.""Mebby so. I'm glad I charged him a good price, and made him pay in advance. Yes, I'll send out and get the rig. Much obliged to you, Joe.Did he pay ye for bringin' him back?""No, I didn't want anything," and with this parting shot the young pitcher went on his way.And, while he is jogging along to Birchville, musing over the recent happenings, I will, in a paragraph or two, tell you something more about our hero, since he is to occupy that place in these pages.Those of you who have read the previous books in this series, need no introduction to the youth. But to those who pick up this volume to begin their acquaintance, I might state that in the initial book, called "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars," I related how he first began his upward climb as a pitcher.Joe Matson lived with his father and mother, Mr. and Mrs. John Matson, in the town of Riverside, in one of our New England states. Mr. Matson was an inventor of farming machinery, and after a hard struggle was now doing well financially.Joe's ambition, ever since he began to play baseball, had been to become a pitcher, and how he made the acquaintance of Tom Davis, the boy living back of him; how they became chums, and how Joe became a member of the Silver Stars nine is told in my first...
One Last Game
"Say, Tom, do you know what I've got a good notion to do?""Indeed I haven't, Joe, unless you're going to go out West and shoot Indians, or some such crazy stunt as that.""Forget it! But you know I've got to start for Yale in about another week.""That's right. The time is getting short. Excelsior opens four days from now, but I'm not going to drill in with the first bunch. I don't have to report quite so soon. I'm a Senior now, you know.""So you are. I almost wish I was with you.""Oh, nonsense! And you going to Yale! But what was it you started to say?""Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Say, why can't we have one last game before we have to leave town? One rattling good game of baseball to wind up the season! I'd just love to get into a uniform again, and I guess you would too. Can't we pick up enough of the old Silver Stars to make a nine, with what we can induce to play from among the lads in town?""I guess so.""Then let's do it. The Resolute team is still in existence, isn't it?""Yes, but I haven't kept much track of them. I've been away most all Summer, you know.""And so have I, but I think we could get up a game for Saturday. I believe we could get quite a crowd, but we wouldn't charge admission.What do you say?""I'm with you. It would be sport to have a game. I wonder how we can arrange for it?""I've got to go over to Rocky Ford for dad to-day," went on Joe, "and I'll see if I can't get in touch with some of the Resolutes. It may be that they have a game on, and, again, they may have disbanded. But it's worth trying. Then you see as many of the fellows here as you can, and get up a nine. There ought to be five or six of the old Silver Stars around.""I'll do it! Wow! It will be sport to get on the diamond again before we have to buckle down to the grind.""I hope I haven't forgotten how to pitch," went on Joe. "Let's get a ball and do a little practising out in the lots."The two chums, somewhat older, more experienced and certainly better players than when we first met them, three years before, were soon tossing the...
A Sneering Laugh
"Come on now, Art! Line one out!""A home run, old man! You can do it!""Slam one over the fence!""Poke it to the icehouse and come walking!""We've got the pitcher's goat already! Don't mind him, even if he is going to college!"These were only a few of the good-natured cries that greeted Art Church as he stood at the home plate, waiting for Joe Matson to deliver the ball. And, in like manner, Joe was gently gibed by his opponents, some of whom had not faced him in some time. To others he was an unknown quantity.But even those newest members of the Resolutes had heard of Joe's reputation, and there was not a little of the feeling in the visiting nine that they were doomed to defeat through the opposing pitcher."Come on now, Art, it's up to you.""Give him a fair chance, Joe, and he'll knock the cover off!""Play ball!" snapped the umpire, and Joe, who had been exchanging the regulation practice balls with the catcher signalled that he was ready to deliver the first one of the game. The catcher called for a slow out, but Joe shook his head. He knew Art Church of old, and remembered that this player fairly "ate 'em up." Joe gave the signal to Tom that he would send a swift in-shoot, and his chum nodded comprehendingly."Ball one!" yelled the umpire, and Joe could not restrain a start of surprise. True, Art had not swung at the horsehide, but it had easily clipped the plate, and, Joe thought, should have been called a strike.But he said nothing, and, delivering the same sort of a ball the next time, he had the satisfaction of deceiving the batter, who swung viciously at it."He's only trying you out!" was shouted at Joe. "He'll wallop the next one!"But Art Church did not, and waiting in vain for what he considered a good ball, he struck at the next and missed, while the third strike was called on him without his getting a chance to move his bat."Oh, I guess the umpire isn't against us after all," thought Joe, as he threw the ball over to first while the next batter was coming up."How's that?" yelled Tom in delight. "Guess there aren't going to be any home runs for you Resolutes.""Oh, it's early yet," answered the visiting captain.But the Resolutes were destined to get no runs in that...
Off For Yale
"We've got the game in the refrigerator--on ice.""Take it easy now, Silver Stars.""Let 'em get a few runs if they want to."Thus spoke some of the spectators, and a number of the members of the home team, as the last half of the seventh inning started with the score ten to three in favor of the Silver Stars. It had not been a very tight contest on either side, and errors were numerous. Yet, in spite of the sneering laugh of the Yale man, Joe knew that he had pitched a good game. They had hit him but seldom, and one run was due to a muffed ball by the centre fielder."Well, I guess you haven't forgotten how to pitch," exulted Tom, as he sat beside his chum on the bench.Behind them, and over their heads, sat the spectators in the grandstand, and when the applause at a sensational catch just made by the left fielder, retiring the third man, had died away the voices of many in comment on the game could be heard."Oh, I'm not so very proud of myself," remarked Joe. "I can see lots of room for improvement. But I'm all out of practice. I think I could have held 'em down better if we'd had a few more games to back us up.""Sure thing. Well, this is a good way to wind up the season. I heard a little while ago that the Resolutes came over here to make mince-meat of us. They depended a whole lot on their pitcher, but you made him look like thirty cents.""Oh, I don't know. He's got lots of speed, and if he had the benefit of the coaching we got at Excelsior Hall he'd make a dandy.""Maybe. I'm going over here to have a chin with Rodney Burke. I won't be up for a good while.""And I guess I won't get a chance this inning," remarked Joe, as he settled back on the bench. As he did so he was aware of a conversation going on in the stand over his head."And you say he's going to Yale this term?" asked someone--a youth's deep-chested tones."I believe so--yes," answered a girl. Joe recognized that Mabel Davis was speaking. "He's a chum of my brother's," she went on."They're talking of me," thought Joe, and he looked apprehensively at his companions on the bench, but they seemed to be paying no...
