Transcriber’s Note: The cover image was created from the title page by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE PLAY
THAT WON

By Ralph Henry Barbour

YARDLEY HALL SERIES

• Guarding His Goal
• Forward Pass
• Double Play
• Winning His Y
• For Yardley
• Around the End
• Change Signals

PURPLE PENNANT SERIES

• The Lucky Seventh
• The Secret Play
• The Purple Pennant

HILTON SERIES

• The Half-Back
• For the Honor of the School
• Captain of the Crew

ERSKINE SERIES

• Behind the Line
• Weatherby’s Inning
• On Your Mark

THE “BIG FOUR” SERIES

• Four in Camp
• Four Afoot
• Four Afloat

THE GRAFTON SERIES

• Rivals for the Team
• Winning His Game
• Hitting the Line

BOOKS NOT IN SERIES

• For the Freedom of the Seas
• Under the Yankee Ensign
• Keeping His Course
• The Brother of a Hero
• Finkler’s Field
• Danforth Plays the Game
• The Arrival of Jimpson
• Benton’s Venture
• The Junior Trophy
• The New Boy at Hilltop
• The Spirit of the School
• The Play that Won

D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, New York

[IT WAS LARRY LOGAN WHO FUMED AND IMPLORED....]

THE PLAY
THAT WON

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF
“FOR THE FREEDOM OF THE SEAS,” “UNDER THE YANKEE ENSIGN,”
“THE HALF BACK,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

NEW YORK LONDON

1919

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Copyright, 1918, 1919, by
THE CENTURY COMPANY

Copyright, 1916, 1917, by
PERRY MASON COMPANY

Copyright, 1918, by
SPRAGUE PUBLISHING COMPANY

Copyright, 1919, by
FISK BICYCLE CLUBS OF AMERICA

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE PLAY THAT WON

When the knock came Ted was slumped on his spine in the Morris chair, the green-shaded lamp beside him and a magazine propped on his chest. It was Saturday night and study was not imperative, for which he was grateful. The baseball game with Prospect Hill in the afternoon had been a hard one, and the victory—for Warwick had won in the tenth—had left him rather tired, and he had passed up a lecture in the school auditorium in favor of rest and solitude at home. Which is why the knock on the door brought a sigh and a frown. Of course, he might remain silent, but the light shining through the transom would be a give-away, and the caller might be Trevor Corwin with his everlasting stamp album: Trev was a sensitive kid and easily hurt. So Ted laid down his magazine and said “Come in!” in no very enthusiastic tone. To his relief, the visitor was Hal Saunders.

“Hello, Bowman,” said Hal, glancing about the study. “George around?” His eyes sought the darkened bedroom as he closed the door behind him.

“Gone home over Sunday,” replied Ted.

“Gone home!” Hal’s tone held so much of dismay that Ted wondered.

“Yes, his father’s been sick for about a week or so, and he got leave from faculty. Went right after the game.”

“Gee!” exclaimed Hal worriedly. “He didn’t say anything to me about it. I wish I’d known. I want to see him about—something important.” To Ted’s discomfiture he seated himself on the window-seat and moodily stared at the lamp. “When’s he coming back?”

“Monday. He got permission to cut morning hours. I guess he will be on the twelve-forty-six.”

“That’ll be too late,” said Hal aggrievedly. “By Jove, that’s rotten! I don’t see why he couldn’t let folks know he was going.”

Evidently overwhelmed by the news, he made no move to depart. He was a good-looking fellow of sixteen, well-made, tall and lithe, with light hair and eyes and a fair complexion which even three months of baseball had failed to darken. In contrast, the boy in the Morris chair was a year younger, shorter, heavier, more compact, with dark eyes and hair and a face which, if not handsome, was rather attractive in spite of the fact that sun and weather had tanned it to the hue of leather and that the tip of the nose was peeling. Both boys were members of the School Nine, Ted being right fielder and Hal first-choice pitcher. They were not, however, very good friends. Ted thought Hal traded too much on his ability as a twirler. It was undeniable that he was an exceptionally good one, perhaps the best that the school had ever had, but in Ted’s opinion Hal would do well to forget the fact now and then. He didn’t understand what his room-mate, George Tempest, saw in Hal to admire; that is, beyond his playing. Naturally George, being captain of the team, would feel kindly toward a chap who so often pitched to victory, but he needn’t overdo it! Ted was fond of his room-mate and so it is possible that jealousy had something to do with his mild dislike of Hal Saunders.

Presently Hal raised his eyes from a frowning contemplation of his shoes and Ted was surprised at the trouble shown in his face. It was a most unusual thing for the self-satisfied, rather superior Hal Saunders to exhibit anything approaching discomposure. In spite of himself, Ted’s sympathies were touched. “Was it something about the Team?” he asked.

Hal shook his head. “No, it was—something——” He hesitated. Then: “I wanted to borrow some money from him.”

“Oh!” murmured Ted. It was, he reflected, a lot like Hal to make a fuss about an unimportant matter like that. Perhaps the other read the thought, for he suddenly said defensively:

“I’m in a dickens of a hole, Bowman, and I was pretty sure that George could help me out. Now I’m blessed if I know what to do!”

“Won’t Monday do?”

“Monday morning might, but Monday afternoon will be too late—unless——” Hal fell into silence again. Ted wondered if Hal was trying to find courage to ask him for a loan. He almost hoped so. It would be rather a pleasure to refuse it. “It’s Plaister, in the village,” Hal went on after a moment. “He’s got a bill of twelve dollars and eighty cents against me. I’ve been owing the old skinflint some of it since last year. And now he says that if it isn’t paid by to-night he will go and get the money from ‘Jerry.’ And you know what that will mean!”

Ted did know. “Jerry” was the popular name for Doctor Morris, the Principal, and when “Jerry” learned that Hal had transgressed the very strict rule against having bills at the village stores, punishment would be swift and stern. Why, Hal might be dismissed from school! The very least that would happen to him would be probation!

“Maybe he’s just bluffing,” offered Ted, but with little conviction in his voice.

“No such luck,” answered Hal. “He’s threatened twice before and I’ve begged him off. This time he means it. I found a letter from him in the mail this noon. I was going to speak to George before the game, but there wasn’t any chance, and I—I sort of funked it anyway. Besides, I thought there was time enough. Plaister won’t do anything until Monday. I was pretty sure George had the money and I guess he’d have let me have it. I meant to beat it over to the village right after chapel Monday morning. I hadn’t any idea he was going away!”

“Too bad,” said Ted, more than half meaning it. “How the dickens did you ever manage to run up a bill like that, Saunders?”

Hal shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m always buying fool things. Plaister was keen enough to charge ’em until he had a nice big bill against me. Afterwards, too. It got so I was afraid not to buy anything he showed me for fear he’d ask me to pay up.”

“But you get an allowance——”

“A dollar a week,” said Hal slightingly. “How far does that go? Mother sends me a little now and then. If she didn’t I wouldn’t have a cent in my pocket, ever. I’m a fool about money, and dad knows it. And he will know it a heap better about next Tuesday!”

“But look here, Saunders. Won’t Plaister stand to lose if he goes to ‘Jerry?’ Faculty always says that shop-keepers giving credit to the fellows will be deprived of the school trade. Seems to me Plaister will think twice before he risks that.”

“Oh, he will tell some hard-luck yarn and ‘Jerry’ will believe him. You know how ‘Jerry’ is. Barks a lot, but doesn’t bite much. Yes, he might be scared to do what he threatens, but his letter sounded mighty earnest. He’s got me going, anyway. I say, Bowman, I don’t suppose you—er—happen to have ten dollars you’d let me have? I’d have to pay it back fifty cents a week, but——”

“Sorry,” said Ted, shaking his head. To his surprise he found that he really was sorry—a little. Hal’s gloom enwrapped him again.

