Double Play: A Story of School and Baseball
Date: 2018-03-16T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Baseball -- Juvenile fiction; Boarding schools -- Juvenile fiction; Baseball stories

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Title: Double Play: A Story of School and Baseball

Author: Ralph Henry Barbour

Illustrator: Walter Biggs

Release date: March 16, 2018 [eBook #56752]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOUBLE PLAY: A STORY OF SCHOOL AND BASEBALL ***

DOUBLE PLAY

BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.

Each, Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth, $1.50.

Hilton School 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!

“Big Four” Series.

- Four in Camp.

- Four Afoot.

- Four Afloat.

- “Forward Pass!”

- The Spirit of the School.

- The Arrival of Jimpson.

- The Book of School and College Sports. $1.75 net.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

“The next moment saw a lad ... leap high into the air in the path of the speeding ball.”

DOUBLE PLAY

A STORY OF SCHOOL AND BASEBALL

By

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF “THE SPIRIT OF THE SCHOOL,” “THE
HALF-BACK,” “WEATHERBY’S INNING,”
“FORWARD PASS,” ETC., ETC.

NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1909

Copyright, 1909, by

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Published September, 1909

TO

D. M.

FROM

O. L. R.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER. | | PAGE.
I. | Back to School | 1
II. | In 7 Dudley | 10
III. | Dan Begins Right | 20
IV. | Gerald in Grief | 29
V. | Alf Takes a Pupil | 45
VI. | A Visit to New York | 55
VII. | The Snow Battle | 65
VIII. | Gerald Revolts | 78
IX. | Gerald Leaves School | 88
X. | A Visit from Kilts | 103
XI. | Hockey at Broadwood | 120
XII. | Yardley Gets Revenge | 136
XIII. | Work in the Cage | 145
XIV. | Politics and Chess | 159
XV. | The Lists Are Posted | 176
XVI. | Gerald Makes a Bargain | 185
XVII. | The Class Games | 201
XVIII. | Fun at the Circus | 217
XIX. | What Pell School Did | 230
XX. | The Slump | 241
XXI. | Drowned! | 250
XXII. | The Rescue | 260
XXIII. | The Last Practice | 271
XXIV. | On Yardley Hill | 285
XXV. | Three to Three | 291
XXVI. | Double Play | 304

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING
PAGE

“The next moment saw a lad ... leap high into the air in the path of the speeding ball” | Frontispiece |
“It was a fine ‘rough house’ while it lasted” | | 40
“‘He’s going back with me on the five o’clock train’” | | 98
“‘Have you fellows heard the news?’ he cried” | | 258

DOUBLE PLAY

CHAPTER I
BACK TO SCHOOL

Dan Vinton returned to Yardley after the Christmas vacation on an afternoon of one of those bright, warm days which sometimes happen along in the middle of Winter. As the train rumbled over the bridge, Dan caught a fleeting glimpse of Long Island Sound sparkling in the sunlight and pricked out here and there with a white sail. On his way up the winding road to the school—he had the station carriage to himself save for the unobtrusive presence of a homesick Preparatory Class boy—he saw clean russet meadows aglow in the mellow light, and, farther inland and across the little river, Meeker’s Marsh a broad expanse of reeds and grass and rushes shading from green-gold to coppery red. So far, although it was the third of January, there had been no snow storm worthy of the name in the vicinity of Wissining, and, save that the trees were bare of leaves, one might have thought himself in Autumn. It was as though a careless, laughing October day had lost its place in the procession and now, after a two months’ truancy, had squirmed and crowded itself back into line again. Dan cast a glance toward the athletic field, half expecting to see the brown footballs hurtling up against the sky.

The carriage skirted The Prospect and began the steep ascent which ends with the plateau on which the school buildings stand. A freight train rumbled by through the cut a few rods below and Dan watched the white steam as it wreathed upward until a movement by the boy in the farther corner of the carriage drew his attention. The lad was digging a gloved knuckle into his eye, his head averted in an effort to hide the threatening tears. Dan smiled. But the next moment, as he recalled how near to tears he had himself been on more than one occasion only some four months previous, the smile disappeared and he leaned forward.

“Well, kid, glad to get back?” he asked kindly.

The lad—he looked to be no more than twelve years of age—turned and glanced at the questioner shyly, bravely trying to summon a smile as he shook his head.

“Oh, well, you will be in a day or two,” responded Dan heartily. “What’s your name?”

“Merrow, sir.”

“Well, buck up, Merrow; and never mind the ‘sir.’ I dare say you chaps are pretty comfortable in Merle, aren’t you?”

“Yes, s—, yes, Mr. Vinton.”

“Oh, so you know me, do you?” laughed Dan. The boy nodded and smiled bashfully.

“I guess every fellow knows you,” he murmured.

“Well, don’t call me Mister, please. Where do you live when you’re at home?”

“Germantown, Pennsylvania, s—, I mean—”

“Well, that isn’t very far away, is it?” asked Dan cheerfully.

“N—no, not so very,” replied the other doubtfully.

“I should say not. I dare say you left home only three or four hours ago, eh?”

“Twelve o’clock.”

“Well, I started yesterday afternoon,” said Dan. “I had to come all the way from Ohio. That beats you, doesn’t it?”

The younger boy nodded. Then:

“We have a fellow in our house who comes from California,” he announced proudly.

“And that beats me,” laughed Dan. “Well, here we are.” He took up his bag and clambered out. “Come over and see me this evening, Merrow, if you get too lonesome; 28 Clarke’s my room. Cheer up.”

He left his bag on the steps of Oxford while he sought the office to register.

“Back early,” said Mr. Forisher, the secretary.

“Yes, sir,” answered Dan. “We’ve got some dandy snow out our way and I thought I’d better start early in case the trains got tied up. Not many fellows back yet, are there?”

“Only a few. The next train will bring most of them. Nice weather we’re having.”

Dan agreed that it was and turned toward the door. But:

“By the way, Vinton,” said the secretary, “you have a new roommate with you this term, I believe?”

“Yes, sir, Gerald Pennimore.”

“Exactly. Well—er—we want to make young Pennimore’s stay with us as pleasant as possible, Vinton, and so—anything you can do to—er—smooth the way for him will be—er—appreciated at the Office.”

“Yes, sir. I’m going to try and look out for him, sir.”

“That’s right. I suppose he will be along pretty soon.”

“He and his father are coming on the six o’clock, sir. I had a letter from him a couple of days ago.”

“Ah, that reminds me, Vinton! Mr. Collins left word that you were to join Mr. Pennimore and his son at the Doctor’s table this evening. He thought that would make it pleasant for the boy.”

Dan smiled as he closed the Office door behind him.

“It pays to be a millionaire,” he thought. “I rather wish, though, for Gerald’s sake, that his father wasn’t coming along. The sooner the fellows forget that Gerald’s John T’s son the better it’s going to be for Gerald.”

He rescued his bag and made his way to Clarke Hall where he climbed two flights of well-worn stairs and let himself into a corner room on the front of the building. There he sat down his bag, threw off his hat and coat and, crossing to the windows, sent them screeching upward. The sun had passed from the front of the building but a thin shaft of amber light entered the side window and fell upon the bare top of the chiffonier nearby. Dan thrust his hands into his pockets and looked about him. Then he shook his head.

“It’s going to be funny here at first without Tubby,” he muttered. “Tubby wasn’t what you’d call an ideal roommate, but I was sort of getting used to him. I suppose a fellow misses even a boil if he has it long enough!”

Twenty-eight Clarke was a large room, well lighted and airy. It was comfortably if plainly furnished. Each side of the room held its bed, chiffonier, washstand and chair. An ingrain carpet covered most of the floor and the shallow bay window was fitted with a window-seat piled with cushions. In the center of the room stood a broad-topped study table and a comfortable arm-chair flanked it at either side. On the clean gray-tinted walls hung a few good pictures. There was a good-sized closet on each side of the door. Being in a corner room there was an end window as well as the bay in front.

Dan hung his gray overcoat and derby hat in the closet, swung his bag to the table and began to unpack it. And while he is engaged let us have a good look at him.

Dan Vinton was fifteen years of age, rather tall, lithe, and long of limb. He had a quickness and certainty of movement—exhibited even in the way in which he stowed his things away—that impressed the observer at once. Alertness was a prominent characteristic of Dan’s; he never shilly-shallied, nor, on the other hand, was he especially impulsive. He had the faculty of making up his mind quickly, and, his decision once reached, he acted promptly and with little loss of effort. Dan’s course between two points was always a straight line. All this may have had something to do with the fact that he played an extremely good game of football at the end of the line.

I don’t want to give the impression that Dan was one of the thin and nervous sort; on the contrary he was well-built, if a trifle large for his fifteen years, while his limbs were not all bone even if they were long. And nerves were things that never bothered him. He was good-looking, with steady brown eyes, a short, straight nose, brown hair, and a pleasant mouth which hinted of good temper. Dan had entered Yardley Hall School the preceding Fall and was in the Third Class. He had won a place for himself on the football eleven and had scored the winning touchdown in the final contest against Yardley’s rival, Broadwood Academy. One cannot ordinarily do a thing like that without becoming pretty well known in a school of some two hundred and seventy students or without gaining some degree of popularity, and Dan was no exception. He had received enough praise and adulation to have turned a less well-balanced head. To Dan the School’s homage had brought pleasure but not pride. He had many acquaintances but only a handful of friends. But the friends were worth having and the friendship was real.

Having emptied the bag he tossed it onto the closet shelf and wandered to the window, glancing at his watch on the way.

“Ten minutes to five,” he murmured. “That train ought to be in.” At that moment there was a shriek from a locomotive whistle and Dan threw open one of the front windows and craned his head and shoulders out. It was just possible to see the corner of the station, nearly a half-mile away, and there was the big engine puffing black smoke clouds from its diminutive stack. A moment later it had taken up its journey again and Dan watched it and the ten cars slip across the open track and plunge into the long cut through the school grounds below The Prospect. It would be ten minutes at least before the carriages would arrive, and Dan settled himself in his arm-chair and took up a book. But the arrival of his trunk from the station interrupted him a moment later, and after the porter had gone he decided to do his unpacking now and get it over with. The trunk was only a small one and didn’t keep him busy very long, but before he had finished the carriages had begun to unload their noisy passengers at the front of Oxford Hall and Dan decided to finish his task before seeking his friends. So it was nearly a quarter of an hour later that he set his cap onto the back of his head and ran down the stairs. The station carriages were making their second trips and the front of Oxford was sprinkled with fellows. Dan returned salutations here and there without stopping as he cut around the corner of Clarke and made his way to Dudley.

CHAPTER II
IN 7 DUDLEY

There was no need to knock at the door of Number 7, for the portal was wide open and Loring and Dyer and a third person whom Dan didn’t know were in plain sight. Dan stood for an instant in the doorway, but for an instant only, for Alf Loring caught sight of him, gave a shout, hurdled a suit-case and dragged him into the room.

“Hello, you old chump!” he cried. “When did you get here? We looked all through the train for you. How are you? Isn’t it great to get back again? I want you to know my brother Herb. Herb’s going to stay over night with us. Herb, this is Dan Vinton.”

Dan shook hands with the elder brother and with Tom Dyer, Loring’s roommate. Dyer only said “Hello, Dan,” in his slow, quiet way, but his hand-clasp and the smile that accompanied it said a lot more. Alf Loring talked on breathlessly as he threw bags out of the way and told everyone to find a seat.

“Herb’s on his way to New Haven, Dan. He’s coming here in the Fall to help turn out the dandiest team old Yardley’s ever had, aren’t you, Herb?”

“Maybe,” answered his brother smilingly. “If you fellows want me.”

“Of course we want you!” cried Alf. “What have I been telling you all along?”

“Well, I don’t know how your coach would like it, Kid. He may not want anyone butting in.”

“Payson? Don’t you believe it! Payson’s a dandy chap, Herb; he’ll be pleased to death to have someone take a hand. Won’t he, Dan?”

“I should think he ought to be,” Dan replied. “Especially a man like Mr. Loring.”

The Yale man acknowledged the compliment with a nod and a laugh. “I don’t know much about coaching, though,” he said. “I’ve never tried it.”

“Oh, well, you know how to play football,” said Alf, “and that’s more than some coaches do. You’ll be all right. With me to help you,” he added as an afterthought. At which they all laughed, even Dyer. Herbert Loring was a big, broad-chested, handsome fellow who looked a little bit spoiled. He was in his junior year at Yale and was one of the star half-backs. It was evident that Alf thought this big brother a very fine and important person, and equally evident that big brother wasn’t denying it. But in spite of the fact that he seemed a trifle too well pleased with himself, Dan quite liked him.

For a time the talk dwelt on football, football past and future, football at Yale, and football at Yardley. Tom Dyer’s part in the discussion was slight, he preferring to get his bag unpacked and his things put away. But it was Tom who finally switched the conversation away from football.

“That protegé of yours shown up yet, Dan?” he asked, pausing on his way to the closet with a pair of shoes in each hand.

“Not yet. He and his father are coming on the six o’clock train, I believe.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Alf. “I’d forgotten all about Little Lord Fauntleroy. Poor old Dan!”

“Who’s Little Lord Fauntleroy?” asked Herbert Loring.

“Dan’s new roommate and protegé. I told you about him, don’t you remember?” Big Brother shook his head and taking one knee into his clasped hands leaned back comfortably against the cushions of the window-seat.

“No, you didn’t, Kid. Who is he? Let’s hear about him.”

“It’s all just like a story in a book,” said Alf, with a grin at Dan. “It happened last Fall. You know who John T. Pennimore is, don’t you?”

“The man they call the Steamship King? He lives around here, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, you can see his place from out front. Sound View he calls it; and it’s a dandy; there’s eight acres of it, with a regular palace of a house, stables, kennels, gardener’s lodge, hot-houses, and all that sort of thing. They say he’s worth a hundred millions.”

“They say a whole lot of rot,” said his brother witheringly. “He probably has ten or fifteen millions.”

“Is that all?” murmured Tom. “Wonder how he lives!”

“Well, anyhow, he’s rich, all right. And he’s done two or three things for the school, they say; given money, I suppose; shouldn’t wonder if he owned some stock in it. Does he, do you think, Dan?”

“I never heard him say anything about it,” Dan replied. Herbert Loring looked across at him with surprise and interest.

“Do you know him?” he asked.

“Know him?” scoffed Alf. “Why, they’re as thick as thieves, aren’t you, Dan? I wouldn’t be surprised if they called each other by their first names.”

“Well, where’s the story?” asked his brother impatiently.

“Coming right along. John T. has one son, a kid of about—how old, Dan? Fourteen? Yes. And of course the old gentleman thinks a whole lot of him. Well, one day last Fall our hero—” with a bow to Dan—“was walking through the woods to the beach by the path that leads along John T’s fence when he heard a dickens of a yowling; sounded like a dog having its tail cut off. So our hero investigates.”

“Cut out the ‘hero’ business,” begged Dan.

“Pardon me! Mr. Vinton investigates and finds that on the other side of the fence is a play-house and that the dog is shut up in the play-house and that the play-house is on fire. I say, Dan, it’s always been a mystery to me how that thing got on fire.”

“It was funny,” responded Dan carelessly.

“Well, anyhow,” continued Alf, “Dan climbs the fence and finds this young Pennimore kid, breaking into the house with an axe to rescue the dog. He tries to make him behave but the kid insists on rescuing Fido. So in he goes. By that time the house is full of flames and smoke and such things. Dan waits a minute and the kid doesn’t come out again. Then Dan ties a handkerchief around his mouth, girds up his loins and dashes into the seething cauldron—”

“That’s water,” interrupted Tom disgustedly. “You mean ‘the sea of flames.’”

“All right, Tom; dashes into the sea of flames and pulls out the kid and the dog, too, and gets nicely baked in the process.”

“Nonsense!” said Dan. “I only got a couple of little burns on my leg and arm.”

“Who’s telling this story?” demanded Alf. “You dry up! Well, old John T. comes along with some of his servants and finds them and takes them up to the house and has them put to bed and gets the doctor for them. Whether he offered Dan half his kingdom I don’t know; Dan’s awfully tight with his details; but I’ll bet he could have had anything he’d wanted, say half a dozen steamships. John T. keeps him at his house until noon next day, sends word to Toby, that’s our Principal here, you know, that Dan’s made a jolly hero of himself and that he isn’t to be licked for staying away from school. Of course the kid’s grateful, too, and between them they come pretty near spoiling little Daniel; automobile rides, trips on John T’s big ocean yacht, dinners and luncheons and all the rest of it! Oh, Dan’s the whole works at Sound View!”

“Bully for you!” laughed Herbert Loring with a glance of admiration at Dan.

“But the best part of the story is to come,” said Alf. “Old Toby has always been eager to get John T. to send his son to school here; he’s been after the boy on the quiet for a couple of years; but John T. was afraid something might happen to little Gerald if he got up here with all us great rough rowdies—”

“Come now, Alf, that’s a whopper,” interrupted Dan warmly. “You can’t blame Mr. Pennimore, I think, for being soft over the boy. His wife’s dead and Gerald’s all he’s got to be fond of.”

“That and fifteen millions,” muttered Tom gravely.

“Well, anyhow, he wouldn’t think of it. Had a private tutor for Gerald and watched him every minute. Broadwood Academy wanted to get the kid, too, Herb. I guess that’s one reason Toby wanted him here; we always like to get ahead of Broadwood, you know. Well, to make a long story short, as they say, Dan has the cheek to tell John T. that if he wants to make a man out of his boy the only thing to do is to send him to Yardley. And John T. thinks it over awhile and finally agrees to do it if Dan will take Gerald to room with him and look after him; warm his milk for him and cover him up at night, and all that sort of thing, you know. And now the question before the meeting is; Who is the joke on?”

“I should say it was on Vinton,” laughed his brother. “I’m afraid you’re in for a hard time of it.”

“You ought to know better than to believe all Alf tells you,” replied Dan untroubledly. “Mr. Pennimore didn’t ask me to let Gerald room with me. That was my idea. My roommate had left school and I thought I might as well take Gerald in. He’s not a milksop at all, in spite of what Alf says. He’s been spoiled a bit, but a month or so here will knock all that out of him. Mr. Pennimore is as fine a man as I ever met and I’m mighty glad to do anything for him I can. I don’t propose to warm Gerald’s milk for him, as Alf puts it, but I intend to be decent to him and see that he has a fair chance. Lots of the fellows will be down on him at the start just because he is John T. Pennimore’s son. That isn’t fair. He can’t help it if his father is a millionaire. Lots of fellows here have fathers who have plenty of money, only they’ve never been talked about in the papers.”

“There’s something in that, Dan,” Alf allowed. “Here’s Tom here. Tom’s father owns about everything in his part of New Jersey, so they say, but Tom isn’t half bad when you get to know him.”

Tom only smiled.

“Glad you think that way,” said Dan earnestly, “for I want you two fellows to be nice to Gerald and help me all you can.”

“You do, eh?” asked Alf. “Well, we’ll do it for your sake, Dan. Bring the kid around some time and we’ll look him over. What class is he going into?”

“Fourth. He could have made the Third easily if it hadn’t been for math.”

“Why doesn’t he live at home?” asked Herbert Loring.

“The winter home is in New York,” Dan explained. “Sound View is just a summer place. Besides, Mr. Pennimore is going abroad pretty soon for several months, I believe. That’s one reason he was willing to let Gerald come here; he said he guessed he’d be safer here than all alone in New York with just the servants.”

“Oh, I dare say the kid isn’t as bad as Alf makes out,” said the elder Loring. “I don’t envy you your job, though, Vinton. If you’ll take my advice, and I know what I’m talking about, you’ll let him hoe his own row. I dare say a few hard knocks are only what he needs.”

“And I’ll bet he will get them,” observed Tom thoughtfully.

“Whatever happens,” counselled Alf, “make him understand that he’s got to take things as they come and that the sooner he forgets that his dad has any money the better it’ll be for him.”

“I’m going to,” answered Dan. “Or, at least, I’m going to try. He isn’t a bad sort at all, and I don’t want him to make a mess of things here, especially after persuading his father to let him come.”

“Well, don’t you worry,” said Alf. “We’ll help you out all we can. I guess he will get on all right. He must have some sense or he wouldn’t be John T’s son!”

“Must be supper time,” said Tom. “Something tells me so, and it isn’t my watch either.”

“That’s right, it’s five minutes after six. Come on, fellows. I’ll find a place for you at our table, Herb. Are you hungry?”

“Sort of. Well, glad to have met you, Vinton. Come and see me if you get up to New Haven. Alf will tell you where I live.”

“Oh, you’re not through with Dan yet,” laughed Alf. “He sits at our table.”

“But not to-night,” replied Dan, as they went out. “Toby’s invited me to his table. Mr. Pennimore and Gerald will be there, you know.”

“Well, what do you think of that?” cried Alf.

CHAPTER III
DAN BEGINS RIGHT

“Well, son,” said Mr. Pennimore, “I guess everything’s all right. You’ve got a nice, clean, pleasant room here and Dan to keep you from getting homesick.”

“They don’t put very much in the rooms, do they?” asked Gerald Pennimore a trifle dubiously.

Supper was over and Mr. Pennimore and the two boys, after a visit to the Office, had come up to 28 Clarke. Mr. Pennimore was returning to New York on the nine-thirty-eight train, in spite of the fact that Doctor Hewitt, the Principal, had pressed him to spend the night at Yardley.

“Well, I don’t see but what you have everything that you need,” replied Gerald’s father, adding with a smile, “You must remember, son, that you’re here to study and work.”

Mr. John T. Pennimore was about fifty-two or -three years of age, rather under than above average height, a very well-bred looking gentleman with a kind if somewhat thoughtful face. His eyes were very black, very bright and keen. His hair was just a little grizzled at the temples, and he wore a dark beard, trimmed short, and a mustache. His manners were charming and his voice pleasant. Dan had never seen Mr. Pennimore when he was not immaculately dressed. He always looked, to use a familiar expression, as though he had just stepped out of a band-box.

The resemblance between father and son was not yet very striking. What there was depended more on tricks of voice, and little mannerisms than on looks, although when Gerald laughed the resemblance was slightly apparent. Gerald promised to grow into a larger man than his father, although just at present he appeared far from robust. He was fourteen years old, but scarcely looked it. He was slightly built, and his very blue eyes, pink and white skin, and corn-colored hair gave him a somewhat girlish appearance which of late had been troubling him a good deal. For Gerald admired strength and virility, and his greatest ambition was to make a name for himself on the athletic field, an ambition that, judging from present indications, seemed scarcely likely to be attained.

Gerald’s mother had died so soon after his birth that he couldn’t recall her at all. Since then he had been in charge of nurses and tutors, had been given well-nigh everything he wanted and had been as carefully guarded as the heir-apparent of a throne. Mr. Pennimore had tried hard not to spoil him, but Gerald was an only child and it would have been strange indeed if Mr. Pennimore had been quite successful in his effort. Dan and Gerald had known each other only three months but were already quite close friends. Gerald’s liking for the older boy was closely akin to hero worship; and the day on which he had learned that he was to go to Yardley Hall School and room with Dan was one of the happiest of his life. On the other hand, Dan liked Gerald less for what he was than for what he believed he was capable of being. The boy had never had a fair chance, he thought, and it was no wonder that he was a trifle selfish and self-centered. And as for his flat chest and weak muscles, why, what could you expect of a boy who had never had any real playmates and whose most violent exercise consisted of driving in carriage or automobile or pasting stamps in a stamp book! Dan believed that a couple of years at Yardley would work a change.

“Oh, I’ll have to study all right,” responded Gerald to his father’s reminder. “It’s going to be hard, I guess. But I don’t care,” he added with a shy smile at Dan. “I’d a lot rather be here than at home studying with one of those silly old tutors.”

Mr. Pennimore smiled.

“If it weren’t for those tutors, Gerald, you wouldn’t be here now.” Then he turned to Dan. “Now, Dan,” he said, “tell me what you do all day. When I’m away I shall often be wondering what this boy of mine is up to. Tell me something about your life here.”

“Well, sir, we get up about seven and go to Chapel at half-past,” responded Dan. “We have prayers and Old Toby—I mean Doctor Hewitt—reads a chapter in the Bible and Mr. Collins reads the announcements. Then we have breakfast at eight. I’m going to try and get Gerald a place at our table, sir, but I’m afraid there isn’t room.”

“Perhaps one of the fellows will change with me,” suggested Gerald hopefully. But Dan smiled and shook his head.

“I don’t believe so,” he answered. “It doesn’t matter much which table you’re at, though; you get mighty good feed everywhere. That’s one thing Yardley’s good at, Mr. Pennimore, feeding the fellows. They give us all we want, and it’s good, too. Recitations begin at nine and continue until twelve. Dinner’s at one, and then, from two to four, there’s more recitations. At four there’s gymnasium for the Prep and Fourth Class fellows. After that there’s nothing to do except study in the evening from eight to nine. Lots of fellows don’t do that; if you haven’t many recitations during the day you can do most of your studying then.”

“That sounds a whole lot, doesn’t it?” asked Gerald anxiously of his father.

“Well, it doesn’t sound like an idle life,” laughed Mr. Pennimore. “But I dare say it will go smoothly enough after you’ve once got into the routine, son. Method lightens toil. But there’s plenty of play, I take it, Dan?”

“Yes, sir, lots. We have a mighty good time. There are two societies, Cambridge and Oxford. Most every fellow belongs to one or the other. I’m going to get Gerald into Cambridge; that’s the one I belong to; but I can’t get him in until May.”

“Are these secret societies?” asked Mr. Pennimore with a trace of anxiety.

“No, sir, we haven’t any of those. Faculty won’t let us. Our societies are debating clubs, or, at least, they’re supposed to be, and we do have debates; there’s one every Saturday night. But they’re more social than anything else. Both societies have nice rooms where the fellows can get together and talk or play or read. Then, of course, a fellow can have lots of fun out of doors. There’s golf and hockey now, and after awhile there’ll be baseball and tennis and other things. And then there’s basket-ball, too; a good many fellows go in for that.”

“I’m going to play baseball,” announced Gerald decisively.

“Well, we will see about that,” replied his father. “It’s a long way to Spring yet. You keep up with your studies for a couple of months and we will talk about baseball later.”

“You must see Mr. Bendix to-morrow,” said Dan, “and take your physical examination. He will tell you what sports you can go in for.”

“Does he have the say?” asked Gerald anxiously. Dan nodded.

“You’d better believe he does! If he says you can’t play baseball or football you can’t, and that’s all there is to it. But he’s square, all right, is ‘Muscles,’ and you want to do just as he tells you. He’s a wonder!”

Gerald considered this in silence a moment. Then:

“If a fellow can’t play baseball and things I don’t see any use of coming here,” he murmured.

Mr. Pennimore laughed.

“So that’s your idea, is it, son? Well, let me tell you that you’re here to fit yourself for college. You wanted to come here, Gerald, and you’ve had your way. Now there must be no backing down, my boy. Life isn’t all play, as you’ll find out when you get older, but you can make it seem like play by taking an interest in work. You mustn’t think that because I’ve got money enough for us both that you’re going to sit down and twiddle your thumbs and watch the procession go by. No, sir! You’re going to march with the rest, and I want to see you marching at the head. Work’s one of the best things life has to offer, if we only realize it, and the man who loves his work is the man who does it best and gets the most out of life. Well, you’ll think me a tiresome old codger if I lecture any longer. Just you put the same amount of enthusiasm into work that you do into play, Gerald, and you won’t have much trouble. Now I must get down to the station if I’m going to catch that train.”

“Are you going abroad soon, sir?” asked Dan.

“In about two weeks. Gerald’s coming up to town to see me a day or two before I sail, and I’d like to have you come along, Dan, if you want to. I sail on Tuesday. You boys might come up Friday evening and stay until Sunday. We’ll fix it up later with Doctor Hewitt.”

“Thank you, sir,” answered Dan. “I’d like to come very much if I won’t be in the way. I’ve never been to New York except just to come into the station and go out again.”

“Well, we will have to show him some of the sights, eh, son? Take him to a theater or two.”

“That’ll be fine!” cried Gerald. “Will you go, Dan?”

“You bet I will, if I can get off!”

“I’ll write to the Doctor next week and see,” said Mr. Pennimore. “I think I can persuade him to let you go. Now get your cap, son, and walk a little way with me. Good-bye, Dan. I’ll see you in town before I sail. Keep an eye on this worthless boy of mine and see that he writes to me twice a week. If he doesn’t I’ll shut down on his allowance. I guess that will bring him to terms,” laughed Mr. Pennimore.

Dan went with them to the head of the stairs, shook hands again with Mr. Pennimore and returned to his room. Gerald’s big trunk, which had arrived an hour before, stood in front of the door. Dan bent over and unbuckled the strap. It wasn’t an easy task and Dan had to put all his strength into it. When it was done and he had slipped down the catches he stood off and ran his fingers through his hair in a way he had when puzzled. Then he shook his head slowly, fastened the catches again and, after a deal of hard work, restrapped the trunk, working the buckle into the last possible hole.

“Might as well begin right,” he murmured as he dropped panting into his chair and took up a book.

CHAPTER IV
GERALD IN GRIEF

Yardley Hall School[1] stands on a small plateau about a half-mile from the shore, and commanding a broad view, of Long Island Sound, about half way between Newport and New Haven. The Wissining River, from which small stream the tiny village takes its name, curves around the back of the school grounds, separating them from the wide expanse of Meeker’s Marsh, flows beside the village, and empties into the Sound. Across the Wissining lies Greenburg, a considerable manufacturing town, and beyond Greenburg and some two miles from the water is located Yardley’s time-honored rival, Broadwood Academy.

[1] Readers who desire a more detailed description of Yardley Hall School are referred to Chapter V of Forward Pass, the preceding story in this series.

There are six buildings at Yardley, most of them quite modern; the school is not old, as New England schools go, having been founded by Doctor Tobias Hewitt in 1870. There is Oxford Hall, containing the Office, the Principal’s living rooms, laboratories, recitation rooms, library, assembly hall, and the rooms of the rival societies, Oxford and Cambridge. Oxford Hall is one of the older buildings. The other is Whitson, which elbows it on the East and which contains the dining-room, or commons as it is called, on the first floor, and dormitories above. Clarke is a dormitory entirely, as are Dudley and Merle, the latter being reserved for the boys of the Preparatory Class. The Kingdon Gymnasium completes the list of buildings if one excepts the heating plant and the boat house.

From the back of the gymnasium the ground slopes down slowly to the tennis courts, the athletic field and the river. Here, too, but further upstream is the golf links, a nine hole course that is well maintained and well patronized. In front of Oxford Hall is an expanse of lawn known as The Prospect. From this a flight of steps leads to the lower ground and joins a path which crosses the railroad cut by a rustic bridge and leads to the woods beyond. Through these various paths wind deviously to the beach and the Sound. Between the woods, which are school property, and at the mouth of the river, lies the Pennimore estate, eight acres of perfectly kept lawn and grove and shrubbery, with a long stone pier running out into the water for the accommodation of the “Steamship King’s” big yacht on which, in the summer time, he makes his trips to and from New York.

From the upper floors of the Yardley buildings one may see for miles up and down the Sound, and even, on clear days, catch a glimpse of Montauk Point across the water. It would, I think, be difficult to find a finer site for a school than that occupied by Yardley. Although still under forty years of age, Yardley Hall has won a name for itself in a part of the country where famous schools are many, and you will never be able to persuade a Yardley man to acknowledge that any other school approaches it in excellence. As for Broadwood—well, I never could do justice to a Yardley man’s opinion of that institution!

On an afternoon about a week subsequent to the opening of the winter term Dan dropped in at Number 7 Dudley. The bright weather continued, but there was no hint of Autumn in the air to-day. A shrill east wind charged around the corner of the building, and boys crossing the yard kept their heads down into their collars and their hands in their pockets and took short cuts across the winter turf in brazen defiance of regulations. But Number 7 was warm and cozy as Dan closed the door behind him and tossed his cap onto a chair. The steam pipes were sizzling drowsily and in the grate a bed of coals glowed warmly.

“Gee,” said Dan, “I wish we had fireplaces in Clarke.”

“You ought to be glad you haven’t,” answered Alf Loring from the window-seat. “Every time you have a fire it costs you ten cents for a hod of coal. Tom’s always kicking about the expense.”

Tom Dyer, seated at the study table writing a letter, grunted ironically without looking up.

“Come on over here and stretch your weary limbs,” said Alf, cuddling his feet under him to make room and tossing a pillow at the visitor. Alfred Loring was seventeen years old and was captain and quarter-back of the football team. He was a nice, jolly looking fellow with a pair of merry brown eyes and hair of the same shade which he wore parted in the middle and slicked down straightly on either side of his well-shaped head. Alf was in the Second Class, as was his roommate, Tom Dyer. Tom, however, was a year older, a rangey, powerful looking youth, rather silent, rather sleepy-looking, but good-natured to a fault. Tom wasn’t a beauty, by any means, but his gray eyes and his expression when he smiled redeemed the rather heavy features. Tom played on the Eleven at left half and had just been elected captain of the basket-ball team in place of a First Class fellow who had failed to return in the fall.

“Ain’t it cold?” asked Alf as Dan snuggled against the pillow. “If this keeps up we’ll have ice on the river in no time. Do you skate, Dan?”

“Not much. But I’m going to get some skates and try it.”

“I don’t know whether to believe you or not,” laughed Alf, “you’re so modest. I dare say you can skate all around me.”

“No, honest, Alf, that’s the truth. I can’t skate much. I never seemed to be able to learn.”

“That’s too bad. I was hoping you’d try for the hockey team. But you get some skates and get busy. You’d better come out for the team, anyway. You’ll have plenty of fun, even if you don’t make it.”

“And probably break my silly neck!”

“Well, don’t do that; we need you too much next fall. But you might try for goal. You don’t have to skate much to play goal.”

“Don’t have to do much of anything,” observed Tom dryly, “except stand up there and be hit with a hunk of hard rubber that feels like paving block. I’ve tried it; played on Whitson team two years ago. We played Clarke for the School Championship.”

“Did you win?” asked Dan, scenting a story.

“No, we lost,” replied Tom, going on with his writing.

“Tell him how, Tom,” said Alf with a chuckle.

“Dead easy,” answered Tom with a reminiscent smile. “The first half ended three to two in our favor and we were feeling pretty cheerful. But when we began again one of our fellows—Nickerson—he was playing cover-point—did something that didn’t please the referee and got put off for the limit; two minutes, I think it was. Then Clarke got down to business and made things hot around goal. I stopped about four shots in as many seconds and then there was a mix-up in front of the net and someone laid open my head with his stick. When I came around again I found they’d scored on us. I tried to go back and play but I was too dizzy to stand up and they made me quit and put in a sub named Baxter. Baxter meant well, but he was so excited that he couldn’t see straight. And along toward the end of the half, with the score tied, Clarke rushed the puck again and took a shot. Baxter stopped it with foot and it got stuck between his skate and his boot. Instead of calling for time or doing anything sensible he just stood there and shook his foot like a hen with mud between her toes. Well, at about the sixth shake the puck came out and flew into the net. That gave Clarke one goal to the good. We all called Baxter names, and that got him more excited and nervous than ever. And then, with about a minute to play the puck came down again with everyone squabbling over it. Baxter’s eyes just stood out of his head and he made a dash out of goal, got the puck somehow or other and deliberately swiped into his own goal! Oh, he made quite a hit that day for a sub!”

“I’ll bet he did!” laughed Dan. “I suppose you fellows all loved him to death.”

“We did—not,” grunted Tom. “It was funny about Baxter, though,” he added thoughtfully. “He graduated last year, and about a month later he was going over from New York to Boston with his folks on that steamer that caught fire; what was its name, Alf?”

“Independence.”

“Yes. The fire didn’t amount to a whole lot in the end, but for awhile things looked a bit bad. Well, the papers the next day made a regular hero of Baxter. According to them he was the life of the party. Had a fine time and enjoyed every minute of his visit. He bossed folks around, strapped life-preservers on fat old ladies, helped launch the boats and was as cool as a cucumber. It just shows that you never can tell, don’t it?”

“Where is he now?” asked Dan.

“Oh, he’s a dead ’un now; he’s gone to Harvard,” answered Tom.

“What did he want to go there for?” asked Dan, who had already decided on Yale, quite indignantly.

“Search me! What does any fellow want to go there for?”

“Well, it’s lucky for Yale some fellows do go,” laughed Alf. “If they didn’t we wouldn’t have anyone to beat!”

“Well, there’s something in that,” grunted Tom. “But I’ll tell you fellows one thing, though. Some day those Harvard Johnnies will take their hands out of their pockets, work up a coaching system like they have at Yale and everlastingly wallop us for keeps!”