On The Campus
Joe Matson gazed about him curiously as the train drew into the New Haven station. He wondered what his first taste of Yale life was going to be like, and he could not repress a feeling of nervousness.He had ridden in the end car, and he was not prepared for what happened as the train drew to a slow stop. For from the other coaches there poured a crowd of students--many Freshmen like himself but others evidently Sophomores, and a sprinkling of Juniors and the more lordly Seniors. Instantly the place resounded to a din, as friends met friends, and as old acquaintances were renewed."Hello, Slab!""Where have you been keeping yourself, Pork Chops!""By jinks! There's old Ham Fat!""Come on, now! Get in line!"This from one tall lad to others, evidently from the same preparatory school. "Show 'em what we can do!""Hi there, Freshies! Off with those hats!"This from a crowd of Sophomores who saw the newly-arrived first-year lads."Don't you do it! Keep your lids on!""Oh, you will!" and there was a scrimmage in which the offending headgear of many was sent spinning. Joe began to breathe deeply and fast. If this was a taste of Yale life he liked it. Somewhat Excelsior Hall it was, but bigger--broader.Gripping his valise, he climbed down the steps, stumbling in his eagerness. On all sides men crowded around him and the others who were alighting."Keb! Carriage! Hack! Take your baggage!"Seeing others doing the same, Joe surrendered his valise to an insistent man. As he moved out of the press, wondering how he was to get to the house where he had secured a room, he heard someone behind him fairly yell in his ear:"Oh ho! Fresh.! Off with that hat!"He turned to see two tall, well-dressed lads, in somewhat "swagger" clothes, arms linked, walking close behind him. Remembering the fate of the others, Joe doffed his new derby, and smiled."That's right," complimented the taller of the two Sophomores."Glad you think so," answered Joe."Well?" snapped the other Sophomore sharply."Glad you think so," repeated our hero."Well?" rasped out the first.Joe looked from one to the other in some bewilderment. He knew there was some catch, and that he had not answered categorically, but for the moment he forgot."Put the handle on," he was reminded, and then it came to him."Sir," he added with a smile."Right, Freshie. Don't forget your manners next time," and the two went...
A New Chum
For a moment Joe stood there, his heart pounding away under his ribs, uncertain what to do--wondering if the Sophomore had recognized him.Then, as the other gave no sign, but continued on his way, whistling gaily, Joe breathed easier."The cad!" he whispered. "I'd like to--to----" He paused. He remembered that he was at Yale--that he was a Freshman and that he was supposed to take the insults of those above him--of the youth who had a year's advantage over him in point of time."Yes, I'm a Freshman," mused Joe, half bitterly. "I'm supposed to take it all--to grin and bear it--for the good of my soul and conscience, and so that I won't get a swelled head. Well," he concluded with a whimsical smile, "I guess there's no danger."He looked after the retreating figure of the Sophomore, now almost lost in the dusk that enshrouded the campus, and then he laughed softly."After all!" he exclaimed, "it's no more than I've done to the lads at Excelsior Hall. I thought it was right and proper then, and I suppose these fellows do here. Only, somehow, it hurts. I--I guess I'm getting older. I can't appreciate these things as I used to. After all, what is there to it? There's too much class feeling and exaggerated notion about one's importance. It isn't a man's game--though it may lead to it. I'd rather be out--standing on my own feet."Yes, out playing the game with men--the real game--I want to get more action than this," and he looked across at the college buildings, now almost deserted save for a professor or two, or small groups of students who were wandering about almost as disconsolately as was Joe himself."Oh, well!" he concluded. "I'm here, and I've got to stay at least for mother's sake, and I'll do the best I can. I'll grin and bear it. It won't be long until Spring, and then I'll see if I can't make good. I'm glad Weston didn't recognize me. It might have made it worse. But he's bound to know, sooner or later, that I'm the fellow he saw pitch that day, and, if he's like the rest of 'em I suppose he'll have the story all over college. Well, I can't help it." And with this philosophical reflection Joe turned and made his way toward his rooming house.It was a little farther than he had thought,...
Ambitions
"Shake hands!" exclaimed Joe, as he stepped over to the bed, on which the other raised himself, the clothes draping around him. Then Joe saw how well built his new room-mate was--the muscles of his arms and shoulders standing out, as his pajamas tightened across his chest."Glad to know you," greeted Poole. "You are sure you don't mind my butting in?""Not at all. Glad of your company. I hate to be alone. I wish you'd come in a bit earlier, and you could have gone down to Glory's with us.""Wish I had. I've heard of the place, but as a general rule I like a quieter shack to eat.""Same here," confessed Joe. "We're talking of starting a feeding joint of our own--the Freshmen here--or of joining one. Are you with us?""Sure thing. Do you know any of the fellows here?""Three--in our shack. I just met them to-night. They seem all to the good.""Glad to hear it. I'll fill in anywhere I can.""Well, I'm going to fill in bed--right now!" asserted Joe with a yawn."I'm dead tired. It's quite a trip from my place, and we've got to go to chapel in the morning.""That's so. Are you a sound sleeper?""Not so very. Why?""I am, and I forgot to bring an alarm clock. I always need one to get me up.""I can fix you," replied Joe. "I've got one that would do in place of a gong in a fire-house. I'll set it going." And from his trunk, after rummaging about a bit, he pulled a large-sized clock, noiseless as to ticking, but with a resonant bell that created such a clamor, when Joe set it to tinkling, that Ricky Hanover came bursting in."What's the joke?" he demanded, half undressed. "Let me in on it.""The alarm clock," explained Joe. "My new chum was afraid he'd be late to chapel. Ricky, let me make you acquainted with Mr. Poole.""Glad to know you," spoke Ricky. "Got a handle?""A what?""Nickname. I always think it's easier to get acquainted with a fellow if he's got one. It isn't so stiff.""Maybe you're right. Well, the fellows back home used to call me 'Spike'.""What for?" demanded Joe."Because my father was in the hardware business.""I see!" laughed Ricky. "Good enough. Spike suits me. I say, you've got a pretty fair joint here," he went on admiringly. "And some stuff, believe me!" There was envy in his tones as he...
