WINNING HIS GAME

By Ralph Henry Barbour

Purple Pennant Series

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

Yardley Hall Series

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

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

Books not in Series

• The Brother of a Hero
• Finkler’s Field
• Danforth Plays the Game
• Benton’s Venture
• The Junior Trophy
• The New Boy at Hilltop
• The Spirit of the School
• The Arrival of Jimpson

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, Publishers, New York

[“The ball, curving inward, met his bat fairly and screeched off into short center”]

WINNING
HIS GAME

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF “RIVALS FOR THE TEAM,” “THE PURPLE PENNANT,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY
WALT LOUDERBACK

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1917

Copyright, 1917, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

THE ILLUSTRATIONS

WINNING HIS GAME

CHAPTER I
DUD WONDERS

Jimmy Logan stood his skis in the corner behind the door and, tramping heavily to get the clinging snow from his shoes, climbed the first flight in Trow Hall slowly and then dragged wearied feet down the corridor to Number 19. Once inside the room, he said, “Hello,” shied his cap onto his bed and sank exhaustedly in the nearest chair, stretching his legs across the rug and slumping down until the wet collar of his mackinaw came in contact with his ears. Whereupon he muttered, “Ugh!” and sat up another inch or two.

Across the room, one foot on the floor and the other doubled up beneath him on the windowseat, was Jimmy’s roommate. His response to the greeting had been brief and delivered in a preoccupied voice, for Dudley Baker had a book open before him on the cushion and held a stained and battered baseball in his right hand. His attention was divided between book and ball and had no room for Jimmy. The latter’s gaze presently came away from his shoes, which were trickling water to the rug, and fixed itself on Dudley. He had to sit up still higher in the chair to get an uninterrupted view of his chum, which proceeding elicited a protesting groan from him, and after he had attained it he instantly decided that it was not worth while and deeply regretted the exertion it had caused him. He promptly descended again on his spine, crossed his feet and sighed luxuriously.

The dollar clock on Dudley’s chiffonier ticked briskly and loudly in the ensuing silence. Outside the windows tiny flakes of snow were falling. The shadows deepened in the room. In the corridor deliberate footsteps sounded and suddenly the transom over the door showed yellow and an oblong of light appeared on the ceiling. Mr. Crump, the school janitor, was lighting the dormitories. Jimmy wished that his shoes were off, and his mackinaw, and the woolen socks, but as yet he wasn’t equal to the task. When Mr. Crump’s footsteps had died away on the stairs Jimmy broke the silence.

“What’re you doing?” he asked uninterestedly. There was, however, no reply from the window-seat, possibly because Jimmy’s tones had been too faint to reach there. After a moment Jimmy turned his head and stared across a pile of books on the study table at the three or four inches of Dudley’s head that were visible. Then:

“Dud!” he bawled resentfully.

“Huh?”

“What are you doing, I asked you.”

“Oh, me? Oh, just trying to dope out some of this stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Stuff about pitching. How to hold the ball, you know.”

“Oh!” Jimmy subsided again and another period of silence followed. Then:

“You don’t expect to play baseball for a while, do you?” he asked lazily. “You’d better study how to throw a snowball!” He chuckled faintly at his joke.

“It isn’t so long now,” responded Dud soberly. “They’re going to call candidates the twenty-first.”

“Gym work,” grunted the other. “Take my advice and keep away from it. Don’t go out for the team until it gets out of doors. Are you still thinking of trying for the school?”

“Of course.”

Jimmy grunted. “You’ll have a fine show, I don’t think! Better try for the second, Dud.”

“I don’t expect to make it, but it’s good practice, and maybe next year——”

“You’ll stand more chance with the second, and have a lot more fun. The second’s going to have a regular schedule this year; five or six games, maybe; going away for some of them, too.”

“If I don’t make the first, and I suppose I won’t, of course, I’ll try for the second,” said Dud. “I asked Murtha this morning if he thought it would be all right to try for the first, and he said——”

“Guy Murtha said, ‘Yes, indeed, Baker, we want all the candidates we can get!’ That’s what they always tell you, and then, when you get out there, they inform you gently but firmly that you won’t do, and hadn’t you better stay with your class team this year and try again next? What’s the use? I like to play ball, Dud, but you don’t catch me putting in a month’s grind in the cage and then getting the G. B. as soon as we get outdoors. Me for the second—and safety.”

“You’re lazy,” replied Dud, shutting his book and stowing the ball back of the pillows. “You could make the first this spring if you’d try for it. You ought to, too.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe so. But I’d rather have a sure place on the second, thanks. Gee, but I’m tired!”

“Skiing?”

“Yes; Pete Gordon and Kelly and Gus and I. We climbed up to the Observatory and then hiked half-way over to the Falls. It was piles of fun going down the mountain. Gus Weston took a header and turned over about forty-eleven times and then went into a snow bank head-first up to his waist. But we tried to do too much. My legs feel as if they’d never stop aching! What have you been doing? Been in here all the afternoon? But, of course, you have. I forgot about your tooth. How is it? Any better?”

“Yes. I guess I caught a little cold in it. I wish that dentist chap would yank it out instead of practicing on it!” Dud turned the lights on and perched himself across a chair at the opposite side of the table, his arms on the back, and observed Jimmy in a thoughtful fashion. Jimmy grunted.

“Shoot,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

“I—I’ve been wondering, Jimmy.”

“Oh, gee!” Jimmy groaned deeply. “At it again, eh? Well, what is it this time, Dud? The other day you were worrying yourself thin because you were afraid you were costing your folks too much money, or something.”

Dud smiled. “Not exactly worrying,” he replied. “Just—just wondering.”

“There isn’t much difference, the way you do it. If I——”

“Not so much about how much I was costing them as whether they’re going to get their money’s worth, Jimmy. Sometimes I wonder whether I’m really doing any good here. Now you look at it this way——”

“I won’t! I refuse! Besides, that’s an old one. What’s your latest worry?”

“It isn’t a worry—exactly. I was only thinking that——” He paused. Then: “Oh, I guess it isn’t anything, after all. Say, you’d better get out of those wet things, Jimmy.”

“I’m going to just as soon as I have strength to move. But I want to hear your new—er—problem, Dud. Come across. ’Fess up to your Uncle Jimmy.”