“No, I suppose not. And I don’t guess you’d care much about lending to me if you had it. You don’t particularly love me. Well, I guess I’ll toddle.” He arose and stood uncertainly a moment before he moved toward the door.

“What will you do?” asked Ted anxiously. “If—if you get put on ‘pro’ we’ll be in a nasty fix! Hang it, Saunders, you’ve got to do something, you know. Crouch would last about two innings in the Temple game! Why don’t you see Plaister to-morrow and get him to wait another week? After next Saturday it wouldn’t matter.”

“I’ve talked to him until I’m tired,” replied Hal wearily. “It’s no good. Maybe he won’t do it, or maybe I can scrape up the money by Monday. I’m tired worrying about it. I’d just as lief get fired as have this thing hanging over me all the time.”

“Maybe he would take part of it and wait for the rest.”

“He won’t. I tried that. He says he’s waited long enough and—oh, a lot of drivel. You know the way they talk. Well, good-night. And say, Bowman, just keep this to yourself, like a good chap, will you? I don’t know why I bothered you with it, but I’d rather you didn’t say anything about it.”

“That’s all right. I won’t talk. Good-night. I hope you—come out all right.”

Hal nodded dejectedly and went. Ted took up his magazine, but after finding his place in it he let it drop once more. If Plaister did what he threatened, and Ted knew the hard-featured little shop-keeper well enough to feel pretty certain that he would, it would be all up with Warwick’s chances for the baseball championship that year. With Hal Saunders in the points they might defeat Temple Academy next Saturday. Without him they couldn’t. Neither Crouch nor Bradford was good enough to last three innings against the Blue’s hard-hitting team. The knowledge brought real dismay to Ted. Personally he wanted a victory for the school team, but it was the thought of George’s disappointment that moved him most. George, like every captain, had hoped and worked for a triumph harder than any of the others. For Ted’s part, he would go back next year, but this was George’s last chance. Ted was miserably sorry for his friend. He was such a corking fine fellow. Ted recalled the day last September when George, learning that fate in the shape of faculty had wished a strange and two years younger boy on him as room-mate, had acted so mighty decent about it. Lots of fellows in George’s place, thought Ted, would have been mad and grouchy, but George had never let Ted guess for a moment that he wasn’t entirely welcome. And all through the year George had been a perfect brick. He had helped Ted in many ways: had got him into Plato Society, helped him at mid-year exams, introduced him to nice fellows, coached him in batting until he had become proficient enough to beat out Whipple for right field position. Ted’s feeling for George Tempest was a mingling of gratitude and hero-worship that amounted to a very real affection, and the thought of George’s unhappiness in case the final game of the school year went against Warwick troubled him greatly. Temple Academy had routed Warwick overwhelmingly last year and the sting of that defeat still remained. Warwick wanted revenge, and her three hundred and odd students had their hearts set on obtaining it next Saturday. But to none did it mean quite what it meant to Captain Tempest. Ted tossed the magazine aside and stood up. “Something ought to be done,” he muttered.

In the bedroom he produced a small tin box from its hiding place in a dresser drawer and emptied the contents on his bed. Three one-dollar bills and many silver coins, when counted, came to exactly fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents. He had been accumulating the hoard ever since Fall with the intention of buying a bicycle when he went home in the Summer. When he had about five dollars more he would have enough. He hadn’t told Hal that he didn’t have the money. He had merely politely refused to make a loan. And he had no idea of changing his mind. Hal’s fix was no affair of his, and Hal could get out of it as best he might. Certainly he couldn’t be expected to give up a whole Summer’s fun for the sake of a fellow he didn’t like much anyway! Resolutely he placed the money back in the box and the box again in concealment. “He will wriggle out of it somehow,” he said to himself.

Sunday was rainy and seemed weeks long, and Ted missed George horribly. He saw Hal Saunders at dinner and again in the evening, and it was apparent from Hal’s countenance that he had not yet found a way out of his difficulty. Ted went over to the library after supper feeling very angry with Hal, angry because that youth had endangered the success of the nine, because his foolishness was in a fair way to bring grief to George, and because he had somehow managed to make one Ted Bowman distinctly uncomfortable! Ted surrounded himself with reference books, but all the work he did scarcely paid for the effort.

Ted did not say anything to George, when the latter returned on Monday, about Hal’s affairs. After dinner that day he received a summons to the Office, and although conscious of a clear conscience he couldn’t help feeling a trifle uneasy as he obeyed it. One didn’t get an invitation to confer with “Jerry” unless the matter was one of some importance. Events subsequently justified the uneasiness, for when Ted closed the Office door behind him the second time he was on probation!

He could have stood his misfortune better had George been decently sympathetic, but George was disgusted and mad clear through. “You’ve no right to do silly stunts when you’re on the team,” he stormed. “You’ve got a duty toward the School. A fine thing, isn’t it, to get on ‘pro’ four days before the big game?”

“Well, you don’t think I asked for it, do you?” demanded Ted indignantly. “Don’t you suppose I wanted to play Saturday just as much as anyone?”

“Then you might have behaved yourself. You know perfectly well that Billy Whipple can’t hit the way you can. What did you do, anyway?”

“Nothing much. I didn’t really do anything, only ‘Jerry’ thinks I did and I can’t—can’t prove that I didn’t!”

“That’s likely,” grunted George. “You must have done something.”

“All right, then, I did. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter whether I did or didn’t. I’m out of the game. I’m sorry——”

George withered him with a look and slammed the door as he went out.

After that life was hardly worth living, Ted thought. George scarcely spoke to him and the rest of his former team-mates were not much more cordial. In fact the whole school apparently viewed him as a traitor, and he felt like one. Thursday morning Dr. Morris announced that hereafter the students were not to make purchases at Plaister’s, and Ted found a certain ungenerous comfort in the shop-keeper’s misfortune. In the afternoon, while he was studying in his room—he had avoided the ball field since Monday—Hal came in with George. For some reason Hal appeared to view Ted more leniently than the other players did, perhaps because, having so nearly attained probation himself, he had sympathy for a brother offender. Hal’s greeting was almost cordial. George’s was only a grunt. Ted pretended to study, but he was really listening to the talk of the others. Presently Hal said indignantly:

“I wonder what they’ve got against Plaister, George. It’s a shame to shut down on him like that.”

“Some chap’s run up a bill, probably,” answered George indifferently. “Faculty was after him last year for giving credit.”

“Well, I’m sorry. The old codger’s mighty white, and I ought to know it if anybody should. I owed him something over twelve dollars, some of it since last year, and he came down on me hard last week and said that if I didn’t pay right up he’d go to ‘Jerry.’ He had me scared stiff, and that’s no dream! I had visions of being fired, or at least put on ‘pro,’ and so I came over here Saturday night to see if I could get some money from you. I had only about two dollars to my name. But you had gone home. Bowman offered to loan it to me”—Hal winked at Ted’s startled countenance and grinned—“but I wouldn’t take it. I tried at least a dozen other fellows, but every last one was stoney broke. I expected all day Monday to get an invitation to the Office——”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” interrupted George regretfully. “I could have fixed you up. Better let me do it now.”

“Not for anything,” laughed Hal. “You see the old chap never showed up and I had my nervous prostration for nothing. All he did do was to send me the bill Tuesday morning—receipted!”

“Receipted!”

“Yep, paid in full! Just scratched it right off his books. I suppose he thought he might as well. Afraid to get in wrong with faculty, maybe. Still, it was pretty decent of him, wasn’t it? Of course I’ll pay him as soon as I can, but he doesn’t know that.”

George agreed that it was decent indeed, but he looked somewhat puzzled. The incident didn’t tally at all with his conception of Mr. Jabed Plaister.