“Oh, you run away and play!” scoffed Alf.

“All right. You just wait and see,” replied Tom unruffledly, returning to his letter.

“What’s Tom think he’s doing?” asked Dan of Alf.

“He thinks he’s a little Hague doing the arbitration act,” replied Alf, “but what he’s really doing is making a mess. Rand—you know Paul Rand?—he’s basket-ball manager, or thinks he is. Well, he tried to make dates with Broadwood for three games and got high and mighty and tried to dictate things with the result that Broadwood refused to have anything to do with us. And I don’t blame her. We won last year, you know, and so Rand thought we could lay down the law. Broadwood didn’t see it that way. So Tom is trying to make a noise like a Dove of Peace. He’s writing to the Broadwood captain, and I’ll bet he gets sat on for his trouble.”

“That’ll be all right,” replied Tom, folding and sealing his letter. “I’ve offered them their choice of dates for the second game and told them we’d play the third anywhere they liked. They’ll come down and make terms. And when they do—” Tom put the stamp on with a bang of his fist—“we’ll lick them so hard that they won’t know whether they’re coming or going!”

“That’s Tom’s idea of Peace!” laughed Alf.

“Well,” growled his roommate, “I’ve got to have some satisfaction for grovelling under their feet and rubbing my head in the mud.” He tossed the letter aside distastefully. “Say, Dan, how’s the kid getting on?”

“Yes, how is little Geraldine?” asked Alf.

“All right,” replied Dan not very enthusiastically. “I was going to bring him along, but he hadn’t shown up when I left the room. I dare say he’s gone over home.”

“Sound View?” asked Alf. “I thought the place was closed up.”

“It is, but some of the servants are there, and he’s got a dog he’s awfully fond of; the one that ’most got burned.”

“I heard some of the Prep kids calling him ‘Young Money-Bags’ the other day,” said Tom. “I’m afraid he isn’t going to be popular, Dan.”

“I don’t see why not,” answered Dan warmly. “He isn’t a snob by any means; doesn’t even act like one. The fellows here wouldn’t think of looking down on a chap because he had no money. Why should they look down on him because he has?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s exactly that,” mused Alf. “The trouble is, Dan, that Toby and Collins and the Faculty generally are so blamed proud of him. You’d think he was a young prince.”

“They aren’t proud of him,” answered Dan. “They’re proud of getting him; proud of beating Broadwood.”

“Well, that’s a commendable pride,” said Alf with a yawn. “The best way to do, as Brother Herb said the other day, is to just let him fight it out alone. If the School finds you sticking up for him too much they’ll take more of a grudge than ever to him.”

“Oh, I’m letting him do his own fighting right enough. So much so that Gerald thinks I’ve gone back on him, and looks at me pathetically when he thinks I don’t see him. Makes me feel sort of like a brute, you know. He’s been a bit homesick, too, I guess, although he hasn’t said anything about it.”

“Well, that’s promising,” said Alf. “Shows he isn’t a cry-baby. Does he know anyone yet?”

“I don’t think so; except you fellows. It’ll take him time, I suppose.”

“Bring him around here whenever you want to,” said Tom. “I don’t mind him. I know what it’s like to be homesick and out of it myself.”

“You!” exclaimed Dan.

“Sure! Don’t you think I’ve got any feelings? I went to a boarding school for two years before I struck Yardley; one of those motherly places where they advertise a nice home life for the kids. The first month I was there I thought I’d die. Lonesome? Gosh, that isn’t any word for it! I was sort of quiet and shy, I guess, and the fellows thought I was stuck-up and left me pretty much alone except when they picked on me.”

“Did you get over it?” asked Dan.

“Had to. I stood it until I couldn’t have stayed there any longer and then I picked out the biggest fellow in my class and put it up to him. ‘I’ve been here a whole month,’ I told him, ‘and you fellows haven’t spoken decently to me yet.’ (I was only thirteen and was half crying.) ‘You’ve either got to take some notice of me,’ I said, ‘or fight, and I don’t care which it is.’ The chap looked at me in a funny sort of way for a minute, and then he laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Fight!’ he said. ‘Why, I don’t want to fight you, kid. You’re all right. You come along with me.’”

“Well?” Dan asked eagerly.

“Oh, I went.”

“Yes, but did he—what did he do?”

“Nothing; just walked with me across the playground. It was in the afternoon after school and almost every fellow was there. That was all he had to do. They gave me a chance after that and I made good.”

“If he’d accepted your invitation and licked you, though,” said Alf, “I don’t see that it would have helped you much.”

“He wouldn’t have licked,” said Tom quietly, “not the way I was feeling that day.”

“You, you old duffer,” scoffed his roommate, “why, you couldn’t lick a postage stamp!”

Tom pushed his chair back, arose, and approached Alf with a broad smile. Alf got his legs from under him and prepared for battle. Dan removed to a safer vantage point, and the trouble began. It was a fine “rough-house” while it lasted. The cushions were soon on the floor and the combatants speedily followed them, bringing along a curtain pole and two curtains. It was the pole that produced a cessation of hostilities. In falling it came end first and Alf’s head happened to be in the way. There was a yell, and when Tom removed himself from the recumbent form of his chum, Alf was feeling of his head disgustedly.

“It was a fine ‘rough-house’ while it lasted.”

“That fool thing always does that. I’ll bet my brain is just full of holes.”

“Well, there’s something the matter with it,” laughed Tom.

Then they went at it again, around the study and up against the table where the ink bottle was upset and a portion of its contents distributed over the letter Tom had just written.

“There!” gasped Tom. “Look what you’ve done! Spoiled the stamp! And I’ll have to address a new envelope.”

“You did it yourself, you clumsy brute,” answered Alf, rearranging his attire. “But I’ll give you another stamp. It’s worth that much to wallop you!”

“Huh! A lot of walloping you did!”

“I made you look like thirty cents, all right. Didn’t I, Dan?”

“I declare it a draw,” laughed Dan. “And I’m going to get out before you do any more damage.”

“Oh, don’t go,” begged Alf. “Wait and see me lick him again. I’ve only just begun on him.”

“Huh!” Tom grunted, seating himself at the table. “Say, Dan, wait a second, like a good chap, and drop this in the mail for me. I’ll take that stamp, Alf.”

“Haven’t got it just now. I’ll give you one some day, though. I always pay my debts sooner or later.”

“I’ve got one,” Dan offered. “Toss me the letter.”

“There you are. Remind me that I owe it to you, Dan. That was the last one I had. I can’t keep stamps. I believe Alf must eat them.”

“Well!” exclaimed Alf indignantly, “I’d just like to know who buys all the stamps that are used in this room.”

“Not you, you old miser!”

“Tom, you must apologize for that, you really must!”

“Who to? Now, look here, sonny, if you start this again—!”

Dan made a hurried leap for the door and escaped the rush.

“Good-bye, you fellows!”

There was no answer, but as he closed the door behind him there came the crash of an overturned chair. He paused, smiling, a little way down the corridor and waited. From beyond the closed portal of Number 7 came sounds resembling those of a small riot. Presently Dan walked heavily back and rapped sharply on the door. Instantly the commotion ceased.

“Come in,” said a polite voice.

Dan opened the door. Alf, breathing heavily, was reading on the window-seat and Tom was seated in a corner nonchalantly nursing one knee.

“What’s all this noise I hear?” asked Dan, trying to imitate the gruff tones of Mr. Austin, one of the instructors who roomed in the building. There was a howl of rage from the occupants of the room and Dan turned and fled. The joke kept him chuckling all the way around to Oxford, where he posted Tom’s letter. Then he climbed the stairs to his room in Clarke, threw open the door and paused on the threshold in consternation.

In front of the washstand stood Gerald sopping his face with a blood-stained towel. His nose was swollen and bleeding, his knuckles were skinned and he was crying.

“Why, Gerald! What’s the matter?” cried Dan.

“N-nothing,” muttered Gerald, turning away.

“Nothing! Nothing be blowed! You’re a sight!” He drew the towel away from the boy’s face. “Why, you’ve been fighting! Who hit you and how did it happen? Here, let me take the towel. You sit down there and I’ll fix you up. Who did it?”

“T-Thompson.”

“Who’s Thompson? And what did he hit you for?”

“I hit him fu-first.”

“Well, what was it about? Let’s see your hand. I should say you did hit him! You’ll need some court plaster on those knuckles, my boy. Does your nose hurt very much?”

“Yu-yes,” answered Gerald, struggling with his sobs.

“Well, never mind; don’t cry any more; it’ll feel better in a few minutes.”

“I’m not cr-crying because it hurts,” sobbed Gerald, “I’m cr-crying because he li-licked me!”

CHAPTER V
ALF TAKES A PUPIL

Presently, when Gerald’s wounds were dressed, Dan persuaded him to tell his story. He had got over his tears and was looking rather depressed and ashamed of himself.

“I was coming up the hill toward the gymnasium,” began Gerald.

“What were you doing down there?” Dan asked.

“I—I was just taking a walk along by the river,” answered Gerald evasively.

Dan nodded. “Homesick,” he thought.

“I’m sorry you didn’t come back to the room,” he said. “I waited here for you some time. I wanted to take you over to see Loring and Dyer.”

“I don’t want to go there,” answered Gerald. “They don’t like me.”

“You’re mistaken. Tom asked me this afternoon to bring you over often. They’re nice fellows and I want you to like them. But never mind about that now. What happened when you were coming up from the river?”

“I met four or five fellows just this side of the tennis courts, near the little red building, you know.”

Dan nodded again.

“And one of them said something about ‘Miss Nancy.’ I didn’t pay any attention and just kept right on. Then this fellow Thompson—”

“Hold on! What sort of a looking fellow is Thompson?”

“He—he’s kind of heavy, with dark hair, and wears a plaid cap.”

“Sort of sallow, with a mole on his cheek? I think I remember him. But he’s bigger than you, isn’t he?”

“A little,” said Gerald grudgingly.

“All right. What happened?”

“He said ‘No, that’s Little Money-bags,’ and the other fellows laughed, and one of them said something I didn’t hear. Then Thompson said: ‘Oh, yes, his father’s got lots of money, but if folks knew where he got it he’d be in prison.’”

“And then what?” asked Dan sympathetically.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No, I—I just hit him!” Dan smiled.

“That wasn’t a very good thing to do, Gerald. We don’t go in for that sort of thing here at Yardley.”

“I don’t care. What right had he to say that? I did hit him and I’ll do it again if he talks that way about my father!”

“Well, you hit him. Then, I suppose he hit you?”

“No. He was going to, but some of the other fellows ran in and said we’d be seen. Then Thompson asked if I wanted to fight, and I said I did, and we went back of the little red building and—and—fought.”

“How long?”

“Just a minute. I couldn’t do anything, Dan. He knew how to fight and I didn’t.”

“Well, but your knuckles—”

“I hit him once on the chin,” acknowledged Gerald with satisfaction, “but that’s about all. Then he hit me on the nose.”

“And that ended it?”

“Yes. I wanted to go on, but they wouldn’t let me. One of them gave me a handkerchief—I couldn’t find mine. It’s on the stand there. Then I came up here.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t meet anyone but a couple of fellows in front of Oxford. I don’t care if they did see me.”

“Well, it’s just as well that you didn’t run across any of the Faculty,” said Dan dryly. “Faculty doesn’t like scraps. How’s the nose feeling?”

“All right now; it’s just sore. It—it felt as though it was broken at first. Did you ever have a real fight with another fellow, Dan?”

“Oh, I’ve had two or three scrimmages,” replied Dan carelessly, “but not here. And I guess you’d better make up your mind to let this be your last one, Gerald.”

“I’m going to learn to box,” said Gerald determinedly. “And when I know how I’m going to lick Thompson.”

“Well,” answered Dan soothingly, “maybe you won’t want to by that time.”

“Does it take long? Is it hard to learn?”

“Boxing? N-no, I guess not, but I don’t know much about it: I never took any lessons.”

“Will you box with me sometimes in the gym?”

“Perhaps,” answered Dan, “but you’d better get Alf Loring to show you; he’s a dandy at it, they say.”

“Do you think he would?”

“Yes, but I’d forget about Thompson, Gerald. I dare say he’s sorry for what he said. Did you make up afterwards?”

Gerald shook his head.

“He wanted to shake hands, but I wouldn’t. He’s got to apologize for what he said about my father, every word, before I’ll make up with him.”

“The best thing to do is to leave him alone and forget all about it,” counseled Dan. “That’s what I’d do.” Gerald shook his head.

“No, you wouldn’t,” he said sagely, and Dan thought it best not to argue the matter.

“Shall you see Loring again soon?” asked Gerald.

“I’ll see him to-morrow, I suppose. Why?”

“Will you ask him about boxing? Would you mind?”

“No, but it would be much better if you asked him yourself. We’ll drop around there this evening for a few minutes.”

“All right,” said Gerald, “but I’m afraid he’ll think it’s awfully cheeky of me.”

“No, he won’t. Now let’s get fixed up for supper. Let’s see how your nose looks. Well, I guess most anyone would know that you’d been in some sort of a mix-up, but it doesn’t look very bad. You’d better look the other way, though, when you meet any of the Faculty. How are the fellows at your table, by the way?”

“All right, I guess. I don’t know any of them very well, except a little chap named Merrow.”

“Merrow? Seems to me I know him. Oh, yes, I met him coming up from the station the other day. Is he nice?”

“Yes, but he’s just a kid.” Presently Gerald paused in his ablutions long enough to announce; “I’m going to try for the Clarke hockey team, Dan.”

“Are you? Did Bendix say you could play hockey?”

“Yes, on the dormitory team. Hockey and tennis. I don’t see why I can’t play baseball, do you?”

“N-no, but I suppose Muscles has his reason. How are you getting along at the gym?”

“All right. It’s mostly dumb-bells and wands now, though. But it’s pretty good fun, isn’t it? Next week we’re going to do stunts on the bars and things like that. I think I’ve got more muscle now than I had when I came, don’t you? Look.” And Gerald pulled his sleeve up, exposing a pathetically thin arm, and brought his clinched hand up to his shoulder, watching Dan anxiously.

“Hm, yes, I believe you have,” said Dan gravely. “You keep on, Gerald, and you’ll be mightily surprised at the result. It’s wonderful what you can do in the gym. I’ve only been here about three months and I’ve increased my chest expansion almost two inches.”

“Really? Mr. Bendix said I was awfully flat chested, and I guess I am. I wish I had your muscles, Dan.”

“You keep on and you will have. All ready? Come on, then. Are you hungry?”

“Not very. I’m never very hungry, Dan. Even at home I don’t eat much.”

“You wait until you’ve been here a little longer,” laughed Dan, “and you won’t talk that way!”

After supper they went over to Dudley.

“Here he is!” cried Alf as Dan opened the door of Number 7. “What shall we do to him, Tom? Hello, Pennimore, how are you?”

“Quite well, thank you,” replied Gerald politely. Alf grinned at Dan.

“Glad you’re bringing him to be respectful,” he whispered in Dan’s ear as Gerald spoke to Tom. “Well, find seats, my worthy guests. Hello, Pennimore! What’s happened to your face? Sort of out of drawing, isn’t it? If I didn’t know you for a peaceable citizen I’d say you’d been—er—mixing it up a bit.”

Gerald looked diffidently at Dan.

“Tell your own story,” laughed Dan.

“I—I got hit,” muttered Gerald.

“Oh!” said Alf, suppressing a grin.

“Who hit you?” asked Tom.

“A fellow named Thompson. We—we had a sort of a fight.”

“The dickens you did! What about?”

Then Gerald found courage to give an account of the incident. Tom nodded approvingly.

“You did just right,” he said. “Sorry you didn’t hurt him a bit worse. He’s a fresh kid, anyway.”

“Still,” interposed Dan, with a meaning glance at Tom, “I tell Gerald we don’t go in for scrapping here.”

“That’s right,” answered Tom. “We don’t—except when it’s necessary. When a chap says things about your parents, though, it’s necessary. Just remember that, Pennimore. Don’t you take any fellow’s dust. If he’s too big for you, just you come and tell me; understand?”

“Yes, thank you,” replied Gerald. “I—I didn’t want to fight, but there wasn’t anything else I could do, was there?”

“Not a thing!” said Tom heartily. “Oh, you may frown all you want to, Dan, but I’m right, and you know it, you old hypocrite.”

“You’ll get Gerald into trouble if you give him advice like that, though,” Dan objected. “Faculty won’t stand for fights, and you know it.”

“Yes, but Collins won’t be hard on a fellow for sticking up for the honor of the family, so to speak. He’s human, Collins is. And I guess we three know that as well as anyone. Ever fought before, Gerald?”

“No, I never have,” answered Gerald apologetically. Alf laughed.

“Well, don’t apologize. After all, in spite of Tom, we’re not all sluggers here.”

“I’d like to know something about fighting, though,” said Gerald with a beseeching look at Dan.

“He’s got a favor to ask of you, Alf, and he’s afraid you’ll think he’s cheeky,” explained Dan.

“Of me? What is it? Let’s hear. I promise now not to think you cheeky, Pennimore. Want me to re-shape your nose for you?”

“I—I wondered whether you’d mind giving me a few lessons in boxing,” said Gerald soberly.

“By Jove, I like your grit! Want to be ready for the next one, eh?” Gerald didn’t reply.

“Fact is,” laughed Dan, “he wants to learn how to fight so he can lick Thompson. I tell him he’d better call it quits, but—”

“Oh, Alf will teach you, all right,” interrupted Tom. “If he doesn’t I’ll make him.”

“You! You couldn’t make a cat sneeze!” jeered Alf. “I’ll be very glad to show you what I know, Pennimore,” he added kindly. “We’ll get together some day real soon. We can use the boxing room in the gym Saturday afternoons, I guess. As to Thompson—well, you’ve shown him you won’t stand for his nonsense, and I guess he will let you alone after this. But boxing is mighty good exercise and it will do you good.”

“I’m awfully much obliged,” murmured Gerald. “I guess you will find me pretty stupid, though.”

“That’s all right. You’ll learn. You’re light on your feet and you look quick. Here, don’t rush off, Dan.”

“Must. Gerald and I have got studying to do.”

“Well, so have I, but you don’t see me worrying about it, do you?” laughed Alf. “Sit down and be sociable.”

“Can’t, honest!” replied Dan. “Good night, you fellows.”

After they had gone Tom looked across at Alf.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

“He isn’t such a sissy after all, is he?”

“Who? Little Geraldine?” asked Alf with a laugh. “Oh, he will get on in time. Say, though, doesn’t Dan remind you of old Mrs. Mother Hen with her one chick?”

And Alf went off chuckling to find his books.

CHAPTER VI
A VISIT TO NEW YORK

On the following Friday Dan and Gerald, suit-cases in hand and ulsters on arm, climbed aboard the express at a little before five o’clock and set out for New York. It was a cloudy afternoon, still and moderately cold. The river had been frozen for several days, and as the train crossed the bridge the boys could see the skaters moving about through the twilight up near Loon Island. They had their supper on the train—although it was really dinner—and did their level best to eat some of everything on the menu. In this effort they were not quite successful, but they managed to consume enough to interfere seriously with their comfort. Luckily they had a full hour—and it really was a full one—in which to recover before the train rolled into the Grand Central Station, by which time they were able to take up their luggage and traverse the platform without more than an occasional groan.

Mr. Pennimore had half promised to meet them, but when Gerald had discovered the electric brougham, the driver, a very smart looking youth in trim livery, reported that Mr. Pennimore had telephoned from downtown that he wouldn’t be able to reach the station in time, but would meet the boys at dinner.

“Dinner!” groaned Dan, casting a reproachful look at Gerald. “Why didn’t you tell me we were to have dinner after we got here?”

“I thought it would be lots more fun to eat on the train,” replied Gerald. “You can eat at home any time. Besides, we were hungry, Dan.”

“Well, that’s so. But I’m not hungry now, and I know I shan’t be able to even look at the table.”

They sped softly across town, only the low buzz of the motor and the occasional jangle of the bell penetrating to the interior of the carriage. Overhead a light set behind ground glass cast a soft glow over the rich upholstery. Dan looked and marveled. At his feet an electric heater gave warmth, in front of him a little silver clock ticked away the minutes. The seat, upholstered in dark blue leather, was as comfortable as a bed, and Gerald was making the most of it. But Dan was too excited to loll back in his corner. Instead, he sat on the edge of the cushion and peered interestedly out of the window. The brougham slowed down and turned into Fifth Avenue, then buzzed its way uptown past a steady stream of southward bound vehicles, automobiles, hansoms, broughams, taxicabs, electrics, with now and then a smart delivery wagon. Dan turned in bewilderment.

“Where’s every one going?” he asked.

“Theater, I suppose,” answered Gerald listlessly. “It’s most eight o’clock.”

“Oh,” said Dan. He had never seen so many carriages before in his life, nor so many lights, nor so many persons. They were held up for a moment at an intersecting street, and he watched admiringly the majestic traffic policeman, and wondered where every one could be going! Then they went on again and the lights along the sidewalks grew fewer. Shops gave way to residences, and soon, through the window on Gerald’s side, he saw the Park. He heaved a sigh.

“Gee, this is a big old place, Gerald,” he said hopelessly.

“I hate it,” answered Gerald, arousing from his drowsiness. “I have lots more fun at Sound View than I do in New York. I wish father would live at Sound View all the year. He says he’s going to some day. Here we are, Dan.”

The brougham rolled slowly up to the curb and stopped with a final peal of its bell. The door of a white stone residence opened and a man in livery came out and seized the bags and coats. Dan followed Gerald into the house, stepped dazedly into a tiny room which turned out to be an elevator, stepped out again and discovered Mr. Pennimore awaiting them at the door of a big library, evening paper in hand. After that events followed each other so quickly that it was all rather hazy to Dan. There was a moment’s chat in front of a glowing fire, another excursion in the elevator, a hurried preparation for dinner, followed by a survey of Gerald’s bedroom and sitting room which adjoined the apartment assigned to Dan, a descent to the first floor, and—well, then Dan found himself eating again just as though he hadn’t already had one hearty dinner that evening!

“What’s the matter, Gerald?” asked Mr. Pennimore presently, interrupting himself anxiously. “Has coming home spoiled your appetite?”

“No, sir, but we had our dinner on the train.”

“On the train! Well, well, that’s unfortunate! Couldn’t wait, eh? But do the best you can, boys. When I was your age I could always eat. Parker, hand the vegetables to Mr. Vinton.”

When dinner was over it was much too late to go anywhere, Mr. Pennimore decided. Gerald was disappointed, but Dan was secretly glad enough to sit down in a big, sleepy chair in front of the library fire and just let the comfort and hominess of the place soak in. Mr. Pennimore found lots of questions to ask, and it kept the two boys busy answering them.

“You see, son,” said Mr. Pennimore, “your letters are very interesting, but you’ve got an exasperating way of paying no attention to the questions I ask in mine. Have you been homesick, Gerald?”

Gerald shot a glance at Dan, but that youth was studying the flames as though he hadn’t heard the question.

“Some, sir,” answered Gerald, “once or twice.”

“Getting over it now, though, I presume? That’s right; just realize that Yardley’s to be your home for the next few months and get settled down. Have you made the acquaintance of any more of the boys?”

“I—I don’t know any of them very well yet, sir.”

“Of course not; all that takes time, I suspect. You spoke of two of the boys in one of your letters. What were their names?”

“Loring and Dyer,” answered Gerald. “They’re—they’re Second Class fellows, and so I don’t know them very well.”

“Oh, I gathered from what you wrote that you did.” Gerald looked uneasily at Dan.

“Well, Loring’s going to give you boxing lessons,” he said. “You know him well enough for that. Gerald has an idea that fellows don’t care about him unless they come right out and say so,” Dan explained.

“Boxing lessons, you said?” inquired Mr. Pennimore. “Isn’t boxing rather—er—strenuous for a boy of your age?” He looked anxiously from Dan to Gerald.

“Oh, no, sir,” answered Dan promptly. “It isn’t hard at all. It’s one of the regular exercises in the Second Class. Gerald just thought he’d like to take it up now, and Alf Loring said he’d show him how. It’s good exercise, sir.”

Gerald breathed easier. He had pledged Dan to secrecy in regard to his trouble with Thompson, and Dan’s unthinking reference to boxing had brought his heart into his mouth.

“Well,” said his father doubtfully, “be careful. Don’t try to learn everything the first year, son.”

The next forenoon was given over to sight-seeing. Gerald acted as guide and showed Dan as many of the points of interest as there was time for, and Dan enjoyed himself hugely. They had luncheon with Mr. Pennimore at his club. Afterwards he handed them tickets for one of the theaters and sent them off in a hansom.

“I’m sorry I can’t go with you,” he said, “but I’ve got a great deal to do this afternoon. We’ll have dinner early and see a show together to-night.”

That was Dan’s first visit to a real theater, for out in Graystone, Ohio, where he lived, the local playhouse, known as the Academy of Music, was little more than a fair-sized hall, and the attractions which visited it seldom met with the approval of Dan’s parents. To Gerald, on the contrary, theaters and plays were an old story, and he found half of his enjoyment in watching Dan and in displaying his own knowledge and experience of things theatrical. After the final curtain had fallen Dan didn’t say anything until the boys were out on the street. Then he drew a long breath, sighed deeply, and exclaimed:

“Gee, that was great!”

“It wasn’t a bad show,” replied Gerald indifferently.

“Bad! It was simply elegant! I’ll bet if I lived in New York I’d be at the theater every day! I’d like to see that play again to-night!”

But instead he saw another one and voted it even better, and would have kept Gerald up the rest of the night talking about it if Gerald had allowed it. Even as it was, it was long past mid-night when they fell asleep. The next forenoon they went to church with Mr. Pennimore. The church was a new source of wonderment to Dan. He had never imagined that a church could be so beautiful as was that one, and if he missed a great deal of the service, it was only because his eyes and thoughts were busy with the great altar, the wonderful stained glass windows, and all the architectural marvels and color before him.

Dinner was at two o’clock on Sunday, a long-drawn-out repast of many courses. It wasn’t altogether a success to-day, for every one was rather silent. The impending return to school brought no joy to the boys, while Mr. Pennimore was saddened by the thought of having to part with Gerald for several months. At a little before four the electric brougham rolled up to the curb in front of the house, and good-byes were said. Mr. Pennimore was to sail early Tuesday morning. Gerald begged to be allowed to remain in town and see him off, but his father wouldn’t allow it.

“No, no,” he said smilingly, “that wouldn’t do, son. Why, I might lose my courage at the last moment and take you with me!”

“I wish you would,” said Gerald dismally, clinging tightly to his father’s hand.

“What? And take you away from school? Oh, that wouldn’t do at all. No, we’ll say good-bye now, Gerald. You write me regularly and send your first letter to the address I gave you, so that I’ll find it when I get to London. Good-bye, Dan. Take good care of yourself. We three are going to have some good times this summer, and I want you well and strong. And keep an eye on this boy here; don’t let him get into too much mischief. And write me a letter yourself some day and put it in with Gerald’s. Now, you’ll have to hurry if you’re going to catch that train. Good-bye, Gerald. Be a good boy, and don’t forget to write to me. Remember me to the Doctor when you see him. Good-bye, good-bye!”

Then they were rolling away to the station, Gerald rather tearful, and Dan feeling a little bit blue himself, without being able to find a good reason for it. But by the time New Haven was reached the spirits of each had risen considerably, and they were able to take some interest in the things which the waiter placed before them in the dining car. Neither had eaten much dinner in New York, and so they found that they had very fair appetites. It’s wonderful what food will do in the way of cheering one up! When they tossed their bags into the carriage at Wissining and climbed in after them they were as merry as you please. A sprinkle of snow had fallen while they had been on the train, and there was a jolly feeling of winter in the air. Ahead of them, on the hill, the windows of the school buildings twinkled a welcome to them.

“Getting back isn’t so bad, after all, is it?” asked Dan. And Gerald agreed that it wasn’t.

They hurried to the Office to register their return, and then scampered up the stairs of Clarke. And when Dan had lighted the drop-light on the study table and the familiar objects in the room met their gaze, why, it was quite like getting home!

CHAPTER VII
THE SNOW BATTLE

The snow held off that winter until the last week in January. Then, as though to make up for its neglect, it came down steadily for three days together and covered the Prospect and the Yard two feet deep. Of course, I don’t mean that the snow confined its attentions to the vicinity of the school; the world was white as far as one could see, save on the Sound; and there were days when you couldn’t catch a glimpse of that for the scurrying flakes. But it was around the school that the fellows were best able to judge of its depth. Of course, Mr. McCarthy, the janitor, whose real name was Owen, and not McCarthy at all, fought valiantly with his helpers to keep the paths clear, but just as fast as they shoveled snow away, more fell. There was little wind, and so there were no drifts, a lucky circumstance for Mr. McCarthy. Skating for the time was spoiled, and just when the hockey clubs were finding their ice-legs, to coin an expression. But snow-battles took the place of ice sports, and there were some fine contests in the Yard. The principal battle of that campaign was one which took place at half-past four one afternoon, and lasted until darkness imposed a truce. It started out in a very small way.

Gerald was crossing from the gymnasium to Clarke. Over in front of Dudley a handful of older boys were good-naturedly pelting each other with snowballs. Back of Whitson, Thompson, the youth with whom Gerald had tried conclusions a fortnight ago, was vainly trying to throw a snowball in at the window of one of the third-floor rooms, where a friend of his laughed defiance from behind the curtain. Gerald had reached the sun-dial in the center of the Yard before Thompson spied him. Then:

“Oh, see who’s here,” shouted Thompson gleefully to his friend. “Watch me soak him, Joe.”

The first missile passed harmlessly by Gerald’s head, but the second was better aimed, and lodged uncomfortably against Gerald’s neck. Gerald brushed it away and tramped on. He recognized his enemy, but so far he had had but one lesson from Alf, and wasn’t yet ready for Mr. Thompson. Unfortunately, every step toward Clarke brought him nearer Thompson, and as Thompson was a rather good shot, progress became instantly more difficult. He thought of dropping the bundle of books which he carried and retaliating, but he knew himself for a poor shot, and was sure that such an engagement would end in undignified rout on his part. So he shielded his face as best he could and went on. It’s no joke to get a well-made snowball, thrown from a distance of sixty feet, against your head, and that’s what happened to Gerald more than once after he had passed the corner of Dudley. He wanted to run, but was too proud. Encouraged by the laughing applause of his friend at the window above, Thompson advanced to meet his prey, a particularly well-moulded snowball ready to throw.

But he didn’t throw it. For at that moment his cap went off, his ear was filled with snow, and he staggered aside from the shock and unexpectedness of the attack. It was a long shot, and a lucky one, and I doubt if the small boy standing on the back porch of Merle could have duplicated it in twenty tries. But it accomplished its purpose, for it allowed Gerald to reach the safety of Clarke Hall. Thompson swung around with a laugh of annoyance, and spied his new adversary.

“Hello, kid!” he shouted. “Want yours, do you? Well, you stay there and you’ll get it.”

Harry Merrow stayed, not because he wanted to very much, but because, like Gerald, he was too proud to run. It was an unequal conflict, for Thompson, advancing steadily along the walk, scored three hits to the younger boy’s one. The group in front of Dudley had paused and were watching the fray, applauding Merrow loudly.

“Give it to him, kid! You’re all right! Now’s your chance! Take your time!”

But the battle would have ended disastrously for Merrow had not another Merle Hall boy, attracted by the shouts, put his head out of an upstairs window and seen what was going on. Now, there’s a fine spirit of camaraderie among the Preparatory Class. For one thing, the boys of that class all room together in Merle, and get to know each other thoroughly. And in the present case esprit de corps came to the rescue of Merrow. The boy at the window disappeared quickly, and a minute later the back of Merle was black with boys.

“Merle, this way! Merle, this way!” was the cry.

Thompson held out for a moment, and then, the target for dozens of snowballs, retreated toward Whitson. But the fellows in front of Dudley could remain neutral no longer.

“Rush the kids!” was the cry, and the battle was on. Five minutes later almost every fellow in school was ranged on one side of the Yard or the other. The new arrivals neither knew nor cared about the merits of the controversy. They simply joined whichever army was nearest. Alf and Tom and Dan, gathered in Number 7 Dudley, soon heard the noise of battle and joined the fray, Tom in his shirt-sleeves.

“What’s it all about?” asked Alf of another boy.

“I don’t know. Merle started it, they say. They’ve been fighting like little fiends, the kids have. Look out! Just missed you! Let’s rush ’em again!”

There were plenty of rushes in which the opposing sides, or the more valorous of them, met in the middle of the field of battle and fought at close quarters. Out there there was little time to make snowballs. One must simply scoop up snow and hurl it at his adversary, grapple with him, perhaps, and roll him over and “wash his face,” or stuff snow down his back and into his ears and mouth. It was hand-to-hand out there, and many brave deeds were done and many gallant rescues performed. One ate snow and breathed it and was blinded by it, and wallowed in it, and picked himself out of it gasping and shouting. Then, as though by mutual understanding, the opposing armies drew apart, still hurling snow and shouting defiance, to view their casualties and draw breath for a renewed attack.

Gerald, drawn from his room by the shouting and laughter, looked on for a minute, and then dodged around the Yard and joined the forces in front of Merle. The next moment he was rolling snowballs and firing with the best of them, the ardor of battle taking possession of him.

“Hello, Pennimore!” cried a voice at his ear. “Isn’t it fun? They tried to rush us three times, and we beat them back!”

It was Harry Merrow, his cap off, his sweater crusted with snow, his cheeks flaming, and his eyes afire with excitement. Dan, had he been at hand to see, would have had difficulty in recognizing in the person of this young warrior the tearful, homesick lad he had met in the carriage.

“That was a dandy shot of yours,” said Gerald gratefully. “Did he hurt you?”

“Who? Thompson? I guess not! I’m not afraid of him! There they go! Come on!”

And Gerald was caught, willy nilly, in the forward surge of the little army and swept out into the field. Then snowballs were flying thick and fast, boys went down left and right, assailant and assailed rolling over on the trampled field of battle. Twilight was coming fast, and already it was difficult to tell friend from enemy. Gerald had lost sight of Harry Merrow, and, for that matter, scarcely knew whether he was attacking his comrades or his opponents. But he scooped up snow and dashed it wherever he saw a face, dodged in and out of the mêlée, and was having a lovely time, when something happened. His heels went into the air, his head bumped into the snow, and then, struggle as he might, he was being dragged feet-foremost toward the enemy’s line. He disputed every inch of the way, his hands groping blindly for something to hold to, and his face plowing up the snow. And then, just when he was certain he would suffocate the next moment, he was released and rolled over.

“You’re captured, kid,” laughed a familiar voice. “Will you fight on our side?”

Gerald, sputtering and choking, looked up into the face of Dan.

“No, I’m on the other side,” he gasped heroically.

“Why, it’s Gerald!” cried Dan. He pulled him to his feet. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not a bit,” said Gerald, rubbing his wet face against a wetter sleeve. Hurt! Of course he wasn’t hurt; he never felt finer in his life! What if his nose did seem to have been scraped to the bone? It was all glorious!

“Well, you’re prisoner,” laughed Dan. “If you won’t fight with us you must give your parole.”

“What’s that?” asked Gerald, as Dan, a hand on his arm, led him back toward Dudley.

“Why, agree not to fight again,” Dan explained. “You stay over there on the steps.”

“But I want to fight!” cried Gerald.

“All right, then, fight. Hello, Alf! Did you get any?”

“Yes, we got nine altogether.”

“Where are they?”

“Oh, here somewhere. They’re going to fight with us.”

“Is it right to do that?” asked Gerald anxiously.

“Of course! That’s the way we play the game here.”

“Then I’ll fight,” said Gerald.

“Hello!” cried Alf, coming up, “where’d you get Gerald?”

“Oh, I fished him out of the bunch,” laughed Dan. “I didn’t know who he was until I’d dragged him half-way across the Yard. He’s going to join our side.”

“That’s right,” said Alf. “We’ll get a lot more next time. They got Tom, though.”

“Not really! Think of old Tom getting caught! Let’s rush ’em again before it gets too dark.”

Then Alf and Dan and Gerald and almost a hundred others dashed forward again with a yell, and from the other side of the Yard the enemy came to meet them, and it was all a grand turmoil in the half darkness. Both sides were out for prisoners now, and there was less throwing of snow and more good, hard tussles. So far as Gerald could see, no one lost his temper, or, if he did, he found it again the next moment.

“You’d better keep back,” panted Alf, “or some one will grab you, Gerald.”