The Shampoo
Football was in the air. On every side was the talk of it, and around the college, on the streets leading to the gridiron, and in the cars that took the students out there to watch the practice, could be heard little else but snatches of conversation about "punts" and "forward passes," the chances for this end or that fullback--how the Bulldog sized up against Princeton and Harvard.Of course Joe was interested in this, and he was among the most loyal supporters of the team, going out to the practice, and cheering when the 'varsity made a touchdown against the luckless scrub."We're going to have a great team!" declared Ricky, as he walked back from practice with Joe one day."I'm sure I hope so," spoke our hero. "Have you had a chance?""Well, I'm one of the subs, and I've reported every day. They kept us tackling the dummy for quite a while, and I think I got the eye of one of the coaches. But there are so many fellows trying, and such competition, that I don't know--it's a fierce fight," and Ricky sighed."Never mind," consoled Joe. "You'll make good, I'm sure. I'll have my troubles when the baseball season opens. I guess it won't be easy to get on the nine.""Well, maybe not, if you insist on being pitcher," said Ricky. "I hear that Weston, who twirled last season, is in line for it again.""Weston--does he pitch?" gasped Joe. It was the first time he had heard--or thought to ask--what position the lad held who had sneered at him."That's his specialty," declared Ricky. "They're depending on him for the Yale-Princeton game. Princeton took the odd game last year, and we want it this.""I hope we get it," murmured Joe. "And so Ford Weston pitches; eh? If it comes to a contest between us I'm afraid it will be a bitter one. He hates me already. I guess he thinks I've got a swelled head.""Say, look here, Joe!" exclaimed Ricky, with a curious look on his face, "you don't seem to know the ropes here. You're a Freshman, you know.""Sure I know that. What of it?""Lots. You know that you haven't got the ghost of a show to be pitcher on the 'varsity; don't you?""Know it? Do you mean that Weston can so work things as to keep me off?""Not Weston; no. But the rules themselves are against you. It's...
A Wild Night
"Say, Ricky is sure putting up a great fight!""Yes, and he's as wiry as they make 'em!""He'll make 'em wish they'd let him alone--maybe.""And maybe not," returned Spike. He and Joe had passed these remarks after a grim silence, followed by a resumption of the crashing struggle in the hall near the front door. "There are too many of 'em for him," went on Joe's room-mate."Wait until I take a peep," proposed the young pitcher. He advanced to the door, rolling up his sleeves as he went."Don't!" snapped Spike. "They'll be here soon enough as it is, without us showing ourselves. I'd just as soon they'd pass us up this trip--it's an unpleasant mess.""That's right. Maybe we can stand 'em off.""No such luck. I think they're coming."The noise in the hall seemed redoubled. Ricky could be heard expostulating, and from that he changed to threats."I'll make you wish you hadn't tried this on me!" he shouted. "I'll punch----""Oh, dry up!" commanded someone."Stuff some of that paste in his mouth!" ordered another voice."A double shampoo for being too fresh!""No, you don't! I won't stand----""Then take it lying down. Here we go, boys!""I--Oh----" and Ricky's voice trailed off into an indistinct murmur."He's getting his," said Spike in a low tone."And I guess here is where we get ours," said Joe, as the rush of feet sounded along the corridor, while someone called:"Come on, fellows. More work for us down here. There are some of the Freshies in their burrows. Rout 'em out! Smash 'em up!"The tramping of feet came to a pause outside the door of our two friends."Open up!" came the command."Come in!" invited Joe. They had not turned the key as they did not want the lock broken.Into the room burst a nondescript horde of students. They were wild and disheveled, some with torn coats and trousers, others with neckties and collars missing, or else hanging in shreds about their necks."Ricky put up a game fight!" murmured Joe."He sure did," agreed Spike."Hello, Freshmen!" greeted the leader of the Sophomores. "Ready for yours?""Sure," answered Spike with as cheerful a grin as he could muster."Any time you say," added Joe."The beggars were expecting us!" yelled a newcomer, crowding into the room."Going to fight?" demanded someone."Going to try," said Joe coolly."Give 'em theirs!" was the yell."What'll it be--paste or mush?"Joe saw that several of the Sophomores carried pails, one seemingly filled with froth,...
The Red Paint
Pursuing those who had given them the shampoo, Joe and his chums found themselves trailing down a side street in the darkness."I wonder what they're up to," ventured Spike."Oh, some more monkey business," declared Ricky. "If they try it on any more Freshmen though, we'll take a hand ourselves; eh?""Sure," assented the others."There they go--around the corner--and on the run!" suddenly exclaimed Slim Jones. "Get a move on!"Our friends broke into a trot--that is, all but Joe. He tried to, but stepping on a stone it rolled over with him, and he felt a severe pain shoot through his ankle."Sprained, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "I'm glad it isn't the baseball season, for I'm going to be laid up."He halted, and in those few seconds his companions, eager in the chase, drew ahead of him in the darkness, and disappeared around another corner."I can't catch up to 'em," decided Joe. "Wonder if I can step on the foot?"He tried his weight on it, and to his delight found that it was not a bad sprain, rather a severe wrench that, while it lamed him, still allowed him to walk."Guess I'll go back," he murmured. "If there's a row I can't hold up my end, and there's no use being a handicap. I'll go back and turn in. I can explain later."He turned about, walking slowly, the pain seeming to increase rather than diminish, and he realized that he was in for a bad time."If I could see a hack I'd hail it," he thought, but the streets seemed deserted, no public vehicles being in sight. "I've got to tramp it out," Joe went on. "Well, I can take it slow."His progress brought him to Wall street, and he decided to continue along that to Temple, and thence to the modest side-thoroughfare on which the Red Shack was located. But he was not destined to reach it without further adventures.As he came around a corner he heard the murmur of low voices, and, being cautious by nature, he halted to take an observation."If it's my own crowd--all right," he said. "But if it's a lot of Sophs., I don't want to run into 'em."He listened, and from among those whom he could not see he heard the murmur of voices."That's the house over there," said someone."Right! Now we'll see if he'll double on me just because I wasn't prepared. I'll make him...
Joe's Silence
"Rather queer," mused Joe, after a moment's silence. "I wonder he didn't say something to me after what happened. So he rooms here? It's a great shack. I suppose if I stay here the full course I'll be in one of these joints. But I don't believe I'm going to stay. If I get a chance on the 'varsity nine next year and make good--then a professional league for mine."He limped out of the dormitory, and the pain in his ankle made him keenly aware of the fact that if he did not attend to it he might be lame for some time."Red paint," he murmured as he let himself out. "I wonder what Weston was doing with it? Could he---- Oh, I guess it's best not to think too much in cases like this."He reached his rooming place and trod along the hall, his injured foot making an uneven staccato tattoo on the floor."Well, what happened to you?""Where did you hike to?""Were you down to Glory's all by your lonesome?""What'd you give us the slip for?""Come on; give an account of yourself."These were only a few of the greetings that welcomed him as he entered his apartment to find there, snugly ensconced on the beds, chair, sofa and table, his own room-mate and the other friends who had gone out that wild night."What's the matter?" demanded Spike, in some alarm, as he saw his friend limping."Oh, nothing much. Twisted ankle. I'll be all right in the morning. How did you fellows make out?""Nothing doing," said Ricky. "The boobs that shampooed us split after we got on their trail, and we lost 'em. Did you see anything of 'em?""Not much," said Joe, truthfully enough."Then where did you go?"He explained how he had twisted on his ankle, and turned back, and how, in coming home, he had met Kendall. He said nothing of watching Weston and another chap do something to the stoop of the unknown professor's house."Mighty white of Kendall," was Spike's opinion, and it was voiced by all."Oh, what a night!" exclaimed Slim Jones. "Home was never like this!""Well, you fellows can sit up the rest of the night if you want to," said Joe, after a pause; "but I'm going to put my foot to bed.""I guess that's the best place for all of us," agreed Ricky. "Come on, fellows; I have got some hard practice to-morrow. I...