Saturday dawned breathlessly hot, and the game, set for two o’clock, was postponed until three. The wait was hard on the nerves of the players, and Billy Whipple, who was to play right field in place of Ted, was plainly unsettled. Ted knew of no reason why he should not enjoy the painful pleasure of watching the game, and so, when Loring, the Temple Academy pitcher, wound himself up for the first delivery, Ted was seated cross-legged under the rope behind third base with a very disconsolate expression on his perspiring countenance. To-day the consciousness of virtue failed more than ever to atone for his being out of the game. He strove to find consolation in the reflection that there was another year coming, but the attempt was a flat failure.

The heat had its effect on spectators and players alike. The cheering and singing lacked “pep” and the rival teams comported themselves as though their one desire was to get back to the shade of the benches. Ted glowered and muttered at the slowness of the contest. In the first two innings only a long fly by the Temple second baseman that was neatly captured by Whipple and a couple of inexcusable and innocuous errors livened the dreariness of the game. The third inning began like the preceding ones but promised better when, in the last half of it, Warwick got a man to second on the first clean hit of the game. The Brown’s cheerers came to life then and, although the next batter fouled to catcher, making the second out, Warwick paid for the vocal encouragement by putting the first run across on a hit past third.

Temple got men on third and second bases in the first of the fourth and tried hard to bring them home, but Hal Saunders, having allowed a hit and walked a batsman, retrieved himself and saved the situation by knocking down a hard liner that was well above his head. Very coolly and leisurely he picked it up, while the man on third scuttled to the plate, and threw out the batsman at first.

The fifth inning went better. The air had cooled perceptibly and both Hal and Loring were now twirling real ball and the game was becoming a pitchers’ battle pure and simple. When Hal got down to business, hits became as scarce as hen’s teeth, nor was Loring much behind him in effectiveness to-day. Batters stepped to the plate, swung or waited and retired with trailing bat. One-two-three was the order. The game went into the seventh with Warwick’s one-run lead looking very large. Ted, his disappointments forgotten, was “rooting” hard and tirelessly behind third. Temperature was now a matter of no moment. Warwick was ahead, Hal was mowing ’em down and victory was hovering above the brown banner!

It was in her half of the seventh that Temple evened up the score. With two gone and first base inviolate Temple’s third man up, her chunky little tow-headed shortstop whose clever playing had frequently won applause from friend and foe, waited cannily and let Hal waste two deliveries. Then he swung at a wide one and missed. The next was another ball, although it cut the corner of the plate, and, with the score against him, Hal tried to bring the tow-headed youth’s agony to a merciful end by sneaking over a fast and straight one. But the shortstop outguessed him that time. There was a mighty crack and away arched the ball. And away sped the batsman. Probably he had small hope of safety, for the sphere was making straight for the right fielder, but he knew enough not to jump to conclusions. Which is why, when the ball bounded from Whipple’s hands, the runner was almost at second. Urged on by the delighted coaches, he slid into third a few inches ahead of the ball.

What caused Whipple’s error I do not know. He had the sun in his eyes, of course, but he had made a harder catch under like circumstances in the second inning. But better men than young Whipple have done the same and so we needn’t waste time trying to find an excuse for him. The mischief was done, and four minutes later the Temple captain had tied up the score with a Texas Leaguer back of third.

There were no more hits in the seventh and none in the eighth. In the ninth Temple almost won by a scratch and an error after Hal had lammed an inshoot against a batsman’s ribs and he had reached second on a sacrifice bunt. But the error, while it took him to third, did no more, and Hal settled down and struck out his tenth man.

Warwick got one runner to second in her half, but he died there and the contest went into extra innings. By this time the sun was behind the trees at the edge of the field and a faint breeze was stirring. Ted was parched of throat and hoarse of voice and was alternately hopeful and despairing. The tenth inning went the way of the others. Hal had two more strike-outs to his credit and Loring one. In the eleventh the strain began to show. Hal passed the first man up, the second hit safely, the third struck out, the fourth laid down a bunt in front of the plate. Temple shouted and raved in delight. But Hal was still master. Another strike-out averted the threatened disaster. Warwick went in in her half with Captain Tempest up. George tried hard to deliver, but made an easy out, third to first. The next batter had no better luck. The third was Billy Whipple. Billy was known as a fair batsman, although to-day he had signally failed. Maybe Loring eased up a trifle. If so he produced his own disaster, for Billy picked out the second delivery and everlastingly whanged it!

In Ted’s words, it went where it would do the most good. It fell to earth twenty feet short of the gymnasium steps and ten feet beyond the center fielder’s eager hands. Billy didn’t make the circuit because George Tempest himself, coaching behind third, blocked his path to the plate. There was a howl at that, for it did seem that Billy might have made it. But playing it safe won out for once, for Loring was a bit shaken by that blow at his record and Warwick’s next batter hit safely between second and shortstop and Billy romped home. That ended the scoring in that inning, but the Brown was again in the lead and Warwick shouted and chanted.

Ted, realizing the effort Temple would make to even things up in the twelfth, and knowing that the head of her batting list was up, was on tenter-hooks. Warwick had the victory in her grasp if she could only hold it. But Hal had been showing signs of fatigue the last two innings and there had been a perceptible let-down. Ted anxiously took counsel with himself. Then he jumped to his feet and ran around to the home bench. Hal, his face rather drawn and plastered with dust in the wrinkles, was pulling on his glove when Ted reached him.

“Saunders,” said Ted breathlessly, “if you can hold ’em we’ve got the game!”

Hal viewed him with disgust and weariness. “You surprise me,” he replied, with a weak attempt at sarcasm.

Ted laid a hand on the other’s arm and took a firm grip there. “Cut out the mirth,” he said. “You go in and pitch ball, Saunders. Get me? Don’t you dare let up for a second. If we——”

Hal shook him off. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “Sun-stroke? You’re a fine one to make cracks like that! Beat it, kid!”

“Listen to me,” said Ted earnestly, dropping his voice. “If Temple wins this game I’ll go to ‘Jerry’ and tell him what I know. I mean it, Saunders!”

“Why, you little rotter!” gasped the pitcher.

“That’s all right. You heard me. You pitch ball, Saunders!”

“I’m going to,” sputtered the other, “and when I get through I’m going to knock your silly block off. Now get out of my way!”

Ted went back to his place well satisfied. Saunders was mad clean through and Saunders would pitch real ball! And Saunders did. Not since the game had started had he worked more carefully, more craftily, and although he had three hard hitters to put aside he never faltered. Up came the Temple third baseman—and back again to the bench. The Blue’s captain followed him and, although he brought Ted’s heart into his mouth four times by knocking fouls, he, too, had to acknowledge defeat. Temple was frantic now as she saw defeat impending. For luck she sent a substitute player in for the third batsman and Hal promptly put his first two deliveries across for strikes while triumphant Warwick howled with delight. Then a ball, and another one, and——

“He’s OUT!” cried the umpire.

It was after eight. The riotous celebration had dwindled to mere sporadic outbursts of joy out on the campus. Ted was talking with George on the window-seat in their study. The victory had put the captain in high spirits and since dinner he had returned to the old footing with his room-mate. They had talked the game over from first play to last, and Ted, happy in the renewal of friendly relations, was seeking a fresh topic lest George should become bored with his society and go away when there was a knock at the door and Hal strode in. Recalling the threat he had made, Ted viewed his appearance with some apprehension, but Hal showed no intention of removing Ted’s “block” in the designated manner.

“I got something to show you fellows,” announced Hal, striding across to the window. “Look here. Read that. No, wait a minute till I tell you.” He drew back the sheet of paper he had thrust toward George. “I thought it would be only the decent thing if I thanked Plaister for cancelling that account, see? So yesterday I wrote a nice little note and mailed it to him. This is what I got in answer. Found it in my room after supper. Read it out loud, George.”