Dud hesitated, smiling a bit embarrassedly. He was a good-looking chap of fifteen, with clean-cut features, a rather fair complexion and very bright blue eyes. He was small-boned and slim, and, since he had been doing a lot of growing the past twelve months, he looked a trifle “weedy.” In that respect he was a distinct contrast to his roommate, for James Townsend Logan was a stocky lad, wide of shoulder and broad of chest. Jimmy was sixteen, although only four months divided the two boys in age. Jimmy’s features were nondescript, but the result was pleasing. He wore his red-brown hair rather long—Dud said it was because he was too lazy to have it cut oftener than once every term—and had a short nose and a wide, humorous mouth and a very square chin. He was a member of the upper middle class, while Dud was a lower middler.

“I guess it’s sort of silly,” said Dud after a moment. “But I’ve been wondering”—Jimmy groaned again—“why I don’t know more fellows, Jimmy, why I don’t—don’t ‘mix’ better. I don’t believe I really care a whole lot——” He paused again. “Yes I do, too, though. I’d like to have fellows like me, Jimmy, as they do you, and ask me to do things and go places and—and all that. Of course, I know the trouble’s with me, all right, but—but what is it?”

“Oh, piffle, Dud! Fellows do like you.”

“Yes, about the way they like the steps in front of School Hall. That is, they don’t exactly like me; they just—just don’t dislike me. I guess I’d rather have them do that than not care a fig whether I’m alive or dead. I suppose this sounds silly, but——”

“Honest confession is good for the soul,” responded Jimmy lightly. “But I think you’re wrong about it, Dud. Or, anyway—now look here——”

“I suppose I’m just not cut out to be what you might call popular,” interrupted Dud thoughtfully. “Well, but still——”

“Shut up and let me talk! The trouble with you is that you don’t let fellows find out whether they can like you or not. You don’t—don’t ‘mix’—do you see? If you’d get into things more——”

“But that’s just it! How can I when I see that I’m not wanted?”

“That’s just imagination, Dud. You can’t expect fellows to fall all over themselves and hug you! You’ve got to show ’em that you’re ready to be friends. You’ve got to make the start yourself. What do you do when someone says ‘Let’s do this or that’? You mutter something about having to dig Latin or math and sneak off. Fellows naturally think you don’t want to do the things they do. Now today, for instance——”

“I couldn’t have gone, Jimmy, with this plaguey toothache!”

“Why, no, I guess you couldn’t. But, thunderation, Dud, if it isn’t a toothache it’s something else. You’ve always got some perfectly wonderful excuse for beating it about the time the fun begins. Not that you missed much this afternoon, for you didn’t, barring a lot of tired muscles, but you often do miss things. To be what you call a ‘mixer,’ Dud, you’ve got to ‘mix,’ and you don’t know the first thing about it. Fellows like you, all right, what they see of you, but you don’t give them a chance.”

Dud stared thoughtfully at the green shade before him. “Ye-yes, I suppose that’s true, Jimmy. But I don’t like to stick around when fellows are getting up things because I think that maybe they won’t want me in on it and that if I’m there they’ll think they have to ask me.”

“Huh! What if they do have to ask you? Let ’em! Then when they see that you’re a regular feller they’ll ask you next time without having to.”

“But I wonder if I am.”

“Am what?” asked Jimmy ungrammatically.

“A ‘regular feller.’ Maybe I’m not. I wonder——”

Jimmy threw up his hands in despair. “Oh, gee, he’s at it again! Dud, what you want to do is stop wondering. You’re the finest little wonderer that ever came down the pike, all right, but you spend so much time at it that you don’t get anywhere. Now, you take my advice, old chap, and stop wondering whether fellows like you or don’t like you. Just get out and butt in a little. When you see a crowd walk right into the middle of it and find out whether it’s a fight or a frolic. And, whatever it is, take a hand. Now there’s some mighty good advice, Dud, take it from me. I didn’t know I had it in me! And let me tell you another thing, kid. If you expect to have a show for the first team you want to crawl out of your shell and rub shoulders with fellows. Get hunky with the first team crowd, do you see? Be—be more of a—well, more of a regular feller, like I said before. Don’t try too hard to be popular, though. Fellows get onto that and won’t stand for it. Just—just be natural!”

“I guess I’m being natural,” answered Dud, with a smile, “and that is where the trouble is. I guess I’ll have to wait until next year. A lower middle fellow feels sort of fresh if he tries to mix in with upper middlers.”

“Piffle! Lots of your class are thick as thieves with upper middle chaps. Look at young Whatshisname—Stiles. He’s always traveling with upper middlers—Ordway and Blake and that bunch.”

“Ned Stiles has more cheek than I have. Besides, I don’t think fellows like him particularly, Jimmy. He sort of toadies, doesn’t he?”

“He’s a perfect ass, if you ask me. But they seem to stand for him.”

“Well, but I don’t want to be ‘stood for’; I want fellows to—to want me.”

“All right. Give ’em a chance then. You’re all right, Dud, only you’re shy. That’s what’s the matter with you, old chap, you’re just plain shy! Never thought of it before. Look here, now, I’ll tell you what you do. You forget all about your dear little self and get over being—being—gee, what’s the word I want? Being self-conscious! That’s it! That’s your trouble, self-consciousness.” Jimmy beamed approval at himself. “Best way to do it is to—to do it! Tell you what, we’ll make a start tonight, eh? Let’s go out and visit someone. Who do you know that you’d like to know better?”

“I’d like to know Hugh Ordway, for one,” said Dud hesitatingly. “But I guess he wouldn’t care about knowing me, and so——”

“Stow it! That’s just what you mustn’t do, do you see? You mustn’t ‘wonder’ whether a fellow wants to know you or not. You just take it for granted that he does. Say to yourself, ‘I’m a good feller, a regular feller. I’m as good as you are. Of course you want to know me. Why not?’ See the idea?”

Dud nodded doubtfully. “Still, Hugh Ordway’s a bit——”

“A bit what?” demanded Jimmy impatiently.

“I mean he’s awfully popular and has piles of friends and he wouldn’t be likely to—to want to know me.”

“Oh, piffle! Ordway’s just like any of us—except that he happens to be English and have a Lord or a Duke or something for a father. I don’t know him very well myself, but that’s just because he trains with the football crowd—Blake and Winslow and that bunch. But I know him plenty well enough to visit, and that’s just what we’ll do this evening, Dud.”

“Maybe we’d better leave it for some other night,” replied Dud uneasily. “I’ve got a lot of lessons tonight and——”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Jimmy mirthlessly. “Where have I heard that before?” He pulled himself from his chair with a groan and pointed a stern finger at his chum. “You’ll start right in with me this very evening, Dud, and be a regular feller! And no more punk excuses, either! I’m going to take you in hand, son, and when I get through with you you won’t know yourself. Here, stop that!”

