“Oh, rot! What’s the good of talking that way?” asked Tracy Gilberth. “The nine’s coming along all right. What if Artmouth did rub it into us? We had an off day; every team’s liable to have them. Look at last year.”

“I know,” answered Joe, “we had plenty of them then, and see what happened! We lost to Robinson, seven to nothing; we scarcely made a hit! If I thought – if I thought we were going to lose this year, I’d – I’d cut and run; honest, Tracy, I would!”

“That’d be a nice thing to do, wouldn’t it?” asked the other disgustedly. “Fellows would be proud of you, wouldn’t they?”

“It would be better than losing again,” muttered Joe.

“Oh, get out, Joe! Brace up; you’re off your feed, that’s what’s the matter with you. I heard ‘Baldy’ telling Hanson yesterday that you were going stale. He didn’t mean me to hear it; but I couldn’t very well help it. That’s why you’re out here with me in my ‘bubble’ instead of taking batting practise this morning.”

“Oh, I know all that. A trainer doesn’t send a fellow out for rides on Saturday mornings unless he’s gone stale or has something else the matter. I suppose I am out of sorts, Tracy. And I guess I’d rather stay and take a licking like a little man than run away, but – ” He stopped and scowled ahead of him at the dusty road. Then, “It’s all well enough to talk about ‘honorable defeat,’ and all that, but it’s mighty hard to lose your big game when you’re captain and have worked hard and put your whole heart into it.”

“Of course it is; I know that,” answered Tracy soothingly. “But you’re not going to lose. You’re going to win. So buck up, old chap!”

“And there’s poor old Tom Higgins,” Joe continued dispiritedly. “What will he say? I promised him I’d win this year. He’s coming up next week, if he can, to coach for a few days; I told you, didn’t I? What’ll he think when he sees how things are going?”

“Oh, Tom Higgins be blowed!” cried Tracy. “He couldn’t win himself, and I’d like to know what business he has finding fault with you if you don’t win, either?”

“But I promised him – ”

“Well, supposing you did? If you can’t win, you can’t, and that’s all there is to it. Every fellow on the team is going to work as hard as he knows how; every fellow is going to stand by you until the last man’s out. If we lose, it’ll be simply because Robinson’s got a better baseball nine. Cheer up, now, Joe, or I’ll run this machine into the ditch there and send you out on your silly old nut.”

The two were speeding comfortably along River Street in Tracy’s automobile. It was ten o’clock of a fresh morning in the first week of June. They had left the village a half mile behind and were chugging along over a somewhat dusty country road with green hillsides to the right and the gleaming river to the left. Occasionally the fragrant air was sullied with the smell of gasoline, and Joe sniffed disapprovingly and made uncomplimentary remarks about motor vehicles in general, and Tracy’s in particular. But Tracy, who had had his orders from Simson to cheer Joe up and bring him home in good spirits, refused to take umbrage, and declared that gasoline had a rather pleasant odor.

Joe was certainly suffering from nerves, and had been ever since the disastrous game with Artmouth, two days before, when Erskine had gone down ingloriously to the tune of 17 to 1, the 1 being the result of good fortune rather than good playing. Perhaps, as Tracy put it, the team had merely had an off day; at all events its performance had been anything but encouraging to the supporters of the Purple, and had thrown Joe into the depths of despair. With the final game of the season, the contest with Robinson, but two weeks distant, he saw only defeat ahead.

They were in sight of the Cove now, and Tracy suddenly pointed ahead. “What in thunder’s that, Joe?” he asked. Joe roused himself from unprofitable thoughts and looked toward the point indicated by his friend’s finger.

“Must be a duck,” he said finally.

“Duck be blowed! There aren’t any ducks around here at this time of year. Perhaps – I tell you what it is, Joe, it’s a man’s head! See? Some one’s in swimming.”

“Queer place to swim, among all those rushes,” Joe responded. “But I guess you’re right. We can tell for sure farther on.”