“‘Jabed Plaister, General Emporium, Dealer in——’”

“Never mind that,” interrupted Hal impatiently. “Read the writing.”

“If I can,” agreed George. “Let’s see. ‘Dear Sir: Yours of like date to hand. I gave the other boy a receipted bill and I don’t know what you are talking about unless you are trying to get funny and I’ll tell you plain there’s a law for such as you. And if you hadn’t paid I would have seen your principle just like I said I was. Lucky for you you did. Respectfully, Jabed Plaister.’ Not so very respectful, either! Well, what about it, Hal?”

“Don’t you see? Someone paid that bill. I didn’t. Who did? That’s what I came here to find out.” He turned suddenly to Ted. “Did you?” he demanded.

Ted stared back blankly.

“Did you?” insisted Hal. “You did! What for? Why——”

“He hasn’t said so,” interposed George.

“He doesn’t need to. He isn’t denying it, is he? Besides, he knew about it. Look here, Bowman, I’m much obliged, of course, and all that, but I don’t understand why—after you’d refused me that night——”

“Well,” said Ted at last, slowly, seemingly seeking inspiration from his shoes, “I knew that if you got fired or put on probation and couldn’t pitch to-day we’d get licked. I—I ought to tell you frankly, I guess, that I didn’t do it on your account, Saunders. There was the School to consider, and—and George. I knew he’d be all broke up if we lost the game. I had the money put away for—for something, and so I decided that if Plaister was really going to make trouble I’d pay him. I met him on the road Monday morning right after breakfast. I tried to get him to take five dollars, but he wouldn’t, and so I paid it all and he gave me the receipted bill. I ought to have told you at once, but—well, I was sort of peeved at you and I didn’t. Finally, when it got to be supper time and I hadn’t told you, I was ashamed to, and so I stuck the bill in an envelope and put it in the mail. That’s all; except that someone—I guess it was ‘Granny’ Lockwood: he’s always mooning around the landscape—saw me give the money to Plaister and told ‘Jerry.’”

There was a moment’s silence. Then George said: “But you could have told ‘Jerry’ the truth, Ted.”

“What good would that have done? He’d have put Saunders on ‘pro,’ and that’s just what I was working against. Don’t you see?”

“Mighty white,” muttered Hal.

“I wish you had told me, Ted,” said George. “I talked a good deal of rough stuff. I’m sorry, kid.”

“That’s all right,” said Ted. “You didn’t know. You see, I’d promised Saunders not to talk about it.”

“Bowman, you’re a perfect brick,” exclaimed Hal. “I know you didn’t do it on my account, but you got me out of a beast of a hole, and—and I’m mighty grateful. And you’ll get that money back just as soon as I get home. I’ll tell dad the whole story and he’ll come across, never fear. Of course I’ll have to promise to keep inside my allowance after this, but I guess I’m about ready to, anyhow. Last Monday I’d have promised anything! And I’ll see ‘Jerry’ at once——”

“There is no sense in doing that,” interrupted Ted. “There’s only four more days of school and I don’t mind.”

“But you’re in wrong with faculty——”

“Not very. ‘Jerry’ was awfully decent. Said my record was so good he wouldn’t be hard on me. There’s no use in his owning up, is there, George?”

“No, I don’t think there is,” answered George after a moment’s consideration. “Ted’s taken your punishment and you’ve learned your lesson—I hope.”

“I have,” agreed Hal, emphatically. “But it doesn’t seem fair to—to Ted. He was done out of playing, and a lot of fellows think hardly of him——”

“Shucks,” said Ted, “I don’t mind. You fellows know how it was, and the others will forget by next Fall. And we won. I’m satisfied.”

“We won,” said George, “because of what you did, Ted, and for no other reason. I don’t see any way to give you credit for it without getting Hal into trouble, but there’s one thing I can do, and I’m going to do it.”

“What?” asked Ted uneasily.

“See that you get your W.”

“Bully!” applauded Hal. “Only, do you think you really can? If Ted didn’t play——”

“Who says he didn’t?” demanded George. “He must have. It was his play that won!”

THE GREAT PECK

Eight of us were in Pete Rankin’s room that night, all freshies and all candidates for the ’21 football team, unless you except this fellow Harold Peck that I’m telling you about. Jim Phelan had brought him along, because, he said, he looked lonesome. Jim had planned to room with a chap he had chummed with at Hollins, but he had failed in exams and faculty had stung him with Peck. That’s one drawback to rooming in the yard at Erskine: you can’t always choose your roommate. Peck was sort of finely cut, with small, well-made features, dark hair and eyes and a good deal of color in his face. And he was a swell little dresser. Rather an attractive kid, on the whole, and maybe a year younger than most of us there. He didn’t make much of a splash that night, though, for he just sat quiet on Pete’s trunk and looked interested and polite. Being polite was Peck’s specialty. I never knew a chap with more different ways of thanking you or begging your pardon.

We were mostly Hollins or Enwright fellows, and we were there to get the freshman football team started. Dave Walker, the Varsity captain, dropped in for a few minutes and helped us out; and after he had gone again we got to talking about our chances of turning out a good enough eleven to beat the Robinson freshies, and who would play where, and one thing and another, and presently Bob Saunders, who had played half for Enwright last year, asked: “What have we got for quarterback material, fellows?”

Trask, another Enwright chap, said: “Kingsley,” but no one enthused. Tom Kingsley had been a second choice quarter on Trask’s team and had been fairly punk, we Hollins crowd thought. Pete Rankin yawned and said he guessed we’d find a couple of decent quarters all right, and Jim Phelan said, sure, you can always catch a quarter when he was young and train him.

“I think I’d like to try that job,” I said. “I guess it’s easier than playing tackle. You don’t have to exert yourself. You just shove the ball to someone else. It’s a cinch!”

“You’d make a swell little quarterback,” laughed Pete. “You’re just built for it, Joe.”

“Well, I’m down to a hundred and eighty-one and a half——”

“I don’t think I ever saw a crackerjack quarter,” Jim Phelan butted in, “who wasn’t sort of small. Did you, Pete? Remember Warner, of two years ago? He was my notion of a properly built lad for the quarter. Wasn’t he a wonder?” Pete said yes, and “Toots” Hanscom, who will take either end of any argument you can start, tried to prove Jim all wrong, and then everyone took a hand. But Jim is stubborn, and he hung out for the small kind. “Take a chap like—well, like Peck there. If he knows the game he will play all around your heavy man or your tall one.”

Everyone turned to size Peck up, and he looked embarrassed, and Toots sniffed and asked him his weight.

“About a hundred and forty-two, I think,” said Peck.

“Thought so. He’d have a swell chance, Jim, against those husky Robinson freshies!”

“Sure he would,” answered Jim, stoutly. “I don’t say he’d be a marvel at plugging the line, but I do say that if Peck was a football man a good coach could take hold of him and make a rattling good quarter of him. It isn’t beef that counts in a quarter, Toots. It’s brains and pep and knowledge of football.”

“Piffle! Peck wouldn’t last five minutes!”

“Better induce Mr. Peck to come out,” suggested Monty Fellows. “Then we can see who’s right.”

Jim started to hedge. “I didn’t say Peck was the man. I said a fellow of his size and build. Peck isn’t a football player, and so it wouldn’t prove anything if he tried it.”

“Haven’t you ever played at all, Mr. Peck?” asked Pete.

“Oh, yes, thanks,” replied Peck. “We had a rather good football team at my school and I—er—I tried for it year before last. But, of course, I was pretty light, you see——”

“You could soon beef up, I’d say,” said Pete. “Maybe you’d have better luck this time. Had you thought of it?”

