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Rival Pitchers of Oakdale

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<h3> CHAPTER XIII. </h3> <h3> RACKLIFF'S TREACHERY. </h3> Like one stunned Roy Hooker passed out through the gate and turned down the street, dully conscious of the continued rejoicing uproar behind him. Alternately buoyed by hope and weighted by fear, he had passed the most trying hour of his life, and now in his bosom he carried a heart that seemed sick and faint and scarcely able to pump the blood through his veins. "I was a fool to listen to Rackliff," he muttered; and over and over he kept repeating, "I was a fool, a fool!" Suddenly apprehensive lest he should be overtaken by some one who might observe his all-too-evident wretchedness, he quickened his steps and made straight for his home. He did not enter the house, and as he slipped through the yard he cast sidelong glances toward the windows, hoping his mother might not be looking out. In the carriage house he sat down on the box beside his motorcycle. "I was a fool—an awful fool!" he kept repeating. Presently, his mind running over the game, feature by feature, he began to realize that he had not felt as much elation as he would have supposed might come to him on witnessing Springer's misfortune in the fifth inning. He had imagined it would afford him unreserved exultation to see Phil batted out of the box, but his rejoicing had been most remarkably alloyed by an emotion of another sort, which even now he could not understand. And, as he sat there, slowly but surely he began to perceive the real reason for Springer's failure. "It was lack of control," he finally exclaimed. "That's just it. He was pitching all right until they broke his nerve by three hits in succession. After that he couldn't find the pan to save his life. If he'd been able to put the ball where he wished and steady down a little, he might have stopped that batting rally and had the satisfaction of pitching the game through to a successful finish. Now, Rod Grant gets all the glory." He was still sitting there, obsessed by his dismal meditations, when a shadow appeared in the doorway, and he looked up to see Rackliff, the stub of a cigarette in his fingers, gazing at him. For a full minute, perhaps, neither boy spoke; and then Herbert, tossing the smoking stub over his shoulder, sunk his hands deep in his pockets and uttered two words: "Hard luck." "Rotten," said Roy. "But you certainly were all to the punk in your judgment about that game." "Oh, I don't know," objected Herbert, leaning against the side of the doorway and crossing his tan-shod feet. "Barville should have won." "How do you make that out?" "They batted Springer out, didn't they? They sent him to the stable, all right." "He lost his control, and Eliot had to take him out." "Well, if you hadn't been mistaken in your judgment, that would have settled the game." "If I hadn't been mistaken!" cried Roy resentfully. "Precisely." "Why, I don't see——" "Don't you? Then you should consult an oculist. You said Springer was the only pitcher the team had; you insisted that Grant couldn't pitch a winning game." "Well, I know," faltered Roy; "but I——" "You were mistaken—sadly mistaken. It's been an expensive blunder in judgment for both of us." A flush rose into Hooker's pale cheeks, and he stood up. "Now, look here, Mr. Rackliff," he said harshly, "don't you try to shoulder it all on to me. I won't stand for that. You professed to be dead sure that under any circumstances Barville could down Oakdale. As to the matter of expense, it may have been expensive for you', but, according to our distinctly understood agreement, I don't lose anything." Herbert lifted his eyebrows slightly, producing his cigarette case and fumbling in it vainly, as it was empty. "Agreement?" he said. "What agreement?" Hooker choked. "You know; don't pretend that you don't know. I hope you're not going back on your word. If you do——" He stopped, unable to continue. "Oh, yes," said Herbert slowly, "I think I know what you mean. Of course I'm not going back on my word to a pal." "Then give me the money I let you have to bet on Barville." "Why, that money's gone. We lost it." "Yes, but you pledged yourself to make good any loss I might sustain. There are reasons why I must have that money back—right away, too." "I'm sorry," murmured Herbert, regretfully returning the empty cigarette case to his pocket; "but I'm afraid you'll have to wait a while. I went broke myself—haven't got a whole dollar left in the exchequer." "But I've got to have it," insisted Roy huskily. "I depended on getting it back to-night." Herbert laughed and snapped his yellow fingers. "When a thing is impossible, it can't be done, old fellow. You don't need money in this dead hole, anyhow. Why, a profligate couldn't spend ten dollars a week here, if he tried. You'll simply have to wait until my old man coughs