“Yes. Look; there he comes out. There’s a sort of beach there, remember? He’s walking out, and – ”

“If it doesn’t look like Jack Weatherby, I’ll eat my hat!” Joe interrupted.

“Weatherby!” echoed Tracy. “What’s he doing down here? He’s at practise.”

“No, only the first squad from ten until eleven; he’s in the second. That’s who it is, Jack Weatherby.”

“Rot! It doesn’t look the least bit like Weatherby to me. I tell you what, we’ll go over and see.”

“Can you get there in this tea-kettle?” asked Joe doubtfully.

“Sure; run in where the old bridge used to be; it’s just a nice little jounce.”

“All right, only remember that I’m not made of india-rubber.”

That is why Jack, when he rejoined Anthony in the shade of the old shed near-by, reported uneasily that an automobile, with two occupants, was crossing the clay field from the road, and that it must be Gilberth’s. Anthony finished dressing and then went to investigate. As he turned the corner a voice hailed him.

“Hello, Tidball! Was that you, for goodness’ sake?”

“Hello!” answered Anthony. “Was what me?”

“The chap we saw in the water a minute ago. I could have sworn it was Weatherby,” Joe replied.

“I was in there,” Anthony said. “Water’s nice and warm down here.”

“Well, but how did you get dressed so quickly?” Joe went on, suspiciously. “Oh, you be blowed! It wasn’t you we saw. It was Jack Weatherby, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe it was. He’s just dressing himself around the corner there.” Anthony saw that further attempt at concealing Jack’s identity was idle. During the conversation Tracy and Anthony had not noticed each other’s presence save by perfunctory nods.

“Going back?” asked Joe.

“Yes, as soon as Jack gets his clothes on.”

“Well, get in here and go with us, can’t you? There’s lots of room, eh, Tracy?”

Tracy nodded. He had not told Joe of Anthony’s call, and his friend was unaware that relations between the two were somewhat strained. Joe wondered at the lack of hospitality displayed.

“Oh, I guess we’d rather walk,” Anthony answered, smiling a bit behind his spectacles.

“Nonsense, you’ll get in here, both of you, and Tracy will show you what he calls ‘squirting through space.’ Hello, Jack!”

Jack came into sight carrying the bathing-suits and towels and somewhat red of face. He feared that Joe and Gilberth had guessed his secret.

“Hello!” he answered. “Hello, Gilberth!” The latter returned his salutation affably enough and Joe exclaimed:

“You’re a couple of nice mud-hens, aren’t you? Why don’t you pick out a decent place when you want to bathe? Come on and get in; we’ll take you back.”

Jack hesitated and looked inquiringly at Anthony. The latter’s expression gave no clue to his wishes, and so, in the end, Jack assented, and the two crowded into the carriage, and Tracy started back across the field toward the road. Joe seemed to have forgotten his troubles for the while, and the talk, ranging from baseball to final examinations, grew lively, even Gilberth finding his tongue at last. There was no hurry about getting back, he said, and so they crossed westward to the turnpike, and there, with a hard, safe road underneath, sped homeward at a rate that took Jack’s breath away and made Anthony hold tightly to so much of the seat as he could find. They turned into Main Street at the Observatory just as the clock in the tower of College Hall, glimpsed over the tree-tops, indicated a quarter of eleven.

“I guess I’d better get out at William Street,” said Jack, “or I’ll be late at the field. Will you come along, Anthony?”

“Can’t. I’ve got a recitation and I’ve already cut once this week.”

“Once?” cried Gilberth. “Great Scott, I’ve cut four times!”

“Well, you’d better quit it, Tracy,” Joe remonstrated, “or they’ll be putting you on probation, and then we’ll be beaten, sure as fate!” He turned to Jack. “Come to the room with me and then I’ll go out with you.”

“You’re not allowed out there this morning,” cried Tracy. “Hanson said I was to keep you away until the game.”