“Why—why, I did mention it to Phelan, but he thought I’d better wait until I was a bit heavier——”

Everyone laughed at Jim then, and Jim tried to explain that he hadn’t thought of Peck as a quarter. “Just the same,” he said stoutly, “I wish he would come out and try for the position. I’ll risk it! I’ll bet he will make good! Come on, now, what price Peck?”

“Oh, really,” began Peck, “you mustn’t hope much of me, Phelan! You see——”

“That’s all right! You agree to try for the quarterback position and do as you’re told and work hard and——”

“And grow a few inches,” said Toots slyly.

“And I’ll guarantee that you’ll be third-string quarter or better by the end of the season! What do you say?”

“Why, it’s very flattering,” answered Peck, looking around and smiling deprecatingly. He had a nice smile, had Peck. “But I’d be awfully afraid of disappointing you.”

“I’ll risk that,” said Jim. “You show up to-morrow at three-thirty, then.”

Peck murmured something that sounded like consent and Jimmy Sortwell asked: “Where is your home, Mr. Peck?”

“Winstead, Maryland.”

“Oh,” said Jimmy. “I asked because I wondered if you were any relation to the Peck who played on the Elm Park High School team last year.”

“What is his first name, please?” asked Peck.

“I don’t know that I ever heard it. I never met him, but the team came on from Chicago last December and played a post season game with one of the Boston teams and licked the stuffing out of them. This fellow Peck was quarter, and he was a wonder. Don’t you fellows remember reading about him? Some of the papers in the East here made him All-Scholastic quarter, and that’s going some, for they hate to name anyone west of Albany!”

“Seems to me I remember something about a remarkable quarter on some Western team that played around here last year,” agreed Pete. “Don’t recall his name, though.”

“It was probably this fellow I’m telling of. He wasn’t much bigger than you, either, Peck, I’d say. Perhaps a little heavier, eight or ten pounds. He was a stunning player, though, a regular marvel. And that sort of helps out your contention, Jim.”

“I don’t believe I have any relatives in the West,” said Peck. “Of course, there might be some distant ones——”

“Well, if you take after your namesake,” laughed Burton Alley, “we won’t kick a mite!”

“Thanks,” said Peck, “but, of course, you mustn’t expect much of me. There’s a great deal to learn about football.”

“Well, there’s more to it than croquet,” said Toots dryly, “but don’t let that scare you. With Jim looking after you you ought to get along fine!”

“Really, do you think so?” asked Peck, gratefully. “Thank you ever so much!”

We had a whooping big freshman class that year and didn’t expect much trouble in finding all the material we needed. But we had reckoned without the war. A lot of fellows were so full of it that they couldn’t see football. There was talk of introducing military training at Erskine, too, and although that didn’t come until later, there was a lot of excitement over it. Of course, we were all strong for the military stuff, but some of us couldn’t see the necessity for making the world safe for Democracy before we had knocked the tar out of the Robinson freshmen. It was more than a week after college had started when we finally got four full squads together. The Athletic Committee assigned us a Graduate School chap named Goss as coach. He had played tackle for Erskine three years before. We didn’t cheer for him much at first, but he turned out fine. He wasn’t much on the up-to-the-minute stuff, but he was a corking tactician and hard as nails when it came to discipline. And he was so set on teaching the rudiments before the frills that we were soon calling him “Old Rudy.”

Faculty held us down to a six-game schedule, which was a shame, for we could have licked any team of our weight in New England. Besides, the Varsity was all shot to pieces, because so many last year men had enlisted, and was a sort of a joke, and we always took the crowds away from her. We were really the big noise that Fall and should have been allowed a decent schedule. Of course, every good team has its troubles, and ours began after the Connellsville game. We beat her, all right, but she laid up two of our best linesmen and proved that neither Kingsley nor Walker was the right man for quarter. We had two other candidates for the position in Ramsey and Peck. There wasn’t much to choose between them, it looked; only Peck had a good press agent and Ramsey hadn’t. Jim Phelan was still backing his roommate strong. Toots Hanscom told us that Jim was coaching Peck for an hour every evening. Said he dropped into their room in McLean one night and found Jim holding the book on Harold and putting him through a regular exam! Anyhow, Peck was certainly coming all the time, and when we met the Taylor freshies the next Saturday he had his chance in the third period. He got mixed a couple of times, but I couldn’t see any signs of nervousness, and he surely made us hump ourselves. And he played his position mighty well besides. Jim certainly had no kick coming against his pupil, for Peck played good football that day, barring those two mistakes in signals, and ended up in the last three or four minutes with as pretty a forward pass to Trask as you’d want to see. Trask didn’t quite make the goal line, though, and so we accepted our first defeat, Taylor nosing out 12 to 11. But we’d played good ball, and we knew it, and the school knew it. And you can bet that Taylor knew it, too, for she was just about all in when the whistle sounded.

Peck got quite a lot of kind words that day, and Jim Phelan went around saying “What did I tell you?” and making himself generally obnoxious. But that didn’t win Peck the quarterback position, for Kingsley was still the better man, especially when he was going well, and young Peck went back to the second squad Monday, and Jim spoke darkly of “bonehead coaches.” More trouble developed that week: Wednesday, I think it was. Pete Rankin—I forgot to say that we’d elected him captain without much opposition from the Enwright crowd—hurt his knee in a scrimmage and had to lay off. And one or two other chaps went wunky and so Townsend Tech didn’t have much trouble with us, three days later. Kingsley started at quarter and Peck didn’t get a show until the last of the third period. Then he played the same nice game he’d played the week before and speeded us up so that we managed to score our second touchdown. And, considering that we had six second- or third-string fellows in the line-up by that time, that wasn’t so poor. And 11 to 20 didn’t sound as bad as 7 to 20, either. So Peck got the glad hand in the locker room afterwards and old Rudy stopped him on his way to the showers and spoke kind words.

By that time the college was beginning to sit up and take notice of Peck. Fellows asked where he’d played before, what school he’d come from and so on. No one seemed to know, and when you asked Peck himself he was sort of vague, and so blamed polite that you didn’t have the crust to keep on asking. But I made out that he’d skipped around between two or three schools down Maryland way, and I believed it until two things came off simultaneously. The first was Peck’s sudden “arrival” in football. It occurred the Thursday after the Townsend fracas. Kingsley was suffering from shell shock by reason of having been slammed around by big Sanford, the Townsend fullback, in the third quarter, and old Rudy started Peck when the scrimmage began. Well, I don’t know what had got into little Harold that day; or I didn’t know then. Afterward I thought I had an inkling. Anyway, he was a revelation. Pete Rankin said awedly that Peck was a composite reincarnation of Eckersall and Daly. So far as I know, those two old-timers are still alive and kicking, but you get Pete’s idea. He meant that Peck was a peach of a quarter that day; and that goes double with me. We went up against the Varsity scrubs, and they were a heavy, scrappy bunch, even if they didn’t have much team play. Peck seemed to sense just the sort of medicine that would do ’em the most good, and he proceeded to dose it out to them right from the kick-off. He used Saunders and Hanscom for play after play until we were down to the scrub’s twenty-yard line, bringing Hanscom around from right end and busting him through left tackle. He and Saunders were light and quick, and they got the distance in three plays regularly. Then, down on the twenty, he switched to his other backs, Fellows and Curtis, and piled ’em through to the two yards. The scrubs pulled themselves together then, and two tries failed and Peck gave the pass to Curtis for an overhead heave to Saunders. But Bob was spilled in his tracks and, with three to go and one down left, Peck faked a try at goal and kited around his left end with the pigskin cuddled under his elbow and slipped across the line near the corner very nicely.