But Gerald didn’t care about that. In fact, he rather wanted to be grabbed. He wanted to match his strength against some one, friend or foe. And so he rushed into the thick of battle, fell, picked himself up, was caught around the waist and wriggled free, seized a boy almost twice his size in a vain endeavor to make a prisoner of him, and found himself with his face in the snow and the battle raging fiercely above him. He crawled out of there quickly, for it wasn’t pleasant to be walked on, staggered to his feet and drew breath. The Merle side was giving ground. Behind him at least a dozen prisoners were being hurried away. But the combat still raged, and the shouting continued. Suddenly, out from the enemy’s ranks darted a form and grappled with a boy who, standing almost at Gerald’s side, had, like himself, paused to take breath. Down they went together, there was a moment’s tussle, and then the enemy, having cunningly seized his victim’s feet, started back with him. Both sides were now drawing off, and for an instant Gerald hesitated. Then, with a shrill cry of challenge, he darted forward and threw himself against the captor. The next moment Gerald and the boy he had rescued were running back toward Dudley. The captor, surprised by the unexpected attack, didn’t think of pursuit until too late.

“Much obliged,” panted the rescued youth, as he and Gerald reached safety.

“That’s all right,” said Gerald carelessly. But secretly he was immensely proud of his exploit. At that moment they stepped into the circle of light thrown by the lantern over the door of Dudley.

“Hello!” cried the other. “If it isn’t Pennimore! What do you think of that? Why, you and I started this scrap!”

It was Thompson. Gerald viewed him doubtfully.

“You mean you did,” he answered rather stiffly. Thompson laughed and clapped him on the back.

“That’s so, I guess I did. Well, say, Pennimore, I’m sorry I snowballed you. But we’re quits now, aren’t we?”

And with another laugh and a nod Thompson turned away, leaving Gerald at a loss and a little indignant. What’s the good, he asked himself, of having a grudge against a fellow who makes apologies to you and claps you on the back? It was perfectly absurd! He looked aggrievedly in the direction taken by Thompson, and frowned. Then, thrusting his wet, aching hands into his trousers pockets, he turned and walked moodily toward Clarke. At the corner of the dormitory he looked back. Plainly, the combat was over. A few desultory snowballs arched across the Yard, and an occasional taunting cry or shout of defiance followed. But the two armies were dwindling away fast. It was quite dark now, and the battleground was illumined only by the streams of warm, yellow light which came from the dormitory windows. Gerald climbed to his room, feeling as though the zest had been suddenly taken out of life. Dan found him there a few minutes later, when, wet and glowing, he threw open the door.

“Why, what’s the matter with you, Gerald?” he asked in surprise. “You look as though you were waiting to watch your funeral go by!” He walked over and laid his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. “Look here,” he said anxiously, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No,” answered Gerald dully.

“Then what’s—”

“It’s Thompson,” burst out Gerald.

“Thompson? Again? What’s he done now?” And Dan’s gaze examined Gerald’s face anxiously for evidences of recent encounters.

“He hasn’t done anything,” muttered Gerald.

“Then what—”

So Gerald told his trouble, and Dan laughed until it hurt. And after a while Gerald managed to smile, too.

“But I don’t see how that makes us quits, Dan,” he said seriously. “He snowballed me all across the Yard, and then I ran in and rescued him from some big chap who was making him prisoner. I don’t see that he’s done anything to make it quits, do you?”

“No, I can’t say I do,” laughed Dan. “But it’s funny, just the same, the cheek of it. Thompson must have a keen sense of humor, Gerald.”

“He had no business to hit me on the back and say we were quits,” said Gerald stubbornly.

“Well, he did it; apologized, too. You can’t fight a chap for that, Gerald, I guess.”

“No, I don’t suppose so.” Gerald was silent a moment. Then: “But I’m going to keep on learning to box, Dan, just the same,” he declared.

“Well, there’s no harm in that,” replied Dan, getting out of his wet clothes. “It’s a good thing to know, boxing.”

“Yes,” said Gerald hopefully, “because maybe he will do something else some day, and then I’ll be ready for him!”

CHAPTER VIII
GERALD REVOLTS

Gerald wasn’t getting on very well with his studies. With English and Latin he was having little trouble, but French was a stumbling block, while as to mathematics—well, Gerald and algebra weren’t friends. And the worst of it was that Kilts, as Mr. McIntyre was called by the students, had got it into his head that Gerald wasn’t really trying to get along. This, at first, wasn’t true. But by the middle of February it must be acknowledged that Gerald had taken such a dislike to algebra, and Kilts, too, for that matter, that the latter had good reason for his suspicion. Kilts was a severe disciplinarian, and had small sympathy for boys who were not willing to work. He could forgive dullness, was often patience itself with a student who tried to learn and couldn’t, but he could make life very unpleasant for any member of his classes who didn’t try. And by the middle of February affairs were at an acute stage between Kilts and Gerald.

“Tell me, Mr. Pennimore,” he asked one morning with his best sarcasm, “is there any subject I could substitute for algebra that would interest you?” As Gerald made no reply—having learned by this time the wisdom of declining McIntyre’s challenges to debate—but merely sat with red cheeks, listening to the suppressed giggles of the fellows around him, Kilts construed the boy’s silence to please himself.

“Ah, there is, then! Now, tell me what it is, sir, and I’ll bring the matter up in Faculty Meeting, and perhaps we can make the change. Would it be embroidery—or jack-straws—or puss-in-the-corner? Would it be any of those, Mr. Pennimore?”

Gerald sat silent with burning cheeks.

“Come, come, Mr. Pennimore! Let us hear it, pray. Don’t be afraid to speak up. What would it be, now?”

“Manners!” blurted Gerald, trembling with anger. Mr. McIntyre’s little Scotch eyes blazed and the class sobered instantly. But the instructor’s voice was surprisingly gentle as he replied:

“Ah, an excellent choice, sir, an excellent choice. I ken ye know your own requirements, and I’ll see what we can do for ye. (Mr. McIntyre was liable to fall back into Scotch brogue on occasions, occasions which the boys who knew him well were prone to dread.) Ay, ay, manners are what ye need, doubtless.”

Mr. McIntyre smiled gently and took up his book again. Some one ventured to laugh nervously, but the look which he received killed his mirth instantly. Proceedings were resumed, and for the rest of the half-hour Kilts took no notice of Gerald. When class was over Gerald hurried out of the room and over to Clarke with blazing eyes, half beside himself with anger. Dan happened to be in the room, and to him Gerald poured forth his tale. But if he expected sympathy or indignation, he was doomed to disappointment. Dan heard the story calmly.

“Well, I guess it’s you for the Office, Gerald,” he said with a frown. “What made you be such an ass as to say that to Kilts? Don’t you know he’s got a temper like a ginger-jar?”

Gerald stared in amazement.

“But—but see what he said to me!” he gasped. “Do you think I’m going to sit quiet and take that, Dan? I guess not! What right had he to insult me before the whole class? He—he’s nothing but a Scotch beggar, anyway!”

“He’s one of the best mathematicians in the country,” replied Dan quietly, “and no matter what else he is, he’s your teacher and you ought to treat him politely. If he was impolite to you, that’s no reason for you to answer back, Gerald.”

“Well, I did it!” cried Gerald hotly. “And I’ll do it again if he ever says things like that to me.”

“Maybe you won’t have a chance,” replied Dan dryly. “You’d better wait until you’ve seen Collins. You’ve got yourself into a nasty hole, Gerald, and you might as well realize it. Fellows have been suspended here for less than what you’ve done.”

“Let them suspend me, then,” said Gerald hotly. “I don’t care what they do! I’m sick and tired of this place, anyway. Every one’s down on me, the teachers and every one else! And you don’t care, either. You’re just like Loring and Dyer and those fellows. I hope they send me home! I’d rather be there than here!”

“And how about your father?” asked Dan gently. “Think he’d be pleased, Gerald? Now, look here!” Dan laid a hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t make any more of a mess of it, Gerald. You were wrong in answering back, and you must see that. Why, it’s sort of as though you were in the army, Gerald. Kilts is your superior officer, you see, and it’s your place to take what he says and keep your mouth closed. And you know as well as I do that you haven’t been pegging at algebra lately the way you ought to. You’ve got it into your head that you can’t do it, and now you don’t try. And Kilts sees that and doesn’t like it. He’s got a sharp tongue, has Kilts, and I dare say he said things he shouldn’t have said, but that’s not for you to bother about. What you want to do is to knuckle down and see that he doesn’t have a chance to get after you again. I’ll say one thing for Kilts, and that is, if he sees a fellow is trying to get along he will help him all he can. I’ve seen that myself, lots of times.”

“He’s a brute,” muttered Gerald rebelliously.

“No, he really isn’t. He’s awfully human, and he’s got a temper. Look at the way he acted last Fall when Jones painted up the front of Dudley that time! When Toby came along Kilts was out there with soap and water trying to wash out the paint so the fellow who did it wouldn’t get into trouble. He’s hard to get along with, but he’s pretty fair in the long run. Now, you listen to what Collins has to say, and tell him you were angry and excited and didn’t mean to insult Kilts. Then you take your medicine and buckle down and make up your mind to show Kilts that you are just as smart as any other fellow in your class. Maybe Collins will let you down easily this time. But you don’t want to talk to him the way you’ve talked to me, Gerald. That won’t do at all. Let him understand that you’re sorry and—”

“I’m not sorry,” declared Gerald. “I’m glad.”

“Well, you’ll get over it, then,” said Dan, a trifle impatiently. “Don’t try to ride the high-horse with Collins, or you’ll be down and out in no time. I know you have had a rather tough time of it in some ways since you came, but now, just when things are getting better, don’t go and spoil it all. Why, you made the hockey team last week, and you’ve met a lot of fellows who will be nice to you if you’ll let them. Don’t spoil it all now and disappoint your father, Gerald.”

Gerald made no answer, and after waiting a moment, Dan took up his books and moved toward the door.

“Well, I must be off,” he said. “See you after dinner, Gerald.”

Gerald nodded sullenly.

But after dinner Gerald was not to be found, and the two didn’t meet again until just before supper. Dan had been skating on the river, and was feeling fine until he entered Number 28 and caught sight of Gerald’s glum face bending over a book.

“Hello,” he said, peeling off his sweater, “where were you at noon?”

“Office,” answered Gerald shortly.

“Who did you see? Collins? What did he say?” asked Dan anxiously.

“Oh, he said a lot,” replied Gerald disgustedly. “Lectured me for half an hour, I guess.”

“Well? It’s all right, eh? He didn’t punish you?”

“Didn’t he?” asked Gerald bitterly. “He says I’ve got to stay in bounds for two weeks, and I can’t play on the hockey team.” Dan gave a sigh of relief.

“Well, that’s good. I was afraid he’d suspend you. But Collins is a pretty good sort. You got off easy, all right.”

“Easy! I’m glad you think so. I suppose it doesn’t make much difference to you, though,” said Gerald bitterly. “You’ll have your fun just the same, you and Loring and Dyer! No one cares how badly I get—get stung!”

“That’s nonsense,” said Dan. “Of course I’m sorry he put you on probation but it might have been lots worse, Gerald. I was afraid he’d send you home for a couple of weeks, and that would have been the dickens!”

“I wish he had sent me home!”

“Don’t be silly,” begged Dan. “Two weeks on probation isn’t much. It’ll be gone before you know it. And there’ll be plenty of hockey left for you.”

“Oh, it’s easy enough for you to talk! You haven’t lost your place on the team!”

“Yes, I suppose that does queer you there,” mused Dan. “Still, you’ve got three years yet, Gerald, and what does it matter if you don’t make a dormitory team this year? Just you practice all you can and then, maybe, next year you can get on the Varsity. And that’s more than I’ve been able to do!”

“I don’t want to wait until next year,” answered Gerald irritably. “I want to play now. And I don’t think it’s fair to say I can’t play just because Kilts insulted me, and I answered back. And what’s more, I won’t stand it!”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to,” replied Dan impatiently. “It’s no use going to Toby; he always stands by Collins.”

“I don’t intend to go to Toby,” replied Gerald.

“That’s right,” said Dan cheerfully. “Buck up and take your medicine. Have you written your father to-day?”

“No.”

“You’re going to, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” muttered Gerald.

“You’d better. You tell him just how it all happened, and I’ll write a note, too, and you can put it in your letter. You see, Collins is sure to write to him and report the matter, and he will think it’s much worse than it is if you don’t explain. Now, come on and let’s eat.”

At dinner Dan promised Alf to go over to the latter’s room later in the evening.

“I guess I’ll bring Gerald along, if you don’t mind,” he said. “He’s feeling rather down in the mouth.”

“Of course, bring him along,” answered Alf.

But when the time came Gerald refused to go.

“I don’t care to go where I’m not wanted,” he declared, and all of Dan’s persuasion failed to move him. In the end Dan went alone, feeling rather guilty at leaving Gerald there in the dumps.

Events proved that Dan would have done better to have remained at home that evening, for Gerald was in a bitter mood. He really believed that he had been treated unjustly by the Faculty in the persons of Mr. McIntyre and Mr. Collins, and was jealous of Alf and Tom. It seemed to him to-night that nothing but trouble had fallen to his lot since his advent at Yardley. The fellows had shown that he wasn’t wanted, he had been insulted by Thompson and Mr. McIntyre, and, worst blow of all, Dan was tired of him and spent more of his time at Number 7 Dudley than he did in his own room. Gerald gloomed for a while, and then took paper and pen and tried to write his mid-week letter to his father in England. But the sentences wouldn’t shape themselves, and he soon gave up the effort. He tried to study, but could make nothing of that, either. So he started to think things over again, and the more he thought the worse everything appeared to him, until, at last, with an exclamation of defiance, he strode to his closet and pulled down his suit-case from the shelf. For the next ten minutes he was busy packing such of his things as he could take from his chiffonier without endangering his secret. His brushes and comb, and things of that sort, he would have to leave until morning, but it wouldn’t take a moment to drop them in. His preparations completed, he put the bag back on the shelf and got ready for bed, cheerful and excited. When Dan returned, just before ten, Gerald was in bed, and apparently fast asleep.

CHAPTER IX
GERALD LEAVES SCHOOL

In the morning Dan was glad to find that Gerald had evidently quite recovered and was himself again.

“Alf and Tom were sorry you didn’t go over last night,” said Dan. “Alf says you’re not to forget your boxing lesson Saturday. He says with about two more lessons he will fix you so you can go and knock spots out of Kilts.”

Gerald smiled.

“I won’t forget,” he said. “Maybe, though, I’ll give up boxing. I don’t believe there’s going to be—be any necessity for knowing how.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve decided to call it off with Thompson,” said Dan. “I guess he means to behave himself now.”

“I’m going to call it off with other folks, too,” remarked Gerald; with which cryptic utterance he went off to breakfast.

Dan looked puzzled.

“Now, what did he mean by that?” he asked, half aloud. “I wonder if he has some new foolishness in his mind.”

To-day, as it happened, Dan’s recitations kept him away from the room all the morning, except for a half-hour between eleven and eleven-thirty, at which time, as he knew, Gerald had Latin with Mr. Collins, and so it was not until after twelve o’clock that the first suspicion reached him. Then, in front of Oxford, he ran across Joe Chambers. Joe was one of the sub-editors of the school weekly, The Scholiast, a Third Class fellow who wore glasses, looked cultured to the best of his ability, and was always on the watch for news for his paper. He buttonholed Dan at once.

“Say, Vinton, what’s up with Pennimore?”

“Nothing that will make ‘copy’ for you, Chambers. He got into trouble in class yesterday, and Faculty put him on probation. How did you hear of it?”

Chambers looked puzzled.

“I didn’t hear of it at all,” he replied. “I didn’t mean that. But I met him this morning with a big bag, and asked him where he was going, and he said ‘Home.’ I thought maybe there was something up, you know; somebody sick or something of that sort. Is there?”

For a moment Dan didn’t answer. He was thinking hard. Then:

“No, there’s nothing wrong at home. What he meant was that he was going down to Sound View. He took a lot of things over there to get them out of the way. The closets in Clarke are so tiny that there isn’t room for much of anything. Well, I must be getting on. Of course, you needn’t say anything about Gerald’s being on probation. He’s sort of thin-skinned, you know.”

“I won’t mention it,” answered Chambers earnestly. “Much obliged.” Dan nodded and Chambers hurried away.

For a moment Dan stood there at a loss. He had not the least doubt that Gerald had left school. He recalled his manner before breakfast, that mysterious remark of his. But he could easily make certain. He hurried across to Clarke and raced up the stairs. The top of Gerald’s chiffonier was clear of toilet articles, many of his shirts and undergarments were missing from the drawers, his suit-case was gone from the closet shelf. Dan looked at his watch, went to his top drawer and took out a little japanned tin box which he unlocked with a key on his watch chain. From the box he took a little roll of money. Placing this carefully in a vest pocket, he made his way downstairs again. Once outside he walked slowly and loiteringly to The Prospect and turned into the path leading across the railroad track and through the woods. But once out of sight of the school he broke into a trot. Where the wood paths diverged he kept to the right, and was soon hurrying along beside a high rustic fence which marked the boundary of the Pennimore estate. Presently he reached a spot where a number of the palings had been torn away. In the Fall Gerald and he had used this route to and from the school as it was much shorter than the way which led around by the roads. Dan squirmed through the hole and sped across the turf. Presently he was on the drive and the big stone residence was in front of him. The curtains were down at all the windows and the place looked utterly deserted, but he crossed the terrace and rang the bell beside the wide door. After a while the door opened and a wrinkled caretaker put her head out.

“I’m looking for Gerald,” Dan explained. “I thought maybe he was here: Is he?”

“No, sir, he ain’t here. I ain’t seen him since last week.”

“You—you’re sure?” asked Dan anxiously.

“Yes, sir. He couldn’t get in without my knowing it, sir. There ain’t nothin’ happened to him, sir, has there?”

“No, no, but I couldn’t find him, and one of the fellows said he’d seen him coming this way. I’m much obliged.” And Dan turned toward the main drive which led to the Lodge and the gates, and so to the village road. At the Lodge he asked again, but the gardener’s wife declared that Gerald hadn’t entered the gates that day.

“Well, if you should see him, I wish you’d tell him that I want to see him on a very important matter. I’m his roommate at school, you know.”

“Yes, sir, very well, sir, I’ll be sure and tell him.”

Dan hurried through the gates and along the road which leads to the station. He had not expected to find Gerald at Sound View, and so was not disappointed. He looked at his watch and increased his pace. Some distance away the noon express whistled for the station. Dan reached the train just as the conductor raised his hand in signal to the engineer. He sank into a seat in one of the day coaches and got his breath back. When the conductor came through Dan paid his fare, and asked when the train was due in New York.

“Three-thirty,” was the reply.

It would be quick work, thought Dan. He must get to Gerald’s house, persuade Gerald to return, and then reach the station in time for the five o’clock train back to Wissining. That would bring them to the school at about a quarter before eight and if all went well there was no reason why any one should suspect their absence. But to take a later train would be to court disaster, since they would reach the school long after ten o’clock, and would be almost certain to be discovered. An hour and a half was mighty little time, Dan thought anxiously, in which to reach the Pennimore house, show Gerald the error of his ways, and return to the station. But he believed he could do it. If only the train was on time! Dan pulled out the rest of his money and counted it over. There wasn’t a great deal of it, but it ought to do. He was good and hungry by now, and the waiter’s announcement of “Dinner now ready in the dining car!” found at least one sympathetic listener. But dinner in the dining car meant parting from a whole dollar, and Dan’s finances wouldn’t stand that. At New Haven, however, he jumped out and bought a cup of coffee, a sandwich and three bananas. He managed to get through with the coffee and sandwich while the train waited, but the bananas were taken on board and lasted for several miles. After that he felt more cheerful and looked forward quite optimistically to his task ahead. He squandered another ten cents on a magazine and managed to pass the rest of the journey without difficulty. The train rolled into the big station just on time, and Dan was off it and racing up the platform before it had come to a stop. There was no time to lose.

His plans were all made, and it only remained to carry them out. During his visit to the city with Gerald he had made the acquaintance of taxicabs, and now he climbed into one with a nonchalant air, and gave the driver the address. But, although he lolled back in the seat as though taxicabs were an everyday occurrence with him, he kept an anxious eye on the meter as they sped uptown. It was simply scandalous the way that thing acted! Every time he turned his head away for a moment it added another ten cents to his indebtedness! But he made the trip for a dollar and twenty cents, not including the ten cents he gave the driver, and was delighted to find that it was still only ten minutes to four when he rang the door-bell.

“Will you ask Gerald if I can see him, please?”

The man, who remembered Dan, smiled discreetly and conducted him into the little reception room. Then he went away, and Dan, left to the depressing silence of the house, tried to nerve himself for the encounter.

Gerald was upstairs in the library trying to write a letter to his father. He had been home three hours, had lunched all alone in the big dining room, had unpacked his bag, and was now far from happy. It promised to be very lonely there, with only the servants to talk to. There were moments when he heartily wished himself back at school, but he had no intention of returning. His pride wouldn’t allow that. Just now he was trying, in his half-written letter, to persuade his father to let him join him abroad, something he was quite certain his father would not do. He had written a truthful, if somewhat biased, account of the events leading to his flight from school, and all the time he was wondering uneasily what his father would think of him. He was pretty sure his father wouldn’t insist on his returning to Yardley, and he didn’t quite know whether to be glad of this or sorry. If he didn’t go back to school and didn’t join his father abroad, what was to become of him? It wasn’t at all likely that he would be allowed to remain alone here with the servants. The only alternative Gerald could think of was a visit to some distant relations in Virginia. And that—why, that would be worse than school.

He wondered whether Dan had discovered his absence yet; wondered what he would think and do; whether he would be sorry. Gerald accused Dan of being tired of him, and he almost meant it, but he knew well enough that Dan would feel badly about his leaving. Probably there would be a letter from Dan in the morning, thought Gerald, brightening up a little. That was something to look forward to. He was mighty fond of Dan, and if Dan had only not deserted him for Loring and Tom Dyer— But that was all over with now. He had tried to write a note to Dan before leaving, but it had proved a difficult task, and he had finally abandoned it. But he would write this evening. He began to consider what he would say. He would be very dignified in it. Dan must understand that he was no longer a baby, and that when he once made up his mind he stuck to it. Perhaps he would begin the letter “Dear Vinton,” just to show Dan that all was at an end between them. Perhaps, however, Dan might not like that, and would get huffy and not come to see him any more! On second thoughts, he guessed he wouldn’t start it that way. But he would let Dan understand that it would be quite useless for the latter to try and persuade him to return to Yardley. Of course, if Dan cared to write to him now and then, Gerald would be glad to hear what was going on at school, and would reply and tell Dan about the fine times he was having in New York.

Gerald paused there in his thoughts and looked out of the two great, heavily-draped windows. It was a gray afternoon, hinting of snow, and the view of the roofs and chimneys was cheerless and dispiriting. It suddenly came over him that he hated New York and everything in it, and—and yes, he did! He wished like anything that he was back at Yardley!

“Mr. Vinton to see you, Mr. Gerald.”

“What?” cried Gerald, amazed and delighted. “Who, Thomas?”

“Mr. Vinton, sir; Mr. Dan; the young gentleman who—”

Gerald leaped from his chair and started toward the door. Then he remembered. He stopped and went back to his seat at the big, broad-topped table.

“Ask Mr. Vinton to come up here, Thomas,” he said with great dignity.

“Very good, sir,” replied Thomas impassively. But outside in the hall he grinned.

Gerald waited with fast-beating heart. Dan had come after him! Why had he done that unless—unless he did care, after all? Perhaps, though, the Faculty had sent him to bring him back. Gerald hardened his heart again. He heard the elevator door open and then quick steps came along the corridor. Thomas held aside the curtains.

“Mr. Vinton,” he murmured.

“Hello, Dan,” greeted Gerald. He tried to speak carelessly, but his voice trembled in spite of his efforts. He got up leisurely from his chair and leaned against the table, smiling, awaiting Dan.

Dan crossed the room briskly, his watch in his hand. The time was five minutes to four.

“Hello,” he replied in business-like tones. “Have you unpacked your things yet?”

“Why, yes.”

Dan turned. Thomas, who had lingered discreetly at the door, was just disappearing.

“Wait a bit,” called Dan. “What’s his name?” he asked Gerald.

“Thomas,” replied Gerald in surprise.

“Thomas, will you please pack Mr. Gerald’s suit-case again as soon as you can? He’s going back with me on the five o’clock train.”

“‘He’s going back with me on the five o’clock train.’”

“Yes, sir,” replied Thomas.

“And is there anything we could have to take us to the station, Thomas?”

“There’s the electric, sir. Shall I telephone for that? About twenty minutes of five, sir?” Thomas looked inquiringly from Dan to Gerald. But it was Dan who was giving the orders. Gerald’s presence of mind seemed to have deserted him.

“Please do,” answered Dan. “Better say twenty-five minutes of, though, Thomas. Thank you.”

Thomas gave another doubtful glance at Gerald and disappeared. The curtains fell behind him. Dan turned to Gerald.

“There’s plenty of time to get that train,” he said briskly. “It will get us in Wissining at seven-thirty, and we can be back at school by a quarter to eight. No one will know we’ve been away unless we tell them.”

“I’m not going back,” said Gerald sullenly.

Dan paid no heed.

“What did you do such a stupid thing for, Gerald?” he asked gently. “You might have got into all sorts of trouble.”

“Trouble!” sneered Gerald. “I guess I’ve had trouble, haven’t I? I guess a little more won’t matter. Besides, they can’t do anything to me here. I’ve left school.”

“Oh, no, you haven’t. You can’t leave school just by running away. Faculty can bring you back, Gerald, if it wants to. Until your father withdraws you from Yardley, you are a Yardley student and under the control of the Faculty. Of course I don’t know that they will want to bring you back. They’ll probably just expel you. But that won’t do. You don’t want them to do that. Your father would be awfully broken up about it. If you really must leave, the better way is to go back now before they find it out, and then write to your father to withdraw you. It will take a couple of weeks, but I guess you can wait that long, can’t you?”

“I’m not going back,” reiterated Gerald stubbornly. Dan made a gesture of impatience.

“You are going back,” he replied. “I’m going to take you back. You’re going back if I have to carry you all the way, and if it takes from now till Sunday.”

The two boys looked at each other a moment. Then Gerald’s eyes dropped. There was silence for a moment. Then:

“They’ll know I ran away,” he muttered.

“No, they won’t; not if we go back on the five o’clock train. Joe Chambers saw you, you know, but I told him you were just going to Sound View. He will forget all about it. Even if he suspects he will never say anything. You’ll have to explain missing recitations but you can do that all right.”

There was another silence. Gerald dug holes with the pen in the blotter. Finally:

“Faculty didn’t send you after me?” he asked.

“Great Scott, no!” answered Dan impatiently. “I came as soon as I found out. I went to Sound View first to make sure you weren’t there. Then I caught the noon train.”

“I don’t see—” began Gerald.

“You don’t see what?” asked Dan as he paused.

“I don’t see why you take so much trouble,” said Gerald.

“Why shouldn’t I?” asked Dan. “Wouldn’t you do as much for me? If you thought I was making a mighty big mistake and getting myself into a heap of trouble and disappointing my folks, wouldn’t you take a little trouble, Gerald?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing! It’s all settled. It’s almost half-past, and I’m as hungry as a bear. Do you suppose there’s anything to eat downstairs? I didn’t have much money on hand and couldn’t afford dinner on the train.”

“Of course there is,” cried Gerald. “I’ll tell Thomas to get something. How much time is there?”

“About twelve minutes before we need to start. Here’s Thomas now.”

“The bag’s all ready, Mr. Gerald. I took it down,” announced Thomas.

“That’s all right,” said Gerald eagerly. “And, Thomas, Dan didn’t have any luncheon. See if you can find something, and bring it up here right away. There’s only about ten minutes.”

“Very good, sir. Some cold meat, sir, and a glass of milk and some fruit? Shall I have them make tea or coffee?”

“No, thanks,” replied Dan. “A slice of meat and some bread and butter will be fine; and the milk. Much obliged, Thomas.”

“Yes, sir. I telephoned to the garage, sir, and the brougham will be here at twenty-five minutes of. But, begging pardon, sir, it won’t take more than twelve minutes to get to the station.”

Thomas hurried noiselessly away.

“Have you got any money, Gerald?” asked Dan.

Gerald took out his purse and examined the contents.

“Only eight dollars,” he said.

“That’s plenty,” replied Dan. “I’ve only got about three, and we’ll have to have supper on the train.”

“That’ll be dandy!” cried Gerald. “Remember the bully feed we had going home the last time, Dan?”

“Yes, and I remember that we both ate too much. You’d better finish that letter, Gerald, and get Thomas to post it.”

Gerald hesitated a moment. Then he sat down again, seized the pen and added three hurried lines to his epistle.

“Dan just came, and wants me to go back. He says no one will know anything about it. So I’m going. I guess I was a fool. Lovingly, Gerald.”

CHAPTER X
A VISIT FROM KILTS

It began to clear off about sunset time that evening. To the westward, beyond Meeker’s Marsh, beyond the distant rolling hills, a gleam of crimson dispelled the gray for a brief moment. Later, one by one, the stars came out, and a little wind brushed the sky clear of clouds. It was a cold, crisp evening, and Mr. McIntyre, looking out for a moment before he drew the shades in his study, felt the attractions of fresh air and exercise. Getting into a heavy plaid ulster, settling his funny round cloth hat on his head, and taking his big Scotch oak walking stick in hand, Kilts turned down his light and left the building.

He had been expecting some books by express for several days, and now he would just walk down to the station and see if they were there. He was a good walker, and once clear of the school grounds, he swung his stick and stepped out vigorously. Overhead the millions of stars sparkled whitely in a purple-black sky, shedding a faint radiance over the snowy road and fields. Perhaps memory brought recollections of just such tingling nights at home in the lowlands of Scotland, for he paused once for a long while at the edge of the road and gazed off across the fields and sighed ere he went on his way again.

At the station he found that his package had not yet been received. As he turned to retrace his steps a long whistle reached him through the silence, and he paused at the corner of the station to watch the train come in. He always enjoyed that. He liked to see the glare sweep down the track, listen to the mighty breath of the great iron monster hurling itself out of the night, watch the lighted windows as they flashed by, and wonder, as folks will who are quite out of the world of travel, who were beyond them and why. Even an instructor of mathematics may have imagination. But instead of thundering by, the train slackened pace and came to a stop. Only a handful of travelers alighted, and they were soon swallowed up in the semi-darkness outside the radius of the station lights.

But two of the alighting travelers interested him. They were boys, and Kilts believed that he recognized one of them. This one, the taller and larger of the pair, passed not far from where Kilts stood. He carried a suit-case into the station, and presently emerged without it. Then he joined his companion, who was awaiting him in the shadow at the farther end of the platform, and together they passed around to where the carriages stood. Kilts, with no idea of spying, but merely to satisfy a mild curiosity, went around the station at the other end and walked down the asphalt there until he was within a few yards of the carriage into which the two boys were clambering. He was right. The larger of the two was Vinton. He wondered where that youth had been to be returning to school so long after supper time. He recollected, too, that Vinton had been absent from his class that afternoon. It was quite likely, however, that he had permission to leave school, Kilts reflected. Then the incident of the bag presented itself. Why had Vinton left his bag at the station, since he had ridden up in a carriage? That looked suspicious. Kilts wasn’t one to look for trouble, but it seemed to him that here was something that would bear investigation. He resolved to stop at the Office on his way to his room and see whether Vinton had received permission to sign off.

Meanwhile the carriage containing the boys was rattling along over the snowy, rutted road. Dan seemed suddenly very silent, and Gerald, who, ever since his capitulation, had been in the highest spirits, wondered, and presently asked the reason. After a moment’s hesitation Dan answered:

“Kilts was down there at the station, Gerald, and I’m pretty certain he recognized me.”

“Do you think he will tell?” asked Gerald anxiously.

“I don’t know. He saw me take your bag into the station. He was standing at the corner. I didn’t notice him until I came out, and I wasn’t certain then who he was. But he followed us around to the carriage. I hope he didn’t see you to know you.”

“So do I,” said Gerald. “He’s got it in for me badly enough as it is. But I hope you won’t get into trouble.”

“It won’t matter as long as he doesn’t find out who you are,” Dan replied. Then he moved forward and engaged the driver in conversation, swearing that worthy to secrecy. They dismissed the carriage at the foot of the hill and walked up to school by way of the path. Their precaution, however, proved unnecessary, for no one was in sight as they made their way to Clarke. Nor did they meet a single person on their way up the stairs and through the hall. Dan heaved a sigh of relief as he closed the room door behind him. If Kilts didn’t prove troublesome everything was all right.

“Jove!” he said as he took off his coat and looked curiously around the room. “It seems like two or three days since I was here last. And I’ve only been away eight hours! Get your things off, Gerald, and we’ll get to work. What’s going to trouble you most to-morrow? You missed all your recitations to-day, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Gerald answered, “but algebra is the only thing I’m afraid of.”

“All right. Get your books together and sit down. We’ll go over the lesson together. I suppose you’ll have about five pages more to-morrow, eh?” Dan brought his chair around beside Gerald’s. “This doesn’t look awfully difficult. I don’t believe you really get your mind on it, Gerald. Here, try this one and see how it goes. While you’re doing it I’ll glance through my French.”

They were both studying very hard when, some twenty minutes later, there came a knock at the door.

“Come,” called Dan, darting an apprehensive glance at his companion. The door opened and in walked Kilts. The boys jumped to their feet.

“Good evening,” said Dan. “Will you sit down, sir?”

Kilts was tall and lean, his clean-shaven face surmounted by an unruly shock of iron-gray hair. His eyes—they might have been gray or blue—were deeply set and sharp as two gimlets. In age he was about fifty. He still wore his queer old plaid ulster, without which he was seldom seen abroad, no matter the season, and carried his cloth hat and his stick in his hand. He answered Dan’s greeting, bowed to Gerald and took the chair offered, settling his stick across his knees and laying his hat carefully atop. Then with a glance about the room he smoothed one lean cheek with his hand and fixed his gaze on Dan.

“I’m not wanting to be here, Vinton,” he said gravely but kindly. “But I’ve got a question to ask you. I saw you at the station awhile ago, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Dan.

“You’d been away?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Without permission?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kilts’ gaze moved to Gerald, who, in his chair at the desk, was looking intently at his book.

“There was a boy with you?”

Dan hesitated a moment. Then:

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“Who was he?”

“I’d rather not say, Mr. McIntyre.”

“Hum,” grunted Kilts. There was a moment of silence. Gerald took up a pencil and began scrawling nervously on the margin of his book. Kilts cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sorry. I’ll have to report this, Vinton. You understand that?”

“Yes, sir. And—I’m sorry, too.”

“Well, well, maybe ’twill not be so bad. If you’re sorry, now, likely—”

“What I meant was,” said Dan with a smile, “that I was sorry for you, sir.”

“Eh? Sorry for me?” Mr. McIntyre’s thick, grizzled eyebrows snapped together.

“Why, yes, sir. I know you don’t like to have to report fellows,” answered Dan.

“Hum! Well, no more I do, Vinton.” Kilts frowned, glanced at Gerald and glanced away again. “Maybe there were circumstances, Vinton, that extenuate your action,” he said finally with a hopeful note in his voice. “Maybe, now, ’twas illness in the family; maybe ’twas necessary for you to leave school suddenly—”

“It was, sir, very necessary,” replied Dan, “but it had nothing to do with my family.”

“Well, well, maybe if you’d be telling me about it, now—”

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir,” said Dan regretfully. “I wish I could. But it concerns someone else.”

“Then you’re afraid you might get him into trouble?”

“Y-yes, sir.” He paused. Then he said frankly; “The fact, sir, is that it was necessary for me to go to New York on the noon train; I can’t tell you why it was necessary; and I only learned that I had to go just a few minutes before the train left. The train was moving when I got on it. So there was no time to get permission and sign off. I knew it was against the rules, sir, but I couldn’t very well do anything else.”

“Well, well, it’s too bad,” said Kilts, “too bad! But I’ll speak a good word for you. I would not be surprised if we were lenient, Vinton. As for the other boy, now—” Kilts very carefully refrained from even a glance toward Gerald—“why, I don’t know who he may be, and so I don’t feel called on to mention him. But he must promise not to do anything of the kind again. Do you think he will promise that?”

“I’m sure of it,” replied Dan earnestly and gratefully.

Kilts nodded.

“Good! Then I’ll say good-night. I fear I’ve kept you from study too long already.” Mr. McIntyre took up his stick and hat and prepared to rise, but Dan interrupted.

“Mr. McIntyre, sir, just a moment, please,” he begged. “I—I—there’s something else, sir.”

Kilts laid his stick back across his knees and threw aside his ulster again.