Early Practice
"What are you going to try for?""Have you played much before you came here?""Oh, rats! I don't believe I'll have any show with all this bunch!""Hey, quit shoving; will you?""Oh, Rinky-Dink! Over here!""Hi, Weston, we're looking for you.""There goes Shorty Kendall. He'll sure catch this year.""Hello, Mac! Think you'll beat Weston to it this year?""I might," was the cool reply.The above were only a few of the many challenges, shouts, calls and greetings that were bandied from side to side as the students, who had been waiting long for this opportunity, crowded into the gymnasium.It was the preliminary sifting and weeding out of the mass of material offered on the altar of baseball. At best but a small proportion of the candidates could hope to make the 'varsity, or even a class team, but this did not lessen the throng that crowded about the captain, manager and coaches, eagerly waiting for favorable comment."Well, we're here!" exulted Jimmie Lee, who had, the night before, brought to Joe the good news that the ball season had at least started to open."Yes, we're here," agreed Joe."And what will happen to us?" asked Spike Poole. "It doesn't look to me as if much would.""Oh, don't fool yourself," declared Jimmie, who, being very lively, had learned many of the ropes, and who, by reason of ferreting about, had secured much information. "The coaches aren't going to let anything good get by 'em. Did you see Benson looking at me! Ahem! And I think I have Whitfield's eye! Nothing like having nerve, is there? Joe, hold up your hand and wriggle it--they're trying to see where you're located," and, with a laugh at his conceit, Jimmie shoved into the crowd trying to get nearer the centre of interest--to wit, where the old players who served as coaches were conferring with the captain.The latter was Tom Hatfield, a Junior whose remarkable playing at short had won him much fame. Mr. William Benson and Mr. James Whitfield were two of the coaches. George Farley was the manager, and a short stocky man, with a genial Irish face, who answered to the name of Dick McLeary, was the well-liked trainer."Well, if I can make the outfield I suppose I ought to be satisfied," spoke Jimmie Lee. "But I did want to get on a bag, or somewhere inside the diamond.""I'll take to the daisies and be thankful," remarked Spike;...
The Surprise
"Oh, get a little more speed on! Don't run so much like an ice wagon.Remember that the object is to get to the base before the ball does!""Lively now! Throw that in as if you meant it! We're not playing bean bag, remember!""Oh, swing to it! Swing to it! Make your body do some of the work as well as your arms!""Don't be afraid of the ball! It's hard, of course, that's the way it's made. But if you're going to flinch every time it comes your way you might as well play ping-pong!""Stand up to the plate! What if you do get hit?"Thus the coaches were trying to instill into the new candidates for the 'varsity nine some rudiments of how they thought the game should be played. Sharp and bitter the words were sometimes, bitten off with a snap and exploded with cutting sarcasm, but it was their notion of how to get the best out of a man, and perhaps it was."Remember we want to win games," declared Mr. Benson. "We're not on the diamond to give a ladies' exhibition. You've got to play, and play hard if you want to represent Yale.""That's right," chimed in Mr. Whitfield. "We've got to have the college championship this year. We've _GOT_ to have it. Now try that over," he commanded of Ford Weston, who had struck one man out in practice. "Do it again. That's the kind of playing we want."Joe, who had been catching with Spike, looked enviously at his rival, who was on the coveted mound, taking in succession many batters as they came up. Shorty Kendall was catching for the 'varsity pitcher, and the balls came into his big mitt with a resounding whack that told of speed."I wonder if I'll ever get there," mused Joe, and, somehow he regretted, for the first time since coming to Yale, that he had consented to the college arrangement. It seemed so impossible for him to make way against the handicap of other players ahead of him."If I'd finished at Excelsior," he told himself, "I think I'd have gotten into some minor league where good playing tells, and not class.Hang it all!"The practice went on. It was the first of the outdoor playing, and while the gymnasium work had seemed to develop some new and unexpectedly good material, the real test of the diamond sent some of the more...
His First Chance
Joe Matson's hope of a quick recognition from the man he had helped that day, and who had turned out to be Yale's head coach, was doomed to disappointment, for Mr. Hasbrook--or, to give him the title lovingly bestowed on him by the players, "Horsehide"--had something else to do just then besides recognizing casual acquaintances. He wanted to watch the playing.After a brief conference between himself and the other two coaches, in which the 'varsity captain had a part, Horsehide motioned for the playing to be resumed. He said little at first, and then when Weston, who was pitching, made a partial motion to throw the ball to first base, to catch a man there, but did not complete his evident intention, Mr.Hasbrook called out:"Hold on there! Wait a minute, Weston. That was as near a balk as I've ever seen, and if this was a professional game you might lose it for us, just as one of the world series was, by a pitcher who did the same thing.""What do you mean?" asked Weston, slightly surprised."I mean that pretending to throw a ball to first, and not completing the action, is a balk, and your opponents could claim it if they had been sharp enough. Where were your eyes?" he asked, of the scrub captain."I--er--I didn't think----""That's what your brains are for," snapped the head coach. "You can't play ball without brains, any more than you can without bases or a bat.Watch every move. It's the best general who wins battles--baseball or war. Now go on, and don't do that again, Weston, and, if he does, you call a balk on him and advance each man a base," ordered Horsehide.The 'varsity pitcher and the scrub captain looked crestfallen, but it was a lesson they needed to learn."He's sharp, isn't he?" said Joe."That's what makes him the coach he is," spoke Spike. "What's the use of soft-soap? That never made a ball nine.""No, I suppose not." Joe was wondering whether he ought to mention to his chum the chance meeting with Mr. Hasbrook, but he concluded that a wrong impression might get out and so he kept quiet, as he had done in the matter of the red paint on the porch. Nothing more had been heard about that act of vandalism, though the professor who had fallen and spoiled the valuable manuscripts was reported to be doing some quiet...