Four minutes later we scored again. The scrub’s kick-off was short and I wrapped myself around it and busted along for nearly twenty yards and landed the ball on the forty. Then Saunders slipped up for the first time and Peck tried a forward to Hanscom that grounded. Curtis smashed through for four and then Peck took the law into his own hands again and, faking a pass to Saunders, hid the ball until the scrubs were coming through. Then he found his hole, slipped right through the middle of the line, ducked and squirmed past the secondary defense and raced off straight for the goal. And believe me, that kid could run! The scrub quarter was the only man with any license to stop him, and Peck fooled him near the thirty yards, and went right on and placed old Mister Pigskin squarely between the posts.

I’d got sort of roughly handled by the big mutts when they stopped me after I’d caught the kick-off and Old Rudy yanked me out, and so I didn’t see any more of the scrimmage. But they said that Peck kept it up right to the end, making another corking run from near the scrub’s forty to her five, and handling the team like a veteran. Monty Fellows, who could spill language that would gag you or me, said that Peck was inspired and that he had “indubitably vindicated Phelan’s contention.” I thought so, too, though not in just those words, and so when I ran across Jim on the way to College Hall after dinner that evening I started to hand him a few bouquets. But he only grunted and looked peeved, and I eased up and asked: “What’s jangling your heart strings, Jim? I should think you’d be pleased to see little Harold vindicating your—er—whatyoucallems.” He sometimes called him Harold to annoy Jim.

“You would, eh?” growled Jim.

“Sure I would! Haven’t you toiled with the kid all Fall and taught him all he knows and everything?”

“I thought so,” said Jim significantly.

“What do you mean, thought so? Who else is responsible? Of course, I’m not saying Peck wouldn’t have learned football after a fashion even if you hadn’t——”

Jim laughed harshly, like a villain in a play. “Say, Joe, you do a lot of talking with your mouth sometimes, but maybe you can keep a secret. Can you?”

“Secrecy’s my middle name. Shoot!”

And after a minute Jim shot. “He fooled me, all right,” he began ruefully. “I thought he was as green as grass and even when he’d learn a thing too blamed quick to be natural I didn’t suspect. I said, ‘It’s just natural football instinct he’s got. You can’t explain it any other way.’ Wasn’t I the bonehead?”

“Sure! But what——”

“Listen. This morning I wanted a collar stud. Mine had rolled under the bed or somewhere and it was late. So I pulled open Harold’s top drawer. I knew he had a little fancy-colored box there where he kept studs and things and as he had gone to breakfast I thought I’d just help myself to one. What do you suppose was the first thing I saw when I lifted the lid?”

“Great big snake?”

“Cut the comedy! One of these little gold footballs you wear on your watch chain!”

“Well?” I asked, not catching the idea.

“There was engraving on it and I read what it said. ‘E. P. H. S., 1917,’ Joe! What do you know about that?”

“Still I don’t get you. What’s E. P. S. stand for?”

“E. P. H. S., you dummy! Elm Park High School! Don’t you remember Sortwell telling about a fellow named Peck who’d played with Elm Park and asking Harold if he was any relation?”

“Oh!” said I. “Now I savvy! But, look here, Jim, you don’t think Harold’s this Elm Park star! Why, didn’t he say——”

“No, he didn’t,” answered Jim sourly. “He was mighty careful not to. He said maybe Peck was a distant relative or something. And he let me teach him how to play quarterback! Must have had lots of good laughs at me, eh? If I hadn’t been an utter idiot I’d have tumbled to the truth long ago. Why, no one could pick up the game the way he has! Look at the way he played to-day! He fooled the whole bunch of us, anyway. I wasn’t the only come-on. Only, why? What did he do it for?”

“Search me! But look here, what does he say? Has he fessed up?”

“He hasn’t said anything because I haven’t. How can I? Borrowing a chum’s collar stud is all right, but when you run across something you’re not supposed to know about you keep your mouth shut. If I told him I was helping myself to a stud and happened to see that gold football, what would he think? He’d think I’d been snooping, of course. But I don’t need to ask him. It’s as plain as a pike-staff. That football is one of those given to the members of last year’s victorious Elm Park team. I looked up the record. They played eleven games and won all but two. And Harold was quarterback and was a regular James H. Dandy. And now you know why I’m a trifle peeved, Joe. Wouldn’t it set you back some to find that you’d been teaching the fine points of football to last season’s All-Scholastic quarterback?”

I said it would. Then I asked Jim what he was going to do about it and he said glumly:

“I’m going to keep my mouth shut, and so are you. What he wants is for us to find out we’ve been fooled, so he can have the laugh on us. Nothing doing! If he wants to come out as the Great Peck he can do his own announcing. Then I’ll tell him I knew it all along, and the laugh will be on him, hang him!”

We chinned some more and then I left him. In a way, thought I, it was sort of mean of Peck to put it over on Jim like that, but at the same time it was funny, and I had to chuckle a bit now and then for the rest of the evening. It was a shame not to tell the other fellows, too, but Jim had made me promise to keep quiet and so I couldn’t. But I got some fun out of it, for the next afternoon I overhauled Harold going over to the field and I said to him:

“It’s funny, but you remind me an awful lot of that chap who played quarter for Elm Park last year. You look a lot like him around the eyes. And the lower part of his face, too. His name was the same as yours, you know.”

“Really?” he asked, most polite. “Elm Park is out near Chicago, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but the team came East last Fall for a post-season game. You said you weren’t related to him, didn’t you?”

“I don’t think I said just that,” replied the fox. “I’d hardly dare to. As a matter of fact, our family has relations in the West, although I’ve never heard that any of them lived in Chicago.”

I didn’t want to give the snap away, so I shut up then, but I couldn’t help admiring the way he carried it off. Never batted an eyelash! Some boy, Harold!

They made him first choice quarter then and he was never headed all the rest of the season, although Kingsley and Ramsey tried their hardest to overhaul him, and he kept getting better and better right up to the Robinson game, running the team for all that was in it and never letting a game go by without pulling off a few fancy stunts on his own. I could see that there was a coolness between him and Jim Phelan, but it seemed to me that Peck was still unsuspecting that his secret was discovered. So I guess he often wondered why Jim had stopped giving him pointers and being chummy. Of course they were still friendly and all that, but Jim couldn’t forget that Harold had put one over on him. And so things stood when we faced the Robinson freshmen in the final game.

As the fellow said about the war, we had a good day for it: cold and snappy, with almost no wind. Robinson brought over a big bunch of rooters and a good many of our own old boys came up for the game. And there was a sprinkling of khaki, too, for some of the grads were in service; and even the Navy was represented by a Reserve lieutenant. He was a corking looking chap, and when I ran across him just after lunch he reminded me so much of Harold Peck that for a minute I thought it was Harold got up that way for a joke. But he was bigger than Harold, and a couple of years older, I guess, and when I’d had a second look at him the resemblance wasn’t so strong. Still, it was there, and when he stopped and asked me which was McLean Hall his voice sort of sounded like Harold’s. Anyway, he was a corking, clever-looking lad, and I got to wondering how one of those blue uniforms would look on yours truly.

I’m not going to bore you with the game in detail. It was some game, but you’ve watched many better ones. Robinson got the jump on us at the start and scored a goal from our twenty-eight yards. I guess we had stage fright or something, for we sure played like a lot of kids in that first period. Even Pete Rankin got temperamental and fell over his own feet time and again, and young Peck tried hard to show how not to play quarterback. But Robinson’s score was just what we needed, for in the second period we pulled ourselves together and inched along for the goal line and finally pushed Curtis over for a touchdown. We were pretty well started on the way to a second when time was called for the half. As Toots Hanscom had missed goal, the score was 6–3 when we crawled back to the gym. We thought we’d done pretty well until Old Rudy started at us. Then we realized that we weren’t much better than a gang of Huns. He certainly did take the skin off! According to him Robinson should never have scored and we should have had twenty-one points tucked away. At that, he wasn’t so far wrong, for we had surely pulled a lot of dub plays in that first fifteen minutes. Anyhow, when he’d got through with us we were ready to go back and bite holes in the Robbies!