“Well?” he asked. Dan was silent a moment, formulating his thoughts. Then:

“This other boy, sir,” he said, “it’s about him.” Kilts nodded and Gerald stirred uneasily at the table. “You don’t know who he is, sir, as you say, and so he—he isn’t likely to come into the affair. But I’d like to tell you a little about him, as it can’t do him any harm.”

“Well, let me hear it,” said Kilts.

“I’ll call him—Moore,” said Dan, “but that isn’t his name. He—he hasn’t been here very long. This is his first school. He has always studied with tutors and there are some things he hasn’t got on very well with. And one of them is mathematics.”

Kilts nodded inscrutably and Gerald leaned closer to his book.

“He’s in algebra now, sir,” Dan continued, “and he’s making hard work of it. At first he really tried hard to understand it and get along, but he couldn’t seem to make a go of it. Then he got discouraged and I’m afraid he didn’t try so hard. You see, sir, there were other things that were—were unpleasant. Moore’s father is a very prominent man and a very wealthy one. And when Moore came here a good many of the fellows took a dislike to him on that account. I suppose they thought that Moore was stuck-up, although he really isn’t. But he isn’t the sort of fellow that makes friends easily, sir; he’s a little bit shy. Well, some of the fellows tried to make it unpleasant for him; called him ‘Miss Nancy’ and ‘Young Money-bags’ and things like that. Well, that wasn’t pleasant, sir; and then he didn’t have any friends, only two or three who had known him before he entered school, and he began to think he was imposed on. Then there was the algebra. He couldn’t seem to make a go at that; he fancied that the instructor was a bit down on him, too, and you know that always discourages a fellow, sir.”

“Ay,” grunted Kilts.

“So one day, when he didn’t have his lesson, the instructor lost patience with him and ragged him in front of the class and Moore answered back. He hasn’t any excuse for that, sir, and he’s sorry now. Of course he was reported and he was placed on probation. Well, he ought to have kept his nerve and steadied down. But instead he sort of went up in the air; thought everyone was down on him, nobody liked him, and that he was pretty badly treated. So he made up his mind to—to cut it out—leave school, you know.”

“Hum,” muttered Kilts as Dan paused an instant.

“The fact is, sir, he really thought that all he had to do was to go home in order to leave school. He didn’t understand that it was necessary for his father to withdraw him. He believed that when he left Wissining the Faculty had nothing more to do with him. What I’m trying to show you, sir, is that he didn’t mean to disobey rules, but just quit altogether. Well, a friend of his learned about it three hours after he had gone. This friend knew that if the Faculty heard of it they might expel him. So he—he took the first train and went to the other fellow’s home and found him and brought him back.”

“He was ready to come back?” asked Kilts.

“Yes. He wanted to come back, although he pretended he didn’t. You see, sir, he—he had an idea that this friend of his had—had grown tired of him and didn’t care about him any more. When he found that wasn’t so he was glad to come back. If it would do any good he would go to the Office and confess what he’d done, but it might result in his being expelled. He doesn’t need punishment, sir, for he’s had a pretty tough time of it already, and he won’t ever do anything of the kind again. I’ve already promised that for him,” added Dan with a smile at the professor.

For a moment there was silence. Kilts, leaning back in his chair, observed Dan steadily out of his sharp eyes. Dan stood the ordeal without a tremor. Then:

“And why have you told me this, Vinton?” asked Kilts suddenly.

“Because Moore is back here now, sir, and he intends to do the best he can in everything, especially algebra. And I wanted you to know, sir, that if he doesn’t get on very well it isn’t because he isn’t trying. I’m going to help him all I can, sir,” said Dan earnestly. “I was going over the lesson with him when you—”

Gerald’s pencil rolled to the floor and Dan brought himself up with a jerk. But the only sign from Kilts was a momentary twinkle of the deep-set eyes.

“And so he thinks the instructor is down on him, eh?” asked Mr. McIntyre.

“He did think so, but I—but his friend made him understand that he was wrong.”

“Really, and how did his friend do that? What did he say now, Vinton?”

“He said,” replied Dan gravely, “that the instructor was hard on fellows when he thought they weren’t trying to get on; that he was a good deal like anyone else, sir; had a temper—”

“Hum!” grunted Kilts.

“And lost it sometimes, like most folks. But that he was square and just and would treat a fellow white if the fellow showed that he was trying to do his work.”

Kilts seemed for the moment at a loss for something to say. Then he cleared his throat.

“Well, and what did he say?” asked Kilts, with a nod toward Gerald.

“You mean what did Moore say?” asked Dan politely.

“Yes, Moore; what did he say?”

“Well, he didn’t say much, sir; but he understood.”

“You think he did, eh? Think he believed you—I mean this friend of his?”

“Yes, sir, I’m quite sure he did.”

Kilts was silent a moment. Finally:

“Then you tell him that that instructor will give him fair-play. Tell him to do his best and not be touchy when the instructor loses that bad temper of his.”

“Thank you, sir, I will,” answered Dan gratefully. Mr. McIntyre got up with a grunt that might have meant most anything and began to button his ulster about his gaunt form. In the process his feet wandered toward the table. Gerald kept his head over his book.

“Ah—hum—that your algebra, Pennimore?” asked Kilts, pointing at the book.

“Yes, sir,” murmured Gerald without looking up.

“Been—been looking it over, have you?”

“Yes, sir, a little.”

“Hm. I didn’t see you in class this morning, did I?”

“Er—no, sir.”

“Thought so. Well, to-morrow we take—let me see.” Kilts laid his stick and hat on the table and leaned over the book. “Yes, we take four pages and a half. To here. Mark it there. That’s right. Had any trouble with it so far?”

Gerald shot a bewildered look across at Dan’s smiling countenance and read reassurance.

“Yes, sir, I have. I—I don’t seem to understand it, sir,” he added pathetically.

“Because you don’t try to!” said Kilts with a trace of asperity. “You’ve just made up your mind that algebra is something you don’t need and that you’ll just fiddle through it the easiest way; just learn enough to get your marks. I know. Half you fellows think that. You don’t any of you understand that mathematics is a grand study. Why, you talk about romance, my boy! Here it is, right here!” And he thumped the open book with the back of one big hand. “The Romance of Figures! Why, ’tis a wonderful, marvelous thing, my lad, this mathematics. ’Tis as full of romance and beauty as a garden of flowers! You don’t look beyond the surface; you don’t think! An’ ye go at it right, laddie, with open eyes and an open heart ye’ll love it!”

Kilts stopped and shook his head patiently.

“But ye won’t believe me. I know. You’re like the rest. You think I’m just an old fool with a hobby for figures, a dried-up old curmudgeon with no feelings, and no manners—”

“Oh, please, sir!” begged Gerald miserably.

“There, there, laddie! ’Twas ill said! Think no more of it!” Kilts patted the boy’s shoulder and smiled down kindly at his distressed face. “Now show me what you don’t understand.” He looked around for a chair, and Dan, anticipating his want, placed one for him. Kilts produced his glasses from his pocket, unceremoniously pushed the litter of books and papers away from in front of him so that several would have fallen to the floor had not Dan rescued them in time and drew the algebra toward him. “What is it that’s puzzling that young brain of yours, my boy?”

Dan went quietly to his chair across the table and bent over his French. But he didn’t do much studying. The voices of Kilts and Gerald broke the silence at intervals, Gerald’s apologetic, inquiring, Kilts’ patient, persuasive. Half an hour went by. Then:

“What did I say?” exclaimed Mr. McIntyre triumphantly. “Concentrate, concentrate, Pennimore! Put your mind on what you’re doing. There’s not an example in that whole book that won’t come just as easy as that one has, if you put your mind to it. Look now, laddie, that’s not just a mess of little figures; ’tis a story, a little romance waiting for you to translate it. Remember that, lad, and maybe ’twill come easier.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Gerald gratefully. “I—I don’t think I’ll have so much trouble after this, sir. Anyhow, I’m going to try very hard, sir.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” answered Kilts, patting him on the arm as he lifted his long length out of the chair. “Put your mind on it; concentrate, concentrate! You’ll do finely yet. Good-night, good-night, boys.”

“Good-night, sir,” they echoed. Dan went to the door with the instructor and held it open.

“I’ll report to the Office to-morrow, sir,” he said.

“Eh? Well, well, I wouldn’t do that,” said Kilts slowly. There was a twinkle in his eye. “Wait ’till you hear, Vinton, wait ’till you hear.” He lowered his voice. “Fact is, my boy, I’m getting along and my memory isn’t what it used to be. I might forget; there’s no telling. Yes, I might forget.”

And Kilts went off down the corridor. Dan thought that he heard a chuckle.

CHAPTER XI
HOCKEY AT BROADWOOD

Kilts must have forgot. For although Dan waited, the summons from the Office didn’t come; and what might have resulted in a very serious piece of business for both Dan and Gerald brought no disagreeable consequences. More than that, the episode actually benefited Gerald, and in more ways than one. It brought him and Dan closer together, increasing their companionship; it cleared the air, Gerald wisely deciding to wipe out old scores and start again with a clean slate; it worked an immediate change in the boy’s attitude toward Mr. McIntyre in particular and school authority in general; and it brought about a more sympathetic relationship between Gerald and mathematics.

I don’t mean to imply that Gerald at once became the star student in his algebra class. He never reached any such pinnacle of success. He never succeeded in viewing algebra with Mr. McIntyre’s enthusiastic eyes. But he put his mind on it with good results and soon found that it was not the dreadful bogy he had fancied. Perhaps the fact that he had discovered his instructor to be human and likable and sympathetic had a good deal to do with his success, and lots of times when he would have gladly thrown aside his algebra in despair he pegged away at it from the mere desire to please Kilts and show him that he was not ungrateful. And the instructor showed that he understood and was pleased. If the truth were known, Kilts gave more credit to the boy who worked hard for his D than to the boy who, with a natural aptitude for mathematics, secured his B with scant labor. But Kilts showed Gerald no favors when it came to marks. No one who knew Kilts would have expected it. Nor did Gerald. Gerald knew that his D’s—and very occasional C’s—were his deserts, neither more nor less. But with algebra no longer haunting him like a nightmare, his other studies came easier, and Gerald began to think that perhaps, after all, there was a place for him in the school life.

Dan had, you may be certain, given an account of Gerald’s attempted escape from his troubles to Alf and Tom. The comment of each was typical. Alf, with his impatience for all things weak and futile, immediately dubbed Gerald “a silly ass.” Tom, big-hearted and sympathetic, declared that he had showed grit if not judgment.

“Of course it was a foolish thing to do,” he said, “but lots of chaps wouldn’t have had the courage to do it. They’d have just sat around and been miserable and unhappy.”

“That’s all right,” said Alf, “but if Faculty had caught him it would have been all up. It was the craziest thing I ever heard of. Somebody’s got to pump some sense into that kid, Dan.”

“Oh, he won’t cut up that way again,” Dan replied. “I think it’s done him good. And old Kilts acting the way he did helped a lot. Gerald had got it into his head that Kilts and Collins and the whole Faculty were sitting up nights trying to devise ways to make trouble for him. Now he thinks that Kilts is just about right, and that has given him hope for the rest of them. I’m not sure, but I think Gerald’s going to settle down now and take things easier.”

“Sure to,” said Tom. “It’s like Cæsar Augustus.”

“Who’s he?” asked Dan and Alf in a breath.

“He was a dog. Now he’s a dog-angel. I had him when I was just a youngster.”

“Listen to the doddering, decrepit old idiot,” observed Alf in an aside.

“He was just a puppy when I got him; about three months old. Don’t ask me what sort of a dog he was, for no one ever knew. In fact, it was such a mystery that no one ever dared to guess. Well, Cæsar Augustus used to trouble about the cat when he first came. The cat was an old, experienced codger and used to sit on the kitchen windowsill, where the cook kept her geraniums, and blink and purr all day long. Cæsar Augustus lived under the stove, except when I dragged him out by the nape of the neck and poured milk down his throat. For we just had to make him eat. He’d sit there with his head sticking out and watch the cat for hours, and tremble and whine and get thin and pine away. You see, that cat worried him silly. He couldn’t understand her; didn’t know what she was made for, what she was good for or anything else. That went on for about a month. Then, driven to desperation one day, Cæsar Augustus crawled out from under the stove and went for the cat. Cook and I rescued him after he’d made about six trips around the room with the cat on his back. We washed the blood off, smeared his wounds with mutton tallow and fed him raw steak to heal his sorrow. Sorrow! He didn’t have any! He was happy as a lark, rolled over and played, ate his steak as though he’d been living on it for years, and was a changed dog. Never had an unhappy moment afterwards.”

“Well,” laughed Alf, “and what’s the moral—the lesson to be derived from your charming tale?”

“The moral,” replied Tom, “is; When anything troubles you take a fall out of it. It may hurt for a while, but you’re a lot better for it afterwards.”

“And you think Gerald’s like Cæsar Augustus?” asked Dan.

“Sure. The whole scheme of things here was troubling him. He didn’t understand authority; didn’t know whether it could bite or not. So he had a show-down. Now he knows where he stands. He will come out from under the stove now; you see if he doesn’t.”

“Oh, you’re an idiot,” said Alf. “The trouble is with him, Dan, he thinks he’s a blooming philosopher. But he may be right—for once. I don’t know. Anyhow, you tell Gerald to come over Saturday for his boxing lesson.”

“Well, but there’s no reason why you should be bored with him every week, Alf. If he wants any more lessons I’ll attend to him. I don’t know anything about it, but he will be just as satisfied, I dare say.”

“You think so, do you?” asked Alf indignantly. “Let me tell you that that kid is going to be a boxer. Why, he knows more about using his hands now than half the fellows in school. Don’t you worry about my being bored, old man. In a month or so I’ll have to go my hardest to keep him from knocking my head off!”

“Why doesn’t he get to know more fellows?” puzzled Tom.

“I don’t know, really,” Dan answered. “He’s sort of quiet until you know him real well, but I should think he’d get acquainted better. He meets a good many fellows every day in class and around school. I don’t believe he has more than a nodding acquaintance with any of the fellows at his table. I don’t know what the trouble is.”

“He isn’t a good ‘mixer,’” said Alf. “What we’ll have to do is to take him in hand, fellows. Look here, Dan, bring him up to Cambridge Saturday night for the debate, and we’ll introduce him to a few fellows. And Tom can have him over to Oxford now and then. The rules won’t let us introduce him more than once a month, but if Tom takes him to one meeting and we take him to another that’ll be twice.”

“I’d like to get him into Cambridge,” said Dan, “but the election doesn’t come until May, does it?”

“No,” answered Tom. “But while you’re about it, why don’t you try and get the poor chap into a decent society? If you like, I’ll propose him for Oxford.”

A howl arose from the others, both of whom were members of Cambridge, and in a moment Gerald’s welfare was lost sight of in a good-natured but fierce discussion of the relative merits of the rival debating societies.

Gerald was quite pleased at the idea of accompanying Dan and Alf to one of the Saturday night meetings of the Cambridge Debating Society, and thoroughly enjoyed the proceedings when he went. The two societies had rooms on the top floor of Oxford Hall. Actually, there was not much to choose between them, although the members of each could flaunt all sorts of arguments in favor of their own particular choice. Cambridge had of late years won a majority of the Inter-Society Debates, held in December and June of each year. But Oxford fellows made light of that claim to superiority and pointed out with pride that Oxford was the older society by a dozen years. Also, they were sure to tell you, Oxford had a real combination billiard and pool table! Whereupon, if you owed allegiance to the Light Blue, you scoffed and declared that the table was so old and its legs so weak that fellows had to hold it in their laps while they played on it!

Secret organizations were prohibited at Yardley—although now and then faint whispers of such organizations were wafted about—and so almost every fellow sooner or later accepted an invitation from Oxford or Cambridge. While they were supposed to be debating clubs, and in a measure justified the title, they were in reality far more social in character. The rooms of each society were comfortably furnished and the fellows met there during the day, but especially in the evenings, to chat, read, or play games. The debates took place on Saturday evenings, and it was to one of these that Gerald was taken.

On this occasion the subject in discussion was the elective system in colleges. It seemed something of a shame to Gerald that the presidents of the principal universities were not present, for he was certain some very brilliant things were said on both sides. Personally his sympathies were with the contestants who spoke in favor of the system, but that was because he had been introduced to Oliver Colton, last Fall’s football captain, by Dan before the meeting, and Colton was the most brilliant speaker for the affirmative side.

After the debate was over and the Judge, Doctor Frye, professor of physics, had rendered his decision in favor of the negative side, the chairs were pushed aside and the gathering became purely social and very informal. There was an impromptu concert by several members of the Musical Club, but those who didn’t want to listen didn’t have to, although Gerald thought them very impolite for talking while the music was going on. He was introduced to some of the fellows, not many, for Dan and Alf didn’t want to appear to be forcing the boy on their acquaintances. But Gerald met some four or five chaps who were worth knowing, and they were each quite as polite and interested as the occasion demanded. On the whole, he had a very pleasant evening and began to look forward eagerly to the time when he might join Cambridge.

But a week later he found himself in a quandary. For Tom Dyer took him to a meeting of Oxford, and Gerald had just as good a time—perhaps a little better, since Tom devoted every moment of his time to putting him at his ease and entertaining him; and Tom was so big and jolly and sympathetic that Gerald, who had theretofore been somewhat in awe of him, fell a captive at once. Here, too, he met new fellows. Joe Chambers, to whom he had never been introduced but who always spoke to him, it being part of Joe’s policy to know everyone, was especially kind and invited him around to his room. And lest Joe might forget the invitation, Tom took Gerald around there the next afternoon. There were three other fellows on hand when they arrived and Gerald, partly by keeping still and not appearing “fresh” or assertive, made a good impression on them. But, as I have said, this visit to Oxford left him in a quandary. He told Dan that he didn’t know which society he liked best and was so troubled about it that Dan comforted him by pointing out that he still had three months in which to make up his mind and that it was really idle to bother his head about it now.

Meanwhile February wore away with its rough winds and clouded skies, and Gerald’s period of probation came to an end, not in time, however, to allow him to get back his place on the Clarke Hall hockey team. But if he couldn’t play he could look on and shout, and he did both during the three matches played. Clarke held her own during the first two contests and was picked by the School at large to win the championship. But her pride met a fall when she faced Dudley in the deciding game, for Dudley romped away an easy winner, much to Gerald’s sorrow.

The ’Varsity Hockey Team won and lost about equally. The team got to be something of a joke that year, and it was a common thing to hear a fellow shout to another; “Oh, Jim, come on and let’s go down and see the hockey team lose!” Just what the matter was no one seemed to know, although there were plenty of theories advanced.

The players were quite as good as those of the year before, when Yardley had won seven games out of nine played, and her schedule was no more difficult. The captain was popular and worked hard. But the fellows got injured in the most unlikely ways just before a game, or a strange demoralization would seize upon the team at some critical point in a contest, or one of the stars would lose his temper for no good reason and get sent off by the referee just when his services were most needed.

Dan had had hopes of trying for the team at first and Alf had encouraged him. Alf played point on the team and was one of the steadiest of the seven. But a few days on the river had convinced Dan that he was too poor a performer on runners to make the hockey team, this year at least. He was very uncertain on his skates and was more often losing his balance or denting the ice than really skating. In the end, Alf was forced to admit that it would be as well for him to wait another year before trying for the team.

The final game was with Broadwood Academy and was played on the rival’s rink at Broadwood. Dan and Gerald and Tom were among the sixty-odd boys who accompanied the team. Broadwood has been Yardley’s principal rival for many years. To reach Broadwood from Wissining you cross the carriage bridge beyond the station and, keeping to the right, take the county road which runs inland and westward toward the hills. The academy lies some three miles from the depot at Greenburg and is perched on the slope of a long, wooded hill, with fields and farm below it and acres of forest behind. It is a comparatively new school and its buildings are handsome and up-to-date. Broadwood usually has about two hundred and thirty students, and a large proportion of her graduates enter Princeton.

The Yardley contingent traveled thither in two big “barges,” and had a merry time of it. The team went to the gymnasium to change their clothes, and the rest of the party wandered around the grounds sight-seeing. It is part of the Yardley creed to pretend to find no good in Broadwood, and so even the best of the buildings received disparaging criticisms. Of course, if there happened to be Broadwood fellows within hearing distance the criticisms were subdued; good taste demanded that much. But when their remarks could not be overheard the Yardley visitors indulged in sarcasm and disparagement to their hearts’ content.

“What’s this hovel?” asked Joe Chambers as the party drew up in front of Knowles Hall, the finest building of all. Someone supplied the desired information.

“Knowles Hall?” said Joe. “Well, Knowles ought to try again. Looks like a cross between a circus tent and a Turkish mosque. Get on to the lanterns in front, fellows! Aren’t they the limit?”

“Don’t make light of them,” begged some one.

“What is it, anyhow? A dormitory or a recitation hall?” asked Joe.

“Search me,” answered Paul Rand. “There’s a Broadwood fellow over there. Let’s ask him. He probably Knowles Hall about it.”

While the laughter elicited by this witticism was still convulsing the crowd, four Broadwood fellows came through the doorway and descended the steps, viewing the sightseers with surprise and curiosity.

“Well, it’s certainly a beautiful building,” said Joe loudly and earnestly.

“I never saw a finer one,” agreed Rand. “But then, Broadwood is full of beautiful things.”

“It’s a real privilege to live here,” continued Joe. “No wonder we see so many, many happy faces!”

The Broadwood youths frowned suspiciously as they passed, and one of them let fall a remark about “fresh guys.” But Yardley only chuckled.

“I think it’s a very fine building,” ventured Gerald in a puzzled tone to Tom Dyer. Tom laughed.

“It is,” he whispered, “but you’re not supposed to say so!”

The party passed on to view the gymnasium and one of the fellows expressed a desire to see the trophy room.

“I’ve heard a lot about the Broadwood trophy room,” he explained. “They say there’s a fine collection of croquet balls and checkers in it!”

While this joke was being passed around, the two hockey teams emerged, and the Yardley crowd followed them down to the rink, an expanse of ice secured by flooding the tennis courts. That game was a farce in more ways than one. In the first place the ice was rotten and before the game was five minutes old the surface was badly cut up and covered with loose ice and slush. Broadwood showed herself more accustomed to such conditions than her rival, and wasn’t greatly bothered. On the other hand, Yardley, used to thick, hard ice of the river, floundered about, as Tom said, like hens in a snow bank. Then, to make matters worse, Yardley was outplayed from the first whistle, and it was only the really phenomenal work of her goal-tender that prevented her from being literally swamped in the first half.

The Yardley contingent lined one side of the rink and waved its blue flags and cheered nobly, but the green of Broadwood was in the ascendant to-day. The first half ended with the score three to one for Broadwood, a score that didn’t begin to show the real superiority of the Green. Alf perched himself on the barrier beside Dan and Gerald and Tom, rueful and weary. Dan helped him into his sweater.

“Fine, isn’t it?” asked Alf with a grin.

“What’s the matter?” ventured Gerald anxiously.

“Oh, they’re playing all around us. And look at the ice! Did you ever see such a mess? Why, you can’t slide the puck at all; you’ve got to lift it every time. And your skates just sink into the ice. Still, we couldn’t lick them, anyway, to-day. Those forwards of theirs are dandies, every one of them. Their goal isn’t much, I guess, but the trouble is we can’t break through to try him.”

“You made one goal, though,” said Dan encouragingly. Alf shrugged his shoulders.

“It was just luck,” he said. “I’ll bet we don’t score again!”

If Dan had accepted the wager he would have lost. Yardley became utterly demoralized in the last half; every fellow played for himself and team work was quite forgotten. The result was that Broadwood, amidst the cheers of her adherents, piled up six more goals, and the disastrous contest ended with the score nine to one in favor of the Green. Broadwood cheered Yardley and Yardley cheered Broadwood and the visitors ran for the gymnasium. The crowd of Yardley “rooters” were sad and subdued. Joe Chambers produced the only laugh from the end of the game to the time they were rattling homeward in the barges when he declaimed mournfully:

“Oh, Yardley had a hockey team;
Its fleece was white as snow.
It went to play with Broadwood;
Oh, what an awful blow!”

CHAPTER XII
YARDLEY GETS REVENGE

But Yardley found her revenge in another form of sport.

Tom had succeeded where Paul Rand had failed. Although the managers of the rival basket-ball teams had failed to reach an agreement the captains were more successful. Tom had offered to let Broadwood fix her own dates and name her own grounds for the series of three games, and Broadwood had promptly got over her peevishness. The Broadwood captain had politely replied that his team would play the first game at Broadwood, the second at Yardley and the deciding game, in case of a tie, at Broadwood. And he fixed the dates to please himself, requiring that all three contests take place inside of a fortnight in early March. Rand had held up his hands in holy horror when Tom had shown him the letter and declared that Tom was several sorts of a fool to accept such arrangements.

“It’s their turn to play the odd game here,” declared Rand. “Besides, who ever heard of playing the first two games within three days of each other?”

“Oh, what does it matter?” asked Tom. “We want to play them, don’t we? Then what’s the use of haggling about it? I’ll play them any place and any time, just as I said I would.”

“But,” began Rand, a trifle haughtily, “as manager—”

“Paul,” said Tom, “you’re a good fellow, all right, but you’re a mighty poor manager.”

And Paul, who, after all, had plenty of sense, recognized the justice of the charge and said no more.

So one Wednesday evening a large part of Yardley Hall School rode over to Broadwood and saw Tom’s five defeat the green-stockinged warriors in their own gymnasium by a score of twelve to nine and came triumphantly home again in the moonlight chanting pæans of victory and making night hideous.

“Well, that was going some!” declared Alf radiantly on the way home. “On their own floor, too!”

“And when they come over here Saturday night you’ll see us do worse than that to them,” said Tom grimly. “There isn’t going to be any third game in the series this year.”

And there wasn’t.

Broadwood sent over a good big number of “rooters” armed with flags, who did noble work with their lungs. But as Yardley had turned out almost to a man, the odds were too great in a contest of noise. The gymnasium was packed and jammed, downstairs and up, and the singing and cheering began half an hour before the time set for the game. Broadwood used one of her football songs with good effect. The verses didn’t amount to much, but the refrain, howled by a hundred throats, was always effective:

“Oh, what’ll we do to Yardley, to Yardley, to Yardley?
Oh, what’ll we do to Yardley?
(An eloquent and dramatic pause.)
Well, really, I’d rather not say!”

And Yardley hurled back one of her own gridiron odes defiantly:

“Old Yardley has the men, my boy,
Old Yardley has the steam,
Old Yardley has the pluck and sand,
Old Yardley has the team!
Old Yardley can’t be beat, my boy,
She’s bound to win the game!
So give a cheer for Yardley and
Hats off to Yardley’s fame!”

Tom, captain and center, played the game of his school life that night. If one imagined him slow, one had only to watch him for a moment on a gymnasium floor between the baskets. He was the quickest slow person that ever imitated a streak of lightning! And he pulled his team along with him in a way that was beautiful to behold. Things began to happen right at the start. The first basket came less than a minute after the whistle had blown, resulting from a wonderful rush down the floor by Tom and Derrick followed by a swift shot by the latter. Then Broadwood gathered herself together and tightened up her defense. Her men for a while covered so closely that not even Tom could get away, and the ball hovered around the middle of the floor. Then one of the Yardley players was caught holding and Broadwood, amidst shouts of joy from the wavers of the green flags, scored a goal from foul. For several minutes there was no more scoring. Twice Yardley had the ball under her rival’s basket. Once a poor shot lost them the score. The next time Broadwood “mixed it up” so strenuously that there was no chance to shoot. Then a Broadwood boy stole the ball and charged down the hall almost alone. But the Yardley defense was not napping, and a blue-shirt charged into the enemy just in time to spoil the throw. After that Broadwood seemed to get rattled, for Yardley scored thrice from the floor, one basket by Tom being sent from almost half the length of the gymnasium and bringing the supporters of the home team to their feet with a roar of delight. The half ended with the score eight to one, and it looked like a pretty certain thing for the Yardley five.

But Broadwood still shouted and sang defiantly, and when the teams lined up and play began again it was soon evident that the Broadwood coach had been saying things out there in the dressing room. For Broadwood’s team play began to be in evidence again, and although for a while she played more on the defense than attack, it was plain to be seen that Yardley would have to work hard to keep from being scored on.

Broadwood’s chance came in the middle of the period. A well-arranged rush down the floor, with all her attack taking part, brought the ball to Yardley’s basket and, although the guards rushed to the rescue, a tall Broadwood youth managed to shake himself free, reach up, and almost drop the ball through the mesh. With the score eight to three, Broadwood felt encouraged and started in to add to her tally. But Yardley played desperately, if somewhat wildly, and although Broadwood was now making raid after raid on the Blue’s goal, all her tries were spoiled. But Yardley twice infringed the rules and from her two free tries Broadwood secured one goal, increasing her total to four. This was followed by a double foul, a Broadwood and a Yardley player becoming rather too enthusiastic in their efforts, and again Broadwood added one to her tally, Yardley missing the basket by a bare inch. That made the score five to eight, and Broadwood’s cheers broke forth anew and a little forest of green flags appeared. The ball went back to center. Tom clapped his hands.

“Now then, fellows, settle down! No more fouls! Break this up!”

The big round clock over the running gallery showed that something like six minutes remained as the referee blew his whistle again and the ball shot into the air. Both centers leaped and struck, and a small Broadwood youth caught the ball as it came down near the side-line, squirmed away from his opponent, dribbled a few steps, and passed across the floor. But the next man was closely covered and the ball bounded away from him and popped into the eager hands of Tom.

“Cover up! Cover up!” shrieked the Broadwood captain, as he bounded toward Tom. Tom side-stepped and let his antagonist stagger by. Then a short pass to Derrick, and the two started down the floor toward the Green’s goal. Derrick passed back and Tom caught the ball in spite of the opponents who were massing about him, wheeled, feinted, dashed through the mêlée, dribbled, and then threw to a blue-shirted youth waiting near Broadwood’s goal. It was a hard, fast throw, but the youth caught it, struggled a moment under the attack of his adversary, broke loose, and threw somewhat wildly for the basket. The ball struck the frame above and came down into the waiting hands of Derrick. Two Broadwood fellows hurled themselves toward him but not before the ball was out of his hands again. There was a moment of suspense while it rolled leisurely, undecidedly around the hoop. Then in it dropped, through the mesh and back to the floor amidst the triumphant yells of Yardley. And the two excited youngsters operating the score-board in the balcony almost fell over the railing in their endeavor to change the Yardley 8 for a 10.

Gerald, who, with Dan and Alf and Joe Chambers, had been early on the scene and had secured seats in the front row on the floor a yard back of the boundary line, let out such a shriek of delight that everyone in the hall heard and laughed. Covered with confusion then, he sank back between Dan and Joe. But no one paid any more attention to him and his blushes soon passed. He was wildly excited, and once Dan had had to hold him into his seat for fear he would go toppling out onto the floor under the players’ feet.

The ball was centered once more and the clock proclaimed but four minutes of playing time left. Broadwood became desperate. Capturing the ball near the middle of the floor, she tried a long shot that struck the frame of the basket but didn’t go through. Again she got the leather, and this time she tried to reach scoring distance, but the Yardley defense was so tight that she lost the ball. Then came another rush down the floor, with the Yardley team working together like clockwork, and another goal thrown by the Blue’s left-guard. After that the visitors went to pieces. In their frantic endeavors to score they failed to cover closely and became so strenuous that two fouls were called on them in succession, neither of which Yardley was able to convert into points. Then, with a little more than a minute to play, Yardley began to sweep her rival off her feet and to score almost at will. One goal—another—a third from a difficult angle at the side of the hall, and Yardley’s score was growing by leaps and bounds. Tom dropped out now and one by one the substitutes were put in, in order that they might get their letters. And then, with a blue-shirted youth poised for a shot, the whistle blew and pandemonium reigned. Up on the score-board the final figures stood 18 to 5.

Gerald found himself one of a seething, pushing, shouting mass of spectators out on the floor. Dan and Alf and Joe were lost to sight. The players, after cheering for Broadwood, were trying to reach the dressing room uncaptured. But none escaped. Each one was caught and borne shoulder-high from the hall. Gerald felt someone smash into him from behind, turned, and found Derrick struggling with a group of enthusiastic captors. They were trying to lift him onto their shoulders, but the crowd was packed so tightly that for a moment their efforts were in vain. Derrick, laughing and fighting, was almost squirming away when a big youth seized him around the waist and shouted to Gerald to catch hold. Gerald caught hold, somehow, somewhere, and the next thing he knew he and the big fellow were staggering through the jam with Derrick on their shoulders and a happy mob of fellows around them. Down the hall to the stairway they went, Gerald panting, struggling to keep his feet, and immensely proud.

And the next morning, when he awoke, he wondered why his back and arms ached so!

CHAPTER XIII
WORK IN THE CAGE

March came blustering in with cloudy skies and cold winds. But in a week it had quite changed its tune. One morning Dan awoke to find the sunlight streaming through the front windows and a new quality in the air. For a moment he lay under the covers and wondered sleepily what it was that brought the strange stirring to his heart. Then he was out of bed, had thrown the window wide open, and was leaning forth in his pajamas breathing in the warm, moist air. Spring had come in the night. All about him were signs. Above was a mellow blue sky dotted with little feathery white clouds. In the roadway beneath the snow was melting fast and the gutters were astream with trickling water. Even the stone window coping under his hands seemed somehow to hint of Spring; it was warm to his fingers and moist where a little rim of ice had melted. There was a faint, heart-cheering aroma of brown earth and greening sod released from their winter coverings. Dan gave a shout and drew his head in long enough to awaken Gerald.

“Get up!” he cried. “It’s Spring, Gerald! Get up and hear the birdies sing!”

And the birds really were singing; or, at least, they were chattering happily and noisily, which, as they were only little brown sparrows, was about all that could be expected of them. Gerald put a sleepy head alongside of Dan’s and sniffed the air greedily.

“Doesn’t it smell great?” he sighed. “Let’s get dressed and go out. What time is it?”

“Ten minutes to seven,” answered Dan. “Let’s go for a walk before Chapel. What do you say?”

For answer Gerald raced to the washstand and was soon splashing busily, and in ten minutes they were flying down stairs with Spring in their veins. Once off the stone walks it was gloriously soft and “mushy,” as Dan said. They had to keep to the sod so as not to go into the brown soil to their ankles. They crossed the bridge, waiting there a minute to watch a long freight train rumble past beneath them. A brakeman, sitting on a car roof, smoking his pipe, looked up at them, grinned and waved as he went by. Then they took the wood path and went down toward the beach, finding here and there new evidences, if any were wanting, of the advent of Spring.

In the shaded places the snow, rotted and granular, still lay in little banks fringed with ice. But tiny green spikes and leaves were pushing their way through the litter of dead leaves, while, at the edge of the beach, the grass in one sunny spot, was actually green. Even the Sound seemed to look different. The water, reflecting the clear sky, was as blue as sapphire. The sun shone radiantly on the few white sails in sight. A steamer, far out, left a mile-long trail of soft gray smoke behind it. A bird—Gerald declared joyfully that it was a robin, but Dan contradicted it—sang sweetly somewhere behind them in the woods. Dan began throwing stones into the water from sheer exuberance of spirit. Then they hurried back to school, racing half the way, and reached Oxford just in time for Chapel. Even here the new influence was apparent; there was an unaccustomed restlessness in evidence; fellows scuffled their feet and glanced longingly toward the big windows which, partly opened, let in the softly appealing scent of Spring. All that day fellows lingered about the steps of the buildings and sighed when recitation time came, and there was much talk of tennis and baseball and track work. Two enterprising chaps got a canoe out of the boathouse in the afternoon and paddled up the river.

And a week later Spring industries had really begun. In the gymnasium the track and field candidates were going through the preliminary work, the tennis courts were being rolled and raked and mended, and in the basement of the gymnasium, inside the big cage, the baseball candidates were toiling mightily. Although the outdoor season for baseball at Yardley never opens until after Spring recess is over, a full fortnight of indoor work precedes it. This indoor work is in charge of the captain, for the coach doesn’t appear until the candidates get out. This year there was an unusually large number of entries for the team, and Captain Millener had his hands full. Luckily, more than half of last year’s team remained in school, and from these fellows Millener obtained assistance.