“You can’t,” Joe replied quietly. “Besides, I’m feeling fine now, and it would give me the horrors to have to mope around the college while you fellows were enjoying yourselves.”

“Enjoying ourselves!” Tracy grumbled. “You’ve got a queer notion of enjoyment. If you think I’m happy when Hanson is throwing it into me because I don’t hold my bat the way they did when he was a boy, you’re away off, Joe.”

“Well, I’m going out, anyhow,” Joe answered. Suddenly, just as they reached the corner of the yard, he turned to Anthony. “I say, Tidball, I wish you’d tell me what you two were doing at the Cove. I – I’ve got a reason for wanting to know.”

Jack shot an admonitory glance at his friend, but Anthony didn’t see it; perhaps he didn’t want to. He looked gravely back at Joe and replied:

“All right, Perkins, I’ll tell you. I was teaching Jack how to swim.”

“Anthony!” cried Jack, the color flooding into his cheeks. “You promised!”

“No, I didn’t promise, Jack,” he answered calmly. “I know you didn’t want me to tell, but I think the thing’s been a secret long enough.”

Gilberth was frowning intensely and studying the clear road ahead, as though he expected a stone wall to rise out of the ground at any instant and bar his progress. Joe was looking curiously at Jack’s averted face.

“King was right,” he said softly. Then, “Why in blazes didn’t you explain, Jack? Why didn’t you tell the fellows you couldn’t swim?”

But Jack only shook his head without turning.

“Pride,” said Anthony. “Jack’s full of it. I wanted to tell what the trouble was the next day, but he wouldn’t listen to it.” He reached around and placed one big, ungainly hand on Jack’s shoulder. “He’s an idiot, Jack is, but he’s all right!”

Gilberth swung the machine over to the sidewalk, and stopped it in front of the north gate.

“You’ll have to get out here,” he said gruffly. “I’ve got to take this thing down to the stable. You might as well stay in, though, Tidball; I’m going your way. So long, you fellows.”

The automobile whizzed off again down Main Street, and disappeared around the corner of College Place. Joe and Jack watched it out of sight and then turned together and passed through the gate, bending their steps toward Sessons Hall at the upper end of the quadrangle. For the first part of the way neither spoke. Then Joe put his hand through the other’s arm and bent forward smilingly until he could see Jack’s flushed face.

“You’re an awful fool, Jack,” he said affectionately.

CHAPTER XX
STOLEN PROPERTY

Erskine met with defeat that afternoon.

Arrowden did pretty much as she pleased; base-hits were as plentiful as errors; the former were to the credit of the visitors, the latter were the property of the home team. When it was over, and the audience had clambered soberly down from the stands to shake their heads disappointedly over the showing of the Purple as they tramped through the golden evening back to the town and the college, Patterson, the manager, slipped his pencil back into his pocket and softly closed the score-book to shut from sight the obnoxious figures, 15 – 3. It had been a veritable Waterloo.

In the locker-house little was said. Every one realized that the team had taken a slump. Hanson stood aside, and “Baldy” Simson became the man of the hour. His was the task of getting the men back into condition, a task requiring patience and vigilance and all the knowledge that many years of experience had brought him. This was no time for fault-finding; on the contrary, Hanson was silent, and “Baldy’s” tone was cheerful and soothing.

The news of Erskine’s trouncing brought delight to the hearts of the Robinson players and coaches. Down there at Collegetown they had been having troubles of their own of late. The brown-stockinged team was inferior to its last year’s predecessor, and its coaches believed that if Erskine came to Collegetown in two weeks with a nine equal to that of the previous season she would win the dual championship. So it was that Erskine’s defeat by Arrowden brought encouragement to Robinson; for Robinson had met Arrowden ten days before and had shut her out to the tune of 5 to 0. What pleased Robinson worried Erskine. The college at large, with last year’s overthrow in memory, scented defeat. Hanson wrote four telegrams on Sunday. The tenor of all was the same; that to Thomas G. Higgins, captain of the defeated nine of the spring previous, read as follows:

“Need you badly. Come at once. Wire when.”