Joe Makes Good
For a moment our hero could scarcely believe his good fortune. He had been called to pitch for the scrub! Once more as he stood there, scarcely comprehending, Mr. Benson called out sharply:"Didn't you hear, Matson? You're to pitch against the 'varsity, and I want you to beat 'em!""Yes--yes, sir," answered Joe, in a sort of daze."And, 'varsity, if you don't pound him all over the field you're no good! Eat 'em up!" snapped the assistant coach."Don't let 'em win, scrub," insisted Mr. Whitfield, and thus it went on--playing one against the other to get the 'varsity to do its best."Play ball!" called the umpire. "Get to work. Come in, you fellows," and he motioned to those who were out on the field warming up."Congratulations, old man!" murmured Spike, as he shook Joe's hand. "You deserve it.""And so do you. I wish you were going to catch.""I wish so, too, but maybe my chance will come later. Fool 'em now.""I'll try."Joe had a vision of Bert Avondale, the regular scrub pitcher, moving to the bench, and for an instant his heart smote him, as he noted Bert's despondent attitude."It's tough to be displaced," murmured Joe. "It's a queer world where your success has to be made on someone else's failure, and yet--well, it's all in the game. I may not make good, but I'm going to try awfully hard!"He wondered how his advancement had come about, and naturally he reasoned that his preferment had resulted from the words spoken in private by Mr. Hasbrook."I wonder if I'd better thank him?" mused Joe. "It would be the right thing to do, and yet it would look as if he gave me the place by favor instead of because I've got a right to have it, for the reason that I can pitch. And yet he doesn't know that I can pitch worth a cent, unless some of the other coaches have told him. But they haven't watched me enough to know. However, I think I'll say nothing until I have made good."Had Joe only known it, he had been more closely watched since his advent on the diamond than he had suspected. It is not the coach who appears to be taking notes of a man's style of play who seems to find out most.Mr. Hasbrook, once he found that the lad who had rendered him such a service was at...
Another Step
"'Varsity beaten! What do you know about that?" gasped Ricky Hanover, as the crowd that had watched the game swarmed out on the diamond."And Joe Matson did it!" added Spike. "Jove! but I'm glad for his sake!And him only a Freshman, playing on a scrub class team. I'm glad!""So am I," added Jimmie Lee, who joined them."Will this get him a permanent place?" asked Ricky. "He's entitled to it.""Well, he's got his foot on the first rung of the ladder anyhow," was Jimmie's opinion. "But it'll be a good while before he pitches for the 'varsity. He's got to show the coaches that it was no freak work.Besides he's got a year to wait.""And he can do it!" declared Spike. "I haven't been catching him these last two weeks for nothing. Joe isn't a freak pitcher. He's got control, and that's better than speed or curves, though he has them, too."On all sides there was talk about the result of the practice game. Of course the second nine had, in times past, often beaten the 'varsity, for the element of luck played into the hands of the scrub as well as into those of its opponents.But the times were few and far between when the first nine had to go down to defeat, especially in the matter of a scrub Freshman pitcher administering it to them, and Joe's glory was all the greater."Congratulations, old man!" exclaimed Avondale, the scrub twirler whom Joe had temporarily displaced. "You saw your duty and you done it nobly, as the poet says. You didn't let 'em fuss you when you were in a tight corner, and that's what tells in a ball game. Shake!""Thanks!" exclaimed Joe. He knew just what it meant for his rival to do this, and he appreciated it. "You can have a whack at them next.""I'm afraid not," returned Avondale. "You did so well that they'll want to keep you at scrub, and you'll be on the 'varsity before you know it.""I wish I could think so," laughed Joe. As he spoke he saw Ford Weston passing behind him, and the 'varsity pitcher had heard what was said. A scowl passed over his face. He did not speak to Joe, but to Captain Hatfield, who was with him, the pitcher murmured, loudly enough to be heard:"It was just a fluke, that was all. We could have won only for the...
Plotting
Joe Matson was trembling when he went to his place, even after some lively warming-up practice with the catcher. The very thing he most wanted had come to him very unexpectedly. And yet he was sensible enough to realize that this was only a trial, and that it did not mean he would pitch against Amherst. But he had great hopes."Come!" he exclaimed to himself, as he got ready for the opening of the game. "I've got to pull myself together or I'll go all to pieces. Brace up!"The sight of Weston glaring at him helped, in a measure, to restore Joe to himself."He's hoping I won't make good," thought Joe. "But I will! I must!"It may have been because of Joe's natural nervousness, or because the scrub team was determined to show that they could bat even their own pitcher, that was the cause of so many runs coming in during the first inning. No one could rightly say, but the fact remained that the runs did come in, and it began to look bad for the 'varsity."I told you how it would be--putting in a green pitcher," complained Mr.Benson."Perhaps," admitted the head coach. "But wait a bit. Joe isn't as green as he looks. Wait until next inning."And he was justified, for Joe got himself well in hand, and the 'varsity, as if driven to desperation by another defeat staring them in the face so near to the Amherst game, batted as they never had before.Avondale was all but knocked out of the box, and the scrub captain substituted another pitcher, who did much better. Joe's former rival almost wept at his own inability.Meanwhile our hero was himself again, and though he did give three men their bases on balls, he allowed very few hits, so that the 'varsity took the game by a good margin, considering their bad start."That's the way to do it!" cried Captain Hatfield, when the contest was over."Do it to Amherst," was the comment of the head coach."We will!" cried the members of the first team."Good work, Matson," complimented Hatfield. "Can you do it again?""Maybe--if I get the chance," laughed Joe, who was on an elevation of delight."Oh, I guess you'll have to get the chance," spoke the captain. He did not notice that Weston was close behind him, but Joe did, and he saw the look of anger and almost hate that...
The Anonymous Letter
"Have you seen the _News_?" gasped Jimmie Lee, bursting into the room of Joe and his chum one afternoon, following some baseball practice. "It's great!""You mean have we _heard_ the news; don't you?" questioned Spike. "You can hear news, but not see it, that is unless the occurrence which makes news happens to come under your own observation. Where is your logic, you heathen? _Seen_ news!""Yes, that's what I mean!" snapped Jimmie. "I mean have you seen the last copy of the Yale _News_?""No; what is it?" asked Joe quickly. "Something about the baseball nine?""No, it's about those musty old manuscripts that got spoiled the time Professor Hardee slipped on his doorsteps in the red paint.""What about 'em?" demanded Joe, thinking of the time he had seen Weston slipping into his room, trying to conceal his hand on which was a scarlet smear. "What's new?""Why, it seems that some learned high-brow society wrote on to borrow them, to prove or disprove something that happened in the time of Moses, and they had to be refused as the sheepskins are illegible. The powers that be tried to clean off the paint, but it took some of the lettering with it, and Prof. Hardee and some of his friends are wild over the loss. The _News_ says it's irreparable, and there's even an editorial on it.""Well, that isn't much that's new," went on Joe, as he took the college paper which Jimmie held out to him. "It was known before that the parchments were pretty well on the blink. It's a shame, too, for they are the only ones in the world of that particular dynasty. What else?""Lots," went on Jimmie. "The _News_ hints that a committee of Seniors is working with Professor Hardee and some of the faculty, trying to find out who was responsible. If they do find out they may make the joker's folks pay heavy damages.""Yes, if they find out," put in Spike. "But it happened some time ago, and they haven't got a hint of it yet. It was a mean trick--I'll say that--but there are no welchers or squealers at Yale.""I'm not so sure of that," murmured Jimmie."What do you mean?" asked Joe quickly."Why this screed goes on to hint that the investigators have a line on who did it. They have some clews, it seems, and an exposure is hinted at.""Get out!" cried Joe, thinking...