Stuart Millener was a tall, lanky, black-eyed First Classman, with a shock of black hair and enough energy to run half a dozen baseball teams. Millener had never distinguished himself in his studies, but he had worked hard at them and had always managed to remain at peace with the Faculty. He was a fellow who was now and always would be better able to work with his hands than with his brain. And there are plenty of places for that sort in the world. As a first-baseman he was a huge success, and there seemed no reason why he should not turn out to be an excellent leader. He was highly popular and fellows believed in him. The Kingdon Gymnasium at Yardley is still one of the finest in the country and its baseball cage is roomy and light. Here every afternoon from half-past three until after five the baseball candidates practised. Fifty-seven fellows reported for work, and they were divided into three squads and each squad was given a half-hour’s work. There was five minutes’ hard work with the dumb-bells for all hands as a starter, and then the pitchers got busy under Colton’s direction, and Millener and his assistants looked after the batting and fielding. In order to leave the cage free for the latter branches of the art of baseball, the pitchers and catchers used the bowling alleys upstairs. Fielding practice was confined to the handling of grounders and slow hits, but there was plenty of room in the cage for this work, as well as for throwing and sliding to bases.

Dan was one of the first candidates to report and during the two weeks that intervened between that time and the beginning of Spring recess he toiled hard and enthusiastically. At home, on his school team, he had played at second base and had never had any trouble in keeping his place. How he would compare with the other claimants for infield positions here at Yardley remained to be seen, but Alf declared that he was sure to make the nine, if not as a baseman, at least in the outfield.

Gerald, long since released from probation, had bothered Mr. Bendix, the Physical Director, until that autocrat had given Gerald another examination, had congratulated him on his physical improvement and had finally grudgingly given him permission to play class baseball. And Gerald was mightily pleased. He bought a book of rules over in Greenburg and read it through from one blue cover to another, and asked so many questions that Dan’s head was in a whirl half the time. When Spring recess began Gerald was without a doubt the best read youth in school on the subject of baseball.

Spring recess and the month of April began almost together. Of the former there was to be just a week. Gerald’s father, writing from Berlin a fortnight before, had suggested that the two boys spend the vacation in New York. Both Gerald and Dan were delighted at the idea. Had it not been for this invitation Dan would have had to spend the recess at school, since it was hardly practicable to journey out to his home in Ohio for so short a time. He wrote to his father and received permission to accept Gerald’s hospitality. And with the permission came something quite as welcome, a check for ten dollars.

“You’ll want some money to spend,” wrote Mr. Vinton, “and so I enclose herewith check for ten dollars. You mustn’t let your friend pay for everything, you know. Have a good time, and write and tell us what you do in New York. Your mother says you are to be very careful about crossing streets and riding in the subway. I say the same. The papers are full of accidents to folks in that town. You must try and get young Pennimore to come out and visit you this summer. It won’t do to let him do all the entertaining. If you think well of this, I will write to Mr. Pennimore about it when the time comes. Your mother and sister send their love. Your mother will write Sunday. Mae says I’m to tell you to send her lots of postcards from New York, and they must be colored ones, and you are to write on them all. My regards to Gerald. Your loving father.”

“I’d just love to go out and visit you,” said Gerald, when Dan read that portion of the letter to him, “but I don’t suppose father will let me. He will be afraid that the Indians will get me.”

“Oh, the Indians are quite peaceable in Graystone now,” laughed Dan. “You just show your father that you know how to look after yourself, and I guess he will let you go. Why, a year ago he wouldn’t have thought of letting you stay in New York with just the servants, Gerald!”

“That’s so! But he thinks you’re so grand, Dan; I guess that’s why.”

“Well, I’ll be just as ‘grand’ next summer,” replied Dan cheerfully. “I’ll bet he will let you go. If he does, we can have a dandy time at home.”

But meanwhile they were looking forward to a dandy time in New York. And they had it. When they arrived at the house there was a good dinner awaiting them, a dinner which Mr. Pennimore’s chef fashioned for the delectation of two hungry boys. Strange soups and unpronounceable entrees and fancy dishes in general were omitted, and all the time they were there they had just the sort of things they liked. They were not, all of them, the things usually prescribed for schoolboys, however, and if Spring recess had lasted two weeks instead of one, it is probable that they would have had to go under the doctor’s care.

“Gee!” exclaimed Dan on one occasion, “this cream pie is simply swell, Gerald! I suppose if I make the baseball team I’ll have to go in training. So I’m going to make the most of my chances now.”

“So am I,” replied Gerald. “There won’t be much more pie for us after we get back, will there?”

“Oh, you won’t have to train if you make the class team,” said Dan. “It’s just the Varsity, you know.”

“Won’t I?” asked Gerald disappointedly.

“Well, I guess I’ll go in training, anyway. It’s good for you.”

Those were seven splendid days, and yet when the last one came neither of the two was sorry. Theaters and picture galleries and drives and walks were jolly enough, but, as Gerald sagely remarked, a fellow soon gets tired of them.

“I’d a heap rather play baseball or tennis than go to the theater,” said Gerald. “Wouldn’t you?”

Dan replied that he would, but he said it hesitatingly, for theaters and such things were more of a novelty to him than to Gerald. But he was quite as contented as Gerald when the train set them down at Wissining again. They went over to Dudley after dinner and called on Alf and Tom. Every one talked vacation for a while, and then the conversation turned to baseball and school sports.

“Payson’s coming next Monday,” announced Alf. “I saw Millener a while ago. He said that if the ground dries up enough we’ll get out on the field the first of the week.”

“Well, it’s soppy enough now,” said Dan. “And it looks like rain again.”

“Is Payson the coach?” asked Gerald.

“Yes,” Dan replied. “You remember him last Fall, don’t you? The chap that coached the football team?”

“Oh! Does he coach in baseball, too?”

“You bet he does!” said Alf. “And he’s a dandy, too. He used to catch for Cornell when he was there, and they say he was the best ever. By the way, Gerald, Dan says you’re going in for baseball.”

“Yes, Mr. Bendix said I might. Do you think I’ll stand any show for the Fourth Class team, Alf?”

“Ever played much?” Gerald shook his head sadly.

“I never played at all in a game. But I can throw a ball pretty well and catch; and I can bat a little. I had a tutor last year who used to play with me, and he said I did pretty well.”

“I dare say you’ll do as well as most of them,” said Tom. “Don’t let them think you’re a duffer, though; put up a front; tell ’em you’re one of the finest young baseball players that ever struck the Hill.”

“I guess they wouldn’t believe that,” laughed Gerald. “Don’t you play, Tom?”

“Baseball? I rather guess not! It’s a silly game.”

Alf laughed maliciously.

“No,” he said, “Tom doesn’t care for baseball, especially the batting part of it, do you, Tom?” Tom growled.

“You see,” Alf continued, smiling reminiscently, “Tom went out for the team last Spring. They thought he was big enough to be promising material. So Payson let him stay on a while. One day, just after we got out of doors, we had batting practice at the net. Colton was pitching. You know, he has about everything there is, Colton has, and he thought he’d have some fun with Tom. So the first ball he sent Tom swiped at so hard that he fell over himself and tumbled into the net.”

“Didn’t either,” laughed Tom.

“That made him mad. So he spit on his hands, got a good grip on the bat, and tried the next one. That was an in-shoot, and Tom didn’t know it. It took him plumb in the ribs. We all laughed at that, and Tom got madder than ever. ‘Put it where I can hit it!’ he yelled to Colton. ‘I dare you to!’ So Colton did it, but he sent it so fast that Tom didn’t see it until it was by him.”

“It was over my head,” protested Tom, indignantly.

“Then Colton just let himself loose, and the rest of us, standing around waiting for our turns, just laughed ourselves sick! Once Tom lost hold of his bat, and it went about fifty feet into the field, just missing Colton by a foot. Another time Tom reached out so far that he fell on his face. Then another in-shoot took him in the arm, and that was enough. Tom threw down the bat and walked off.

“‘Here, where are you going?’ asked Payson.

“‘Home,’ said Tom. ‘What’s the good of standing up there and letting him slug me with the ball? I’ve got a smashed rib and a busted shoulder, and that’s all I want. I’m no hog!’”

“It makes a good story, the way he tells it,” said Tom, when the laughter had ceased. “It’s a fact, though, that he did give me two awful whacks with that fool ball. Pshaw, I couldn’t hit it in a thousand years! I knew that, so I got out. Afterwards I tried to get Colton to stand up at the net and let me throw a few balls at him, but he wouldn’t do it. I told him he could have all the bats he wanted, too, but that didn’t seem to satisfy him.”

“I’ll bet you couldn’t have hit him,” jeered Alf.

“Couldn’t I? If he’d let me try he’d have gone to the hospital!”

“But you’re on the Track Team, aren’t you?” Gerald asked.

“Yes. There’s some sense to that.”

“Tom’s happy if you give him a sixteen-pound shot or a lump of lead on the end of a wire,” said Alf. “He won eight points for us last Spring. But you ought to see the crowd scatter when he gets swinging the hammer around.”

“Oh, you dry up,” said Tom.

“Fact, though,” laughed Alf. “Once last year when he was practising, the blamed thing got away from him and tore off about ten feet of the grandstand. Andy Ryan said it was a lucky thing the framework was of iron, or else he’d have smashed the whole stand up.”

“You fellows are having lots of fun with me,” growled Tom, good-naturedly, as he arose and took up his cap, “and I hate to spoil your enjoyment, but I promised to look up Rand this evening.”

“That’s all right,” Dan assured him, “we can have just as much fun with you when you’re not here.”

“Well, what you don’t know can’t hurt you. By the way, Gerald, want to come around to Oxford with me Saturday night? We’ve got a fellow coming over from Greenburg after the debate to do some sleight-of-hand for us.”

“I’d like to,” replied Gerald, “but—” He glanced anxiously at Dan and Alf.

“Sure,” said Alf. “Go ahead. We’re glad to have you. The more you see of Oxford, the better you’ll like Cambridge. You see, Gerald, the only way they can get the fellows to attend Oxford is by supplying them with vaudeville entertainments. In another year or so they’ll have to have brass bands and free feeds if they want fellows to go there!”

“That’s all right,” replied Tom. “We know who won the last debate. I’ll call around for you Saturday, Gerald, if I don’t see you before. Good night.”

“We gave it to you!” shouted Alf as the door closed behind his chum. “Why you haven’t got a debater in your whole society.” But the challenge was wasted, and Alf turned to Dan. “We’ll have to win the debate this Spring,” he grumbled, “or there won’t be any living with Tom!”

CHAPTER XIV
POLITICS AND CHESS

Payson appeared on Monday and took up his lodgings in the village. But, as events proved, he might just as well have delayed his arrival for another week, for on Sunday morning it began to rain as though it meant to flood the country, and it continued practically without interruption until Wednesday night. By that time the river was over its banks, Meeker’s Marsh was a lake, the athletic field was like a sponge, and outdoor practice was impossible. The work in the cage went on, but the fellows were getting tired of it, and longed for sod under foot and sky overhead. Payson didn’t waste that week, by any means, but, with the first game only a fortnight off, the enforced confinement to the gymnasium was discouraging.

John Payson was about thirty years of age, and weighed in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds. He was large, broad-shouldered, and, in spite of his weight, alert and quick of movement. He had played baseball and football in his college days, first at Cornell, and later, as a graduate student, at Yale. “Whopper” Payson was his name in those days, and for two years he had made the All-America Football team as a guard. While at Cornell he had caught for two years on the Varsity Baseball nine, and they still remember him there as one of the best. During his five years as coach at Yardley he had helped at three football and two baseball victories over Broadwood. It would be an exaggeration to say that Payson was universally popular at Yardley. He was a good deal of a martinet, had a quick temper and a sharp tongue. But he was just in his dealings with the fellows, was a hard worker, and as unsparing of himself as of his charges. The older boys, those who had known him longer, liked him thoroughly, while the younger fellows, many of whom blamed him for their inability to make the teams, called him hard names.

The baseball candidates finally got out of doors a week later than expected. By this time the April sky appeared to have emptied itself of rain, and a warm sun was busy drying up the sodden land. The fellows felt and acted like colts that first afternoon. It was bully to feel the springy turf underfoot, to smell the moist fragrance of growing things, and to have the west wind capering about the field. Even a full hour and a half of hard work failed to quench their spirits, and they swarmed into the gymnasium at half-past five as jolly as larks. The next afternoon practice ended with a four-inning game between the first and second teams, and Dan played during two of the innings in center-field. He had but one chance and accepted it. At his single appearance at bat he got to first on fielder’s choice, having knocked a miserable little hit half way to third base, and was caught ingloriously in an attempt to steal second. And yet he could congratulate himself on having made as good an appearance as any of the other dozen or so candidates for fielding positions. By the middle of the week practice had settled down to hard work, and on Friday the first cut was made. Some twenty candidates were dropped from the squad, only enough being retained to compose two nines and substitutes. Dan found himself on the second nine, playing when the opportunity offered at right or center-field. But he felt far from secure, for it was well known that a further reduction of the squad was due some time the following week.

Meanwhile Gerald had astounded Dan and the rest of his friends, not yet many in number, by winning a place on the Fourth Class team. I think Gerald must have been a natural-born baseball player, if there is such a thing; otherwise he would never, with his slight experience, have made the showing he did. Perhaps the standard of excellence required of a candidate for admission to the team wasn’t very high, but there were many fellows amongst those trying for places who had played ball for two or three years. Gerald showed unsuspected alertness in handling the ball, accuracy in throwing, and a good eye at the bat. And so, a week after the class teams had begun work, Gerald found himself playing shortstop on his nine. Naturally, he was in the seventh heaven of bliss, and talked baseball, thought baseball, and dreamed baseball. Alf amused Dan and Tom by claiming some of the credit. Personally, I think there was reason in his contention. At all events he made out a good case.

“Oh, you may laugh,” said Alf earnestly, “but it’s so. If Gerald hadn’t had those boxing lessons he wouldn’t have made good. They taught him to see quick and act quick, and they taught him accuracy. When you come to think of it, boxing and baseball aren’t so much unalike. In boxing you have a fellow’s glove to stop and your own to get away, and get away quick and accurately. In baseball you have the ball to stop and to get away. In either case it’s quickness and accuracy of eye and brain and body that does the trick.”

“Pooh!” scoffed Tom. “If Gerald ever gets to be President you’ll try to show that it was because you gave him boxing lessons when he was a kid.”

But whether or not part of the credit was due to Alf, it remains a fact that Gerald was about the proudest and happiest youngster in the whole school, with only one thing to worry him. That thing was the fact that devotion to baseball was playing hob with his lessons. It was Kilts who first drew his attention to the fact. He asked him to remain behind the class one morning.

“What’s wrong, lad?” he asked kindly. Gerald hesitated a moment, trying to find a plausible excuse. In the end he decided that the truth would do better than anything else.

“It’s baseball, sir,” he answered frankly. “I’m on my class team, and—and I guess I haven’t been studying very hard.”

“Well, well, that won’t do,” said Kilts gravely. “Baseball is a fine game, I have no doubt, but you mustn’t let it come between you and your studies, lad. Better let baseball alone a while, I’m thinking, until you can do better work than you’ve been doing the last week. Baseball and all such sports belong outdoors; they’re well enough there; but when you take them into class with you—” Kilts shook his head soberly—“you’re brewing trouble. You know I’m right, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Gerald answered. “I’ll try and—and do better.”

“That’s the lad! Youth must have its pleasures, but there’s work to do, too. Ye ken what Bobby Burns said?

“‘O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!’

“He was no the hard worker himself, was Bobby,” added Mr. McIntyre with a chuckle, “but he sensed it right, I’m thinking. Well, run along, lad, and remember, I’m looking for better things from you.”

So Gerald ran along, just as the next class began crowding into the little recitation room, and when study time came that evening, instead of leaning over his books with one hand in a fielder’s glove, as had been his custom of late, he put glove and ball out of sight behind a pillow on the window seat before he sat down. Dan saw, and breathed easier.

The second cut in the Varsity squad came, and Dan survived it. The first game, a mid-week contest with Greenburg High School, found the Yardley team somewhat unprepared. Kelsey, a second string pitcher, was in the box and was extremely erratic. Greenburg had no difficulty in connecting with his delivery, and the Yardley outfield was kept pretty busy during the six innings which were played before a sharp downpour of rain sent the teams and spectators scurrying from the field. Dan didn’t get into the game, much to his regret, for there were lots of chances for the outfielders that afternoon. Yardley managed to pull the game out of the fire in the fifth inning, and won, 8-6.

So far Dan had not flaunted his ambition to play on one of the bases. But the following Monday he found himself sitting on the bench beside Stuart Millener. Millener was watching the base-running practice, his place on first being occupied for the time by a substitute. He asked Dan where he had played before, and learned that at Graystone Dan had occupied second base.

“Well,” said Millener, “Danforth is making pretty good at second, and unless something happens, he will stay there, I guess. But there’s no harm in being prepared, Vinton, and I’ll let you see what you can do there.”

Millener was as good as his word, and when practice began Dan found himself in Danforth’s place. Of course, he was rusty, and he and Durfee, shortstop, failed to work together at first. But he made no bad plays, and shared in a speedy double with Millener. At the bat Dan was still rather weak. After practice Payson called him.

“You’ve played on second before, Millener says, and so I’m putting you down for a substitute baseman, Vinton. You’d rather play there, wouldn’t you?”

“Much,” answered Dan. “But I’d rather make good as a fielder than try for a base and not make it.”

“Well, you see what you can do. I don’t believe you’ll have much show for second, but you might possibly make third. Ever play there?”

“No, sir, but I guess I could.”

“Well, we’ll see. You want to be a little shiftier on your feet, though, Vinton. You haven’t got as much time to make up your mind in the infield as you have in the out.”

Dan told Alf of his promotion while they were dressing in the gymnasium.

“That’s good,” said Alf. “I guess Payson means to get you on third. Condit isn’t much; Lord beat him out for the place last year, and would have had it this if he’d returned. I guess Payson thinks he owes you something for pulling us out of the hole in the Broadwood game last Fall.”

“Oh, well, I don’t believe I want to get it that way,” said Dan thoughtfully.

“What way?”

“I mean I don’t want to get it by favor.”

“Piffle! Don’t you worry. If you get it, it’ll be because you deserve it. Payson may help you, Dan, but you needn’t worry about having the place presented to you on a plate. Payson isn’t that sort. He never lets his liking for a fellow influence him much. I rather wish he did. He and I are pretty good friends, and I’d rather like to play shortstop. But nothing doing.”

“It doesn’t seem exactly fair for me to step into the infield when you’ve been on the team two years,” said Dan.

“Pshaw, I was only fooling! I’m happy enough out in left field. Why, I couldn’t play short for a minute. I’ve tried it. I can catch flies and throw to base pretty well, but if it wasn’t for the fact that I can bat with the next fellow I wouldn’t hold down my place a minute. I know some schools where you can have almost anything in reason if you happen to be football or baseball captain. But the rule doesn’t work that way here. Millener couldn’t have made the scrub last fall, and he knew it, and didn’t try. And I know that the only thing that keeps me on the nine is the fact that I bat better than any one except Colton. Oh, you have to work for what you get at Yardley. A good thing, too. Over at Broadwood they have about half a dozen societies and society men have the first choice every time. Considering that, it’s a wonder they do as well as they do.”

“I should say so,” agreed Dan. “It’s about a stand-off in athletics, isn’t it?”

“It’s run pretty evenly the last ten or twelve years in baseball and football,” replied Alf, “but we win three out of four times in track games. And we’re away ahead in hockey, in spite of this year’s fizzle. They usually do us up at basket-ball, though. But who cares about basket-ball, anyway—except Tom?”

“I should think we’d go in for rowing here,” said Dan.

“Well, there isn’t a decent course within a good many miles,” said Alf. “I don’t believe Yardley ever tried rowing. The year before I came here they had an ‘Aquatic Tournament,’ whatever that is; Broadwood came over and there were canoe races and swimming races and diving stunts on the river. But Broadwood got so everlastingly walloped that there wasn’t much fun for any one and it was never tried again.”

A little later, on the way across the Yard, Dan said:

“By the way, Alf, Cambridge sends out invitations in about two weeks. I want to get Gerald in, if I can. How do you feel about it?”

“Me? Why, I’ll help, of course. Gerald’s not a bad little chap, not by any means. I guess we can make it go all right. We’ll have to do a little political work, though. I wonder whether he’d rather join Cambridge than Oxford. He and Tom get on pretty well together, you know, and Tom’s had him up to Oxford twice.”

“I think he will take Cambridge if he gets a chance,” Dan replied. “I’m going to take him again Saturday night. I suppose we’d better talk him up with the fellows.”

“Yes. I guess we’re certain of five or six votes already. And we can get that many more without much trouble.”

“Just what is the method of selecting fellows?” asked Dan, as they came to a pause at the doorway of Dudley.

“You get a majority of the meeting to agree on the candidate, first. Then his name is put down on the list, and the list goes to the Admission Committee. The Committee is composed of the President and two members from each class of the three upper classes, seven in all. They vote on the names as they’re read off. One black ball keeps a fellow out.”

Dan whistled softly.

“That doesn’t sound so easy,” he said.

“Oh, I guess we won’t have any trouble. I know most of the Committee. Colton’s president, you know; he will vote the way I ask him to. Then there’s Millener and Kapenhysen of the First Class, both good chaps; and Chambers and Derrick of the Second. Chambers will vote for Gerald anyway without asking, and Derrick is a particular friend of Tom’s, and will do as Tom says. The Third Class men—blessed if I know who they are; do you?”

Dan shook his head.

“Well, I’ll find out to-morrow,” said Alf. “Don’t you worry, we’ll get little Geraldine in all right. By the way, why didn’t you come over to the gym Saturday morning? We had a lively little bout, I tell you. I guess it will be the last for a while, too. Now that practice has begun neither Gerald nor I seem to have much time for punching each other’s noses. Well, be good, Dan. Come around to-night if you can.”

Dan was too busy to call that evening, but the following night found him and Gerald in Number 7. For some time past Tom had been teaching Gerald chess, and to-night the board was brought out and the two were soon deep in the game. Dan and Alf had been talking baseball, but after a while Dan interrupted to ask:

“By the way, did you find out about that?”

“About—? Oh!” Alf looked rather queer, as he drew a slip of paper toward him and scribbled two names on it. “Yes, I found out this morning. Here they are.” He pushed the slip across to Dan. Dan read and returned Alf’s look with one of frowning surprise.

“Hm,” he said.

“Just so,” returned Alf dryly.

“Do you think—” began Dan. Alf shrugged his shoulders.

“Blessed if I know. I thought you might.” He looked hesitatingly over at Gerald’s bowed head. “Perhaps—?”

Dan nodded.

“I say, Gerald,” said Alf, “I hate to interrupt that absorbing game of yours, but would you mind telling me how you and your friend Arthur Thompson are getting on these days?”

Gerald looked blank for a moment.

“Thompson?” he repeated. “Oh! Why, we always nod when we meet each other. We’ve never spoken since the night of the snowball fight. Why, Alf?”

“I was just wondering,” replied Alf vaguely. “I wondered whether you were friends or not. Does he seem inclined to be decent?”

“We-ell, he hasn’t tried to be smart with me,” answered Gerald. “But I don’t think he cares for me much. And I’m pretty sure I don’t like him.”

“I see. And do you know a fellow named Hiltz, Jake Hiltz, a Third Class fellow; lives in Whitson?”

Gerald shook his head.

“I don’t think so. I may know him by sight. Ought I to know him, Alf?”

“N-no, I guess not. I don’t believe he would prove much of an addition to your visiting list.”

“Your move, Gerald,” said Tom.

When the players were absorbed again, Alf said:

“It doesn’t look so easy now, does it?”

Dan shook his head. “No, it looks rather bad.”

“I think maybe Tom had better work his end,” suggested Alf. “Know what I mean?”

“Oxford?” asked Dan.

“Yes, we wouldn’t want him to miss them both, eh? I’ll speak to him about it to-night. Maybe he means to anyway, he’s taken quite a shine to—someone.”

“All right,” said Dan. “I’m sorry, though. I don’t suppose there is anything I could do with—” He tapped the slip of paper.

“No, he’d probably resent it, as you don’t know him. Besides, we don’t know that he will object. It may go through all right. But if I were you I’d speak to—you know who, and tell him how it stands. Perhaps he will have a chance to smooth things over with Thompson.”

“I can’t quite imagine him doing it,” replied Dan, with a smile. “He’s more likely to punch his head, if only to make use of what you’ve taught him.”

“Well, we’ll see the thing through, anyway,” answered Alf hopefully. “We’ll get his name up to the Committee. After that—well, it’s past us. But if G could make it up with T, I guess he’d go through all right.”

“He never would, though. Still, I’ll suggest it to him when we go back.”

“Got you,” said Tom quietly.

“How? Why?” asked Gerald, studying the board perplexedly. “Why can’t I move—.” He stopped. Then: “O-oh!” he said expressively. Dan and Alf laughed.

“Beat you again, did he?” asked Dan. Gerald nodded, smiling somewhat sheepishly.

“Don’t you care, Gerald,” said Alf. “Tom is really a pretty neat little chess player. I dare say there isn’t more than one fellow in school who can beat him, and modesty forbids my mentioning that fellow’s name.” Tom snorted. “Chess is a fool game, anyway; a game for children and idiots.”

“Don’t you play?” asked Gerald innocently.

“Play?” answered Alf above the laughter. “Well, you just ask Tom who wins when we play together.”

“Yes, ask me,” said Tom dryly. “Checkers is your game, Alf.”

“Oh, I’m not saying I can’t do pretty well at that, too, but when it comes to chess—well, again my inherent modesty forbids me to pursue the subject.”

“Huh! You don’t know a king from a pawn,” jeered Tom.

“That’s a challenge,” replied Alf. “Let me at him, Gerald. Just you fellows watch if you want to see pride humbled and a haughty spirit destroyed. Let me see, Tom, where do I put these things?”

“I guess we’ll have to be going,” laughed Dan, “although I can see that it is going to be a rare battle.”

“Rare?” repeated Alf, with a grin. “Oh, no, not rare, Dan; I’m going to do him to a turn. Move, Tom, but be careful how you do it. Remember that I have my argus eye on you. Here! You can’t do that! Of course you can’t. Did you see the way he moved, Dan? That’s cheating, sure! Here, where are you fellows going?”

“Home, before the trouble begins,” answered Dan. “Come on, Gerald.”

“Trouble! There isn’t going to be any trouble,” said Alf. “This is going to be the easiest thing I ever did. But if you must go, see you to-morrow. Gee, he’s pinched my knight!”

CHAPTER XV
THE LISTS ARE POSTED

Back in Clarke, Dan and Gerald spread out their books on opposite sides of the table for an hour or more of study. Gerald was keeping his promise to Mr. McIntyre, and was really doing the best he was capable of at algebra. But it did seem as though Fate was against him, for, in order to do full justice to mathematics, he had to give less time to his other studies, with the result that his French had been suffering of late, and Mr. Von Groll had once or twice showed impatience. It seemed desperately hard to please everyone, thought Gerald.

Across the table Dan browsed through his morrow’s Latin, and then settled down to geometry. Now and then Gerald interrupted to ask assistance, and once Dan reached over for the younger boy’s book and puzzled out a line in Cæsar’s Gallic War for him. Nine o’clock struck, and Gerald looked up from his book with a sigh, glanced hopefully at Dan, found that youth still absorbed, and, with another sigh, went back to work. But ten minutes later Gerald pushed his book resolutely away, yawned, stretched, and spoke.

“I wish this universal disarmament they talk about nowadays had been a fact about 50 B. C.,” he said regretfully.

“Yes? Why?” asked Dan, looking up.

“There wouldn’t have been any Gallic War, and I wouldn’t have to read about it.”

“Well,” said Dan, “you’d better not let Collins hear you put the date of the Gallic War as 50.”

“Oh, well, it was around there somewhere,” answered Gerald indifferently. “What’s the good of being particular about the date of a thing that took place thousands of years ago? I never could remember dates, anyway. I guess I’m only sure about three.”

“And what are those?” asked Dan, closing his books and piling them in place.

“My birthday, the day they fired on Fort Sumter, and the date of the Third and Fourth Class baseball game.”

Dan laughed. “You want to be careful and not overtax that brain of yours, Gerald,” he said. Then: “That reminds me,” he said more seriously. “There’s going to be a good debate Saturday evening. Want to go along?”

“Yes, thanks, I’d like to very much.”

“Cambridge and Oxford take fellows from the Fourth Class in a week or two,” continued Dan. “Have you made up your mind which you want to join?”

“Cambridge,” answered Gerald promptly. “They both seem very nice, but you and Alf are both in Cambridge, and—and I think I’d rather go there—that is, if I can. Do you think I can?”

“That’s what I want to talk about,” replied Dan, pushing back his chair and clasping his hands behind his head. “You see, the Society holds a meeting—it’s a week from Friday—and takes up the names of the fellows in order. If a majority of the fellows there are in favor of the chap his name goes to the Admission Committee. That committee is made up of the President and two members from each of the three upper classes, that is, seven members in all. They pass finally on the candidates for admission, and a candidate has to get the whole seven votes to receive an invitation. Understand?”

“Yes,” answered Gerald anxiously.

“Well, we can get you past the meeting all right, Gerald, and we’re pretty certain of five of the seven on the Committee, but the other two, the Third Class members, are rather more difficult. Neither Alf nor I know them very well. One is a chap named Hiltz and the other is this fellow Thompson.”

“I guess that queers me, then,” said Gerald mournfully.

“You think Thompson would vote against you?”

Gerald nodded. “I’m pretty sure he would.”

“But he said awhile ago, didn’t he, that you and he were quits?”

“Ye-es, but I don’t think he meant it. He doesn’t like me, I know.”

“Well,” said Dan hesitatingly, “Alf suggested—in fact, I think so, too, that you might sort of let him understand that you are ready to be friends. It won’t be necessary to say very much, I guess; you might just speak to him when you see him, and then, if you have the chance, get into conversation with him. It wouldn’t be hard.”

“I’d rather not get into either society than do that,” declared Gerald vehemently. “And—and I don’t believe you’d do it yourself, Dan!”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Dan hesitatingly. “Maybe you’re right. But I felt that I ought to let you know how things stand, so you can do as you like about—making up with Thompson. I guess this fellow Hiltz hasn’t anything against you, and so it’s up to Thompson. He can undoubtedly keep you out of the society if he wants to, Gerald. But maybe he won’t; perhaps we’re crossing our bridge before we come to it.”

Gerald was silent for a moment. Dan could see that he was greatly disappointed. Finally:

“Well,” he said, “if I can’t get in, I can’t. But I was hoping—”

“Well, we’re not beaten yet,” said Dan cheerfully. “Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if you got an invitation from Oxford. Of course, we Cambridge fellows pretend that our society is better than the other, but there isn’t any particular difference, you know. Oxford has some dandy fellows, and you and Tom get on pretty well together, and—”

“I shan’t join Oxford,” muttered Gerald. “If I can’t get into Cambridge I don’t want to join anything.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Dan soothingly. “You’d have just as good fun in Oxford, Gerald. And you know some of the fellows there now, and Tom can introduce you to lots more.”

But Gerald shook his head and refused to compromise, and all Dan’s arguments failed to shake his determination to stand or fall by Cambridge. Nothing more was said about currying favor with Thompson. After all, Dan scarcely approved of it himself; it savored too much of what, in school parlance, was known as “swiping.”

Perhaps it would have been just as well if Dan had not suggested it to Gerald at all, for the latter fearing in his pride that Thompson might think he was trying to ingratiate himself, went to quite the opposite extreme, and, whereas hitherto he had responded to Thompson’s careless, good-natured nods of greeting, he now refused to notice that youth at all! The first time this occurred Thompson thought nothing of it. The second time he scowled and confided to the fellow he was walking with that “that Pennimore kid was a stuck-up little chump.”

Meanwhile May came softly in and all Yardley was out of doors. The field and track team was preparing for another victory over Broadwood, golf enthusiasts were holding tournaments on the slightest provocation, and the baseball teams, almost a dozen of them in all, were disputing every foot of the field. Besides the Varsity nine, there were four Class teams, as many dormitory teams, and several “scrub” nines. Yardley would have seemed to a stranger to be baseball-mad that Spring.

The Varsity had a schedule of eleven games. Of these, four had been played by the end of the first week in May, and the Blue had three victories and one defeat to her credit. The defeat had come at the hands of Forest Hill School, and it had been such a drubbing for Yardley that it quite took the fellows’ breath away. Fourteen to three was the score. Most of the enemy’s tallies had been made during a tragic three innings in which Reid, a substitute pitcher, had occupied the box. Reid had subsequently steadied down, but for three innings more Forest Hill had added an occasional run to her score, and when, at the beginning of the sixth, Colton had stepped in to the rescue the game was past recovery. One result of the game had been to greatly endanger Condit’s position at third base, and now Dan was holding down that bag quite as often as the Second Class boy. It was not, however, until the contest with St. John’s Academy, which took place on a Saturday toward the middle of May, that Dan found himself starting a game at third.

St. John always brought down a strong team, and Yardley always did her level best to win the contest, which was looked upon as being a test of the Yardley team’s ability. A week later St. John’s would meet Broadwood, and so it was possible to make a comparison between Blue and Green. Colton started the game in the box, it being planned to use him until the game was safely “on ice.” Then Reid or Kelsey was to replace him. As it happened, though, neither of the substitute twirlers got into the game, for St. John’s proved to be a hard-hitting lot, and it was not until the last of the eighth inning that the Yardley supporters breathed easy. Then a lucky streak of batting, inaugurated by Captain Millener, and continued by Left-fielder Loring and Shortstop Durfee, added three runs to the Blue’s tally, and the scorebook showed the home team leading by two runs. But it wouldn’t do to take risks even then, and so Colton pitched the game out, managing to blank St. John’s in the half-inning that remained.

Dan played a good game at third, accepting three chances and making good each time. He had three assists and one put-out to his credit when the game was over, while his batting record, if not startling, was creditable for a first game. He made one hit, struck out twice, and reached first once on four balls and once on fielder’s choice. There was a good deal of luck mixed up with this showing, but Dan didn’t worry about that. Taken altogether, he had made good, and Payson as much as said so later in the gymnasium. And Dan was so elated that he actually forgot to yell when the cold water struck him in the shower!

On the following Monday the invitations came out from Cambridge and Oxford. The lists were posted in Oxford Hall at noon. Cambridge had issued twenty-one invitations and Oxford twenty-six. Gerald Pennimore’s name was on the Oxford list, but not on the other. The expected had happened.

CHAPTER XVI
GERALD MAKES A BARGAIN

Dan ran across Alf in the corridor of Oxford soon after the lists were posted. Alf made a grimace of disgust as he leaned against the base of the plaster Mercury.

“Well, we lose,” he said.

Dan nodded. “Gerald will be disappointed.”

“Still, he’s made Oxford.”

“He says he won’t take it, and I guess he means it. He’s a stubborn little chump. I suppose Thompson queered the game.”

“I guess so. I’ll have a talk with Colton and Rand; they’ll probably have a fair idea what happened. Does Gerald know yet?”

“Guess not. I haven’t seen him. I think he’s in the room. Come on over with me: you’re through, aren’t you?”

“Want me to break the news to the bereaved?” asked Alf, with a grin. “All right, I’ll go along. We ought to induce him to take Oxford, although I suppose we might get him in next Fall.”

“I don’t see how. If Thompson voted against him to-day he will probably vote against him then.”

“Gee, Dan, you’ll never make a politician,” said Alf. “It isn’t absolutely necessary, is it, that Thompson should be re-elected to the Admission Committee next year?”

“Oh, I see! Still, I don’t see how we could prevent it.”

“I don’t say for certain that we could, but you’re in his class, and I guess if you made up your mind to keep him out, you could do it. All you’d have to do would be to find a popular chap willing to take the place, and run him for all you are worth. Why not make a bid for it yourself? You could beat Thompson easily enough. He’s not especially popular, I guess. Besides, no one cares a whole lot about getting on the committee, anyhow. The honor doesn’t amount to much. Yes, I guess we could cook Thompson’s goose all right if we set out to. In fact, I rather like the idea. I don’t like to be beaten, Dan, and—say, hanged if we don’t get Gerald into Cambridge in spite of Mr. Thompson! What do you say? Will you go in for it?”

“Why, yes, I guess so. I suppose it’s fair enough?”

“Of course it is! Anything’s fair in politics, you know.”

“No, but really, Alf! Would it be all right to scheme around that way?”

“Absolutely!” declared Alf with emphasis. “We want Gerald in Cambridge. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be there. So we just go ahead and get him there. Come on and let’s find him. Of course, if he’s changed his mind and decides to take Oxford, all right. If he hasn’t, and he asks my advice, I’ll tell him to wait until Fall, and we’ll get him into Cambridge. And you back me up.”

They found Gerald in his room. A glance at his face showed Dan and Alf that he had learned the result of the Admission Committee’s labors, in spite of the fact that he was striving to look unconcerned.

“Say, Gerald, I’m awfully sorry about Cambridge,” said Alf heartily. “It’s a shame. And I’m afraid you’ll hate us for letting you think you were going to make it.”