The third quarter gave us another touchdown, and this time Toots booted it over. But Robinson wasn’t dead yet, and she put a scare into us when she sprang a new formation and began to circle our ends for six and eight yards at a try. Pete was put out of it and Gannet, who took his place, was pretty punk. We lost two or three other first-string men in that third period, and so when Robinson worked down to our fifteen-yard line we couldn’t stop her. We did smear her line attacks, but she heaved a forward and got away with it, and kicked the goal a minute later. That made the score 11 to 10, and the world didn’t look so bright for us. And then, when the last quarter was about five minutes old, Saunders, who was playing back with Peck, let a punt go over his head and they had us with our heels to the wall. Curtis punted on second down and the ball went crazy and slanted out at our forty-yard line. Robinson tried her kicks again and came back slowly. Pete Rankin put himself back in the game and that helped some. About that time when the enemy was near our twenty-five, Peck got a kick on the head and had to have time out. Old Rudy started Kingsley to warming up on the side line, but Peck, although sort of groggy, insisted on staying in, and Pete let him.

They edged along to our twenty and then struck a snag and that’s when I stopped taking much interest in events, for I was the snag. When I came around I was lying on a nice bank of hay, with every bone in my head aching, and Prentiss was playing my position. So what happened subsequently was seen by little Joe from afar. Robinson put another field goal over and added three points to her score and we saw the game going glimmering. There was still five minutes left, however, and an optimist next to me on the hay pile said we could do it yet. I didn’t think we could, but I liked to hear him rave.

The five minutes dwindled to four and then to three. We had the ball in the middle of the field and were trying every play in our bag of tricks. But our end runs didn’t get off, our forward passes were spoiled and we were plainly up against it. Young Peck’s voice got shriller and shriller and Pete’s hoarser and hoarser, and the rooters were making noises like a lot of frogs. And then the timekeeper said one minute and it looked as though there was nothing left but the shouting.

We still had the pigskin and had crossed the center line two plays back, and Pete and Peck were rubbing heads while the Robbies jeered. Then something broke loose, and after I’d got a good look at it I saw that it was Peck.

I don’t know how he got away, for it looked as if he had sort of pulled a miracle, but there he was, dodging and streaking with the mob at his heels and a quarter and a half laying for him up the field. The optimist guy almost broke his hand off pounding my sore shoulder and I let him pound, for the pain helped me yell. Pete and Trask trailed along behind Peck and it was Pete who dished the waiting halfback. After that Peck had a free field and it was only a question of his staying on his feet, for you could see that the kid was all in. He got to wobbling badly at about the fifteen yards and I thought sure a Robinson chap had him, but the Robbie wasn’t much better off and they finally went across, staggering, with Peck just out of reach, and toppled over the line together. Then bedlam broke loose.

I must have forgotten my bum ankle, for the next thing I knew I was down at the goal line with half the college, and the Naval Reserve lieutenant had Peck’s head on his knees and was telling Tracy, the trainer, what to do for him. Tracy sputtered indignantly and swashed his sponge and Toots missed another goal and the game was over. The crowd got some of the team but I was near the gate and made my getaway. And so did Peck, thanks to the lieutenant chap, and we were halfway to the gym before the fellows missed him. We fought them off then right up to the gym door and dodged inside, and Peck, who was all right now except for being short of breath, said: “Thanks, West. I want you to know my brother.”

“Your brother!” I gasped. The Navy chap laughed and shook hands.

“And proud of it,” he said. “The kid played good ball for a fellow who couldn’t make the team last year, didn’t he?”

“Couldn’t make—Say, what’s the idea?” I gibbered. “Didn’t he play quarter for Elm Park?”

“Why, no,” said the Navy guy, “that was me! Harold never played any to speak of until this fall. He tells me that a roommate of his taught him about all he knows. I want to meet that fellow!”

“Oh!” said I, still sort of dazed. “Well, I guess he will be mighty glad to meet you, too. You see, he got it into his head that your brother was the great Peck, and——”

“But I never told him anything like that!” exclaimed Harold. “Why, I even pretended I’d never heard of you, Herb, for fear they might think I was—well, trading on your reputation, don’t you see! I don’t understand how Jim could have got that idea!”

“Oh, he gets crazy notions sometimes,” said I. “At that, though, he wasn’t so far off, because if you’re not a Great Peck you’re a mighty good eight quarts!”

Which wasn’t so poor for a fellow with half his teeth loose! Now was it?

TERRY COMES THROUGH

“You’re up next, Slim,” said Captain Fosdick, leaning forward to speak to Maple Park’s third baseman. “Get out there and let ’em think you’re alive.” Whittier hoisted himself from the bench and leisurely viewed the row of bats. Selecting two, he ambled out toward the plate. Guy Fosdick, or “Fos” as he was generally called, turned again to Joe Tait, frowning. Joe, a heavily-built, broad-shouldered boy of sixteen, chuckled.

“It’s no use, Fos,” he said. “You can’t put pep into Slim.”

Fos’s frown melted into a smile. He was a good-looking chap at all times, but when he smiled he “had it all over Apollo and Adonis and all the rest of those Greek guys.” I am quoting Joe. Doubtless Fos’s smile had a good deal to do with his immense popularity at Maple Park School, a popularity that had aided him to various honors during his four years there.

“Sometimes I think he does it to rile me,” said Fos. “The day they had the explosion in the chemical laboratory Slim was out in front of Main Hall, and still going, before any of the rest of us were through the door! Good boy, Archie!” Browne had slammed a grounder between Linton’s shortstop and second baseman and filled the bags. “Two gone,” he said regretfully. “If Slim doesn’t do more than he’s been doing——” His voice trailed off into silence as he gave his attention to the Linton High School pitcher.

“Did you see Wendell get down to third?” asked Joe admiringly. “That kid can certainly run!”

“Terry Wendell? Yes, he can,” agreed the captain thoughtfully. “Put Terry on base and he will get to third every time. He’s a fast one, all right. But you’ve got to stop right there, Joe.”

“How do you mean, stop?”

“Terry never comes through. He gets just so far and stops. I don’t know why. He got to first on an error, stole second nicely, reached third on Archie’s hit and I’ll bet you a red apple he will die there.”

“Oh, come, Fos, you’re too hard on the kid. He’s a pretty fair fielder and his hitting isn’t so rotten, and you say yourself that he’s fast on the bases.”

“Until he gets to third,” responded Fos. “Maybe next year Terry will make good, Joe, but he doesn’t deliver the goods yet. I’m sorry, because he’s a friend of yours——”

“We room together.”

“But I’ve got to let him go. He’s had a fair trial all Spring, Joe, and the coach would have dropped him two weeks ago if I hadn’t put in my oar. He’s a nice kid, and he’s promising; but promises won’t win from Lacon two weeks from Saturday. If—— What did I tell you?”

There was a chorus of triumph from the knot of Linton adherents behind third as their right fielder pulled down Slim Whittier’s long fly, and Captain Fosdick jumped up.

“But that wasn’t Terry’s fault,” protested Joe. “A fellow can’t score on a third out!”

“I didn’t say it was ever his fault,” replied Fos, pulling on his glove. “But it’s what always happens, Joe. He doesn’t come through. Call it hard luck if you like, but that’s the way it is. All out on the run, fellows!”