The Cornell Host
"That's the way to do it!""Yale always can do it!""Bull dog grit!""The blue always wins!""They came--they saw--but--we conquered!"It was the close of the Yale-Amherst baseball game, and the sons of Eli had gloriously triumphed. They had trailed the banners of their opponents in the dust, they had raced around the bases, they had batted the ball into the far corners of the field, and they had raced home with the runs."I told you so!" chirped Jimmie Lee."Hold on!" cried Slim Jones. "Didn't you start to be a calamity howler, and say Yale wouldn't win?""Never!" asserted Jimmie."Yes, you did!""Well, I was only bluffing. I knew we could put it all over them.""And we did," said Spike in a low voice to Joe. "Only----""Only I didn't have much share in it," interrupted the aspirant for pitching honors.There had indeed been a "shake-up" on the nine the day of the game.Until the last moment it was not definitely settled who would pitch, and there were many rumors current. It lay between Joe, Weston, and McAnish, the left-handed one, and on the morning of the game--the first important one of the season for Yale--the newspapers had various guesses as to who would be the twirler.Joe had hoped to go in at the start, but when the game was called, and Captain Hatfield submitted his list, it was seen that Weston had the coveted place."Well, old man, you're back where you belong," said Avondale to him, as the name was called. "I suppose now, that little matter, which you were speaking to me about, can drop?""It can--if I remain pitcher," answered Weston. "But I've got it all cocked and primed to explode if I have to. I'm not going to sit tight and let some country whipper-snapper put it all over me.""I don't know as I blame you--and yet he seems a pretty decent sort.""Oh, he's not in our class!""Well, maybe not. Do your best!"And Weston did. Never had he pitched a better game--even his enemies, and he had not a few, admitted that. It was a "walkover" soon after the first few innings had demonstrated the superiority of Yale. Amherst was game, and fought to the last ditch, but neither in batting, fielding nor pitching was she the equal of the wearers of the blue.Joe, sitting on the bench, with the other substitutes, fretted his heart out, hoping for a chance to play, but...
Eager Hearts
"The battery for Yale will be Weston and Kendall, and for Cornell----"But the last announcement was given no heed by the supporters of the blue--at least by the players themselves, the substitutes, and Joe Matson in particular. A murmur went around."Weston! Weston's going to pitch!""After the work Baseball Joe's done too!""Why, Weston isn't in form.""Oh, he's practiced hard lately.""Yes, and he was doing some hot warming-up work a little while ago. I guess they'll pitch him all right.""He must have put up a kick, and Hasbrook gave in to him.""It looks so, and yet Horsehide generally doesn't play a man unless he can make good. That's Yale's way."These were only a few of the comments that were being heard on all sides. The Yale team looked somewhat amazed, and then, lest their enemies find out that they feared they had a weak spot, they braced up, smiled and acted as if it was a matter of course. And, as far as Cornell was concerned, they knew that there was rivalry between Weston and Joe, but as a pitcher is an uncertain quantity at best, they were not surprised that the 'varsity twirler whom they had faced the season before should again occupy the mound. It might be a part of the game to save Matson until later."Tough luck, Joe," said Spike, as he passed his friend."Yes--Oh, I don't know! I hadn't any right to expect to pitch!"Joe tried to be brave about it, but there was a sore feeling in his heart. He had hoped to go into the game."Sure you had a right to expect it!" declared Spike. "You're the logical pitcher. There's been some funny work going on, I'm sure. Weston has pulled off something.""Be careful, Spike.""Oh, I'm sure of it. Why, look at Horsehide's face!"Joe glanced at the head coach. Indeed the countenance of Mr. Hasbrook presented a study. He seemed puzzled as he turned away from a somewhat spirited conversation with Mr. Benson. For an instant his eyes met those of Joe, and the young pitcher thought he read in them pity, and yet a trace of doubt."I wonder if he has lost confidence in me?" thought Joe. "I wonder if he thinks I can't pitch in a big game?"Yet he knew in his own heart that he had not gone back--he was sure he could pitch better than he ever had before. The days at...
The Crimson Spot
"What do you think of him, anyhow?" asked Spike of his room-mate, as Weston passed on. "Isn't he the limit!""He certainly doesn't seem to care much for me," replied Joe, with a grim smile. "But I suppose it's natural. Almost anyone would feel that way at the prospect of being replaced.""Oh, he makes me tired!" exclaimed Spike. "He ought to stand for Yale--not for Ford Weston. It's the first time in a good many years that any player has placed himself above the team.""But Weston hasn't done that yet.""No, but that's what he's scheming for. He as good as said that he'll pitch for the 'varsity no matter what happens.""Who's that? What's up?" asked another voice, and, turning, the two chums saw Ricky Hanover. "Oh, you're talking about Weston," he added, as he noted the defeated pitcher walking away. "What's he been saying?"They told him, and Ricky, making a wry face, went on:"So that's how things are; eh? Well, if Weston tries that sort of game, I can see the finish of the Yale nine. It'll be the tail end of the kite, and the championship will be in the soup. In fact it's beginning to gravitate that way now, with the loss of this Cornell game.""But where does Weston get his pull?" demanded Spike. "How is it that they put him in to-day, when it was almost known that he couldn't make good. And here was Joe all ready to go on the mound. You saw what he did when he got there and yet----""Spare my blushes! I'm a modest youth!" laughed Joe."That's all right, there's something back of all this," continued Spike, vigorous in defence of his chum. "Why should the coaches put Weston in, and then, when he slumped, call on Avondale before they did you, Joe? It isn't right, and I think Horsehide should have made a better fight for you. You claim he's a friend of yours, Joe.""Well, yes, in a way. And yet if I had to depend on his friendship to get on the mound I'd never go there. I want to stand on my own feet and have the right to pitch because I can do better than some other fellow.That's all I ask--a fair show. I don't want any favors, and Mr. Hasbrook isn't the man to give them to me, if I'd take them.""I guess you're right there," commented Ricky."But...