“What?” asked Dud startledly.

“You know what! You were beginning to wonder! I saw you! No more of that, understand? The first time I catch you wondering I’ll—I’ll take my belt to you!”

CHAPTER II
THE ENTERING WEDGE

If you have by any chance read a previous narrative of events at Grafton School entitled “Rivals for the Team” you are sufficiently acquainted with the scene of this story, and, also, with many of the characters. But since it is quite possible that you have never even heard of the former narrative, it devolves on the historian to introduce a certain amount of descriptive matter at about this stage, something he has as little taste for as have you. Descriptions are always tiresome, and so we’ll have this as short as possible.

Grafton School, then, occupies a matter of ten acres a half-mile east of the town of that name and at the foot of the hill which is known as Mount Grafton. Like many another New England school, it is shaded by elms, boasts many fine expanses of velvety turf and, so to speak, laves its feet in a gently-flowing river. The buildings on the campus consist of three dormitories, the more venerable School Hall, the gymnasium and the Principal’s residence, and of these all save the two latter stretch in a straight line across the middle of the three-acre expanse. The gymnasium is slightly back from the line and the Principal’s cottage is a bit in advance, its vine-covered porch looking along the fronts of the other buildings and its rear windows peering down into Crumbie Street. School Hall is in the center. Trow comes next on the left, and then Lothrop. On the right of the older building stands Manning, which shelters the younger boys, and somewhat “around the corner” is the gymnasium.

Graveled walks lead across the campus, under spreading elm trees, to Crumbie Street on one side, to River Street on the other, to School Street straight in front. Beyond School Street is the Green, a block-wide parallelogram on which, at the corner of School and River Streets, two smaller dormitories stand. These, Morris and Fuller, are converted dwellings of limited accommodations. The main walk from the steps of School Hall continues across the Green to Front Street, beyond which, descending gently to the Needham River, is Lothrop Field. An ornamental wall and gate commemorate the name of the giver. The Field House flanks the steps on the left and beyond lie the football gridirons, the baseball diamonds, the tennis courts and the blue-gray cinder track. The distant weather-stained building on the river bank is the boathouse.

Grafton School looks after slightly over two hundred boys between the ages of twelve and twenty. At the time of which I am writing, February of last year, the number was, I believe, exactly two hundred and ten, of which some thirty-five had attained to the senior class and about eighty were juniors, leaving the upper middle and lower middle classes to share the residue fairly equally. The faculty numbered twelve, beginning with Doctor Duncan, the Principal, and ending with Mrs. Fair, the matron. Doctor Duncan’s full title is Charles William Duncan, A.M., Ph.D., but he is better known as “Charley”! There was—and doubtless are—also a Mrs. Duncan and a Miss Duncan, but they are not likely to enter into this narrative. So much then for our stage setting. I might keep on, but I fear you are weary, and I know I am!

Hugh Ordway roomed on the top floor of Lothrop, the newest and most luxurious of the dormitories, sharing the suite of study and two bedrooms with Bert Winslow. Hugh’s father was English and his mother American, and, although Hugh had been born on the other side and had spent most of his sixteen years there, he declared himself to be half American. His full name was Hugh Oswald Brodwick Ordway, and in spite of the fact that by reason of his father being the Marquis of Lockely, Hugh had every right to the title of Earl of Ordway, he was generally known at Grafton as “Hobo,” a nickname evolved from his initials. As he was a straight, well-built, clear-skinned, young chap with quiet brown eyes and an undeniable air of breeding, the nickname was amusingly incongruous if one stopped to consider it. But Hugh had been known as Hobo Ordway ever since fall, when his cleverness as a running halfback on the first football team had surprised and delighted the school, and nowadays the name was too familiar to excite any comment. Hugh’s particular friends were more likely to call him “’Ighness,” however.

It was Hugh, alone in the study, who responded to the knock at the door shortly after supper that evening and who successfully disguised the surprise he felt when he recognized his visitors as Jimmy Logan and Dudley Baker. He made them welcome quite as heartily as though he had been expecting them all day, and Dud, who had hung back all the way up the three flights of slate stairs, was vastly relieved. The conversation skipped from one subject to another for the first few minutes, during which time Hugh, perched on the window-seat, leaving the easy-chairs to his guests, hugged his knees to his chin, piloted the conversation and secretly wondered at the visit.

You are not to suppose, however, that Hugh was the only one of the three at his ease. Such a supposition shows on your part a vast ignorance of Jimmy Logan. Jimmy was a stranger to embarrassment. Had Hugh been the President of the United States or the King of England or—well, “Home Run” Baker, Jimmy would have been just as splendidly at ease as he was this moment. He might have assumed a more dignified attitude in the Morris chair and his voice might have held a more respectful tone, but beyond that—no, not Jimmy! Just now Jimmy was humorously recounting his skiing adventures that afternoon and Hugh was chuckling over them. Dud smiled when Hugh laughed, sitting rather stiffly in his chair, and tried his best to look animated and pleasant and only succeeded in looking anxious and uncomfortable. Jimmy did his best to get Dud to talk, but Dud’s conversation consisted largely of “Yes” and “No” and Hugh secretly thought him a bit of a stick. Jimmy was wondering whether to withdraw as gracefully as possible before Dud created any worse impression when the door opened to admit a black-haired, dark-eyed fellow of seventeen who, with less command over his features than Hugh, looked frankly surprised when he saw who the visitors were. The surprise even extended to his voice as he greeted them.

“Hello, Jimmy,” said Bert Winslow. “What are you doing up here? Haven’t seen you around here for ages.” He spoke to Dud then, hesitating a moment as though not certain of the latter’s name. Dud, noting the fact, felt his embarrassment increase and wished that Jimmy would give the word to leave. But Jimmy had already abandoned thoughts of withdrawing. He liked Bert Winslow, just as most fellows did, and welcomed the chance to talk to him. Bert and Jimmy were both members of “Lit”—short for Literary Society—and only two evenings ago had been pitted against each other in one of the impromptu weekly debates and had struggled along nip and tuck until Jimmy, abandoning facts, had in a wild flow of rhetoric won the meeting. Bert alluded to it now as he tossed his cap through the open door of his bedroom.

“Jimmy, that was a fine lot of hot air you got off the other night,” he said with a grin. “Didn’t your folks ever teach you anything about the beauties of truthfulness?”