Joe Perkins dropped a pound of weight every day until the middle of the week. Examinations were imminent, and this fact, with his own condition to think of and the worry caused by the general slump, came very near to making him quite useless on the diamond or in class-room. There was no practise on Monday for those who had played against Arrowden. They were told to stay away from the field and rest. Joe moped in his room until Tracy called for him and again took him out in the automobile.

Jack went to second base that afternoon, and during the hour and a half’s practise made a good showing. His throwing to first and to the plate pleased Hanson vastly. On Tuesday the first nine was still largely composed of substitutes. Joe and Tracy remained out and the battery was Knox and Griffin. “Wally” Stiles, the regular second-baseman, was out, but as he wore his every-day clothes Jack knew that the second bag was his for the afternoon.

Showell played Bissell’s place at center-field during the fielding practise, and later, when base-running began, was selected to start the procession. He played well off of first in obedience to Hanson, and when Mears cracked a short grounder toward third base he was able to reach second with time to spare. Jack was standing just in front of the base-line, arms outstretched toward third-baseman, and Showell saw his opportunity to get even for the uncomfortable position in which Jack had placed him on the occasion of the mass-meeting. Lunging out of the base-line he struck Jack in the back with his left shoulder with all the force he could summon. Jack pitched forward on to his face, rolled over, and lay there, feebly kicking the turf with his heels, and Showell flung himself on to the bag.

The nearest players ran to Jack’s assistance and found him, white of face, gasping painfully for breath. “Baldy” reached his side almost with the first, and, kneeling above his head, he took his arms and “pumped” them until the air was forced back into his lungs. After a liberal dousing with water, Jack sat up, gasping, and looked about him. His eyes fell on Showell, who was sitting on the bag watching proceedings disinterestedly, and a wave of color swept into his face. “Baldy” lifted him and supported him for a moment while he tried his feet. Jack was angry clear through and wished that he and Showell were alone that he might have it out with him. But he said nothing, and only two or three near-by players knew that the affair was not an accident.

“Are you all right?” asked “Baldy.”

“Yes,” Jack answered. Knox handed him his gray cap and he pulled it down over his forehead again and went back to the bag. Showell eyed him sharply, evidently on the lookout for retaliation.

“You want to get out of the way,” he blustered.

“You’d better keep out of my way,” Jack replied grimly.

“Why, what would you do?” growled the other.

But Jack made no answer, save for a glance of contempt that brought an angry flush into the somewhat sallow face of the other, and the game went on.

After he had cooled off a little, Jack was heartily glad that he had not got into a fuss with Showell, for Hanson hated any approach to disagreement during practise, and was quick to show his displeasure by putting the offenders on to the bench for long terms of idleness. But Jack had the satisfaction of twice putting Showell out, once between first and second, and once between second and third, and of knowing that when the runner was replaced by another he had not made any too good a showing. In the locker-house Showell kept his eye on Jack, still not quite satisfied that the latter did not mean to resort to his fists to even the score, and saw Jack go out accompanied by Clover and Northup with feelings of relief.

The next day, Wednesday, Erskine played State University with a team still largely made up of substitutes. Joe Perkins was back behind the plate and Gilberth went into left-field, King occupying the box. But Motter’s place at first was taken by Mears, and Jack again held down second. Knox was back at shortstop, but the outfield, aside from Gilberth, was made up of substitutes. The most encouraging feature of the contest was the improved condition and hard, sharp playing of Joe. The rest, in spite of the fact that he had fretted continually under the enforced idleness, had done him lots of good. Erskine won, 5 to 0, and the students strolled back to the college talking more encouragingly of the nine’s chances.

