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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> <h3>VINDICATION</h3> 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[231] 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. [232] “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 pitch against Princeton, and great was the regret, mingled with anxiety. “What in thunder is up?” asked Captain Hatfield, as he sought out Joe. “Nothing.” “Oh, come off! Can’t you tell?” “No,” answered Joe, and that was all he would say. Joe did not go to the Yale-Princeton game. Yale won. Won easily, though had Weston, who pitched, not been ably supported the story might have been a different one. “One scalp for us,” announced Spike. “Yes,” assented Joe gloomily. “Oh, you get out!” cried Spike. “I’m not going to stand for this. You’ve got to keep in form. There’s no telling when this thing will all come out right, and you want to be in condition to pitch. You and I will keep up practice. The Dean can’t stop you from that.” Nor did he try, and, though Joe was hard to move at first, he soon consented to indulge in pitching practice with his chum. And then life at Yale went on much as before, though Joe’s heart was[233] bitter. He seldom saw Weston, who was again first choice for ’varsity pitcher. Weston did fairly well, too, though some games Yale should have won she lost. But it was to Princeton that all eyes turned, looking for the college championship. Could Yale win the next contest? The answer was not long delayed. Two weeks later the bulldog invaded the tiger’s lair and was eaten up—to the end of his stubby tail. Yale received the worst beating in her history. “And it’s up to Weston!” declared Spike savagely, when he came back from Princeton. “He was absolutely rotten. Went up in the air first shot, and they got seven runs the first inning. Then it was all over but the shouting, for Avondale and McAnish couldn’t fill in the gap. Oh, Joe, if you could only pitch!” “But I can’t.” “You’ve just got to! Yale has a chance yet. It’s a tie now for the championship. The deciding game will be played on the New York Polo Grounds in two weeks. You’ve got to pitch!” “I don’t see how I can.” “Well, I’m going to!” and Spike strode from the room, his face ablaze with anger and firm with determination. It seems that one of the janitors about the college had a son who was an epileptic. The lad[234] was not badly afflicted and was able, most of the time, to help his father, sometimes doing the cleaning at one of the student clubs. It was to this club that Spike went when he burst out of his room, intent on finding, in some fashion, a way of vindicating Joe, for he was firm in his belief that Joe was innocent in spite of the silence. There had been rain the night before, and on a billboard adjoining the club room some of the gaudy red and yellow posters, announcing the final Yale-Princeton game, had been torn off. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Spike picked up part of a sheet, colored a vivid red. At that moment, from the side entrance, Charlie, the janitor’s son, came out, and Spike, who had often given him odd tasks to do, and who felt sorry for the afflicted one, playfully thrust the red paper at him, saying: “Here, Charlie, take it home, and let your little sister cut out some paper dolls.” He slapped the paper on the lad’s hand, and being damp and pasty it stuck there, like a splotch of blood. Charlie shrank back, cowering and frightened, whimpering like a child, and mumbling: “Don’t! Oh, don’t Mr. Poole. Don’t put that on me. I—I can’t bear it. It’s been haunting me. I’ll tell all I know. The red paint—I put it there. But he—he made me. Some of it got on[235] my hand, and I wiped it off on his coat. Oh, the blood color! Take it away. I—I can’t stand it!” “What’s that?” fairly yelled Spike. “Red paint? Here, tell me all you know! Jove, I begin to see things now!” “Take it off! Take it off!” begged Charlie, and he trembled so that Spike feared he would have a seizure. “There—there—it’s all right,” he said soothingly. “I’ll take it off,” and he removed the offending paper. “Now you come with me, and tell me all about it,” he went on quietly. And Charlie obeyed, like a child. A little later Spike was closeted with the Dean, taking Charlie with him, and when they came out Joe’s room-mate said: “Then the ban is removed, sir?” “Certainly, Poole,” replied the Dean, “and I will make a public explanation in the morning. I am very sorry this occurred, and I deeply regret it. But circumstances pointed to him, and I felt I had to act. Never again, though, shall I place any faith in an anonymous letter. Yes, everything will be all right. If Matson had only spoken, though!” “It’s just like him not to,” said Spike. <hr class="chap" />[236] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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