Jimmy laughed. “Sure, but I had to beat you somehow, Bert. Besides, what I said may be so for all I know!”

“Huh! You just said the first thing that came into that silly head of yours! Did you ever hear such a mess of rot as he sprang, Hugh?”

Hugh smiled. “It sounded all right! Some of the figures were corking. You must have a wonderful memory, Logan!”

“Memory!” snorted Bert, seating himself beside Hugh on the window-seat. “There wasn’t a figure that was right! I looked it up afterwards. Did you hear him, Baker? Oh, no, you’re Forum, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Dud. He tried very hard to follow that up with something brilliant or amusing in regard to Jimmy’s debating, but couldn’t think of anything, possibly because Bert’s tone had held some of the careless contempt with which members of a society spoke of its rival, and Dud wished just for the moment that he, too, was “Lit.”

Perhaps Hugh thought that his chum had verged on discourtesy, for he observed quickly: “They tell me you chaps have some awfully good talkers in Forum, Baker.”

Dud agreed. “I guess Joe Leslie is our best; he and Guy Murtha.”

“Murtha’s better than Joe, I think,” said Jimmy. “Anyway, he did a lot better last year in the debate with Mount Morris.”

“Joe’s a wonder at hammering home facts,” said Bert. “Guy’s better at the eloquence stuff, though. Speaking of Guy, Hugh, reminds me that I told him you were going to try for the outfield this spring and he said he was mighty glad because if you could get on the base he was certain you could get around.”

“Oh, but I say, Bert, I don’t know that I shall! Try for baseball, I mean.”

“Of course you will!”

“But I don’t know much about it. You say it’s quite different from cricket, eh?”

“Quite, ’Ighness! You’ve seen baseball played, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes, once or twice, but——”

“I should think a fair cricket player would easily get the hang of baseball,” said Jimmy. “I guess it’s as hard to catch a cricket ball as a baseball, isn’t it? I suppose you’re a rattling good cricket player, Ordway.”

“Oh, no, really I’m not,” exclaimed Hugh. “I’ve played a bit at it, of course. You chaps bowl—I mean pitch to the batters so like thunder, don’t you? I fancy I’ll be scared to stand up there, eh?”

“You might if Gus Weston was pitching,” laughed Bert. “You going to play this year, Jimmy?”

“Oh, I guess so. What would the dear old second do without me?”

“Aren’t you trying for the first, though? You’re as good a fielder as Parker, I guess.”

“I may. The fact is, Bert, I’m sort of used to the dear old second. It would be like leaving home to go to the first. Still, I may decide to break home ties and meet you fellows there.”

“I fancy you’re not likely to meet me there,” said Hugh. “I’ll be an awful dub if I try it, I know. Do you play, Baker?”

“A little,” answered Dud.

“Dud’s the coming Mathewson,” said Jimmy. “Got to watch him, we have. Some twirler!”

“Really?” asked Bert, evidently not much impressed. “That’s fine, Baker. The second rather needed pitchers last spring.”

“He’s going out for the first,” said Jimmy. “Dud’s like me, you know. When Duty calls——” Jimmy smiled eloquently.

“I say, though, Logan, who is this Johnnie you spoke of? Mathews, wasn’t it?”

“Not Johnnie; Christopher,” replied Jimmy gravely. “I referred to Mr. Christopher Mathewson, better known as ‘Matty,’ the Dean of American Pitchers. Dud and ‘Matty’ are as thick as thieves; that is, Dud is! Dud reads everything ‘Matty’ writes and can tell you off-hand how many games ‘Matty’ pitched last year and all the other years, and how many he won, and what his averages are and all the rest of it. He has a gallery of Mathewson pictures and he’s the proud possessor of a ball that Mathewson used in a game with Philadelphia back in 1760 or thereabouts. I don’t know how he got that ball, but I suspect that he swiped it.”

“It was given to me,” said Dud defensively. Then he added, embarrassed: “You mustn’t mind what Jimmy says. He talks a lot of nonsense.”

“I say, though,” exclaimed Hugh, “I do hope you get on the first, Baker. It must be a lot of fun to do the pitching, eh? More fun than fielding, I fancy.”

“Have you pitched much?” inquired Bert politely.

“I’ve been trying to for a couple of years,” answered Dud. “I don’t suppose I’ll make the first this year, of course, but Murtha said he’d be glad to have me try, and so——”

“You must make allowances for his modesty,” said Jimmy. “He’s really rather a shark at it. He can tell you just how to pitch any ball ever discovered, from a straight one to a ‘floater.’”

“Question is, I guess,” Bert laughed, “whether he can pitch ’em. I know how to pitch a ‘knuckle ball,’ but I can’t do it. I remember now, Baker, you pitched some on the second last year, didn’t you?”

“Only three games, or parts of them, Winslow. I dare say I won’t be good enough this year, but—I thought I’d try.”

“Of course,” said Bert heartily. “Nothing like trying. The trouble is, though, you’ve got some good ones to stack up against, eh? There’s Nate Leddy and Ben Myatt——”

“And Gus Weston,” observed Jimmy gravely.

Bert smiled. “Just the same, Gus has pitched some good games for us. But isn’t he a wonder when he goes up?”

Jimmy chuckled. “Gus Weston can go up quicker and higher than any fellow I ever saw,” he said. “And when he is wild——” He ended with an impressive whistle.

“He looked pretty promising last spring,” continued Bert. “Remember the game he pitched against Middleboro? They only got six hits off him, I think.”

“Yes, and Kelly is another chap that is likely to make good this year,” said Jimmy. “Oh, we’re pretty well off for twirlers, but you wait until Dud gets going. And speaking of going, Dud, what do you say if we do a little of it?”

“Don’t rush off,” said Bert. “Well, come around again, Jimmy.”

Probably the invitation was meant to include Dud, but Hugh thought that Dud might not interpret it so and added cordially, “Yes, do, fellows!”

On the way downstairs Jimmy said: “Well, we got out of that pretty well, Dud. I thought for a while you were going to spoil everything by monopolizing the conversation the way you did, but——”

“I don’t seem to know what to talk about,” said Dud ruefully. “I guess Ordway thought me an awful ass.”

“Well, he rather pointedly invited you to come back, so I don’t think you need to worry about that. The next time——”

“There won’t be any next time,” interrupted the other. “It’s just like you said, Jimmy. I can’t mix and there’s no use trying.”