up another consignment of the needful." Roy sat down again, his face wearing such a look of dismay that Herbert was both puzzled and amused. "To see you now," observed the city youth, "any one might fancy you a bank cashier who had speculated disastrously with the funds of the institution. Four dollars and sixty-five cents—that was the amount of your loss; and you look as if you had dropped a thousand." "I want to tell you something," said Hooker suddenly; but again he stopped short and seemed to find it impossible to proceed. "I'm listening," encouraged Rackliff. "Let it come. Great Scott! I'd like to have a cigarette." But Roy, after remaining silent a few moments longer, slowly shook his head. "I won't tell you," he muttered; "I can't. But look here, Rack, you've got to get that money for me as soon as you can. I need it—if you only knew how I need it!" "I'll drop my old pater a line to-night, informing him that I'm financially ruined. Gee! that makes me think of that little runt, Cooper! He certainly irritated me some by his insolent yapping." "You came pretty near getting into trouble trying to coach Barville. You certainly had your nerve with you. I'd never had the crust to try that." Herbert frowned. "It would have been all right, only for that big stiff, Bunk Lander. He threatened to punch me up, and I knew he was just the sort of a brainless fellow to do it. Only for his interference, Barville would have taken the game, and we'd be on Easy Street to-night." "Eh?" exclaimed Roy, puzzled again. "I don't think I quite get you. I don't see how Lander's interference with you had anything to do with the result of the game." The city youth coughed and shrugged his shoulders, a singularly crafty smile playing over his face. "Of course, you don't see," he nodded. "I'll admit that I was somewhat too hasty. I should have waited a while longer before I attempted to put in my oar. That was where I blundered; but I didn't quite reckon on Lander." "You've got me guessing. I wish you'd explain." "I will. Did you think I took that journey to Barville on your old motorcycle merely for recreation?" "Not exactly; I had an idea you went over there to talk with Copley and Roberts for the purpose of finding out how strong the Barville nine really was." "Well, that was a part of the reason, but not the whole of it. I had something else on my mind. In case I became satisfied that the two teams were pretty evenly matched, I had a little plan through which I felt confident I could make it a dead sure thing for Barville. I was not off my base, either, and it would have worked out charmingly if that big duffer, Lander, hadn't dipped in and messed it for us." "I'm still in the dark." "Don't you remember that when I got back I asked you about Eliot's signals to the pitcher?" "Yes." "I thought I knew them, but I wanted to be dead sure; for I'd made arrangements with Copley to tip off certain Barville batters who could be trusted to the kind of balls that would be pitched. This was to be done in case the necessity arose, which it did when Oakdale took the lead and Springer seemed to be going well, with every prospect of holding them down. Then I proceeded to get down close to the ropes back of first base, where, by watching, I could come pretty near catching Eliot's signs. Sometimes I couldn't see them distinctly, but almost always I could. I was tipping off the Barville batters when they proceeded to fall on Springer and pound him beautifully. They did so because they knew just the kind of a ball he was going to pitch." "Great Caesar!" muttered Roy, who was again standing. "You did that? How——" "Oh, I'm surprised at your dullness," laughed Rackliff. "You heard me coaching. You heard me calling out for the batters to 'get into it,' 'hit it out,' 'drop on it,' 'give it a rise,' and so forth." "Yes." "Yes; well, there you are. When I said 'get into it,' it meant that Springer would pitch an in-shoot. 'Hit it out,' meant that he would use an outcurve, and——" "Holy smoke!" gasped Hooker. "It's a wonder nobody got on. Do you suppose Lander——" "Nit. That big bonehead didn't tumble. He was simply sore because I was a student at Oakdale and seemed to be rooting for Barville. All the same, he stuck to me like a leech, and I had to quit or get into a nasty fight with him. I couldn't afford to have my face beaten up, even to win ten dollars. By Jove! I've simply got to have a whiff." In silence Hooker watched the shifty, scheming, treacherous city youth turn and search on the drive outside the door, recover the cigarette stub he had tossed away, relight it, and inhale the smoke with a relish that told of a habit fixed beyond breaking. Thus watching and thinking of the fellow's qualmless treachery to his own school team, Roy felt the first sensation of revulsion toward Rackliff. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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