“Of course I won’t,” replied Gerald soberly. “You fellows did all you could, and I’m much obliged. It isn’t your fault. It was Thompson that did it.” Gerald’s face darkened. “And I’m going to—” He stopped.

“Going to what?” asked Dan suspiciously. Gerald turned a rebellious countenance toward him.

“I’m going to tell him what I think of him! That’s what!”

“Come now, look here, Gerald,” exclaimed Dan. “You can’t do that, you know! You don’t know for certain that Thompson blackballed you. And even if you did know, you wouldn’t have any right to call him to account for it. Any member of that committee has a right to vote as he likes, and—”

“I’m going to punch his head, just the same,” said Gerald doggedly.

“No, Dan’s right,” said Alf soothingly. “You can’t do that, Gerald. At any rate, you can’t fight him on that pretense. Of course, if you happened to meet him and didn’t like the way he wore his hair, or the color of his eyes, and said so—”

“Cut it out, Alf,” said Dan. “There’s no reason for scrapping and you know it. Besides, Gerald can go into Oxford—”

“I’ve told you half a dozen times,” interrupted Gerald warmly, “that I don’t want Oxford.”

“Sure?” asked Alf eagerly.

“Yes, I’m sure,” answered Gerald.

“All right. You stick to that, my boy, and we’ll have you in Cambridge next Fall as sure as shooting.”

Gerald viewed him doubtfully.

“Do you mean it, Alf?” he asked. “You’re not just saying that to—to make me feel better?”

“Not a bit of it,” replied Alf gayly. “Dan and I have got the whole thing planned. We thought that if you wanted to go in for Oxford we wouldn’t say anything about it; just let you go. But if you don’t, why, don’t even think of it. The next election is in November, and we’ll get you through with flying colors. You’ll only be in the Third then, and will have three years before you. You really aren’t missing much, you see; lots of fellows don’t make a society until they’re in the Third.”

“That’s mighty nice of you,” said Gerald gratefully. “I don’t care so much now. Only—about Oxford; do you think Tom will mind if I don’t take it?”

“Not a bit,” said Dan.

“That’s right,” Alf agreed. “He knew you preferred Cambridge, and only got you through there in case you missed it with us, and wanted consolation. Tom understands perfectly.”

“Then I’ll write and decline it,” said Gerald cheerfully. “What shall I say?”

“Oh, most anything,” said Alf. “Just tell them to be blowed; tell ’em you’re sort of particular about whom you associate with, and that—”

“Shut up,” laughed Dan. “Just say that ‘Mr. Pennimore declines with thanks the kind invitation of Oxford Society.’ That’s all that’s necessary, isn’t it, Alf?”

“Ye-es, I suppose so. But you might add in a postscript that you hope they’ll choke.”

Thus Gerald’s disappointment was mitigated by the promise held out by Alf, and the note declining the invitation to Oxford was despatched without regrets. Even had Gerald been inclined to feel sore over his failure he would not have had much time to indulge his feelings. The inter-class baseball games were approaching, and practice demanded much of his time. Gerald was winning friends now, for his fellow members of the Fourth Class nine had to admire his playing, if nothing else. But as they got to know him better they found other things to like. They soon discovered that his reserve, which looked so much like arrogance, was only a cloak to hide a sort of shyness that was the result of his earlier experiences at Yardley. They found that he wasn’t stuck-up—a heinous sin at Yardley—and that he never referred to wealth or influence. He was “Pennimore” now; in some cases “Gerald”; the nicknames, “Miss Nancy,” or “Moneybags,” seemed to have fallen into disuse.

Gerald thrived and grew happier every day. He stopped thinking about Thompson, and paid no heed to that youth when he met him. And gradually, but perceptibly, he was undergoing a physical transformation. His work in the gymnasium under the careful supervision of Mr. Bendix, and now his daily exercise on ball-field and tennis court had not failed of effect. He had taken on flesh, his color was good, his muscles had hardened and developed, and his shoulders and chest had broadened and deepened. And with his physical betterment came an increased capacity for study. He found that after an hour’s baseball practice, followed by a shower and a brisk rubdown, he was ready to tackle cheerfully the hardest task in algebra that Mr. Wentworth could invent. I don’t mean that his marks were all A’s and B’s. On the contrary, he exhibited a seeming preference for C’s, with an occasional B by way of variety. But he was doing good work, for all of that, and Kilts was pretty well satisfied. His other studies, English, French, and Latin, were going better, too, and he was no longer worrying about his chances of passing the finals in June. He felt pretty sure of B’s in English and Latin, and believed he could get C’s in the other two studies.

The boxing lessons, which had been transferred from Saturday afternoons to Saturday mornings, when Alf’s baseball work had claimed the former hours, had now ceased altogether. Alf declared that Gerald had already learned almost all he could teach him, and that further development and improvement depended on himself.

“Go up against the punching-bag, Gerald, two or three times a week, and keep your muscles limbered up. Next Fall we’ll go at it again. It’s bully exercise and it’s bully fun; and it’s a mighty good thing to know something about boxing. Maybe you’ll never need the knowledge, and maybe you will. There’s no harm in having it, anyway.”

The discontinuance of the boxing lessons left Gerald his Saturday mornings for other pursuits, and he chose to devote them to tennis. He had played tennis a good deal ever since he had been large enough to swing a racket. Sometimes his father had been his opponent, sometimes the tutor. For his age Gerald was a good player, and was extremely fond of the game. There were six courts at Yardley, and it was almost always possible to secure one at some time during the morning. There was a rule, and a necessary one it was in view of the large number of fellows who played, that if others were waiting to use a court, only three sets could be played at a time. As a general thing, Gerald’s opponent was Harry Merrow. Harry was only twelve years of age, but he played good tennis and was a spirited, hard-fighting youngster. Gerald usually won, but Harry always proved a worthy foe.

On a morning in the last week of May, the two were sitting on the grass beside one of the courts, waiting for their turn. They had skimped their breakfasts in order to be early at the courts, but they found that others had been even more enterprising, and all the courts were in use. But it was still far short of nine o’clock, and they had plenty of time before them. Besides, it wasn’t bad fun lolling here on the grass in the warm morning sunlight, and there was plenty to see. On the court which they had elected to wait for, two First Class fellows, “top-notchers” both of them, and members of the Tennis Club, were putting up an exhibition well worth watching. Beyond, on the river, several canoes were in sight, their brightly-colored sides reflected gayly in the quiet water. The canoes put an idea into young Merrow’s head.

“I say, Gerald,” he asked, “can you swim?”

“Of course,” was the answer. It seemed to Gerald that Harry might as well have asked him if he could breathe. All his summers had been spent at Sound View, and looking back he could scarcely remember a time when he hadn’t been able to swim.

“Well, can you paddle?” was Harry’s next question.

“Paddle? Oh, you mean in a canoe? No, I guess not. I never was in a canoe. It doesn’t look hard, though.”

“It isn’t—very,” answered Harry. “It’s lots of fun, though. I was wondering why you and I couldn’t have a canoe, Gerald.”

“That would be dandy!” cried Gerald. “Could we?”

“Yes, we could rent one. It only costs three dollars a month. You have to be able to swim, though, or Faculty won’t let you have one. What I thought was that—”

“What?” asked Gerald, as the younger boy hesitated.

“Well, you see, I haven’t much money. I thought perhaps you’d be willing to pay the three dollars if I’d show you how to paddle.”

“Of course I will,” said Gerald. “That’s fair enough. I’d like mighty well to know how. Can we get a canoe at the boathouse?”

“Yes. Let’s go down after we finish tennis and see what they’ve got. Shall we?”

Gerald at once agreed, and for a while they talked canoeing and boating, Harry narrating some of the good times he had had at home on the river. Gerald, not wanting to be quite outdone, mentioned his ability to row a boat, and then, led on by Harry, described life on his father’s big steam yacht, which Harry had often seen lying at its moorings off Sound View.

Then the talk worked around to baseball, as it was almost certain to do sooner or later at this time of the year, and Gerald exhibited with pride the callousness of his hand and showed the little finger that had been “mighty near broken, I tell you!” Harry had tried for a place on the Merle Hall team, but had failed. However, he had been made official scorer, and that had brought consolation. It was evident that in Harry’s estimation that position qualified him as a critic, for he pretended to know just what was the matter with every member of his own team and the Varsity, and would tell you on the slightest provocation.

“I tell you, Gerald, Dan Vinton played a great game at third the other day. He’s going to make a fine player when he’s had more experience. I should think you’d be mighty proud to be rooming with him.”

It had never occurred to Gerald to be proud of the fact, and he considered it a moment before replying. Then:

“I’d rather room with him than any fellow I know,” he replied with conviction. “He—he’s been mighty good to me ever since I knew him. You know he—he saved my life last Fall.”

“Yes, we heard about it, but I never knew just how it was.”

So Gerald recounted the adventure of the burning playhouse, and Dan’s rescue, and Harry listened with round eyes.

“Say, though, you were a chump to go in after the dog,” he said, when Gerald had finished. “You might have been all burned up!”

“Well,” answered Gerald simply, “I couldn’t let Jack burn. He’s the best dog in the world, Jack is.”

“I’d like to know Vinton,” said Harry, after a moment’s silence, during which they watched the tennis battle. “You might ask me up to your room some night, Gerald.”

“Come whenever you like,” said Gerald. “I didn’t suppose you needed an invitation.”

“Well, Vinton might not like a kid like me bothering around him. He was awfully decent to me once, though. He and I came up from the station together after Christmas vacation, and I guess he saw that I was feeling sort of—of homesick. And he told me to come around that evening and see him if I was lonesome.”

“Didn’t you go?”

“N-no. I wanted to, but—I didn’t like to. I was afraid he’d think I was a baby.”

“Dan wouldn’t,” said Gerald. “He understands. He told me once that when he came here last Fall he was so homesick that he came near running away home.”

“Really!” exclaimed Harry. “Think of a fellow like Dan Vinton being homesick! I wish I’d known that. I’d have gone and seen him that time. But I’m going to come around some evening, if you think he won’t mind.”

“Of course he won’t,” said Gerald scornfully. “He—he isn’t that sort. Come on; they’re through. I’ll toss. Rough or smooth?”

After they had played their allowance of three sets, Gerald winning 6–3, 6–4, 7–5, they went down to the boathouse and rented a bright green canvas canoe for the period of one month, and Gerald had his first lesson in paddling.

It wasn’t long before Gerald reached the conclusion that Harry had made a very smart bargain, for paddling isn’t a thing that can be successfully taught; a fellow must pick it up himself. Gerald’s instructions consisted principally of the advice: “Now just do as I do, Gerald; see?”

And Gerald, occupying a most uncomfortable and cramped position at the stern of the canoe, did as Harry did till his arms ached. Harry insisted on staying close to shore.

“Faculty raises an awful rumpus,” he explained, “if you upset. Two Fourth Class fellows went over last Fall, and Collins wouldn’t let them go out again.”

Gerald tried to emulate the example of Harry, but wasn’t very successful that day. Harry’s work with the paddle was clean and graceful, while Gerald had difficulty in refraining from using his blade like an oar. Once, in shifting his position a little, he caused the canoe to rock. Harry almost dropped his paddle as he looked around in alarm.

“Here!” he cried. “What are you trying to do? Upset us?”

“No, I was just trying to get comfortable,” answered Gerald.

“Well, you want to be awfully careful in a canoe. It’s mighty easy to upset.”

“What of it?” asked Gerald, with a laugh. “I’d rather like a dip. Besides, we could almost wade ashore from here.”

“No, we couldn’t. This river’s awfully deep, even right along shore. I—I won’t go out with you if you’re not careful. The water’s too cold for a bath.”

“All right,” Gerald agreed. “I’ll be careful. Let’s go back now, though; my arms ache like anything.”

After that scarcely a day went by without seeing Gerald and Harry on the river, and by degrees the former got so that he could paddle very well indeed. One day they accepted a challenge of two Third Class fellows, and raced them from Flat Island to the boathouse, a distance of nearly an eighth of a mile, and beat them handily. But usually their canoeing took place before recitations in the morning, or after dinner, when each had an hour of freedom, for Gerald’s afternoons were pretty well occupied.

The Fourth Class team had played three games with outside nines, and although they had lost two of them, the experience had done them good, and developed team-play. The third contest, that with Greenburg Grammar School, they had won in the last inning by a single tally. The inter-class series was due the first week in June, and already fellows had begun to wear their class colors and speculate as to the outcome. It was generally conceded that Second would win the championship but the real interest lay in the game between Third and Fourth. Third had, as usual, the advantage of age and experience, but, again as usual, it was Fourth who made the greater preparation, who practised most, and who excelled in enthusiasm. Nowadays little was talked of save baseball, although for a few days preceding the dual track and field meeting with Broadwood, the runners and jumpers and weight men claimed some attention.

The meet was at Broadwood, and Yardley’s team went over well supported. The track meet was the one athletic event of the school year which could be absolutely depended on to add to the Blue’s laurels, and this year’s contest was no exception. Yardley won decisively, 89 to 54. Tom did himself proud, winning two firsts and a fourth, or 11 points in all, and establishing a new dual record for the 16-pound shot of 41 feet 4 inches. First place in the hammer throw also went to him, while the broad jump, which he entered to fill the card, netted him one point. Tom was the hero of the day, and Yardley journeyed home happy and triumphant.

CHAPTER XVII
THE CLASS GAMES

“Well, it’s certainly a cinch to get out a paper during the baseball season,” laughed Alf, as he turned the leaves of the Yardley Scholiast, the weekly paper published by the students. The Scholiast was playfully referred to as “the School weakly,” but it was in reality a very good example of its kind of journalism. “Look here,” continued Alf, holding up the sheet. “Here’s three pages of baseball; the two Varsity games and six miscellaneous, every last one of them in full detail. That’s an easy way to fill a paper,” he declared in disgust.

“And the rest of the paper all advertising, I suppose,” said Tom, who was stretched out along the window seat, with one foot on the sill.

“Pretty near. Here’s a highly-colored account of the Track Meet, with a whole lot of slush about you, and an editorial about the circus.”

“An editorial about the circus?” asked Dan in surprise. “What’s that for?”

“Oh, that’s a regular feature at this time of the year. I think they keep it set up and run it every Spring. About four years ago, I guess, anyway, before I got here, the fellows went to the circus over in Greenburg, and rough-housed the show so that they had to clear the tent. Faculty didn’t approve and for a couple of years we weren’t allowed to go to circuses.”

“Is the circus coming here?” asked Gerald.

“Yep, two weeks from Friday. Going?”

“You bet!” replied Gerald. “I love circuses, don’t you?”

“Crazy about them,” answered Alf cheerfully. “We’ll all go and feed peanuts to the elephant.”

“I’d rather eat them,” murmured Tom.

“The elephants?” asked Dan.

“Oh, no,” said Alf quickly, “that would be cannibalism!”

But Tom paid no heed to the insult. He was smiling broadly at his thoughts. “Say, Alf,” he asked, “do you remember that write-up of the Bridgeport football game? Talking about the Scholiast and the games in detail reminded me of it.”

“Do I!” asked Alf, laughing. “I’ll never forget it.” He turned to Dan and Gerald. “It was my first year here. There was a chap named Bridges, a Second Class fellow, who got on the Scholiast as reported. He was a queer duck, was Bridges. The editor then was Ames Bradley, and Brad and I had known each other at prep. Well, one day we played Bridgeport, and Brad thought it would be a good chance for Bridges to show what he could do. So he told him to go and write up the game, and be sure to give all the details. Well, I wish you could have seen the report he handed in! It was the funniest thing you ever—Say, I wonder if I ever threw that away, Tom. I begged Brad for it, and he gave it to me, and I had it kicking around my desk for a long time. I’ll look and see if it’s there.”

Alf rummaged through several drawers and finally found what he was after, half a dozen pages of foolscap pinned together at the corner. Alf gave a chuckle and settled himself in his chair again.

“Here it is. Let me read some of it to you. It turned out afterwards, by the way, that Bridges had never watched a game of football through in his life and didn’t know anything about it. Now, let’s see.”

“‘Yardley vs. Bridgeport. On Tuesday last our football players played a game on the School gridiron against the players of Bridgeport and won. The weather was inclement and threatened to snow as the two bands of determined players took up their several positions about the field of play. It was a battle royal from first to last and our players deserve great credit for the manner in which they outplayed the Bridgeport players. The audience—’ Hum, never mind that. Here we are. Now listen to this and bust into tears! ‘The details of the game follow. At the commencement a Bridgeport player placed the ball in the middle of the field and retiring for a few yards ran forward and kicked the ball toward our players. One of the latter nimbly caught the ball and proceeded to run with it toward the goal. At this point it was evidenced that the Bridgeport players were determined to stop at nothing in order to win, for almost half of them threw themselves against our player and bore him to earth with a shock that could be plainly heard on the stands. Luckily, however, the plucky Yardley man was not injured and was soon on his feet again. The Bridgeport players had by this time clustered so closely about him that he saw that further running was impossible. So he yielded the ball to another of his side and the opposing players drew up into what is called a scrimmage. The ball was placed on the ground and one of our players, uttering signals designed to confuse the enemy, thrust the ball into the hands of one of our best players, who, although small, is very fleet of foot. His name is Worrell, and he is one of our four speedy quarter-backs. Worrell seemed at first in doubt which way to run and by the time he had made up his mind the opposing players had seized him in their arms and borne him to the ground. As the Yardley team had not gained any advantage they were allowed to try again. This time the ball was given to another player whose identity was not clear to the scribe. This player, trusting to force rather than elusiveness, jumped into the fray with the ball in his arms and the rest of our team, quickly grasping the situation, pushed him for quite some distance, the Bridgeport players doing their level best to frustrate the endeavor. This maneuver succeeded so well that it was tried many more times, the different players of our team taking turns at carrying the ball. When about three-quarters of the field had been so conquered and the goal of our desire was near, the Umpire’s keen vision detected an infringement of the rules of play and he took the ball away from our players and handed it to Bridgeport. Some members of the audience expressed displeasure at this seemingly high-handed exercise of authority and hooted. But the consensus of opinion amongst those with whom the scribe discussed the episode is that the Umpire was quite within his rights. The Yardley players bore up bravely in the face of this keen disappointment and stood nobly shoulder to shoulder while Bridgeport strove to take the ball back the way it had come. Time and again—’ Oh, pshaw, that’s enough! But isn’t it great?”

“That was surely going some!” laughed Dan. “I suppose it didn’t get into the paper, did it?”

“Hardly,” answered Alf. “I begged Brad to run it as a joke, but he wouldn’t. That was Bridge’s first and last assignment on the Scholiast.”

“But the funniest part’s to come,” said Tom, sitting up, and Alf nodded gleefully. “After that Bridges was out at every game and the next year he went out for his Class Team and made it as—as ‘one of the four quarter-backs’; only they called him right half!”

“I’ve often wondered what became of him after he left here,” said Alf. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was playing good football somewhere.”

“I suppose the fellows teased him a lot about his story,” said Gerald. But Alf shook his head.

“No, Brad was a mighty decent sort. He never told anyone except me and I never showed that around much; just to a few fellows who promised to keep it dark.”

“He wasn’t a bad sort, Bridges,” said Tom lazily. “Someone tell me the time.” And when Gerald had obeyed, “Gosh!” cried Tom. “I’ve got a recitation in one minute and a quarter. Where’s my Anabasis? Throw it over, Dan; it’s under your elbow. Anybody coming my way? So long, then.”

“Hold on, you idiot,” said Alf. “I’m coming. See you at practice, Dan.” And he and Tom hurried out and clattered down the stairs of Clarke three steps at a time. Dan seized his water pitcher, leaned out a window, and sprinkled them as they ran by on their way to Oxford. There were howls from below, and shaken fists, but Dan and Gerald only laughed.

“Got Tom in great shape,” said Dan as he returned the pitcher to its place. “He won’t find his Greek as dry as usual to-day.”

Two days later Yardley played Porter Institute on the diamond and Dan started the game at third base. He and Condit, a Second Class boy, were having a hard fight for the position. Most of the other places on the Varsity were pretty well settled, but third base was a bone of contention and the whole school was watching with interest Dan’s struggle to oust Condit. Dan himself was not satisfied with the game he was putting up. Somehow, he didn’t seem as sure of himself on third as he did on second, and whenever he found himself there he was handicapped by the ever constant fear that he would fail at some critical moment. And in the Porter game his fear was verified.

It was the sixth inning, the score was five to three in favor of Yardley, and Porter had a man on first and a man on second. Porter was enjoying a batting rally and using Reid rather rudely. There was only one out and a hit meant two runs in all probability. The fourth man up chose a ball to his liking and sliced it down the first-base line. Millener, playing off base, made a wild scramble for it, but it sped by him, just inside the white mark, and went bounding into right field. The runners sped for home. Lawrence, right-fielder, was not asleep, however, and had raced in as soon as the ball was hit, and now he managed to smother it some fifteen yards back of first, recovered quickly, and threw to the plate. Richards, the catcher, got it nicely, but was too late to put out the first runner. Quick as a flash he threw to third. Dan was not napping, but in some unaccountable manner the ball went through him, the man from first raced by and sped home and the score was tied. And Porter had a man on second and only one out.

The expected had happened to Dan and he could guess the delight in the heart of Condit over there on the bench. But he settled down when Alf’s voice reached him encouragingly from left-field:

“Hard luck, Dan! Never mind! Keep after ’em!”

Reid, too, settled down and disposed of the next two batters and the teams changed places. Dan walked back to the bench with a grave face. But no one, not even Payson, the coach, made any allusion to his mishap, and, much to his surprise, he was allowed to finish the game at third. Yardley took the lead again in the eighth, was tied in the ninth, and lost the game finally in the eleventh inning, 8 to 7.

That game decided the contest for third-base. Condit stepped into first place again and Dan had to be satisfied with a seat on the bench with the other substitutes. He was keenly disappointed and rather inclined to wish that he had been content with a place in the outfield, where, at least, he would have been a regular instead of a mere sub. But Alf insisted that there was still a chance.

“Condit isn’t any great shakes,” he declared. “The same thing’s likely to happen to him any day. Just you keep on edge and make the most of your opportunities and it’s a safe bet you’ll play as much of the Broadwood game as he does. And another thing, Dan; do your level best at the bat. If you can show yourself a little better there than he is it may decide Payson in your favor. Why, he knows that accidents are likely to happen to the best fellows. Just you peg away at it, old chap!”

So Dan pegged away and worked hard at the batting net and made the most of his chances in the practice games. And all the time he was watching Condit as a cat watches a mouse, hoping uncharitably enough that that youth would make a costly fumble or go stale. But Condit kept himself up to the mark and June wore along and the baseball schedule was nearing its end.

In the first week of June the Class Championship was decided. There were three consecutive afternoons when Yardley flamed forth in Class colors and baseball was the sole subject of conversation. On the first day the Fourth and Third Classes clashed on the Varsity diamond and the respective colors, brown and green, waved wildly. The whole school turned out to watch and cheer, the First Class fellows joining forces with the Third, and the Second with the Fourth. Even the Faculty attended, their coats decorated with ribbons of brown and green and blue and red to prove that they were incapable of favoritism.

I think that perhaps the scorers worked harder that day than any of the players, for it was a game of runs and errors, and it lasted until the umpire, Captain Millener of the Varsity, was forced to call it at the end of the eighth inning. Gerald played shortstop and did well. To be sure he made two errors, but then almost every other player made as many or more. And there weren’t many who did as well at the bat as he did. He got three hits, one a two-bagger, and scored two of the twelve runs which won the day for his side. Yes, Gerald did bravely, and Dan and Alf and Tom were proud of him, and told him so, and Gerald’s head swam with pride and delight. The final score was 12 to 9, and the Fourth Class marched off the field bearing their warriors on high and chanting pæans of victory.

The next day the Second Class Nine did what was expected of it and drubbed the First heartily. That contest didn’t occasion as much enthusiasm as the preceding one or the one which followed. The third day’s game was almost certain to go to the Second Class, but the Fourth Classmen refused to concede it and kept their enthusiasm on tap every instant. Nor, as it turned out, was the Fourth so greatly mistaken in their estimate of their team’s chances. For although the Second finally won by a safe margin, there were moments when a victory for the wearers of the brown ribbons and the wavers of the brown flags seemed not unlikely. Gerald again covered himself with glory, taking part in a double play that retired the opposing side just when it seemed about to run away with the game. And again he batted well, and if he didn’t score any runs himself he helped two others to do so. And although vanquished at last, 10 to 6, the Fourth Class went off the field cheering and quite well pleased with itself.

One morning a day or two after the final Class game Gerald met Payson, the coach, on the steps of the gymnasium. Payson nodded, as he always did when he met one of the fellows, whether he knew him personally or not, passed, and then turned back.

“Aren’t you Pennimore?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” answered Gerald.

“You played shortstop for Fourth Class, eh? Well, you’ll make a pretty fair player if you keep on, Pennimore. Next Spring you come and see me and perhaps we’ll find room for you somewhere on the squad. How old are you now?”

“Fourteen, sir.”

“Hm; well, get some more flesh and muscle, my boy, and you’ll do. By the way, I see that your father has been pretty busy.”

“Sir?”

“Oh, you haven’t seen the morning paper, I guess.”

“No, sir, I don’t read the papers much.”

“Well, you get to-day’s and you’ll find something that ought to interest you. I’m sure it would me if I were in your place,” laughed Payson. “Don’t forget to report to me next Spring.”

With a smile and a nod he passed on, leaving Gerald consumed with curiosity. He hurried over to Oxford and sought the library, but the morning papers had not yet been placed on file. But there still remained a quarter of an hour before his next recitation, and so he went on down to the station and bought a New York Herald. A glance at the first page explained Payson’s meaning. One of the columns was headed:

BIG MERGER OF
TRANSATLANTIC
STEAMSHIP LINES

LARGE INTERESTS IN BRITISH AND FRENCH
COMPANIES NOW CONTROLLED BY
JOHN T. PENNIMORE

BLUE CRESCENT, GLASGOW, AND FRANCO-AMERICAN
LINES TO BE CONSOLIDATED
WITH STEAMSHIP KING’S
PRESENT HOLDINGS

GERMANY’S SUPREMACY IS SERIOUSLY THREATENED

Then followed a lengthy despatch from London containing an interview with Mr. Pennimore. But Gerald was disappointed. His father was always doing something of this sort and Gerald didn’t find anything very interesting about it. He read the article through, just as he would have read anything concerning his father, and then thrust the paper into his pocket. The only feature of the despatch that interested him was the announcement that Mr. Pennimore would sail that day from Southampton, a fact which Gerald already knew.

But if the news didn’t excite Gerald, he found that there were others who were not so indifferent. Mr. Collins stopped him in the Yard after dinner and discussed it at some length.

“A wonderful man, your father, Gerald. You must be very proud of him.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Gerald.

“Well, you don’t seem very enthusiastic,” said Mr. Collins with a smile.

“No, sir—that is—well, you see, sir, father’s always doing something of this sort. I guess it’s very clever, sir, but I don’t think I’m proud of him on that account.”

“Then why?” asked the Assistant Principal to draw him out.

“I don’t quite know,” answered Gerald diffidently. “I—I guess because he’s kind and good, sir. You see, he’s a pretty nice father, Mr. Collins.” And Gerald looked up smiling a little and blushing a little. Mr. Collins returned the smile.

“That’s so, Pennimore. And you’re right. It’s the man himself and not his success that one should admire. But big things always enthuse me, and this last achievement of your father’s is a big thing, a great big thing. We little fellows who sit at home and count our fingers have to admire the big men who get out in the world and do things.”

Gerald shook his head soberly.

“I don’t think you’re one of the ‘little fellows,’ sir,” he said. Mr. Collins laughed.

“I’m only a big toad in a little puddle, Pennimore. Your father is a big toad in a big puddle; that’s the difference. Well, and how are you getting on nowadays?”

“Pretty well, sir, thank you,” answered Gerald.

“That’s good. Come and see me if you strike a snag at any time.” And Mr. Collins went on.

The fellows, too, had heard of the Steamship King’s latest exploit and they let Gerald know it. But, whereas four months ago they might have said things that would have hurt Gerald’s feelings, to-day their allusions were all good humored. Millener came across Gerald watching baseball practice.

“Say, Pennimore,” he said gravely, “I wish you’d ask your father when you see him if he hasn’t got a steamship he doesn’t need. Just a small one will do, say eight or ten thousand tons.”

And Gerald laughed and promised.

Mr. Pennimore had written Gerald that he would be home nine days after the latter’s receipt of the letter; that he had sent orders for the opening of Sound View for the summer and that Gerald should move over there from the school dormitory as soon as he liked. Gerald was delighted at the prospect of seeing his father again, but the permission, which virtually amounted to a suggestion, to change his abode from Number 28 Clarke to the big room in the big house overlooking the Sound didn’t please him at all.

“I don’t want to live at home, Dan,” he exclaimed. “Why, that’s no fun at all! I—I want to stay here with you; and the other fellows,” he added as an afterthought.

“Well, you wait until your father comes and tell him about it,” counselled Dan. “It will only be for a couple of weeks, anyway, and I guess he won’t mind that.”

“Anyhow,” declared Gerald anxiously, “I just won’t go!”

CHAPTER XVIII
FUN AT THE CIRCUS

“The Monkey he’s a friend of mine,
In fact, I’ve heard it stated
That me and he and he and me
Is distantly related.
I guess it’s true, for I can do
Most all the tricks that he cuts,
And me and he and he and me
Is awful fond of peanuts!”

Thus sang Alf as, arm in arm with Tom, he swaggered across the bridge on the way to Greenburg and the circus. Behind walked Dan and Gerald and Paul Rand. Still further behind came more of Yardley, and further ahead were others. Yardley was turning out en masse for the circus. Cuts had been granted in all afternoon recitations and here was a half-holiday with nothing to do but have a good time! And every fellow was determined to have it.

“Next verse!” shouted Dan.

“No, chorus first! All together now!”

“I’d like to be a Monkey monk
And live up in a tree;
I’d like to be a big Baboon,
An Ape or Chimpanzee!
I’d wear a monkey-jacket and
Eat cocoanuts and candy;
I’d wave the Stars and Stripes and be
A Monkey Doodle Dandy!”

“Next verse!” commanded Dan again.

“Oh, behave,” ordered Tom. “Cut out the comedy.”

“He’s jealous of my beautiful voice,” said Alf. “Oh, look at the pretty pictures. I shan’t go another step until I’ve seen all the pretty pictures.”

So they stopped in front of a board fence which was gaudily adorned with circus posters while Alf feasted his eyes.

“It’s a good idea, you know,” he explained philosophically, “to enjoy the pictures, because they’re fifty times better than the circus. Now, Gerald, there, in his innocence, doubtless expects to see seven elephants doing a cake-walk and balancing themselves on red and blue seesaws, like that. But the fact is that there’ll be just two elephants, one old, old elephant, moth-eaten and decrepit, and one extremely young and frolicsome elephant about the size of a Shetland pony. And the old elephant won’t do much because he’s too aged, and the young elephant will just look on because he’s too young and tender for work. Lies, lies, beautiful lies!”

“Oh, come on,” laughed Dan. “We won’t get any seats if we don’t hustle.”

“Wait, wait until I see the boa-constrictor and the be-oot-shus lady. She thinks he’s a new set of furs. See the way she’s wrapping him around her neck? Someone ought to tell her; it’s a shame. I’ll undeceive her when I arrive, all right, all right. And, oh, the cunning little zebras! Wouldn’t you love to have a cunning little zebra to ride on, Dan? My, oh my! I’d ride to Chapel on it every morning and hitch it to the statue of Apollo outside Room D. And, fellows, fellows! Observe, pray, the marvelous—”

But he was dragged resisting away.

“Say, didn’t you ever just cry to be in a circus, Tom?” he inquired as they took up their journey again. “I have. Why, I used to think that if I could wear pink tights and hang from a trapeze by my toes at the top of a circus tent I’d be happy for life! If I ever get very, very wealthy I shall have a circus of my own, Tom. And I’ll let Dan and Gerald come in free, but you will have to pay, Tom, because you’re so hard-hearted and wouldn’t let me see the pictures; you’ll have to pay all of seventeen nice bright pins!”

“Oh, shut up,” growled Tom. “Folks’ll think you’re dippy.”

“Great scheme!” Alf exclaimed radiantly. “When we get to the tent I’ll put my cap on inside out and make faces and jibber and be a Wild Man from Wissining! And you chaps can collect dimes from the audience and we’ll go up to Parker’s afterwards and buy ice-cream sodas. Marvelous! Marvelous!”

The circus occupied a waste lot on the farther side of the town, and it was a good half-hour’s walk from Yardley. But they reached it in plenty of time to view the animals in the outer tent before it was time to repair to the circus proper. And Alf had a glorious time and kept the others in a continual howl of laughter. Several other Yardley fellows joined their party and listened convulsed while Alf addressed the rhinoceros.

“Beautiful Beast!” declaimed Alf. “Child of the trackless jungle! Denizen of the African waste, we salute you! (Salute, you idiots!) Thou art indeed handsome! Thou art verily the Tom Dyer of the Animal Kingdom. Thou art even more so and then some, for Tom has no horn on his nose. Even thy beautiful feet resemble his and thou hastest the same simple grandeur of contour, whatever that is. And thou also hastest a noble grouchiness of expression which remindest us of our dear Tom. Hast a name, Little One? No? Sayest thou so? Alack and well-a-day! Thou shalt be named and right nobly, O Timorous Nightingale of the Dark Continent! Hereafter thou shalt be known as Tom. Arise, Tom, and chortle thy glee and dance flitsomely! See him dance flitsomely, fellows?”

The rhinoceros neither altered attitude nor expression, however, and Alf was dragged away to see the Royal Bengal Tiger, whom he addressed as “Kitty.”

“Say, Tom,” said Dan presently, when they had completed the circuit of the tent, “I’ll bet all Broadwood is here. I’ve seen dozens of fellows already.”

“Really?” asked Tom, with a grin. “Say, we’ll have some fun, then.” He acquainted the others with Dan’s news and a howl of glee arose.

“We’ll get our crowd all together,” said Alf, “and have a little cheering to waken things up a bit. Come on.”

So they made their way into the tent, which was already half filled, and chose seats in an unoccupied section. Then:

“Yardley, this way!” was the cry. “Yardley, this way!”

Yardley responded quickly and in two minutes that section of the stand was filled with some two hundred youths.

“Now, fellows,” announced Alf, who had constituted himself Master of Ceremonies, “let’s give a cheer for the elephant!”

They gave it; and followed up with one for the tiger; and followed that up with one for the monkeys.

“And now, fellows,” Alf cried gleefully, “let’s have one for Broadwood!”

So they cheered Broadwood—after the monkeys—amidst much laughter from their own section and the adjoining ones. No laughter, however, came from the stand across the tent where Broadwood was concentrating her forces. A minute afterwards Broadwood accepted the challenge and began cheering, following the cheers with football songs. And in the midst of that there was a blare of music from the red-coated band and the grand procession appeared. Yardley applauded mightily and cheered everything and everybody that passed. And then comparative quiet returned and the exhibitions in the rings began.

It wasn’t a very large circus, but it was a good one, and the fellows enjoyed it all hugely. When the trick donkey appeared with the leading clown seated on his back belaboring him with a bladder on the end of a stick Paul Rand made the hit of the afternoon by bawling loudly;

“Whoa, Broadwood!”

Even Broadwood thought that rather funny and laughed. But they tried for revenge later by dubbing the trick elephant “Yardley.” And when he finally managed to get all four feet onto a big red and yellow ball of wood they demanded; “Touchdown, Yardley, touchdown!”

And so the performance drew triumphantly to its close while attendants passed around selling tickets for the “Grand Concert and Minstrel Entertainment to begin immediately after the show.”

Gerald, who had had a wonderful time all afternoon, leaned forward and begged Dan to remain and see the minstrel show. But Alf, who overheard, said;

“It isn’t worth the price, Gerald. You stay with the crowd and you’ll have lots more fun.”

“Why?” Gerald asked curiously. But Alf only shook his head and looked mysterious. Then the performance came to an end and the audience surged toward the single exit. This was not the way they had entered; instead of leading back to the smaller tent it deposited the throng out in the open air in front of the side-shows. This exit was a good twelve feet wide and was formed by an opening in the big tent and a canvas passageway some fifteen feet in length. The passageway was a smaller tent open at each end and supported by half a dozen light poles and as many guy-ropes. The inner walls were covered with cordial and gaudy invitations to the side-shows, and a “barker,” armed with a small cane and a resonant voice, stood under the alluring placards and recited the attractions of “Fatima, the Turkish Fortune Teller” and “Mademoiselle Marcelle, the Most Marvelous Snake Charmer of the Century.”