“Oh, yes, there is! We’ve just started. That was the—the entering wedge, so to say. We’ll drop around again next week. And between now and then I’ll put you through a course of sprouts, old chap. We’ll mix in society. Just as soon as you can learn to forget your plaguey self, Dud, you’ll get on finely. The trouble is with you that you just sit and worry about what fellows are thinking of you. But I’ll break you of that quick enough.”

“I guess we’ll call it off,” muttered Dud.

“And I guess we won’t,” was the firm response. “Having set my hand to the plow, Dudley, I never look back. That’s me. My full name is Grim Determination. All others are impostors. Accept no substitutes. Guaranteed to comply with the Pure Food Law. After you, Dud. One flight and turn to the right, please.”

CHAPTER III
29 LOTHROP

True to his promise—or threat, if you think with Dud—Jimmy haled his protesting friend from room to room in the evenings, made him join the throngs on the ice or the toboggan slide in the afternoons and on all occasions dragged him into the conversations and, to use his own expression, “got him in the spot-light.” It can’t be truthfully said that his efforts met with overwhelming success, however. Dud didn’t shine as a conversationalist or display any traits calculated to win popularity. No one disliked him in the least. Most of the time few were really conscious of his presence, in spite of Jimmy’s untiring efforts. Personally, as has been suggested, Dud didn’t take kindly to being exhibited and exploited, and when a fortnight or so after the inception of the undertaking Jimmy actually got to telling jokes and crediting them to Dud, the latter was supremely uncomfortable. Jimmy would chuckle and say: “Dud got off a good one the other day, fellows.” And then he would follow with some more or less brilliant remark or joke that sounded to Dud horribly flat. Generally the hearers laughed and shot surprised glances at the silent and embarrassed Dud, but he didn’t win recognition as a wit or a sage for all of that. Had they heard the things from Dud first-hand they might have been more impressed. As it was the credit went rather to Jimmy than Dud.

Jimmy played Boswell to Dud’s Doctor Johnson with remarkable enthusiasm and patience. He evolved all sorts of schemes, most of which his chum promptly refused to consider, designed to waft Dud into the white light of publicity. For instance, he conceived the brilliant idea of having Dud write a notable article for The Campus, the school monthly. Dud had no serious objection to that project, but it fell through because neither of them could think of a subject to write on. Then Jimmy suggested that Dud get someone to break through the ice on the river so Dud could rescue him. Jimmy said he would be glad to impersonate the drowning character if he wasn’t afraid of catching cold and having rheumatism in his throwing arm. It was all highly entertaining for Jimmy and he thoroughly enjoyed it, but Dud was getting very tired of it. Every now and then Jimmy had what he called a “show down.” At such times he would take a list from his drawer in the study table and check off the names of fellows whose acquaintance Dud had succeeded in making since the last time.

“Churchill, we got him. Check for Churchill. He was a brand new one, wasn’t he? Roy Dresser, check. Dresser was rather a success, Dud. I think he rather took to you. We must call there again. I’ll make a note of that. Dresser’s room is a good place to meet fellows. Parker, check. Parker’s an ass, anyway. Ayer—I say, Dud, we haven’t met Neil Ayer yet. Do you know him at all?”

“Only to speak to.”

“We’ll go after Ayer this evening, then. I know where to find him. He will be in Joe Leslie’s room, I guess. Foster Tray, check. Tray’s a good sort. Zanetti—that’s another chap we’ve missed. We’ll have to find him with Nate Leddy some time. I don’t know him at all. He’s a good fellow to know, though. Stands in with the football and the track crowds. I tell you what, Dud! Why not go out for the Track Team?”

“Because I can’t do anything,” laughed Dud.

“How do you know you can’t?” asked Jimmy, untroubled. “Besides, you wouldn’t have to really do anything. You could have a try at something and you’d meet a lot of fellows. Jumping isn’t awfully hard. Why not try the broad jump?”

“I couldn’t do that and pitch too, you idiot.”

“That’s so. I forgot. Still, some fellows do go in for baseball and track. There’s Cherry, for instance. Well, never mind. Maybe we’d better—er—concentrate.” Jimmy sat back and studied Dud speculatively, tapping his pen against his teeth the while. “What we’ve got to do, Dud,” he continued presently, in the tones of one who has reached a weighty conclusion after much thought, “is to put it all over those other box artists. That’s our line, Dud. We’ve got to spring you as a startling phenom! Yes, sir, that’s the game!”

“That’s all well enough, Jimmy, but suppose I can’t pitch a little bit when the time comes?”

“By Ginger, you’ve got to! Look here, you’re wasting time. You ought to be at it every day. You ought to get down in the cage in the gym and practice. What time is it now? Nearly six, eh? Too late today, then. But tomorrow we’ll put in a half-hour, and the next day, too, and right along until they call candidates. I’ll catch you. I’ll borrow a mitt somewhere. It’ll be good fun, too. Practice for both of us. Great scheme, eh?”

“Do you mind?” asked Dud eagerly.

“Love to! We’ve got a week yet and you ought to be able to get a lot of practice in a week. That’s settled, then. But we mustn’t forget the—er—the social side of the campaign. So let’s see.” Jimmy bent over his list again. “Quinn, check. Milford—had him before. Forbes——”

The second visit to Hugh Ordway’s study came off right on schedule, nine days after the first call, but on this occasion Dud and Jimmy found the room jammed from door to windows with fellows and a loud and even violent argument going on. Their appearance went practically unnoticed and they found seats with some difficulty and became for a while silent listeners. The argument proved to be concerned with the election the evening before of one Starling Meyer as captain of the Hockey Team. The hockey team had just finished a disastrous season, ending with a second defeat by Grafton’s ancient rival, Mount Morris. Lack of hard ice had aided in the team’s demoralization, but besides that things had gone badly from start to finish, and there were many who credited the afore-mentioned Meyer with having been largely to blame. “Pop” Driver, who played right guard on the eleven and was normally good-natured to a fault, expressed the views of the anti-Meyer faction.

“Meyer,” Pop was saying, “has caused more trouble all the winter than he’s worth. Everything that Yetter’s wanted to do one way, Star’s insisted on doing another. You fellows know that, all of you. Look at the way they changed the style of play in the middle of the season. Yetter started out playing four men on defense and it worked all right. Then Star got to saying that we weren’t scoring enough points and that the four-men-back business was all wrong. He grouched and sulked about it until Yetter gave in to him. After that we got licked right along, with one or two exceptions, and finally Yetter went back to the old style again, and Star threatened to quit and there was the dickens to pay for awhile. Star’s simply no use unless he can be the whole shooting-match.”