Joe's Triumph
"Red paint!" exclaimed Ricky."Who put it there?" asked Spike, and he looked queerly at Joe."Not I," replied the pitcher. "And yet it's fresh. I can't understand.You say you heard someone in here, Ricky?""As sure as guns.""Maybe it was some of those pesky Freshies trying some of their funny work," suggested Spike."Hazing and tricks are about over," came from Joe, as he looked more closely at the red spot. "And yet someone seems to have been in here, daubing up my clothes. I wonder if they tried it on any more? Lucky it was an old suit."He looked in the closet, but the coat, with the crimson spot on the sleeve, seemed to be the only one soiled."I have it!" suddenly cried Spike."What, for cats' sake?" asked Ricky."It's good luck!""Good luck?" demanded Joe. "How do you make that out? These aren't my glad rags, that's a fact, but still paint is paint, and I don't want it daubed all over me. Good luck? Huh!""Of course it is," went on Spike. "Don't you see? That's red--Harvard's hue. We play them next week, you'll pitch and we've got their color already. Hurray! We're going to win! It's an omen!""Cæsar's pineapples!" exclaimed Ricky. "So it is. I'm going to grind out a song on it," and, having rather a knack with verse, he was soon scribbling away in rhyme. "How's this?" he demanded a few minutes later."Listen fellows, and pick out a good tune for it," and he recited:"We've got Harvard's colors, We'll tell it to you.The red always runs At the sight of the blue.So cheer boys, once more, This bright rainbow hue, The Red will turn purple When mixed with the blue!""Eh? How's that?" he asked proudly. "Pretty nifty I guess! Your Uncle Pete isn't so slow. I'm going to have the fellows practice this for the game, when you pitch, Joe.""Maybe I won't.""Oh, yes you will. But what do you think of it?""Rotten!" exclaimed Spike."Punk!" was the opinion of Slim Jones, who had entered in time to hear the verse. "Disinfect it, Ricky.""Aw, you fellows are jealous because you can't sling the muse around when you want to. Guess I'll try a second spasm.""Not in here," declared Spike, quickly. "This is a decent, law-abiding place, and, so far, has a good reputation. I'm not going to have the Dean raiding it just because you think you're a poet. That stuff would...
Hard Luck
Shouts and yells greeted the announcement of the umpire--cheers from the admirers of the respective batteries."Yah!" voiced the wearers of the crimson. "That's our one best bower! Oh you Elkert! Tear 'em apart, Snyder!"Back came the challenge from the sons of Yale."You're our meat, Harvard! Keep your eye on the ball--that's all you'll be able to do. Fool 'em, Matson. 'Rah for Baseball Joe!"Our hero was becoming quite a favorite with his classmates, many of whom now knew of his one ambition. But Kendall had his admirers too."He eats 'em alive--Shorty Kendall does!" came the cry. "Look out for our bear-cats, Harvard!"Once more came a riot of cheers and songs, each college group striving its best to outdo the other, giving its favorite cries or songs."Come, get together, you two, and make sure you don't have any mix-up on signals," exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook to Joe and the catcher. "We want to win this game. And, Joe, don't forget what I told you about getting in on all the plays you can. We'll need every man if we take this game.Harvard has several good twirlers, and she's been playing like a house afire. Watch yourselves.""Then I'm really going to pitch?" asked Joe. It was almost the only thing he had said since hearing the announcement, after Spike had clapped him on the back with such force."Pitch! Of course you're going to pitch," declared the head coach. "And I want you to pitch your head off. But save your arm, for there are going to be more games than this. But, mind!" and he spoke with earnestness. "You've got to make good!""I will!" exclaimed Joe, and he meant it."Come over here," suggested Shorty. "Plug in a few and we'll see if you're as good as you were yesterday," for Joe and he had had considerable practice, as, in fact, had all the pitchers, including Weston. As for that lad, when he heard the announcement a scowl shot across his face, and he uttered an exclamation."What's the matter?" asked De Vere, who had become rather intimate with Ford of late."Matter! Isn't there enough when that--when he pitches?" and he nodded his head toward Joe."Why; do you think they'll get his goat, or that he'll blow, and throw the game?""He might," sneered Weston, "but I have a right to be on the mound to-day. I was half promised that I could pitch, and now,...
At West Point
"We'd a right to that game!""Sure we had.""And we did have it in the refrigerator, only it got out through the drain pipe, I guess.""It's tough luck!"The Yale team and its admirers--no, in this case its sympathizers--were coming off the field after the Harvard defeat. All sorts of comments, excuses, philosophical expressions, and revilings at fate, were heard.Joe said but little, though he thought much. Every error--every little point he had missed--seemed to stand out glaringly."Never mind, old man!"It was Spike who spoke, putting his arm affectionately around his chum's shoulders."I--I can't help it," replied the pitcher, bitterly. "We lost the game.""That's just it--we did--not you. Cæsar's ghost, man! You can't carry the whole blame of losing the game, any more than you can claim the whole credit when we win. It's all in the day's work.""I know, but----""'But me no buts,' now Joe. Just brace up. This is only one of the championship games. There are more to come, and we'll get enough to put us on top of the heap. I only wish I had your chances to perform in public.""I wish you had, Spike. But I guess this was my last chance.""Nonsense! They'll play you again. Why Weston--or Avondale either, for that matter--wouldn't have done half as well, I think.""Oh, so that's your opinion; is it?" snapped a voice behind them. There was no need to turn to know that Weston was there, and it took but a glance to show that he was frowning and sneering."It sure is," retorted Spike, sturdily, for he was not afraid to air his opinions."Well, you've got another think coming," snapped Weston. "I'll pitch a game pretty soon, and show you what's what."Joe did not make reply, but he wondered if Weston's words held significance."Maybe they won't let me pitch after this," he mused. Spike, reading his thoughts, said:"Now don't you go to thinking gloomy thinks, Joe. You're all right if you only believe so. Have some confidence in yourself.""I have, but after the way things went to pieces in the last inning I don't know what to think.""Oh, bosh! If you'd had anything like decent support it never would have happened. Hutchinson muffing that ball started us down hill.""That's what!" chimed in Jimmie Lee, coming along just then. "This is only one game--the fortunes of war. We'll beat 'em next time; wallop Princeton, and take the championship.""West Point is next...
A Sore Arm
Yale won the toss and chose to go to the bat last--always an advantage it seems--so Joe had to go on the mound as soon as practice was concluded. The usual practice of the home team batting last did not prevail on this occasion.The stands were filled with a mass of spectators, in which pretty girls seemed to predominate. At least Joe assumed that they were pretty for they had escorts who looked on them with eyes that seemed to bear witness to this designation. Many of them were "stunning," to quote De Vere, who took a position in the outfield during practice."Just so he could be nearer some of the girls," declared Jimmie Lee, who had the reputation of being a "woman hater.""Some crowd," remarked Joe to Spike."Yes, and a good one, too," declared Joe's room-mate. "It isn't all howling for Yale blood. There are a lot of old grads. here to-day, as well as a lot of army men, and we've got our friends with us. You've got to play for all you're worth.""I intend to," declared Joe, "but----""Now there you go!" interrupted his chum. "Getting doubtful of yourself.Stop it, I tell you! Just make up your mind that you're going to make good and you will. These fellows are only human, and, though they've got the game down to a fine point, and play together like machinery, on account of their drill practice, yet baseball is always uncertain. Yale luck is bound to turn up sooner or later.""It had better be sooner then," remarked Joe, with a grim smile. "Two defeats, hand running, would about put me out of business. I'd resign.""Nonsense!" declared Spike. "You can make good all right. Remember that Weston is just hankering for a chance to displace you, so don't give it to him. Hold on to the mound.""I intend to. And yet I heard something that set me thinking," and Joe related what he had inadvertently listened to, adding:"I may be taken out after two innings.""Not much!" declared Spike emphatically. "I see what's going on. Weston is trying to work his society pull and get the trainers to pitch him.The cad!""Well, I can't find the heart to blame him," said Joe, softly."I can," snapped Spike. "He's putting himself above the team.""Well, maybe it will all come out right," said Joe, but his tone did not support his words, for he ended with...