“Hurry up,” whispered Alf as he seized Gerald’s arm and dragged him through the throng. The exit was close to the seats occupied by the Yardley contingent and so they were soon outside. There the Yardley fellows lined up about the entrance and began cheering. Gerald, craning his head over Alf’s shoulder, watched the exit in excited expectation. He didn’t know what was going to happen but he was certain something would. Broadwood, hearing the Yardley cheers, came to a similar conclusion and kept her forces well together as she made for the exit. For a minute or two the emerging stream was composed of townsfolk, and the Yardley cheers continued. Gerald looked about for Dan, but couldn’t see him. Alf, when questioned, replied enigmatically that Dan had been assigned to duty. Gerald’s further inquiries were interrupted.

“Here they come!” someone announced in a stage-whisper, and Gerald saw the fore-rank of Broadwood emerging from the big tent into the passageway. Instantly Alf was leading a mighty cheer for “Broadwood! Broadwood! Broadwood!” Some of the oncoming army grinned approval at the compliment, but there were more who scowled suspiciously, pulled their caps firmer on their heads, and buttoned their jackets.

“Oh, oh!” murmured Alf delightedly. “Like sheep to the slaughter! Good old Broadwood! A-ay, Broadwood! Broadwood!”

And then, just as the first of the Broadwood fellows had reached the outer end of the passageway, a voice shouted “Let her go!” Gerald found himself being pressed back. There were cries of delight all about him. The canvas passageway swayed, the roof and walls settled inward and the tent descended calmly, inexorably upon the struggling crowd beneath. There was a wild and prolonged howl of joy from Yardley, a smothered babel of alarm and consternation from under the heaving canvas, and then Gerald, with Alf dragging him along, found himself flying wildly from the scene, tripping over ropes, colliding with persons, and shouting triumphantly as he went.

A quarter of a mile away the flying hordes of Yardley drew pace and breath, cheered approvingly for themselves and tauntingly for Broadwood, and then, forming into lines eight abreast, marched in triumph back to school singing their songs. When, breathless and exultant, Tom, Alf, Dan, and Gerald found themselves in Number 7 Dudley, Gerald alone expressed a regret.

“Why didn’t you let me help cut the ropes?” he asked Alf.

“Cut the ropes?” asked Alf. “Why, child, how you do talk! Nobody didn’t cut no ropes!”

“Then how did they get the tent down?” persisted Gerald, looking from Alf to Dan and from Dan to Tom.

“Well,” said Alf, settling himself comfortably on the window-seat, “that’s what you might term a coincidence. Of course we don’t know anything for certain, but it does look as though the guy-ropes all got loosened at the same moment. Then the natural thing happened; the tent came down. It certainly was a surprise to me! Why, I no more looked for anything like that to happen than—than—”

“Well,” laughed Tom, “it means that there won’t be any circus for Yardley next Spring.”

“Which is a very good thing,” responded Alf virtuously. “I am convinced that circuses are bad for us; they take our thoughts away from our studies, and—and lead us into temptation. No circus, no tent; no tent, no guy-ropes; no guy-ropes, no—ahem—coincidences!”

“Besides,” said Tom, “you and I will be too busy trying to pass final exams to have any time for circuses.”

“That’s all right for you fellows,” said Gerald mournfully, “but I like circuses, and I want to go next year.”

“Away with vain regrets,” cried Alf gayly. “Comfort yourself with the knowledge that you have witnessed the glorification of Yardley and the discomfiture of Broadwood. Recall, I pray, the lines of the poet:

“‘Something accomplished, something done
To earn a night’s repose!’”

Of course the Faculty didn’t remain long in ignorance of the incident and the next morning Mr. Collins read the School a short but eloquent lecture on the subject of Behavior in Public. But the matter ended there. A Second Class boy named Farnham, seeking Mr. Collins’ room the evening before by appointment, had found the host and Mr. Austin, another of the instructors, laughing loudly, and although they had sobered down instantly when they had heard his knock on the partly opened door, Farnham had overheard enough to convince him that the subject of their mirth had been the tent episode. When this had percolated through School, as it very shortly did, all fear of punishment faded. Mr. Collins wasn’t formidable when he laughed.

A few days later Mr. Pennimore’s retinue of servants came down from the city and opened Sound View for the summer. Gerald spent an hour at the station that morning between recitations watching the stablemen unload the horses and traps and hobnobbing with Higgins, the chauffeur, who, having driven his car down by road, was taking a hand in the unloading. In the afternoon Gerald went over home and patronized the housekeeper until the good soul was quite in awe of him. The house was all ready for Mr. Pennimore’s arrival, and that gentleman was expected in two or three days. Gerald spent a half hour in his own rooms going through his belongings. Strange to say, many things which had been precious to him not much more than six months before to-day held no attractions. Very soon he had a pile of toys and playthings in the middle of the floor and was directing their removal and destruction. He got his stamp albums down and looked through them listlessly, replacing them with a frown.

“Any fellow can collect stamps,” he muttered. “I’m going to give those away to someone. Maybe Harry would like them.”

Then he climbed the stairs to the gymnasium which his father had had arranged for him three years before and looked about it superciliously. It wasn’t much like the gymnasium at school, he thought. He did the giant swing on the rings, pulled once or twice at the chest-weights and turned his back on the room.

“Good enough for a kid,” he muttered as he went downstairs, “but I won’t use it much, I guess.” He looked at his watch, found he had still time to reach the field before baseball practice ended, and took his departure.

Two days later, just at noon, as he was crossing from Oxford to Clarke the boom of a gun reached him. Hurrying to the edge of The Prospect, he looked seaward. There, circling in toward Sound View, a little cloud of smoke still wreathing at her bow, was a great white steam yacht. It was the Princess! With beating heart Gerald watched. The big boat slowed down, an anchor splashed into the sea, and the jar and jangle of the chain running through the hawse-hole came to him. Amidship a boom swung outward, a little launch was lowered from deck to water, white-clad figures moved here and there, and then a form in dark clothes went down the steps, and—

But now Gerald was racing down the terrace, across the bridge and along the wood path to meet his father.

CHAPTER XIX
WHAT PELL SCHOOL DID

Dan learned of Mr. Pennimore’s arrival after school.

“I told him you couldn’t come over this afternoon,” said Gerald, “on account of practice. So he said I must bring you to dinner at seven.”

“Gee! I’d like to go,” answered Dan wistfully, “but there wouldn’t be anything I could eat, I guess. It isn’t exactly a training table you folks set, Gerald. Besides, even if you had cold roast beef or poached eggs and such things, I’d want to eat the whole menu. I wish I wasn’t in training.”

“You don’t either,” said Gerald indignantly. “You’re mighty proud of it, and you know it! My! I wish I was in your place! Harry Merrow says you’re certain to get into the Broadwood game, Dan.”

Dan shook his head sadly.

“Merrow is a good little chap,” he said, “but I’ll never get into the Broadwood game unless they let me in for a minute at the end to give me my Y. And as I’ve got two more years that isn’t likely. Of course I don’t want anything to happen to Condit, but—” Followed an eloquent silence.

“You can play just as well as he can,” said Gerald stoutly.

“No, I can’t. That is, I know the game as well, maybe, but he’s been on the team a year already and he knows what to do and how to do it. He’s had more experience. Oh, I don’t care—much. Maybe I’ll make it next year. The trouble is, though, that Condit will be here then, too.”

“Danforth won’t, though,” replied Gerald. “He’s a First Class man. You might make second next year, Dan.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Dan more cheerfully. “I’d rather make second, too. Why don’t you bring your father up to-morrow to see the game, Gerald? Wouldn’t he care for it?”

“I will. It’s Pell School, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and the last game before Broadwood. We’re going to get licked, they say. Now, about this evening, Gerald. I can’t come to dinner but I want to see your father awfully. Suppose I come over afterwards?”

“Of course! And we’ll come home together. Father can’t understand why I don’t want to go over there to live. But he says I can stay on here until school closes if I’ll take luncheon and dinner with him. I must see Mr. Collins about it.”

“And I must dig out for practice. I guess, though, there won’t be much work this afternoon. Hello, did someone knock?”

It was Harry Merrow. He wanted Gerald to go canoeing with him, but Gerald explained that his father had returned and that he was going over there for the afternoon. So Harry decided to go down to the field with Dan and watch practice. They parted in front of Oxford, Gerald running in to the Office to get permission from Mr. Collins to spend all the time he wanted at Sound View and the other two continuing around to the gymnasium. Dan found himself on third base when practice began, for, although the regulars were to have an easy time of it in view of the hard contest set for the morrow, the substitutes were put through a strenuous afternoon.

Supper over, Dan set out for Sound View and found a hearty welcome awaiting him. Mr. Pennimore had to have a full account from Dan of everything that had transpired since his departure abroad. Dan tried to hurry over that part of his narrative which concerned Gerald’s unannounced departure from school, but Mr. Pennimore wanted full details. He shook his head when Dan had finished.

“I didn’t think you were of the run-away kind, Gerald,” he said regretfully. Gerald looked rather ashamed.

“Well, sir, it was a silly thing to do,” said Dan, “but Gerald had a lot of troubles about that time, Mr. Pennimore.”

“Running away doesn’t help,” replied Gerald’s father dryly. “The troubles can always run faster than you can. Next time, son, you hold your ground and fight it out.”

“Yes, sir, I will next time,” answered Gerald. “I—I know better now.”

“Well, that’s something. I don’t see but what you’ve been learning a good many things—beside algebra.”

“Yes, sir,” said Gerald meekly. Dan smiled as he caught the twinkle in Mr. Pennimore’s eye.

“I suppose you’re doing pretty good work in algebra now, son?”

“I expect to get C plus, sir,” said Gerald eagerly.

“C; hm; that’s the highest mark, is it?”

“N-no, sir, you can get a B—sometimes.”

“How about an A?”

Gerald shook his head decidedly. “Not from Kilts, sir. They say he never gave anyone an A but once and then it was a mistake.”

“That’s true, sir,” laughed Dan. “B plus is about the best you can expect from Kilts.”

“Well, if that is so you’re doing pretty well, aren’t you, Gerald?”

“Yes, sir; Kilts says so himself.”

“And how about other studies?”

“Oh, I don’t mind them,” replied Gerald carelessly. “Maybe I will get an A in English. Say, though, you just ought to have been here and seen the Class Games! Weren’t they great, Dan?”

And thereupon the conversation switched from the dangerous topic of studies to the enthralling one of baseball. Dan’s suggestion that perhaps Mr. Pennimore would like to see the morrow’s game with Pell School was well received and Mr. Pennimore promised to accompany Gerald to that event.

“I had already promised myself a vacation until Monday,” he said, “so I could see something of this good-for-nothing boy of mine. I find, however, that my appearance on the scene is of much less interest to him than the next ball game. I’m afraid you’ve pretty effectually weaned him away from me, Dan?”

“We’re all rather excited about baseball just now, sir,” replied Dan apologetically.

“And you’ve got to go over to Broadwood, sir, and see the big game!” exclaimed Gerald eagerly. “You will, won’t you? We could go over in the car and have a dandy time. You could ride over with us, couldn’t you, Dan?”

“Afraid I’ll have to go in the barge with the team,” answered Dan. “I wish you could see that game, though, Mr. Pennimore. It will be a fine one.”

“Well, we will see. Perhaps I can. Saturday, you say? I’ll think it over.”

Mr. Pennimore watched the contest the next afternoon from a seat in the grand stand, Gerald beside him. Mr. Pennimore didn’t know when he had last seen a baseball game and he had to have a good many things explained to him. But he had a competent and willing tutor, and long before the game was at an end he had become imbued with some of Gerald’s enthusiasm, and, if he didn’t jump out of his seat every two minutes and yell himself hoarse after the manner of his companion, he became much interested and shared Gerald’s sorrow and disappointment at the outcome of the match.

For Yardley went down in ignominious defeat that day. Ignominious is not too strong a term, either. Yardley played, to quote Payson, the coach, “like a lot of babies.” Just what the trouble was no one seemed to know, although one heard all sorts of explanations offered after the game was over and Pell School had departed, cheering and happy, with one more victory added to their long list for the season. Yardley had played mighty poor ball; that was the long and short of it. They seemed to have forgotten everything they had ever known about batting, fielding, base-running, and team work. Even the redoubtable Colton, who had been sent into the box in the sixth inning to save the game, had failed to pitch his wonted game, and had been unmercifully slammed around the lot. The final score was 8 to 1, and an unbiased critic, had there been one on hand, would have told you that the score didn’t begin to show the relative merits of the two teams as they played that day. Pell School simply overwhelmed her opponent, taking quick advantage of every misplay, batting like National Leaguers, and running the bases like mice.

Payson was discouraged. There had been no slump all season, and now it had come at the eleventh hour, and he very greatly doubted whether in the four days of practice which remained before the final game the team could be brought together again in condition. It was one of the worst slumps he had ever had to contend with, and the situation looked pretty desperate to him.

The team and substitutes trotted back to the gymnasium after the game with no pleasant anticipations. That they would receive a frightful wigging from Payson was a foregone conclusion; that some of them might lose their places was not improbable. But Payson, after looking over the tired, anxious faces before him for a moment, closed his lips tightly, swung on his heel and left them. He might, he told himself, have said a great many things, but they were in no condition to hear them. Fault-finding wasn’t going to help at this crisis. If the fellows were to be brought back to their game, they must be rested and encouraged, and encouragement was something Payson couldn’t give them that afternoon.

His unexpected departure left the team dazed, and for a moment no one made a sound. Then little Durfee, the shortstop, who was only a Third Class boy and might be forgiven a show of emotion, put one bare arm over his eyes and began to sob. That broke the tension.

“Well,” said Millener grimly, “what he had to say must have been pretty bad if he couldn’t say it. Now, look here, you fellows!”

Every one turned toward him, and even the rubber stopped his administrations.

“Payson couldn’t talk, but I can. And I say we—mind you, I say we, for I was as rotten as any of you—I say, we ought to be whipped, every one of us, for the fool exhibition we made of ourselves to-day. You know it, too. There wasn’t a man on the team played his real game. We were a poor lot. That’s all for that. There’s another week before the Broadwood game. It’s enough, too. Let’s get down to work on Monday and put our hearts into it. I don’t say let’s forget to-day’s game; I say let’s remember it. Let’s remember it a week from to-day, and show Broadwood that we aren’t the lot of rotters Pell School made us look to be. Let’s show the School that we can play ball, after all, and that they aren’t mistaken in putting faith in us. Let’s work—and fight—and play the game as we can play it! What do you say?”

What they said was a lot. And it was very loud and very earnest, and after they had said it every fellow felt a whole lot better, even little Durfee drying his eyes shame-facedly, and summoning a brave smile to his face.

Dan felt the enthusiasm as well as the rest, and only wished that he might have the chance that the others would have of proving himself. He had sat on the bench all the afternoon, watching and waiting and hoping. But, irony of ironies, where all the team had played poor ball, there was one who had done a little better than the rest; and that one was Condit! Dan was disheartened. Even Danforth, the crack second baseman, had been outplayed by Condit; in fact, Danforth had managed to make about as poor an exhibition of himself as possible, letting hit after hit go through his position, and missing more than one throw to second. But Danforth’s demoralization brought Dan no comfort, for Danforth, he knew, was a fellow who would make good the next time; Danforth had proved himself time and again. No, try as he would, Dan couldn’t see himself in the Broadwood game, and he took his way back to Clarke, the one silent member of the little throng of players and substitutes, feeling rather out of it.

But by Monday he had reached a more philosophical frame of mind. Up until Saturday he had hoped. Now he had stopped hoping and found that he could be quite cheerful. He might possibly get into the game for an inning or a half an inning, and, anyway, there was another year coming. Besides, life was pretty busy nowadays, and there wasn’t much time for thought, happy or regretful. In a little more than a week Graduation Day would come, bringing the end of the school year and the commencement of the Summer holidays. Meanwhile, the First Class fellows went about with worried countenances and absent-minded glances, being in the middle of final examinations. All the other fellows were doing finals, too, but it isn’t so serious when you’re not graduating and when a diploma doesn’t depend on your ability to present in a few hours what it has taken you a whole school year to store up.

The Weather Man had evidently determined to do all he could to make the final week of school memorably pleasant. Monday started in with a clear sky, and the hottest of June suns. Tuesday the sky was even bluer and clearer, and the sun hotter. And so it went, day after day, with the thermometer up in the eighties. What breezes there were, were tiny, timid, ineffectual little breaths that scarcely stirred the limp leaves. On Thursday a great bank of white clouds rolled up from the horizon and at three o’clock a mighty thunder storm was splitting open the heavens and deluging the earth. It lasted only an hour or so, however, and then went off muttering and rumbling into the east, and the sun came out again as jovially ardent as ever. Friday brought unclouded skies, and Saturday dawned hot and clear, and the School, final examinations over with for good or bad, and only the Broadwood baseball game to think about, rejoiced and was glad.

But I am far ahead of my story, for many things happened before Saturday’s sun came blazing up out of the east.

CHAPTER XX
THE SLUMP

Contrary to expectation, Monday’s baseball practice was easy and short. Payson was affable, smiling, unhurried. Apparently he hadn’t a care in the world to-day. There was a brief session at the batting net, followed by fielding practice for infielders and outfielders. And then, when the fellows looked for a game with the Second team, Payson waved his hand in dismissal.

The players were distinctly disappointed. They had nerved themselves up for a hard afternoon, determined to work as they had never worked before, and they hadn’t been given a chance to distinguish themselves! They felt cheated and cast somber looks at the coach as they trotted off. They had been fully prepared, even anxious, to suffer martyrdom, and instead had been treated like so many little kids. It wasn’t fair! They wanted to be raged at, scolded, driven; and here they were trotting up the hill to the gymnasium after the easiest sort of practice, as fresh and untired as you please! What sort of a way was this to prepare for the Broadwood game? Didn’t Payson realize that there remained only three days for practice? They talked it over amongst themselves disgustedly and the consensus of opinion was that Payson believed them to be stale and was afraid to work them.

“Stale!” exclaimed Alf. “Poppycock! Why, if I felt any better I’d go to work!”

“Well, he will take it out of us to-morrow,” said Danforth hopefully, and every one brightened up. But Danforth was mistaken, for Tuesday’s practice was much like Monday’s. They were kept out a quarter of an hour longer, but Payson still wore the same look of untroubled ease he had worn the day before, and not once did he find fault. Corrections were suggested pleasantly now and then, but no harsh, compelling demands to “Ginger up, now!” or “Get into it! Get into it!” passed the coach’s lips. When he wasn’t batting up, Payson stood, for the most part, in tranquil conversation with Andy Ryan, the trainer.

The result was that Captain Millener and the players themselves took affairs into their own hands, and as soon as it became evident that Payson didn’t care whether they worked hard or not, they began to make things hum. While it lasted it was the snappiest practice of the year. When, all too soon, Payson called a halt, the fellows went off secretly exultant; they had done their work well in spite of Payson!

“I guess we showed him!” whispered little Durfee to Reid, casting a triumphant glance at Payson. “We’ll win that game Saturday whether he wants us to or not!”

After the fellows had left the field, Payson and Ryan fell into step and followed them up the path to the gymnasium. There was admiration in the trainer’s tone as he turned to the coach with:

“Well, sir, it worked like you said it would! I’d never have believed it!” Payson nodded.

“Yes,” he replied, “they think they’re getting the best of me, and they’re tickled to death.” He smiled. “I’ll have to give them a little stiffer practice to-morrow, or they’ll mob me!”

But there was one player who, even though he was only a substitute, wasn’t fooled. That was Dan. He and Alf talked it over in the latter’s room that evening, while Tom and Gerald played chess.

“Don’t you fool yourself,” said Dan. “Payson knows what he’s doing, Alf. This afternoon when Millener was ragging Smith for not running in with the ball after catching a fly, I saw Payson grinning away like anything. He thought no one was looking. But I was. He just made up his mind that if he let you fellows alone for a few days you’d get mad and play the game just to spite him! And you’re doing it, too!”

“‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,’” murmured Alf. “Well, maybe you’re right, O Solomon the Great. I believe you are. For it isn’t like Payson to get cold feet; he isn’t a quitter, not by a long shot! Anyhow, it worked. We had the worst case of slump I ever did see last Saturday, and now every fellow’s on his toes again, and just aching for work. If we keep it up we’ll give Broadwood the biggest surprise of their lives on Saturday. I wouldn’t be surprised if that licking that Pell School gave us turned out to be a very fortunate thing. We’re all hot under the collar about it. We want to get back at some one, and Broadwood’s the only victim in sight. Yes, I believe there’ll be a whole lot doing Saturday! Say, that was a dandy two-bagger of yours to-day. Just a nice, clean hit that came when it was needed. Why don’t you do that sort of thing oftener? You’d make the team in a minute, if you did.”

“Oh, I guess it was an accident,” replied Dan. “I’ve about concluded that it’s always an accident when I connect with the ball. I can’t judge ’em for a cent.”

“Well, keep at it. We’ll have you on second next year, all right. How did you get along with exams to-day?”

“Fair, I guess. How about you?” Alf made a face.

“Bad. I couldn’t remember a thing they’d ever taught me in math this morning. Still, I answered five out of nine, and that’s something. Oh, I’ll pass all right, I guess.”

“I did better than that,” laughed Dan, “but I don’t know how many answers were correct. By the way, Gerald, I sat next to your friend Thompson at exams this morning. I think he wanted to ask after your health, only Old Tige kept too close a watch on us.”

Gerald paused in his battle and looked across with a smile.

“If he ever does ask after my health,” he responded, “you just tell him that I’m feeling strong and willing.”

“Good boy!” laughed Alf. “It’s remarkable, though, isn’t it, the way Gerald’s bloodthirstiness has waned? A couple of months or so ago he couldn’t wait to engage Thompson in mortal combat. And now that I’ve taught him how to fight he just sits around and plays chess with questionable characters.”

“You do love a scrap, Alf, don’t you?” asked Dan with a smile. Alf nodded.

“Pretty well, thanks. My trouble is that I can’t find any one to scrap with I can’t lick with both eyes shut.” He looked slyly at Tom. Tom grunted without raising his eyes from the chess board.

“Both eyes shut before or after the scrap?” asked Gerald innocently.

“That’ll be about all from you, young Mr. Pennimore,” replied Alf. “I’m disappointed in you. I thought you were going to square yourself with Thompson as soon as you could use your hands a bit. What’s the trouble? Have you two kissed and made up?”

“I just don’t take any notice of him any more,” replied Gerald calmly. “If I quarreled with him now, he’d think it was because he kept me out of Cambridge.”

“I suppose he did do it?” inquired Tom.

“Of course,” Alf answered. “Who else was there? But you’re right, Gerald; you can’t quarrel with him for that.”

“It isn’t absolutely necessary for Gerald to quarrel with Thompson about anything, is it?” asked Dan idly.

“N-no, I suppose not,” Alf laughed. “Only it seems such a waste of—of ability! Here’s Gerald a perfectly good boxer and nothing doing.”

“I’ve got the punching-bag,” said Gerald. “I’ve been giving that some awful jolts, Alf.”

“Serves it right. Say, Tom, do you remember the mean trick the fellows put up on Tubby Jones last year? Did Tubby ever tell you about that, Dan? I guess he wouldn’t, though; Tubby never relished jokes on himself much.”

“I don’t remember,” said Tom. “Tubby had so many jokes played on him. What was this one, Alf?”

“I was thinking of the time Warren and Hadlock and Dyer and two or three other fellows tied the punching-bag back, and—”

“I remember,” chuckled Tom. “It almost killed Tubby, though.”

“He was more scared than hurt,” said Alf.

“What was it?” Dan asked. “What did they do?”

“Took a piece of stout cord and tied one end to the punching-bag; hitched the other end of the cord to one of the ladders, and pulled the bag back until it was leaning over about like that, at an angle of forty-five degrees. Then Warren told Tubby he’d give him half a dollar if he’d stand still and watch the minute hand of the clock for five minutes. You see, Warren told him he couldn’t stay awake that long.”

“That wasn’t it,” interrupted Tom. “Tubby was always leaning against something when he wasn’t sitting down or lying down, and Warren bet him he couldn’t stand up straight for five minutes. Tubby thought he could, and needed the money.”

“Was that it? Well, anyhow, Tubby took the bet, and Warren and Hadlock and some others went out on the floor and put Tubby in front of the punching-bag, opposite the clock.”

“Gee!” murmured Gerald.

“So Tubby plants himself with his back to the bag, and Hadlock says ‘Go!’ and Tubby watches the clock. ‘One minute,’ says Hadlock. ‘Two minutes.’ And then, ‘Three minutes!’ Poor Tubby’s eyes were watering from watching the minute hand so hard, and he was grinning like a catfish at the thought of winning the fifty cents. Then, ‘Four minutes!’ announces Hadlock, and the crowd, which had grown pretty big by this time, begins to cheer. ‘Four and a half!’ says Hadlock, and then Dyer comes down on the cord with his knife—zip!—and Mister Bag shoots out—biff!—and Tubby does a grand tumble. The bag hit him square on the back of the head and he went about five feet through the air before he landed. Luckily they’d spread a couple of mattresses in front of him. If they hadn’t, he might have broken his nose, for he came down plumb on his face. It was the biggest surprise Tubby ever had, I guess, and he was so scared when they picked him up that he couldn’t speak. After a bit he found his tongue, though, and then the things he said were a plenty. Hadlock tried to soothe him down; told him it was a shame he’d lost by half a minute, and if he liked they’d try it again. But Tubby wasn’t enthusiastic.”

“Was he hurt?” asked Gerald anxiously.

“No, not a bit; except that he had a bad headache the rest of the day, I believe. That did Tubby good, though, Tom. He was never nearly so fresh after that.”

“He needed it,” Tom grunted. “He wasn’t so bad when he roomed with you last Fall, Dan, but the year before he was an awful little fat beast. Your move, Gerald.”

CHAPTER XXI
DROWNED!

The next afternoon, Wednesday, baseball practice started off with a dash that secretly delighted Payson’s heart. Outwardly, however, he was as calm and untroubled as ever. Alf had confided Dan’s theory to Millener, but the captain had let it go no further, and the team still labored under the delusion that they were spiting the coach. At the batting net, fellows who were scarcely known to hit the ball safely, worked in a perfect frenzy of ambition and pounded the leather all around the field. This put Reid, the substitute pitcher, on his mettle, and a regular duel ensued between him and the eager batters.

Gerald and Harry Merrow, on their way to the boathouse, paused a while behind the net and watched proceedings. One by one the players faced Reid until he had made some sort of a hit; Millener, Colton, Loring, Condit, Danforth, Durfee, Richards, and so on down the list of first team men and substitutes. When Alf cracked out a long, low drive that would have been good for three bases in a game, Gerald howled with glee, and again, when Dan managed to send a hard, low one just over Reid’s head, Gerald shouted “Good for you, Dan!” and didn’t at all mind the amusement he created. When the players left the net and trotted over to the diamond, Gerald and Harry continued on their way to the river, discussing the nine and the chances of victory. Harry was pessimistic.

“Broadwood’s got a crackajack of a team this year,” he said. “Look at the way they licked Porter! And that fellow Herring, their best pitcher, is a wonder. I saw him pitch last year.”

“Is he better than Colton?” asked Gerald. Harry frowned and hesitated.

“Well, he’s as good. But he isn’t the all-round player that Colton is. Colton can bat, you know; he’s the best batter we’ve got.”

“Alf Loring’s good, too,” said Gerald jealously.

“You bet he is! He and Colton are both dandies! Oh, it’s going to be a ripping game, all right. I wouldn’t miss it for anything. But, just the same, I look to see Broadwood win, say about five to four, or something like that.”

“I don’t believe she will,” answered Gerald.

“Want to bet?” asked Harry eagerly.

“I don’t bet, but—say, I’ll tell you what I will do, Harry. I’ve got a dandy stamp collection; three big books; some of them cost a lot of money. I’ve got almost all the real rare ones, too. Do you collect?”

“Yes, I used to. But I haven’t had any new ones lately. Why?”

“Well, if Broadwood wins I’ll give you my collection.”

“The—the whole thing?” asked Harry incredulously. Gerald nodded. Harry thought a moment, and then asked suspiciously;

“And if we win, what do I give you?”

“Nothing. If you did it would be just the same as betting, and father won’t let me bet. Is it a go?”

“Sure!” answered Harry. “Only—only it’s pretty one-sided, isn’t it? It doesn’t seem just right to take the stamps, Gerald.”

“That’s all right. Besides, I don’t believe you’ll have a chance. We’re going to win.”

“You wait and see,” said Harry. “How many stamps have you got?”

“I haven’t counted them lately,” replied Gerald carelessly. “Over two thousand, though.” Harry whistled. “I guess it’s only fair, though, to tell you that I—I’m tired of them. If you win I shan’t care much about the stamps, I mean.”

“I shall,” laughed Harry. “I don’t really want Broadwood to win, but—but, gee, I’d like to have those books!”

They lifted their canoe out, set it in the water and climbed into it.

“Where’ll we go?” asked Harry.

“Let’s go up to Flat Island, and then into Marsh Lake on the way back,” answered Gerald. “There’s Dyer and Burgess up there in that blue canoe. See ’em? Ready?”

They dug their paddles and headed upstream. There were a good many canoes out and Gerald and Harry had one or two brisk encounters on the way up. At Flat Island several canoes were pulled up onto the shore and a number of fellows were lolling about in the shade of the willows. They went on by the island for a quarter of a mile to where the river narrows, and then turned and floated back with the tide. Harry had got over his nervousness and no longer insisted on being close to shore.

“This is something like,” he said, settling comfortably down in the stern, where, with just a touch of his paddle now and then he could keep the canoe’s nose pointed right. And Gerald, laying his paddle across his knees, agreed. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the river never looked lovelier. It was pretty warm, but now and then a little breeze crept across the marshland, waving the tall, lush grasses, and brought relief. The river reflected the intense blue of the sky, the willows and alders along the bank were vividly green, and to Gerald came the fanciful thought that Nature was divided in its allegiance, displaying equally the colors of Yardley and Broadwood.

“Just the same,” he muttered half aloud, with a glance at the sky, “the blue’s on top!”

“Eh?” asked Harry sleepily.

To the left, over on the links, seven couples dotted the turf. Golf enthusiasts these, so intent on following the little white spheres that they had no thought for the temperature. Further along was the field, sprinkled with the blue-and-gray-uniformed ball players. Occasionally, when the breeze died away, the sharp crack of ball against bat reached the occupants of the canoe. Presently the mouth of the tiny stream which wound inward to Marsh Lake was reached, and the lads took up their paddles again to battle with the sluggish current. The canoe was headed in between the tall rushes, which in places almost met across the little passage, and all their ingenuity was required to keep their shallow craft from running aground on the bars and flats. It was very hot in here, and swarms of blood-thirsty mosquitoes were lying in wait for the adventurers.

“Who suggested coming in here?” asked Gerald, pausing in his paddling to defend himself from the hungry horde.

“You did,” responded Harry. “Don’t you wish you hadn’t? I’m just a mass of bites already.”

“Well, let’s get out of it,” said Gerald.

“Let’s keep on; it’s only a little ways more.”

Another turn of the winding stream and the bushes gave way and the canoe floated on Marsh Lake, a good-sized sheet of water, set in a wide, green sea of marsh grass and rushes, which extended for a good half-mile to the westward, and perhaps half that distance north and south. Now and then a clump of low bushes or a group of small willows stood up above the surrounding flatness. Blackbirds and bobolinks and sparrows held high carnival amidst the swaying reeds, frogs splashed and challenged gruffly, and the hum of thousands of insects filled the air. Into and out of the lake dozens of little streams made their way, all so much alike that it was the custom to thrust a paddle into the bank as one entered, so as to distinguish the outlet toward the river from the other streams which meandered in meaningless fashion across the marsh, twisting and doubling, and, in many cases, leading nowhere at all. So Harry stuck his paddle down into the mud at the bottom of the lake, near the margin, and left Gerald to propel the craft across the unruffled water.

They went very quietly, for sometimes there were adventures awaiting the visitor to Marsh Lake. It was a favorite place for ducks and loons and snipe, and more than one heron had been surprised there. But to-day they discovered nothing more remarkable than two big mud turtles, which slipped into the water from the log upon which they had been sunning themselves. A pair of kingfishers came winging across the marsh, looking for supper, but the first glimpse of the canoe sent them wheeling northward, scolding discordantly. Gerald paddled slowly around the lake, fighting off the mosquitoes, which, if less troublesome here than in the stream, were still annoying.

“Let’s go back,” he said finally. “There’s nothing here to-day. Sometime I’m coming up here to catch a turtle.”

“A dip-net’s the thing for them,” said Harry knowingly. “I’ve got one at home, and I’ll bring it along in the Fall.”

“I’ve heard you could catch them with a hook and a piece of raw meat,” Gerald replied. “I’d like to try it some time. Where’s that paddle, Harry?” Harry looked around.

“It ought to be over there,” he said finally, “but I don’t see it.”

“Neither do I. I thought, though, that—There it is; see? Gee, it’s lucky we put it there! I’d never have gone out that way.”

“I would,” answered Harry. “The river’s toward the east, you know, and—”

“And there are at least five outlets in that direction,” finished Gerald sarcastically, as he sent the canoe across the pond to where the paddle stuck out of the water.

“Stop paddling,” said Harry. “I can get it.”

He reached out and took hold of the paddle and gave it a tug.

“Come out of that,” he grunted.

“Wait till I push up nearer,” advised Gerald.

“Never mind; I can get it,” was the reply. Harry stood up gingerly in the canoe, and gave a mighty tug at the paddle. It came up so quickly that he lost his balance, the paddle flew over his head, and the canoe rocked dangerously. Making a frantic effort to recover his balance, Harry fell with one knee against the opposite edge of the craft, and in the next moment both boys were in the water.

Gerald came up sputtering and laughing. “You’re a nice one!” he cried. He had kept hold of his own paddle, but the one which had caused the catastrophe was floating a good ten feet away, while the canoe, which had promptly righted itself, was rocking sluggishly, half full of water, just beyond reach. Gerald thought he could touch bottom, but when he tried it, he found that in spite of the fact that he was hardly a dozen feet from shore, he was still over his depth. Then he looked for Harry. That youth was nowhere to be seen, and Gerald, with one hand on the canoe, stared about him in perplexity and a growing uneasiness.

“Harry!” he called.

There was no answer. The surface of the pond was still and untroubled. For an instant he thought that perhaps his companion had waded ashore, and was hiding in the bushes and reeds. But there hadn’t been time for that. With growing horror, Gerald realized that Harry had not come to the surface after he had sunk; that he was down there—somewhere—caught, perhaps, in the mud—drowning!

A wild desire for flight almost overpowered him. For a moment longer he clung desperately to the canoe, white of face and with staring eyes fixed in terror on the calm surface of the treacherous pond. Then, with an inarticulate cry and an awful fear clutching at his heart, he tore himself loose from the canoe and dove.

Baseball practice had been longer to-day, and a five-inning game with the Second Nine had brought it to a close at a few minutes before five. Up in the gymnasium there was a merry babel of voices, mingled with the rushing of water in the shower baths. Dan had played at third for a part of the time, and now, glowing from his work and the subsequent shower, he was dressing himself leisurely and happily in the locker-room, listening to the talk about him, and now and then throwing in a word. The windows were open and the steam was writhing out into the sunlight. Payson had taken his departure and the discussion of the day’s work was free and untrammelled. To be sure, Andy Ryan was still present, but every one knew that Andy never carried tales. And so Lawrence, who played rightfield, and was in the First Class, wasn’t mincing matters in his loud criticism of Payson. Millener was trying to “call him down,” but every one was talking at once, and his efforts were not very successful. The discussion was waxing vehement when the swinging door at the foot of the stair was thrown open and an excited youth stumbled in.

“Have you fellows heard the news?” he cried.

“‘Have you fellows heard the news?’ he cried.”

The confusion ceased and all faces turned toward him.

“Young Pennimore and another fellow, Merrill, or something like that, were drowned just now over in Marsh Lake!”

CHAPTER XXII
THE RESCUE

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then twenty voices broke into ejaculations of surprise and dismay, and the bearer of the tidings was surrounded by a questioning group.

Dan sat an instant sick and faint. Then he leaped to his feet and thrust his way through the cluster of questioning fellows.

“I don’t believe it,” he said forcibly. “Where’d you hear it?”

“It’s all over school,” answered the boy. “They brought them back just now, and they’re in Merle. And Arthur Thompson was with them, and—”

“Thompson!” cried Dan. “Was he there?”