“Well, they’ve made him captain,” said Jim Quinn, football manager, “so now he can show what he knows.”

“There’s no sense in blaming everything on Star Meyer,” declared Ned Musgrave. “Yetter’s a good chap, but he hadn’t any business being captain. There’s where the whole trouble began. If Yetter——”

“Warren would have been all right,” said Bert Winslow, “if Star had let him alone. But Star hates to see anyone else have any say about anything. He’s a peach of a hockey player, I’ll grant you that, but he’s a peach of a trouble-maker, too. And I’ll bet you anything things will be in a worse mess next year than they were this.”

“Why didn’t they elect Gus Weston?” asked Roy Dresser. “Gus would have made a dandy leader.”

“Because Star pulled all the strings he could,” answered Pop, “and scared the fellows into voting for him.”

“I happen to know, Pop,” interposed Musgrave warmly, “that more than three-fourths of the team wanted Star for captain long before election. You might as well be fair to him, Pop. Give him a show. Don’t convict a fellow before he’s tried, I say!”

“All right, Ned,” answered Pop good-naturedly. “We’ll let him have his trial. Maybe you’re right, too. Star may make a better captain than he did a first lieutenant. Let’s hope so. I won’t be here to see, though.”

“What makes you think so?” inquired Nick Blake maliciously, raising a laugh at Driver’s expense. Pop, as he himself put it, was doing the four-year course in five, and there was always some doubt as to his getting through in five. Pop grinned now and shook his head.

“They’ll give me my diploma to get rid of me, Nick,” he said.

Jimmy, who had remained quiescent until now, took advantage of a momentary lull in the discussion and chuckled. Pop, beside him, turned inquiringly. “What’s on your mind, Jimmy?” he inquired.

“I was just thinking of something Dud got off awhile ago,” replied Jimmy, still visibly amused. Dud threw an entreating look at him, but Jimmy pretended not to see it.

“Dud who?” asked Pop.

“Dud Baker, over here.” Jimmy’s glance indicated his friend. “We were talking about the hockey team losing so many games one day and Dud said he guessed the trouble with them”—Jimmy had managed to gain the attention of the room by now—“was that they were weak from Star-vation!”

Dud looked anything but like the author of the bonmot at that moment, but the audience laughed, even Ned Musgrave, and Jimmy credited himself with a bull’s-eye.

“The pun,” observed Nick Blake gravely, “is considered the lowest form of humor.”

“I think that’s mighty clever,” exclaimed Hugh. “You’re hipped because you didn’t think of it yourself, Nick.”

“Dry up, ’Ighness! I was about to say when you so rudely interrupted that it is, of course, necessary to consider one’s audience, and that, having the mentality of the audience in mind, Baker’s joke may be considered clever, even brilliant. For my part——”

“Choke him, somebody,” said Bert. “After all, say what you like about Star, you’ve got to acknowledge that there’s much to ad-Meyer about——”

But Nick’s groan of anguish drowned the rest, and Dresser, pretending disgust, arose to depart, setting the example for several others. Jimmy, fearing that Dud’s gloomy silence might undo the effect created by the joke, thought the moment a good one for retiring and led his chum away. Outside, Dud remonstrated again.

“I wish you wouldn’t, Jimmy,” he said. “I feel such an awful fool when you spring those jokes and tell fellows I made ’em. They must know I didn’t!”

“Why? You do say things as good as that, don’t you? When there’s no one but me around, I mean.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t think that was awfully funny, anyway, Jimmy.”

Jimmy chuckled. “I do. And the others did. Cheer up, Dud. I’ll make a celebrity of you in spite of yourself!”

Later, back in Number 29 Lothrop, Bert Winslow laughed suddenly while he was getting ready for bed and Hugh, hearing, called across from his own bedroom.

“What’s the joke, Bert?”

“I was thinking of the one Jimmy Logan sprung; about the hockey team being weak from Star-vation. It isn’t so bad, eh?”

“Rather clever, but it was that chap Baker who said it, wasn’t it?”

“I guess so. But look here,” continued Bert, appearing in his doorway in the course of a struggle with his collar, “why is it Baker never gets off any of those things himself? It’s always Jimmy Logan who springs ’em. All Baker does is to sit and look glum. If he’s so all-fired clever why doesn’t he say something once in a while? I think he’s a bit of a pill.”

“He’s not so bad, I fancy,” replied Hugh. “Maybe you have to know him. Some chaps are like that, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, but——” Bert’s voice died out until he had at last wrenched the refractory collar from his neck. Then: “Here’s another funny thing, Hugh,” he said. “Jimmy lugs that fellow around every place with him; sort of butts in with him everywhere. You’d think Jimmy was a—a nurse-maid or something. Looks to me as if he was trying to introduce his young friend into Society. I wouldn’t care a bit if he forgot to bring him up here the next time.”

“What have you got against him?” inquired Hugh.

“Nothing much. He’s only a lower middler, though, and lower middlers ought to keep to their own set. Besides, look at the cheek of the kid! Going to try for pitcher on the first! What do you know about that?”

“But if he’s really any good at it,” began the other.

“How could he be? He can’t be more than fifteen, I guess.”

“You were young once yourself, old chap.”

“Yes, but I didn’t try to pitch on the first team,” grumbled Bert. “He’s too fresh.”

“I’ll tell you just what’s the matter with him,” said Hugh, appearing in the study in a suit of pink-striped pajamas. “He’s shy, Bert.”

“Shy! And going out for the first nine!”

“I know it doesn’t look so,” laughed Hugh, “but that’s just what his trouble is, and I rather fancy that Logan, out of pure kindness, is trying to bring him out, if you know what——”

“Pure kindness!” scoffed Bert. “Jimmy’s kind enough, I guess, but if that’s his game you can bet all you’ve got that he’s doing it for a lark. I know Jimmy!”