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...
Vindication
Joe fairly staggered back, so startled was he by the words of the Dean--and, not only the words, but the manner--for the Dean was solemn, and there was a vindictiveness about him that Joe had never seen before."Why--why, what do you mean?" gasped Joe. "I never put the red paint on the steps!""No?" queried the Dean coldly. "Then perhaps you can explain how this pot of red paint came to be hidden in your closet.""My closet!" cried Joe, and at once a memory of the crimson stain on his coat came to him. "I never----""Wait," went on the Dean coldly. "I will explain. It is not altogether circumstantial evidence on which I am accusing you. The information came to me--anonymously I regret to say--that you had some red paint in your closet. The spoiling of the valuable manuscripts was such an offence that I decided to forego, for once, my objection to acting on anonymous information. I did ignore one letter that accused you----""Accused me!" burst out Joe, remembering the incident in chapel."Yes. But wait, I am not finished. I had your room examined in your absence, and we found--this." He held up a pot of red paint."I had the paint on the steps analyzed," went on the Dean. "It is of exactly the same chemical mixture as this. Moreover we found where this paint was purchased, and the dealer says he sold it to a student, but he will not run the risk of identifying him. But I deem this evidence enough to bar you from athletics, though I will not expel or punish you."Barred from athletics! To Joe, with the baseball season approaching the championship crisis, that was worse than being expelled."I--I never did it!" he cried."Do you know who did, if you did not?" asked the Dean.Like a flash it came to Joe. He could not tell. He could not utter his suspicions, though he was sure in his own heart that Weston was the guilty one--the twice guilty one, for Joe was sure his enemy had put the paint in the closet to direct suspicion to him."Well?" asked the Dean, coldly."I--I have nothing to say," faltered Joe."Very well. You may go. I shall not make this matter public, except to issue the order barring you from athletics."Without a word Joe left. Inside of an hour it was noised all over the college that he could not...
Bucking The Tiger
"Hurray! Matson is going to pitch for us!""Get out! He's barred!""Not now. It's all off. He'll pitch against Princeton!""Where'd you hear it?""What's the matter with Weston?""Oh, he's gone--vamoosed--flew the coop. Couldn't stand the disgrace.It'll all be out in the morning."Student meeting student on the campus, in dormitories, in the commons, at Glory's--anywhere in fact, passed these, and similar remarks."And to think you knew, all the while, that Weston put that red paint on the steps, and you wouldn't squeal!" cried Spike, clapping his chum on the shoulder."Would you?" asked Joe quietly."Well--er--now you have got me, old man! But it's all right. Come on out and celebrate."And they celebrated as they never had before. Joe was given an ovation when he entered Glory's, and every member of the nine--substitutes and all--were there to do him honor. That is, all but Weston and De Vere.They had quietly taken themselves from Yale.The explanation was simple. Weston had, as my readers know already, put the red paint on the professor's steps. He was not discovered, for Joe kept quiet. Then, when our hero was preferred as pitcher, in the bitterness of his heart, Weston planned to throw suspicion on him. He sent the first anonymous letter, though Avondale knew nothing of it.Then Weston took De Vere into his confidence and the two evolved the scheme of smuggling the pot of red paint, that Weston had used, into Joe's closet. The epileptic lad, Charlie, was the innocent medium, and once the paint was hidden Weston sent the second anonymous letter to the Dean, telling about it.What happened is well known. Joe was accused, and would not inform on another to save himself. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to do--certainly he owed it to himself to have the right to vindication. I am not defending him, I am only telling of what happened.Then came the dramatic episode, when Spike unwittingly brought out the truth from Charlie. It seems that the boy's conscience had been troubling him, for though Weston pretended it was only an innocent joke he was playing on Joe, the lad suspected something.And so the full explanation was made to the Dean, and the latter, publicly, at chapel the next morning, begged Joe's pardon, and restored him to his full rights. As for Weston and De Vere, they were not in evidence. They had left Yale."Sharp practice from now on," ordered Mr. Hasbrook,...
The Championship
Such a crowd as filled the big Polo Grounds! The grandstands seemed full, and the bleachers too, but the elevated and surface roads brought more constantly, and the honking autos added to the clamor. It was a perfect day, and the ball field--one of the best in the world--where professionals meet professionals--was laid out with mathematical precision.From their lairs near the press boxes the tigers trotted to be welcomed with shouts and yells from their supporters and the songs of their fellows."They beat us once--as we did them," said Joe in a low voice. "They may beat us again.""Not much!" cried Spike. "A Yale victory is in the air. I can feel it!Look at that blue," and he pointed to the sky, "and then at that," and he waved toward the azure-hued Yale stand, "and say we're going to lose!I guess not!""A cheer for every man!" yelled the leader of the Princeton cheer masters, who were armed with big megaphones as were their New Haven rivals, except that the ribbons were of the tiger's stripes. "A cheer for every man!"And then, as the Jersey cheer was howled there followed each time the name of some player--sweet music to their ears, no doubt."They're signalling to us," said Spike a little later. "I guess they want us inside to come out all in a bunch, as Princeton did."This was the import of the message delivered to them a little later as they filed into the dressing rooms, where the team and substitutes now were."Remember, boys," said the captain solemnly, "we've got to win. It's Yale's luck against Princeton's maybe, but even with that it's got to be bulldog pluck against the tiger's fierceness. They can play ball.""And so can we!" declared several, in low voices."Prove it--by beating 'em!" was the quick retort. "Pile out now, and have some snap to you!"If Yale had gone wild, so now did the students from her rival college.The orange and black, which had been in evidence on the opposite stand to that which showed the blue, now burst forth in a frenzy of color.Hats were tossed in the air, canes too, and one excited man dashed his tall silk head covering about with such energy that he split it on the walking stick of a gentleman seated near him."I beg your pardon," said the one with the stick."Don't mention it! My fault entirely--I'm too excited, I...