On Friday “Wally” Stiles got back into the practise and Jack, greatly to his disgust, retired again to the bench, or, to be more exact, to the net where Bissell was coaching a squad in bunting. Saturday’s game was with Erstham, and before it was half over Jack was morally certain that unless Stiles improved greatly during the next few days the second-baseman in the Robinson game would be one Jack Weatherby.

Stiles, unlike most of the other players, had not recovered from the slump, and his playing that afternoon was deplorable. Yet, since Erskine took the lead in the second inning and held it throughout the contest, he was not replaced, Hanson hoping that he would find his pace before the last man was out. But he didn’t, even for a moment. The team, as a whole, showed up strongly, and Erstham went home with a 10 to 2 score against her.

Jack was sorry for Stiles, really and truly sorry, he told himself; yet he would have been less than human had he not experienced a feeling of delight in the thought that, after all, it was not improbable that he would get into the Robinson game. There was no certainty about it, of course, he reflected, for Stiles might, in fact probably would, take a brace on Monday, and, during the five days that would then intervene before the last contest, win back his title to the position. But there was ground for hope, and since Jack had hitherto never for a moment really expected to have a chance in the big game, that slender hope brought happiness. He went back to Elm Street and the sympathetic and patient Anthony, whistling merrily or humming “Down with Robinson,” much out of tune.

His poetical production had duly appeared, among many others, in the Purple, and for several days he had been highly delighted. Each contribution had been signed with the author’s name, and Jack had experienced not a little good-natured teasing by his friends. But there had been praise also, for his verses were better than the rest, and even Professor White had congratulated him.

Jack was discovering that he had a good many friends. Not many were intimate, to be sure, but all were apparently genuine. Joe Perkins had promptly spread the story of Jack’s swimming lessons, and at last the true reason for the latter’s failure to distinguish himself in the rôle of life-saver had become generally known. If the college had been quick to condemn, it was equally prompt to acknowledge its mistake, and while few fellows made mention of the matter to Jack, yet many of them went out of their way to show him courtesy and kindness.

Tracy Gilberth had never mentioned the subject to any one since the truth had come out, not even to Joe. But Jack was aware that the varsity pitcher very frequently sought his companionship nowadays and seemed intent upon making up for the injustice he had done him. Jack willingly met him half-way, his olden longings for revenge forgotten in his present content. Nor, as has been said, was Tracy the only one who sought to ease his conscience by paying little attentions to the fellow he had formerly despised. From an object of scorn and derision Jack had changed into something approaching a hero.

On the Sunday succeeding the Erstham game Jack and Anthony were seated in the latter’s room shortly after noon when Mrs. Dorlon knocked on the door and announced a caller, presently ushering in with many excited sniffles Professor White. The professor carried a newspaper in one hand and his immaculate silk hat in the other. He greeted the two and took the chair that Anthony promptly pushed forward. But remarks on the beauty and seasonableness of the weather seemed to interest him but little, and as soon as politeness would permit he plunged into the subject which had brought him.

“Do you own a watch, Tidball?” he asked.

Anthony stared, shot a glance at Jack, and after a moment of hesitation answered: “Yes, that is – well, in a way.”

“You have it now?” the professor went on. Jack scented mystery, and listened attentively, wondering the while why Anthony looked so uncomfortable. Surely it was no disgrace to borrow money on one’s own property! Anthony hesitated again, then answered “No.”

“Was it stolen?” continued the professor.

“Stolen? Well, now – But, look here, professor, suppose you tell me why you want to know?”

“Perhaps I had better,” responded the other. “You’re probably thinking me pretty cheeky and inquisitive. But I was reading the paper a few minutes ago, and saw that they’d arrested a tramp over in Gerrydale, and had found a lot of pawn-tickets on him. When they visited the pawn-shop and recovered the property they found among other jewelry a watch with the inscription – let me see.” He found the place in the paper he held and read: “‘Gold watch and chain; former inscribed Anthony Z. Tidball, from Henry Wright Porter – July, 1902.’ That’s your name, and I thought perhaps the watch was yours. Is it?”