CHAPTER IV
A CHANCE MEETING

Two days after the visit to Hugh Ordway’s room Jimmy Logan’s joke which he had attributed to Dud bore unexpected fruit. The remark had tickled the fellows who had heard it and consequently they very promptly repeated it, with the natural result that within twenty-four hours it got around to Starling Meyer himself. Star, as he was generally called, was a large, good-looking boy of seventeen, well supplied with self-conceit. He was a rattling good hockey player, undoubtedly the best in school, and a fair performer with the second nine in the outfield. There his athletic prowess ended, for he considered—or pretended to consider—track sports unimportant and football unscientific. He was a clever student and stood high in class, and was, in consequence, rather a favorite with the faculty. As a member of the Forum Society his activities were critical rather than constructive, for he took no part in the debates beyond attending them and pointing out the deficiencies of the debaters in a superior manner. Most fellows liked him, especially those who were not clever in the lines he affected, and even those who saw through his poses and couldn’t stand his conceit accorded him honor for his brilliancy in class-room and on the ice. Although Star roomed next door to Dud, the latter knew him only as he knew three-fourths of the students, that is, to nod to on passing. Once or twice, since they had both been rather unimportant members of the second baseball team last year, they had spoken. But beyond that they were strangers, and so when, two days after that visit to 29 Lothrop, Star Meyer stopped Dud in front of Trow by the simple but effective method of seizing him by the arm, Dud was somewhat surprised. Star was scowling and Dud didn’t need more than one glance at his face to realize that he was angry. Even when angry, however, Star didn’t allow himself to forget his pose of contemptuous superiority, and now when he spoke he managed a one-sided smile designed to remind Dud of the honor being done him.

“Baker, you’re a remarkably fresh young kid,” began Star, “and some day that mouth of yours is going to get you into a heap of trouble. Ever think of that?”

Dud, puzzled, moved restively in the bigger boy’s grasp but failed to get free. “I don’t know what you mean, Meyer,” he protested.

“Yes, you do. What’s the good of lying? After this you leave my name out of your funny jokes; hear?”

“I don’t know what——” began Dud again. Then recollection of Jimmy’s bon-mot came to him and he flushed.

“The next time I’ll kick you from here to the river,” said Star in a quietly venomous tone. “I’d do it now for a couple of buttons, too. You leave my name strictly alone, Baker, after this. Understand me?”

“Yes, but honest, Meyer, I didn’t say——” Then, however, Dud had to stop, for, although innocent, to insist on the fact would put the blame on Jimmy. He dropped his eyes. “All right,” he muttered.

Somehow that phrase seemed to add fresh fuel to Star’s smoldering anger, for he took a fresh and very painful grip on Dud’s arm and said: “All right, is it? Well, it isn’t all right, kid! [You’re a sneaky little bounder, that’s what you are!] Saying smart-aleck things and then trying to lie out of it! Don’t you ever mention my name again. If you do I’ll get you and you won’t forget it in a hurry. Now you beat it!”

[“‘You’re a sneaky little bounder, that’s what you are!’”]

With a sudden wrench at the captive arm, Star spun Dud around and aimed a kick at him. Fortunately, a premonition of what was happening caused Dud to jump aside and Star’s foot missed its goal. Dud, angry himself now, turned with clenched fists and flashing eyes. But the situation was distinctly hopeless. Star topped him by a head and Dud was suddenly conscious of his own physical inferiority. Still he might have tried conclusions had it not been for the smile of haughty contempt on the other’s countenance. Somehow that smile was too much. It seemed to say: “What, you dare to show disrespect to me? Begone, impious mortal!” Dud’s fingers straightened again, he gulped down his resentment, stole a doubtful glance at a group of fellows who were looking on curiously from the dormitory steps and walked away, trying his best to appear dignified and unconcerned but secretly feeling like a whipped cur. Later, when he recounted the episode to Jimmy the latter took him to task vigorously.

“Why didn’t you tell him you didn’t say it? I’m not afraid of the big fraud!”

“Considering you’d told everyone that I had said it——”

“Yes, that’s so.” Jimmy frowned mightily. “Well, then, why didn’t you light into him? Don’t you see that the fellows who were watching you will think you were afraid of him?”

“I wanted to, but—but somehow he looked so—so sort of superior——”

“Yah! That’s Star’s best bluff! Bet you anything if you’d hit him just one little tap on the nose he’d have run! Hang it, Dud, you’ve got to play up, boy! Here I am making you out a regular feller, and the first chance you get to—to put yourself in the lime-light you fall down! Why, you had the finest sort of an opportunity to distinguish yourself! Think what it would have meant to you, Dud! Fellows would have said: ‘What do you know about young Baker licking Star Meyer right in front of Trow this morning? Had it all over him, they say! Beat him something brutal! Some class to that kid, eh?’ That’s the way they’d have talked you up. Now you’ve gone and——”

“Don’t be an ass,” begged Dud with spirit. “You know plaguey well I couldn’t lick Star. He’s six inches taller than I am, and he’s at least seventeen years old, and he’s—he’s stronger——”

“Son, when you get in a row with another chap,” replied Jimmy emphatically, “don’t you stop to figure out how much bigger or stronger he is. You jump in and get the first lick at him. You’ll be surprised to find what a lot of inches that first whack takes off the other chap! What you should have done——”

“Well, I didn’t,” said Dud shortly. “You wouldn’t have, either, I guess.”

Jimmy grinned. “Never mind what I’d have done, Dud. I’m not making a name for myself. I’m not——”

“Neither am I. You are. And I’m getting sick of it. It’s no use, anyway. Let’s drop it.”

“Drop nothing,” replied Jimmy vigorously. “We’re getting on famously. Why——”

“You’ve just said I’ve queered myself!”

“I said you’d missed a chance to make a hit. So you have. But we can fix that all right. Those fellows who saw it will talk, I guess, but we can talk too. Who were they?”

“I don’t know. Stiles was one, though.”

“The sweetest little gossip in school,” commented Jimmy. “All right, Dud, you leave it to me. Your Uncle James will fix it all hunky for you. You sit tight and—yes, that’s the game! Dud, you must go around looking very dignified for a couple of days.”

“Rot!”

“I mean it. You must make fellows think that you resisted a great temptation and that it has—er—has sobered you. Get me?”

“What temptation?” asked Dud, puzzled.

“Why, the temptation to lose your temper and beat Star up, of course,” explained Jimmy patiently. “That’s our line, don’t you see? It was only by—by superhuman control that you manfully resisted the impulse to fell him to the ground! Great stuff, what? You just wait till I tell it!”

“Jimmy, for the love of lemons don’t start anything else! Every time you get to talking you put me in a hole. You’ve got fellows thinking I’m a wit, and they all look at me in a funny sort of a way as if they were waiting for me to spring something bright, and I get tongue-tied and can’t think of a thing to say. And you’re telling it around that I’m going to be a wonderful pitcher, too. They don’t believe that, of course, but it makes me look silly. And now you want to make me out a—a scrapper——”

“Not at all, not at all! Star resented your remark about him and spoke insultingly to you. You gave him a beautiful calling down and he didn’t dare talk back. Then, when your back was turned, he tried to kick you, and you, stifling your—er—your natural and excusable indignation, kept your temper wonderfully and walked superbly away. All through the encounter your dignity was sublime!”