When the Linton center fielder had swung thrice at Morton’s delivery without connecting Joe arose from the substitute’s bench and strode off toward the track. He had no doubts as to the outcome of the game, for with but three innings to play it was unlikely that the visitors would overtake the home team’s lead of six runs, and he was due for a half-hour’s work with the shot. But he felt sorry about Terry. Terry was a nice kid and he was fond of him, and ever since he had known him, which meant since last September, Terry had tried and failed at half a dozen things. Terry had just failed of making the second football eleven, had almost but not quite finished fourth in the four-forty yards in the Fall Handicap Meet, had been beaten out by Walt Gordon for cover-point position on the second hockey team, had been passed over in the Debating Society election and now, just when, as Joe very well knew, Terry was beginning to congratulate himself on having made the school baseball team, Fate was about to deal him another blow. It was really mighty tough luck, Joe growled to himself; and if Fos had been anyone but Fos he would have suspected him of prejudice. But Terry Wendell’s troubles were forgotten when Joe had thrown off his wrap and had the twelve-pound shot cupped in his broad palm, and weren’t remembered again until, just before six, he pushed open the door of 12 Munsing.

Terry was pretending to study, but Joe knew very well from the discouraged look on his face that Fos had spoken and that Terry’s thoughts were far from the book before him. He looked up at Joe’s entry, murmured “Hello!” in a rather forlorn voice that tried hard to be cheerful and bent his head again.

“How’d the game come out?” asked Joe, banging the door with unnecessary violence.

“We won; twelve to eight.”

“Linton must have got a couple more runs over after I left,” said Joe. “How did you get along?”

“Oh, pretty punk, thanks. I got one hit, rather a scratch, and was forced out at third. I got as far as third again and Whittier flied to the Linton right fielder and left me there.”

“Hard luck! How about your fielding?”

“Three chances and got them.” There was silence for a moment. Joe nursed a foot on the window-seat and waited. At last: “I’m out of it, Joe,” said Terry with a fine affectation of indifference. “Fosdick told me after the game that they’d decided to get along without my valuable services.”

Joe pretended surprise. Terry cut short his expressions of sympathy, however. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I mean I ought to have known how it would be. I didn’t, though. I thought I’d really made good at something finally. I wrote home only last Sunday that I’d got on the nine. Well, I can sit back now, can’t I? There isn’t anything left to try for!”

“Pshaw, that’s no way to talk, Terry. There’s your track work, remember. You’re pretty sure to get your chance with the quarter-milers.”

“I’m going to quit that. I know what’ll happen. Either they’ll drop me the day before the Dual Meet or I’ll trail in in fifth place.”

“Quit nothing!” said Joe disgustedly. “You’re going to stick, kid, if I have to lug you out by the feet and larrup you around the track!” Terry smiled faintly at the idea.

“You won’t have to, Joe. I was only talking. I’ll keep on with the Track Team as long as they’ll have me. Maybe——” He hesitated a moment and then went on doubtfully. “Maybe I can get Cramer to try me in the half, Joe. I have an idea I could run the half better than the four-forty. Anyway, I’ll stick. And I’ll try my hardest. There—there must be something I can do!”

Terry Wendell was fifteen, a nice-looking, well-built boy, rather slender but by no means frail, with frank brown eyes, somewhat unruly hair of the same color and a healthy complexion. He had entered Maple Park School the preceding Fall, making the upper middle class. He was good at studies and was seldom in difficulties with the instructors in spite of the time he consumed in the pursuit of athletic honors. Of course entering the third year class had handicapped him somewhat and his circle of friends and acquaintances was far smaller than if he had joined the school as a junior, but he hadn’t done so badly, after all, for Joe Tait had kindly taken him in hand and become a sort of social sponsor for him. What friends Terry had were firm ones and, had he but known it, liked him none the less for the plucky way in which, having been turned down in one sport, he bobbed up undismayed for another. But Terry, not knowing that, suspected the fellows of secretly smiling at his failures, and had become a little sensitive, a trifle inclined to detect ridicule where none was meant. Which fact probably accounts for the falling-out with Walt Gordon the next day.

It was Sunday, and as perfect a day as the Spring had given. May was nearly over, the trees in the campus and on the long slope of Maple Hill were fully clothed in fresh green and the bluest of blue skies stretched overhead. Maple Hill, which rises back of the school, is crowned by a great granite ledge, from which one commands a view of many miles of smiling countryside. The Ledge is a favorite spot with the students and its seamed and crumbling surface is marked in many places with evidences of fires and, I regret to say, too often littered with such unlovely objects as empty pickle bottles, cracker boxes and the like. On this Sunday afternoon “Tolly” hailed the bottles with joy and, having collected five of them, advanced to the farther edge of the rock and hurled them gleefully far down into the tops of the trees. Tolly’s real name was Warren Tolliver, and he was only fourteen, and for the latter reason his performance with the pickle bottles was viewed leniently by the other four boys. Tolly’s youthfulness gave him privileges.

Ordinarily the party would have been a quartette; Joe, Terry, Hal Merrill and Tolly; but to-day they had happened on Walt Gordon and Walt had joined them. He was a heavily-built chap in appearance, but when he was in track togs you saw that the heaviness was mostly solid muscle and sinew. He was Maple Park’s crack miler and, beside, played a rather decent game at center field on the nine. He was respected for his athletic prowess, but beyond that was not very popular, for he thought a bit too highly of Walt Gordon and too little of anyone else. But none of his four companions really disliked him or had resented his attaching himself to their party. When he cared to, Walt could be very good company.

Stretched on the southern slope of the ledge, where sun and wind each had its way with them, the five boys found little to say at first. The climb had left them warm and a trifle out of breath. It was the irrepressible Tolly who started the conversational ball rolling. “Know something, fellows?” he demanded. Joe lazily denied any knowledge on any subject and begged enlightenment. “Well,” continued Tolly, “when I get through college——”

“Ha!” grunted Hal. Tolly tossed a pebble at him and went on.

“When I get through college I’m coming back here and I’m going to build one of those aerial railways from the roof of Main Hall to this place. It’ll cost you fellows twenty-five cents apiece to get up here. No, maybe I’ll make it twenty-five for the round-trip.”

“I’ll walk before I pay a quarter,” said Walt.

“You won’t be allowed to, because I’ll buy up the hill and put a barbed wire fence around it. You’ll have to ride.”

“How are you going to run the thing, Tolly?” asked Joe. “Pull it up yourself?”

“Electricity. There’ll be two cars. Wouldn’t it be fine?”

“You’ll let your friends ride free, won’t you?” Terry inquired.

“Yes, but I shan’t have any then. It’ll cost too much.”

“All that doesn’t cause me a flutter,” said Hal. “By the time Tolly’s out of college I’ll be dead.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Joe chuckled. “It won’t take him two weeks to get through college—if he once gets in. It’ll be a case of ‘Howdy do, Mr. Tolliver. Goodby, Mr. Tolliver!’”

“Huh!” grunted Tolly. “That’s all you know about it, Joey. I can get in any college I like, and——”

“Yes, but suppose they found you?” said Hal.

“I’m getting letters every day from all the big ones: Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Cornell——”

“Vassar,” suggested Joe helpfully.

“That’s what comes of being a real ball-player,” concluded Tolly. “Everyone wants you.”

A groan of derision arose. “A real ball-player!” said Hal. “You poor fish, you never caught a ball but once in your life, and then you couldn’t get out of its way!” Hal rolled over a little so that he could see Terry. “You never heard about that, did you, Terry?” he asked. “It was last Spring. Tolly was trying for the nine and the coach sort of let him hang around and look after the bats and keep the water bucket filled, you know. The only trouble was that he was so small that fellows were always falling over him, and finally Murdock, who was captain then, decided to get rid of him. But Tolly hid behind the bucket and Murdock couldn’t find him, and one day we played Spencer Hall and a fellow named Williams, the regular left fielder, was sick, and another fellow got spiked or something and there was only Tolly left. So Murdock called him and Tolly crawled out from under a glove——”