Back Aa

Baseball Joe at Yale

Close

<h2>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> <h3>JOE’S TRIUMPH</h3> “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!” [194] “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: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “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!” </div> </div> “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.” [195] “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 give our English Lit. prof. a chill. Can it, Ricky, can it.” “You’re jealous, that’s all,” and despite the protest Ricky proceeded to grind out a second verse, that he insisted on reading to his audience, which, by this time had increased to half a dozen lads from neighboring rooms. There was quite a jolly little party, and Ricky demanded that they sing his new song, which they finally did, with more or less success. The strains wafted out of doors and passing students were attracted by the sound until the place was swarming with congenial spirits, and nothing was talked of but the coming game with Harvard. [196] “It’s queer though, about that red paint,” said Spike, later that night, when he and Joe were alone. “It sure is,” agreed the pitcher. “Maybe Hoppy sent someone around to do a bit of daubing, and the chap got in here by mistake,” suggested his chum. But inquiry developed that this was not so, and the mystery remained unsolved for a time. But after he got in bed, Joe did some hard thinking. He recalled the red paint episode of the spoiled manuscript, and wondered, without believing, if Weston could have come to his room. “He might have,” reflected Joe, “and he might have had a hardened spot of red paint on his clothes from daubing it on the steps that time. If the hardened upper crust rubbed off, it would leave a fresh spot that might have gotten on my coat. And yet what would he be doing in my closet, let alone in the room here? No, it can’t be that. Unless he sneaked in here—knowing Spike and I would be away—looking for something to use against me. “He doesn’t want me to pitch, that’s a fact, and if he could find something against me he’d use it. But he can’t. I’m glad I’m not a candidate for any of their queer secret societies here, or I’d be worrying about them not asking me to join. I’m[197] going to keep out of it. But that red spot is sure queer.” All Yale was on edge on the day before the Harvard game, which was to take place on the Cambridge diamond. The team and the substitutes were trained to the minute, and all ready to make the trip, together with nearly a thousand “rooters” who were going along to lend moral support. Particular pains had been taken with the pitching staff, and Joe, Weston, McAnish and Avondale had been worked to the limit. They had been coached as they never had been before, for Yale wanted to win this game. As yet it was not known who would pitch. At least the ’varsity candidates did not know, and Joe was hoping for at least half a game. He was modest, for Weston arrogantly declared that he would last the nine innings. His friends said little, but he had a certain power in college not to be overlooked. The stadium was thronged with spectators as the teams trotted out for a little warming-up practice. In the cheering stands for the wearers of the blue the locomotive cry, the Boola song, a new one—“Bulldog Grit!”—and Ricky’s effusion were gone over again. “Hit the Line!” came as a retort, and the cheerers tried to outdo each other. “Do you think you’ll pitch, Joe?” asked Spike,[198] in a low tone, as he and his chum practised off to one side. “I don’t know. There are all sorts of rumors going about. I’d like to—I guess you know how much—just as you would like to catch—but we can’t always have what we want. The coaches are having a talk now. Weston seems pretty confident.” “Yes, the cad! I wish he’d play fair.” “Oh, well,” said Joe, with an air of resignation, “I suppose he can’t help it. I guess I shouldn’t like it if I’d pitched for a year, and then found a new man trying for my place.” “But if the new man was better than you, and it meant the winning of the game?” asked Spike, as he took a vicious ball that Joe slugged to him. “Oh, well, of course in theory the best man ought to play—that’s not saying I’m the best man by a long shot!” Joe hastened to add; “but even in theory it’s hard to see another man take your place.” “Something’s doing,” said Spike suddenly. “The conference has broken up.” Joe looked nervously to where the coaches and captain had been talking. Tom Hatfield was buttoning on his shortstop glove, and then taking it off again as though under a strain. He walked over to the umpire, and Weston, seeing him, made a joking remark to a companion. He started for the players’ bench, for Harvard[199] was to bat last, and Yale would come up first for the stick-work. “It looks like him,” remarked Spike in a low voice. “Well, I’ll be ready when they call me,” said Joe, with a good nature he did not feel. The umpire raised his megaphone. There was a hush, and then came the hollow tones: “Batteries for to-day. Harvard: Elkert and Snyder—Yale: Matson and Kendall.” “By Halifax!” cried Spike, clapping Joe on the back with such force that he nearly knocked over his chum. “You pitch, old man!” <hr class="chap" />[200] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2