Dud groaned. “You’ll simply make me out an awful ass and fellows will laugh at you—and me. I wish you wouldn’t, Jimmy!”

“That remark merely shows how little you appreciate my powers of diplomacy,” replied the other in tones of sorrowful resignation. “But never mind. I shall continue to do my best for you, Dud, even though my efforts are unappreciated, misunderstood. Leave it all to me, my young friend. Appear very dignified and—and aloof. Let’s see you look aloof, Dud.”

Dud only looked disgusted.

“Not a bit like it,” resumed the other cheerfully. “More like this. Get it? Sort of hinting at a secret sorrow or—no, that’s not exactly the idea, either. You want to look like the hero in the second act of the play, when everyone thinks he stole the jewels and the heroine spurns him. He knows that he’s innocent, you see, and knows that the audience will know it in the last act. So he just looks disdainful and a bit sad and sort of moons around by himself and smokes a good deal to salve his sorrow——”

“I can’t smoke,” interrupted Dud practically. “They won’t let me, and I don’t like it anyway.”

Jimmy waved his hand airily. “You get the idea, though, Dud. ‘Too proud to fight’ is your line, old chap. Now shut up and let me think.”

Jimmy’s thinking resulted in action. That afternoon about four he might have been observed lingering idly in front of School Hall, hands in pockets, whistling tunelessly, evidently quite at a loose end. Nick Blake tried to entice him up to Lit to play pool, Gus Weston suggested the joys of a trip to the village for hot soda and Pete Gordon strove to lure him to his room. Jimmy resisted heroically and was left to his devices. It was a particularly disagreeable afternoon, with a hard wind freezing the pools along the walk, and Jimmy from time to time glanced impatiently at the big doors behind him. But it was nearly the half-hour before they finally opened again to emit Ned Stiles. Warned by the creaking of the portal, Jimmy instantly assumed the appearance of one who, passing, has his attention attracted by the sound of an opening door. This in the face of the fact that he had been all along aware that Stiles, in trouble with Mr. Gibbs, the history instructor, had been having an after-school séance with “Gusty” in a classroom. Stiles was an upper middler, seventeen years old, an uninteresting and rather sycophantic youth whom Jimmy secretly disliked very much. Stiles suspected the fact and was consequently somewhat surprised when Jimmy, after nodding briefly, halted and awaited him at the foot of the steps.

“Hello, Stiles. Rotten day, isn’t it? Seen Guy Murtha lately?”

Stiles shook his head, changing his books from one elbow to the other in order to reach his handkerchief and blow a very red nose. Stiles always had a cold in winter and snuffled from October to April.

“Can’t find him anywhere,” continued Jimmy in preoccupied tones, accommodating his steps to those of the other boy and continuing on toward Trow. “Star Meyer said he thought he’d gone to the village. I want to see him awfully.”

“I haven’t seen him all day, I guess,” said Stiles. He was hoping that some of the fellows would look from their windows and see him hob-nobbing with Jimmy.

“Well, I guess I can get him at supper,” said the latter. Then he chuckled, and, in response to Stiles’ unspoken question, explained, “I was thinking of Star. He hasn’t got over it yet, I guess. Grumpy as anything he was.”

“Got over what?” asked Stiles eagerly.

“Didn’t you hear about it?” Jimmy looked at him incredulously. “Why, Dud Baker gave him an awful calling down this morning and Star took it like a lamb. Say, that kid certainly has got spunk!”

Stiles viewed the other suspiciously, but Jimmy’s countenance expressed truth and quiet amusement. Stiles grunted. Then he said “Huh!” doubtfully.

“Star was mad as a hornet about something Dud said; some joke or other, you know.”

Stiles nodded. “Yes, about the hockey team dying of Star-vation.”

“Was that it? Well, anyway, he got after Dud and wanted Dud to apologize and Dud told him to chase himself, that it was all true and that every fellow in school knew it, and a lot more. And Star was mad enough to bite! Think of Dud getting away with it!”

“I saw it,” said Stiles, “but it didn’t look—just like that to me. Star had Baker by the arm and it looked like he was reading the riot act to him. And then he tried to kick him and Baker beat it.”

“Good thing for Star he did, then,” said Jimmy knowingly. “I’d hate to stand up to Dud Baker when he was riled!”

“I didn’t know he was—that sort,” said Stiles interestedly. They had reached the entrance to Trow and paused at the door.

“Dud Baker? Didn’t you ever hear why he left the school he was at before he came here?”

Stiles shook his head.

“Well, it isn’t a nice story to tell, although it wasn’t all Dud’s fault. I heard it from a fellow who was there and saw it. In fact, he helped to carry the other fellow to his room. He was three years older than Dud and a whole head taller, too, they say. But Dud isn’t the sort of fellow you can bully. Or he wasn’t. Nowadays Dud will stand a lot. I guess after that fracas he learned to keep his temper. The other fellow was in bed a month. It was such a close shave for him that it sort of sobered Dud up and he will go most any length now to keep from scrapping. He’s got an awful punch, they say.”

Stiles looked vastly amazed, but Jimmy, glancing from the corners of his eyes, saw to his satisfaction that there was no incredulity in the amazement. Stiles had swallowed the yarn whole and was gasping for more. But Jimmy knew the value of silence.

“Well, I guess I’ll run over to Lothrop. If you should see Guy you might tell him I’m looking for him. So long.”

“But, look here, Logan,” called Stiles eagerly; “what was it Baker said to Star, eh?”

“Oh, I don’t know just what he told him, but it was aplenty. And Star took it, too!”

“But he—he kicked Baker! We saw him!”

“Never!” replied Jimmy vehemently. “He may have kicked at him. In fact, some fellow told me he did aim a kick at Dud when Dud’s back was turned. Said Dud turned like a tiger on him then and he thought sure it was all up with Star. But Dud controlled himself and walked quietly away. Gee, I couldn’t have done that, Stiles! It must have been great to see, wasn’t it?”

“Why—er—yes, only——” Stiles paused. “It looked to us as if Baker was scared, Logan. Of course he wasn’t, but that’s what it looked like. I didn’t know he was such a scrapper.”

“Who, Dud?” Jimmy spread his hands expressively. “Take my advice, old man, and don’t let him hear you say he looked scared, though maybe he wouldn’t touch you. And then again he might lose control of that temper of his and—— Better not risk it, I guess.”