“Look here, Billy,” said Millener sternly, “did you see the—the bodies?”

“No, I was in the village. Joe Dexter told me just now in front of Oxford.”

“Did he see them?”

“I think so. Anyhow, it’s true, Millener.”

Dan felt a clutch on his arm and looked around into the anxious face of Alf.

“Come,” he said gruffly, “and let’s find out the truth about this. Where’s your jacket?”

“I don’t know; I don’t need it. Come on.” As they ran across to the entrance of Merle Hall, Dan turned fiercely to Alf. “If it’s true,” he said, “and that chap Thompson had anything to do with it, I’ll wring his neck! I’ll half kill him!”

“And I’ll help,” answered Alf grimly.

The corridor of the building was filled with an excited throng of fellows, attracted by the wild rumors which had spread about the school. Alf seized on the first fellow he met.

“Here,” he demanded, “what’s the truth about this? Has any one been drowned?”

“They don’t know yet,” was the reply. “They’re working over him now. They say—”

“Working over who?” interrupted Dan.

“Harry Merrow. They say he was under the water almost five minutes, and—”

“And Pennimore?” gasped Dan.

“He’s all right. And Thompson, too. They were here a minute ago.” Their informant glanced eagerly around in the hope of being able to exhibit them. “They had an awful time getting him up. He was stuck in the mud. Look, here comes the doctor now!”

It was the physician from Greenburg, and with him was Mr. Collins. The crowd in the corridor stopped talking and made way for them. The doctor viewed the anxious faces around him and paused.

“Now, I’m going to ask you boys to be very quiet this evening,” he announced. “Your friend is doing very nicely, but I want him to have a good long sleep. So just as little noise as possible, please!”

He passed on, and a murmur of relief grew and spread in the hall. Then by ones and twos the fellows withdrew from the building or crept tip-toeing to their rooms. Dan and Alf were already hurrying across the Yard to Clarke.

“Gee,” said Dan, taking a long breath, “I was scared!”

“So was I,” replied Alf soberly.

When they opened the door of Number 28, Gerald, attired in his dressing-gown, was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking ruefully at a pair of water-soaked white buckskin shoes. He dropped them when he saw Dan and Alf, and cried anxiously:

“How is he now?” Then he saw Dan’s white face, faltered, and sank down heavily on the bed. “He’s not—not dead?” he whispered.

“No, the doctor says he will be all right,” answered Dan hurriedly.

“Oh! You looked so—so white that I was afraid—”

“Why shouldn’t he look white?” demanded Alf gruffly. “We heard you were both drowned, you and Merrow. Some silly fool came over to the gym and told us.”

“Me? Oh, I—I’m sorry,” answered Gerald troubledly. “I didn’t know—”

“Well, you needn’t look so sad about it,” said Dan, with a little laugh as he sat down. “All’s well that ends well, but you certainly had us pretty well scared. Look here, Gerald, how about your father? Do you suppose he’s heard the yarn?”

“No.” Gerald reached over to the table and looked at his watch. “He isn’t home yet. I was going over there, but the doctor says I must go to bed. I am kind of played out. We had to paddle pretty fast coming back.”

“Who was with you?” asked Alf.

“Thompson. That was funny, wasn’t it? I guess if he hadn’t come just when he did Harry would have drowned.” He stopped and shivered.

“Here, you lie down there and pull the covers over you,” said Dan. “You’d better go to sleep, too.”

“No, I couldn’t go to sleep, really!” cried Gerald. “I’d rather talk.” But he followed Dan’s advice and snuggled down under a blanket.

“How did it happen?” asked Alf. “I can’t make heads nor tails of it.”

So Gerald told his story. Part of it we already know. The rest Gerald told as follows:

“When I went down I kept my eyes open and saw him almost at once. I thought he was drowned already, for he didn’t seem to be struggling at all, just lying down there in the mud on top of a lot of sunken branches and rubbish. He was only three or four yards from the bank, but the pond is real deep there. There’s a sort of channel where the water has cut along the side. Well, I grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to bring him up. He came about a foot and then held. I pulled and tugged, but couldn’t raise him. I stayed down until I thought my head was going to burst open, and then I came up. And as I got my head out of water and took a breath I heard a splash and saw some one dive by me. It was all terribly confused. I didn’t even wonder who the other fellow was. I just filled up with air and went down again. It was hard to see now, for the water was all roiled up with mud and sediment from the bottom, but I could make out that the other fellow had his arms around Harry and was pulling. So I got hold, too, and pulled, and all of a sudden he came away in our arms, and we came up with him and managed to get him up on the bank. Then I saw that the other fellow was Thompson.”

“How did he happen to be there?” asked Dan.

“Just by accident. He was in his canoe by himself, coming down the river, when he heard our voices across on the lake, and thought he’d paddle in and see who we were. Just before he got through the channel he heard the splash when our canoe dumped us out, and then he heard me yell. He got there just as I dived, and he went over as soon as he could.”

“Gee, that was—was—”

“Providential,” said Alf soberly, coming to Dan’s assistance. “And then what, Gerald?”

“We tried everything we knew about helping drowned persons, but nothing seemed to do much good. We got a whole lot of water out of his lungs, but he wouldn’t come to. We took turns pumping his arms and chest, and after awhile we could see that he was breathing. But it was awfully hard, for there wasn’t much room on the bank, and he kept slipping back into the water. So Thompson said we’d put him into the canoe and paddle back to school as fast as we could. So finally we got him in and we grabbed the paddles and we just made that canoe fly! It isn’t far, you know, but it seemed an awful long way this afternoon. I was afraid he’d die before we got to the boathouse. We kept shouting all the way down and finally some fellow heard us and came running down to find out what the matter was. We told him and he scooted up to the Office. We got him out of the canoe at the boathouse and started to work on him again. And then some fellows came and helped, and I keeled over in a faint. And the next thing I knew they were carrying Harry and me up the hill. I was all right by that time, though, and I made them put me down. Thompson and I waited around a minute to see how Harry was, but the doctor found us and gave us some stuff to drink and sent us home. Said we must go to bed, and not get up until to-morrow morning. That’s nonsense, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” said Dan dryly, “but I advise you to do it just the same. You won’t feel so chipper after you get over your excitement.”

“But what was the matter with Merrow?” asked Alf. “Why didn’t he come up?”

“I don’t know for certain, but Thompson says he was caught on a big branch down there.”

“But how did he happen to sink? Of course he could swim.”

Gerald hesitated. Then:

“You fellows mustn’t tell Faculty,” he said, “but I have an idea that he can’t swim a stroke. He never actually told me he could, but he gave me to understand it. He said, I remember, that Faculty wouldn’t let any one go in a canoe who couldn’t swim. But afterwards, when we went out together at first, he was awfully nervous if we went more than a few yards from shore, and once when I accidentally rocked the canoe a little, I thought he was going to jump down my throat. He got over that after awhile, though. I think that when he went over he was so scared that he just sort of—of fainted, maybe, and then got so much water in him that he was down and out.”

“Your language, Gerald, is getting more picturesque and breezy every day,” laughed Dan.

“I guess that was the way of it, though,” said Alf. “The little fool! The idea of his paddling around in a canoe and not knowing the first thing about swimming. He ought to be—be spanked!”

“I guess when he gets around again he won’t need any spanking to keep him away from canoes. Canoes are pretty good fun, but fellows ought to understand that they’re about as treacherous a craft as there is made. And if I were you,” added Dan, “I’d keep out of them awhile, too, Gerald.”

“Don’t you worry,” was the reply. “I don’t want to see one of them again for a year. Besides, I guess my father will have something to say, too.”

“I guess he will,” returned Dan grimly. “And he may have something to say to me, too. I am supposed to watch out for you, and I don’t seem to have been doing it very well. He knew you were going out in a canoe, didn’t he, Gerald?”

Gerald hesitated and colored.

“I—I don’t believe he did,” he answered finally. “I never said anything to him about it.”

“You’re a wonder!” said Dan disgustedly. “Supposing you’d been drowned to-day! A nice pickle I’d have been in, wouldn’t I?”

“Well, I guess I’d have been in a nice pickle myself,” replied Gerald spiritedly. “And it seems to me I’d be worse off than you, Dan!”

“He’s got you there,” laughed Alf.

“Just the same,” said Dan with dignity, “you haven’t played fair, Gerald, and you know it. You’ve got to tell your father all about it the first time you see him.”

“I’m going to,” answered Gerald gravely. “Will you please telephone over after awhile, Dan, and leave word for him to come over here this evening and see me? I promised to go home for dinner, and he will be worried if he doesn’t hear. And—and you might say that I got wet and was sent to bed.”

“All right,” answered Dan. “I’ll telephone. Do you think—” there was an anxious tone in his voice—“do you think he will be very angry with you, Gerald?” Gerald smiled whimsically.

“I rather think he will, Dan. But I deserve it. Don’t you trouble.”

Presently Alf remarked with a chuckle, as he got up to go;

“Well, I suppose you’ll never be able to scrap with Thompson now, Gerald. Another iridescent dream gone glimmering. Such is life!”

“No,” answered Gerald thoughtfully. “I guess we’re really square at last. If Harry had been drowned—” He broke off with an eloquent shake of his head. “Will you find out how he is after supper, Dan, and let me know?”

“Yes. And now, what do you want to eat?”

“I’m not very hungry,” replied Gerald languidly. “In fact, I think I’ll just—take a nap.” He settled down on the pillow with a contented smile and closed his eyes. Dan and Alf went out quietly, and quietly closed the door behind them.

“He will probably sleep for an hour or two,” said Alf. “We’d better tell them not to send his supper up until seven. The poor kid might as well have all the rest he can get.”

“Yes,” said Dan, “for he will probably need it. I don’t think he will have a very pleasant time explaining things to his father.”

“Think John T. will cut up rough, do you?”

“Yes, he’s awfully fond of Gerald, but—”

“But!” laughed Alf. Then, seriously: “Well, I hope he won’t be too hard on little Geraldine. He’s not a bad sort of a kid, Dan.”

CHAPTER XXIII
THE LAST PRACTICE

Dan didn’t hurry back to his room after supper, nor, for that matter, did he hurry through the meal. He and Lawrence were the last ones at the training table. Dan always found the third baseman’s conversation rather boresome, but this evening, in his desire to kill time, he stood Lawrence with equanimity, even egged him on to a further elaboration of his subject, which might have been entitled, “How I Would Train a Baseball Team if I had the Chance.” Lawrence wasn’t a bad sort of fellow; only a trifle self-assertive when it came to opinions and lamentably prosy in the presentation of them. To-night, though, Dan was ready to forgive him much. He had gone through five years at Yardley, each Spring passing with honors, and in a few days would receive his diploma. It was something of a feat, when you came to think of it, Dan reflected, and perhaps by the time he was ready to graduate he might be a much bigger bore than Lawrence.

But presently the waiters were turning out the lights over the tables here and there, and there was no excuse for further loitering. Gerald’s supper had gone over to him long before. Dan pushed back his chair, and Lawrence, still rambling on, followed him. Out in the corridor Lawrence suggested that Dan should come up to his room for a few minutes; he lived on the floor above. Dan hesitated, and then, because he was very anxious to give Mr. Pennimore plenty of time to finish his visit with Gerald and go home, he accepted the invitation. He had never visited Lawrence before and the comfort, even luxury of the big square room surprised him. Lawrence made him take the biggest and easiest chair, and then went on with his views. Dan nodded now and then, now and then pretended to question an assertion, and all the time was wondering whether it was safe to go back to his own room. After a while some other fellows came in, and Dan seized the opportunity to leave. Lawrence informed the newcomers warmly that “that chap Vinton is a mighty brainy youngster.”

Dan looked at his watch as he climbed the stairs in Clarke, and found that the time was a quarter to nine. That was comforting. Gerald’s father must have returned to Sound View before this. It was a relief not to have to face Mr. Pennimore just now. Dan felt very culpable regarding the canoe episode. He owed a good deal to Mr. Pennimore, and he had promised to look after Gerald. Just how to reconcile that promise with the fact that Gerald had been canoeing for a month past without his father’s permission was somewhat of a puzzle. When Dan reached the door of Number 28 his heart sank. He had returned too early, after all!

Gerald was still in bed, and it was not difficult to see that he had been crying. But at present he was looking quite happy, as was Mr. Pennimore, seated beside him. However severe the storm had been, reflected Dan, it had cleared away now. He greeted Mr. Pennimore and shook hands without discerning any signs of reproach nor condemnation in the other’s regard. Mr. Pennimore referred briefly and smilingly to the accident, asked for news of Harry Merrow, and expressed his pleasure when Dan assured him that Harry was practically recovered after his narrow escape.

“He heard me at the door,” said Dan, “and asked to see me. But the matron thought I’d better not go in. He sent word that you were to come and see him in the morning, Gerald.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Pennimore. “And I’ll send Higgins over after breakfast with some fruit, Gerald. He will probably like it. You can take it around to him.”

“And please have him bring me my stamp books, all three of them. They’re in my room. Elizabeth knows where they are. I’m going to give them to Harry.”

Mr. Pennimore raised his brows slightly.

“Just as you like, son, but you mustn’t forget that you’ve got a thousand dollars or so worth of stamps there. Rather an expensive present, isn’t it?”

“I don’t care for them any more,” replied Gerald. “And Harry does. I’d rather some one would have them who can enjoy them.”

“I dare say you’re right, son. I’ll send them over. And now shall we ask Dan about Friday?”

Gerald nodded eagerly.

“Well,” said Mr. Pennimore, “Gerald tells me that on Friday the Baseball Team doesn’t have any practice, and that he understands it to be the custom to give them a sort of a good time to keep their minds off the next day’s game. How about that, Dan?”

“Yes, sir, they usually take them for a walk into the country or load them onto a trolley car in Greenburg and give them a ride. I haven’t heard what they are going to do with us this year.”

“Well, now, Gerald proposes that I put the Princess at their disposal Friday afternoon, and let them have a nice, long sail. How do you think that would do?”

“Bully!” cried Dan. “They’d enjoy that, I know, sir.”

“I tried to persuade Gerald to look after the matter, but he doesn’t seem to think he ought to. Says, too, that he won’t go along, because he’s not on the nine. I tell him he ought to go and act as host, but he doesn’t see it.”

“Dan will understand,” said Gerald confidently. “I couldn’t exactly explain to father, Dan, but I know I’m right.” Dan nodded.

“Yes, I think you are. It’s rather difficult to explain, sir, but Gerald has the right idea.” Mr. Pennimore smiled and spread his hands.

“I suppose it’s a matter of school ethics, eh?” he asked. “Well, have your own way. Now, can you see the coach or the captain and tell him about this, Dan?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll see Millener, and say you’ve made the offer and that he’s to talk with you about it.”

“He can call me up on the telephone, if he likes, any time to-morrow before eight or after six. I shall be glad to have them use the yacht. I’d like to go along—if it wouldn’t infringe some mysterious law—but I shall have to be in the city Friday if I’m to take a holiday on Saturday.”

“Then you’ll want the yacht, sir,” said Dan.

“Oh, no, I’ll use the train for once. Well, I’ll leave the matter in your hands for the present. And see that this boy stays in bed the rest of the evening, Dan. Now, I must be getting back.” At the door he laid a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “Gerald and I, by the way, have been discussing canoes, Dan, and we’ve decided that they’re a bit too dangerous for young boys. Good night, good night! You’re to come over to dinner Sunday, Dan. Or—” Mr. Pennimore paused, smiled, and turned back into the room. “Look here, Gerald, how would you like to entertain the Baseball Team at dinner Sunday, eh?”

Gerald sat up eagerly.

“I couldn’t do it, sir, but you could! Will you? That would be just dandy, wouldn’t it, Dan?”

“Fine!” said Dan enthusiastically. “But there’s an awful lot of them, sir.”

“How many?”

“Pretty near twenty.”

“Pshaw, we can handle thirty if we can find them! The more the merrier, boys! I guess after the sort of training table food you told me about the other day, Dan, they’ll relish a change, eh? I’ll tell the cook to plan all the sweet, indigestible things he can think of—and pile on the whipped cream! We won’t say anything about this yet. I’ll see Doctor Hewitt and talk it over with him first. Good night, son. Get a good long sleep. Good night, Dan.”

Dan went with Mr. Pennimore to the stairs, and then returned to Gerald, and an excited discussion of the sailing party and the Sunday banquet.

The next morning Gerald was up bright and early, feeling no ill effects from the previous day’s misadventure. He soon found that he was looked on as something of a hero, and had he responded to all the requests for his story of the incident, he would never have reached commons in time for breakfast. When he did give his account of the upset, as he was forced to do at table, he gave most of the credit to Thompson.

“Shucks!” said one of his audience, “you and Thompson make me tired. He says you did it all and you say he did. I’ll bet a dollar Merrow crawled out of the water himself, while you two fellows were wrangling about who was to be the hero!”

To-day was the last day of examinations, and Gerald’s work was over early. At half-past ten he set out for Merle Hall with his arms full. He carried a big basket of fruit from the Sound View hot houses, and the three big stamp books. He found Harry still rather pale and scared looking, but eager to show his gratitude and anxious to talk. Being thanked for saving a fellow’s life was, Gerald found, rather embarrassing, and he switched Harry away from that subject as soon as he could by producing the basket and the books.

“These are the ones I told you about yesterday,” he explained of the books, when Harry had admired and nibbled at the fruit. “You know I was going to give them to you in case Broadwood won the game. But I want you to have them anyhow. So—so here they are.”

But Harry, much as he wanted them, required a good deal of persuasion before he would accept them. And then it was only with the proviso that Gerald was to have them back any time he changed his mind. Then Gerald exhibited some of the rarer treasures, and the two boys were deeply absorbed when there was a knock on the door, and Arthur Thompson entered.

“Thought I’d just drop in and see how you are,” he explained, shaking hands with Harry in an embarrassed way. He, too, had to listen to Harry’s thanks, and by this time Harry was quite an experienced hand at expressing gratitude, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy his privilege. Thompson sat through it as patiently as possible, casting sheepish glances the while at Gerald. Afterwards they went over the adventure together, each one describing his sensations and explaining his actions, and then Gerald got up to leave.

“I must go, too,” said Thompson hurriedly. “Get well, Merrow, and—er—buck up, you know.”

Gerald promised to look in again in the evening and then he and Thompson withdrew. Gerald expected the latter to leave him at the entrance, but instead of that Thompson kept step with him down the walk toward Clarke. Gerald strove to think of something to say, but without success, and the silence was growing rather embarrassing, when Thompson broke out with:

“Say, Pennimore, what have you got against me, anyway? If it’s that little row we had last Winter, why, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any harm, really.”

“I guess I haven’t got anything against you—after yesterday,” replied Gerald gravely.

“That’s the way to talk!” said Thompson, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ve noticed that you didn’t see me when we passed, and I don’t like that. I don’t like fellows to be stand-offish with me. I haven’t anything against you, and so—”

“If you haven’t anything against me,” blurted Gerald, “why did you keep me out of Cambridge?”

“Keep you out of Cambridge? Me? I never did!”

“Oh, get out!” scoffed Gerald warmly.

“Honest, I didn’t, Pennimore. Look here, I haven’t any right to tell you this, but—but if I don’t you won’t believe me, I guess. It was Jake Hiltz that blackballed you.”

“Hiltz? I don’t know him even by sight,” exclaimed Gerald perplexedly. Thompson nodded.

“I know, but he knows you. You see, Hiltz and a fellow named Jones, Tubby Jones we called him, were pretty good friends. Jones used to room with Vinton in the Fall.”

“Yes,” said Gerald. “I knew him.”

“Well, Tubby, you know, left school before the term was up; got fired or something; no one ever knew exactly what did happen to Tubby. Then you came to room with Vinton, and Hiltz—well, Hiltz resented it. That’s all. He just didn’t like to see you in Tubby’s place. And, besides that, he doesn’t like Vinton much, I think. And, anyway, he’s the sort of chap that would rather spite some one, if he could do it without being found out, than eat his dinner. I hadn’t any business telling you this, Pennimore, because we’re not supposed to tell anything that happens at election, but I didn’t want you to think I’d done any such dirty trick. And you would have thought so, even if I’d argued myself black in the face, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I think I would,” answered Gerald frankly. Thompson laughed.

“I’ll bet you would. You believe what I say, though, now, don’t you?”

“Yes, indeed. And—and I’m glad I was mistaken.”

“That’s the talk!” returned Thompson heartily. “I don’t see any use in fellows having grouches with each other. I like plenty of friends. I guess I’m pretty mean sometimes, but I’m always ready to apologize and shake hands. Let’s do that now; what do you say?”

“All right,” answered Gerald with a smile. And so they shook hands on the steps of Clarke, and Thompson went off, beaming and whistling at the top of his lungs.

There was a hard practice that afternoon, delayed by the thunder-storm. Payson was himself again, and the way he drove and scolded was a caution. But the fellows liked it and responded magnificently. It was almost six o’clock when he finally released them. Afterwards, in the locker room, he made a little speech.

“If you play on Saturday the way you played to-day,” he said, “you’ll stand a mighty good show to win. I’ve let you fellows go your own gait since last Saturday, because I saw that you were a bit fine, and I didn’t think you’d stand driving. I argued that if you really wanted to win from Broadwood, you’d work out your own salvation, and you’ve done it. I guess some of you have been calling me names.”

A good many of his hearers looked sheepish. Payson smiled grimly.

“That’s all right. I can’t blame you. I dare say it looked as though I had paresis. I hadn’t, though. I simply gave you fellows credit for some sense and fight, and I wasn’t mistaken. The way you got together and played the game just to show me, proves that. Well, we’ve had the last practice for this year, and I’ve taught you all I could. It’s up to you now. I can’t do any more. You’ve pulled together well, and you’ve pulled with me well. You’ve got a fine captain, and it will be your own faults if he doesn’t lead a winning team. To-morrow afternoon we’re going to take an outing. Mr. John T. Pennimore has offered us the use of his steam yacht for the whole afternoon, and Captain Millener has accepted with thanks. I want every fellow to go along. You’re to meet at Mr. Pennimore’s pier at two o’clock. I guess you’ll have a good time. Whether you do or don’t, an afternoon on the water will do you all good. Don’t bother your heads about Saturday’s game—yet. Plenty of time for thinking about that when Saturday comes. Broadwood has a slight advantage this year in playing on her own grounds, but we can offset that if we try. To-morrow at two o’clock, then.”

“Now, fellows, three cheers for Mr. Payson!” cried Millener, jumping onto a bench. And they were given royally. And then came three cheers for Mr. Pennimore, which would have done Gerald’s heart good had he been there to hear.

Gerald saw the baseball team, accompanied by Payson and Andy Ryan, embark on the Princess the next day with regret. He didn’t regret that Dan and Alf and Millener and Colton, and all the other baseball fellows he knew by sight and duly reverenced, were going to have a jolly afternoon together; he only regretted that he wasn’t along; and he regretted that a whole lot. But Gerald had been learning during the last six months. When he first entered Yardley he would have accompanied the team to-day without a qualm, and would have wondered why the fellows treated him coolly. Now he knew that some of the fellows would call him “fresh kid,” and almost all would hold him in contempt for showing off. So he watched the embarking from the terrace of Sound View, and afterward went up to the gymnasium, got into his dark blue gym suit, and went at the punching-bag until he was breathless, cheerful, and running with perspiration. Then he trotted down to the bath and whistled happily while the luke-warm spray enveloped his grateful body. He was quite alone down there and could make as much noise as he wanted to. At last, bracing himself for the shock, he “turned on the ice,” as the fellows said, and yelled lustily as the cold jets hissed upon him. Then, glowing and refreshed, puffing and gasping, he rubbed himself dry and dressed leisurely, whistling merrily all the while, from stockings to tie. Finally he climbed the stairs again, paused at the door in the warm afternoon sunlight to cock his straw hat a trifle over one eye in the approved Yardley fashion, and then took the path to the tennis courts in search of adventure with the little swagger engendered by mental and physical exhilaration.

CHAPTER XXIV
ON YARDLEY HILL

Although Yardley Hall is less than forty years old, it has its customs and precedents. And one of them is that on the evening preceding the Broadwood game the combined musical clubs of Cambridge and Oxford shall give a concert in the Yard. At half-past seven the performers gathered in front of Dudley and the audience distributed itself on the grass or sat at the open windows facing the Yard. It was still light up here on the hill, although below the shadows were darkening over river and marsh and meadow. Gerald and Harry, the latter up and about in a borrowed dressing-gown, sat by the open window which looked directly across at Dudley. The mandolins, banjos, and guitars set the fellows humming and whistling with “The Merry Widow Waltzes” and one or two older favorites, and then the glee clubs hummed the accompaniment and Wheelock, substitute fielder on the Nine, sang “Mighty Lak’ a Rose,” his sweet tenor voice filling the silent Yard with its mellow tones. Such an outburst of hand-clapping and applauding voices rewarded this that he was forced to sing the song over again and follow it with “A Health to King Charles.” Then the musicians started in on “Old Yardley,” and in a moment every fellow was singing lustily, in tune or out, according to his ability. Up from the grass and down from the crowded windows were hurled the defiant strains;

“Old Yardley can’t be beat, my boy,
She’s bound to win the game!
So give a cheer for Yardley and
Hats off to Yardley’s fame!”

That started the cheering. They cheered for Captain Millener, for Colton, for Loring and so on down to Payson and Andy Ryan and “the subs,” the fellows gradually gathering above the leader who had mounted the steps of Dudley. Then they cheered for “Yardley! Yardley! Yardley!” over and over. Afterwards Millener made a short speech, and was followed by Payson. There were more cheers and finally the glee clubs started “The Years Roll On.” Off came hats and in the soft, summer twilight the slow, sweet, and solemn melody rose to the darkening sky.

“The years roll on. Too soon we find
Our boyhood days are o’er.
The scenes we’ve known, the friends we’ve loved,
Are gone to come no more.
But in the shrine of Memory
We’ll hold and cherish still
The recollection fond of those
Dear days on Yardley Hill.

“The years roll on. To man’s estate
From youthful mould we pass,
And Life’s stern duties bind us round,
And doubts and cares harass.
But God will guard through storms and give
The strength to do His will
And treasure e’er the lessons learned
Of old on Yardley Hill.”

It is hard to hear that song unmoved if you are a Yardley man, and the group in front of Dudley dissolved silently, by ones and twos and by little groups, the fellows seeking their rooms or their friends’ rooms to sit at the open windows and talk of graduation, or the morrow’s contest, or the long summer vacation which was almost upon them.

Dan and Tom and Alf had listened to the concert from the window of Number 7, and after the last strain of the final song had died away they sat there in silence and watched the crowd break up and the fellows radiate across the Yard in the dusk. Finally Alf gave an impatient shake of his shoulders.

“Hang that song, anyhow,” he said, half laughing, half in earnest. “It always makes me feel so kind of teary and noble. If I was a millionaire I’d go out and give away my money. Let’s sing ‘Harrigan’ or something lively.”

“I don’t think it’s going to hurt you, Alf, to feel noble for once,” drawled Tom.

“That’s all right,” answered Alf, “but I tell you right now that if they sing that next year, just before I’m going to graduate, I’ll disgrace you and myself and the Class by boo-hooing; I’m just certain I will!”

“Don’t trouble,” said Tom soothingly. “It isn’t likely that you’ll ever graduate.”

Saturday was a “scorcher.” It started right out being a “scorcher”; even as early as seven o’clock you knew mighty well just what you were in for. At breakfast Dan turned in disgust from the hot cereal and had difficulty getting rid of the three-inch-square piece of steak and a small portion of the enormous baked potato that was set before him. The coffee scalded his throat and made him hotter still. Over at the other table, where sat the “regulars,” Payson was expostulating with Danforth, the second baseman.

“You must eat something, Danforth. You’ll be knocked up for all day if you don’t. At least put that glass of milk down and eat a roll.”

“I really can’t, sir,” Dan heard the boy answer. “I’ve had one glass already, and that’s all I want. If I eat now I won’t be able to take any luncheon. It’s so hot!”

“All right, but if you feel shaky towards eleven you come here and make them give you something; don’t wait for luncheon. Now then, fellows, I want every one of you to stay out of doors and loaf. No tennis to-day, no golf, no anything but loafing. Luncheon’s at twelve-thirty, remember, and the barges leave at one. So you want to be right on time when the doors open.”

“How about the river, sir?” someone asked. “Can we row or paddle?”

“I guess so, if you don’t do too much of it. But keep out of the sun all you can. That means you, too, you fellows,” he added, turning to the second table. “Keep out of doors, keep out of the sun, and keep quiet. Luncheon at half-past twelve.”

It was hard work getting rid of that morning. There were no lessons to learn, no recitations to attend, no examinations to tussle with. Dan and Alf found a shady spot at the edge of the woods and tried to read, but it was stifling hot, even there, and the books soon slipped out of their hands. Here Gerald found them after a while and Alf returned to a semblance of animation while he teased Gerald about the dinner party. It had been all arranged and the news was about school. Alf pretended that it was Gerald who was to give it and was vastly concerned about the cost.

At eleven Gerald left them to hurry down to Sound View and make the butler’s life a burden until the early luncheon was ready. Afterwards, when it was still only a few minutes past one, the automobile rolled around to the front door and Gerald and his father got in and sped up the hill to Merle Hall, where they took in Harry, officially pronounced well enough to see the game. Then, with flags flying, for Gerald had adorned the car with four Yardley banners, they sped off down the hill, across the bridge and away along the dusty road to Broadwood. They passed the barges half way over and received a cheer as they swept past. Gerald thought he had caught a brief glimpse of Dan in the second barge, but wasn’t certain. At all events, Dan was there and supremely happy. For at luncheon Payson had called across to him from the other table;

“Careful with your eating, Vinton. Don’t stuff. Danforth’s knocked out and you’ll start the game at second.”

CHAPTER XXV
THREE TO THREE

YARDLEY | BROADWOOD
Durfee, ss. | Cross, 2b.
Colton, p. | Gale, 3b.
Condit, 3b. | Russell, cf.
Lawrence, rf. | Boudinot, rf.
Loring, lf. | Kent, ss.
Richards, c. | Patterson, c.
Millener, 1b. | Bray, 1b.
Vinton, 2b. | Minot, lf.
Smith, cf. | Herring, p.

It was all very well to feel confident of a victory for the Blue when you were back there in Yardley with the Yardley cheers ringing in your ears, but it was rather more difficult now, when almost every person waved a Broadwood flag or wore a knot of green and when one was literally within the enemy’s camp. This was the thought that came to Gerald as he followed his father and Harry while they worked their way through the crowd about the tiny grand-stand and finally found seats on that structure. Accommodations there were at a premium, for the stand afforded the only shade about the diamond and was so small that only Faculty members, parents, friends, and students accompanying them were admitted. The rest of the spectators lined the field behind the ropes stretched along the first and third base lines, or perched themselves upon the roof and in the windows of the laboratory building which stood nearby. Broadwood’s field adjoined the campus, and from the stand one could look down a long slope of meadow and farm land for almost a mile.

Gerald confided his doubts to Harry when they had finally squeezed themselves into their seats high up under the sloping roof, but Harry had of a sudden changed from a pessimist to an optimist regarding Yardley’s chances.

“Don’t you worry,” he replied excitedly. “We’ll trim ’em for fair. Here comes Yardley now!”

The blue-stockinged team, some twenty strong, came trotting down from the gymnasium, pushed through the crowd about the ropes, hurdled over or ducked under them, and went to their bench at the right of the plate. The bench, with its little strip of gay awning above, was in full view of the stand and Gerald and Harry amused themselves with comments on the appearances of the players.

“There’s Millener,” said Harry. “Doesn’t he look great in his uniform?” Gerald admitted that he did, but insisted that Colton looked finer.

“Look at Danforth!” said Gerald a moment later. “He hasn’t got his uniform on! I’ll bet he isn’t going to play!”

“He’s sick, that’s what’s the matter with him,” responded Harry bitterly. “Look at him. He looks like a sheet of paper. Isn’t that the toughest luck you ever saw? Why, he’s one of our best players; we haven’t got anyone else can play second like Danforth!”

“Who’ll they use?” asked Gerald anxiously.

“Tufts, I guess; he’s the regular sub. But he isn’t any good. We’ll find out in a minute, though, for they’re going out to practice.” Gerald turned to acquaint his father with the heart-breaking news, but Mr. Pennimore had discovered an acquaintance in the lady at his other side and was busily engaged in conversation. Then the team trotted out for practice, and Gerald, discovering Dan amongst the players, held his breath until the youth had taken his position at second. Then he turned radiantly to Harry. But Harry had seen for himself, and their exclamations of wonderment and delight exploded together.

“Dan,” cried Gerald.

“Vinton!” cried Harry.

For the next few minutes they excitedly discussed this new development in all its phases. Mr. Pennimore was informed and expressed the proper degree of pleasure and excitement. But he made a terrible mistake the next moment when he inquired whether anyone had made a run yet. Gerald sat on him properly, informing him that the game hadn’t begun. Then Broadwood came onto the field and the cheers drowned conversation for a full minute. Yardley retired to the bench and Gerald and Harry watched the rival team’s practice with critical eyes. But they were forced to acknowledge that “Broadwood certainly could field,” and that if the Green played that way in the game, Yardley would have hard work winning. At last, at half-past two, the umpire called the captains to him, Millener of Yardley and Gale of Broadwood, and there was a minute’s conference at the plate. Then Gale turned to the bench and raised his hand.

“On the run, fellows!” he called.

Broadwood took the field and Gerald and Harry examined the Blue’s pitcher with interest as he began throwing into the catcher’s mitt to limber up. He was as tall as Colton, but slenderer, had dark hair and a rather surly expression about his mouth except when he smiled. His movements, save when actually pitching, were deliberate to a degree.

“He doesn’t look much,” confided Gerald.

“But you wait and see,” muttered Harry. “He’s all right. Here comes Durfee to bat. I say! They’ve gone and changed the batting order, haven’t they?”

“Probably because Danforth’s out,” suggested Gerald wisely. “Seems to me it’s a good scheme to have Durfee bat first, because if he does get to first he’s pretty sure to steal safely.”

Little Durfee, the Yardley shortstop, spread his legs, gripped his bat and faced the pitcher.

“Play ball!” said the umpire.

And the “Big Game” was on.

A moment later the Yardley partisans were leaping and shouting for joy. Durfee bunted past Herring and the pitcher fielded too late. Durfee was credited with a hit, but with a quicker man in the box he would never have reached first safely. But he was there, very much there, and that was enough for the wavers of the blue flags. Then came Colton, and there were cries of “Home run, Colton! Hit it out!” And in the outfield the players stepped back, for Colton’s reputation was well known. With two balls and one strike on him, Colton raised his bat in front of a waist-high ball and sent it rolling slowly toward third. Third baseman and pitcher both made for it, but it was a clean hit this time and Durfee was safe at second and Colton at first. How Yardley did shriek and yell!

“Well, I guess that’ll do for a starter!” shrieked Smith, coaching back of first. “I guess that’s going some! On your toes, now! Down with his arm!”

Herring, plainly worried, tried to throw Colton out at first, but Smith laughed derisively and Colton climbed to his feet again, dusted the front of his clothes and edged again into a lead. Herring scowled, glanced around at Durfee, who was dancing back and forth at second, and settled down to the next man, Condit. Evidently Condit thought that what had served twice would serve again, or maybe he had his orders from the bench. At all events, he, too, bunted. The ball rolled toward the pitcher’s box as straight as an arrow and Herring scooped it up. But he was rattled, threw hurriedly and the ball instead of reaching first baseman’s hands landed on Condit’s shoulder and glanced away under the rope. Little Durfee raced home, Colton went to third and Condit took second.

The Yardley cheers were deafening. Gerald and Harry pounded each other on the back and shrieked into each other’s ears, and even Mr. Pennimore was excited and kept saying “Good! Good! Good!” over and over in a voice that, owing to the noise about him, no one could possibly hear. Patterson, Broadwood’s catcher, held a consultation with Herring midway between box and plate, and everyone knew that he was trying to steady the pitcher down. That his efforts were successful was proved a minute later when Lawrence hit a ball into Herring’s territory and was thrown out neatly. However, that was only one out and Yardley was still delirious with joy.

Alf Loring was up next and he, like Colton, was enthusiastically advised to “Lam it out for a homer!” “Knock the cover off it, Alf!” He didn’t quite do that, but he managed to find one to his liking and singled to center, scoring Colton and Condit. Alf himself, however, went out trying to make second, and when Richards struck out miserably a few minutes later, the side was out and Broadwood was so relieved that she cheered long and loudly. Yardley let her cheer. With three runs already to her credit she could afford to be indulgent.

For Broadwood, Cross, second baseman, was the first man up. Colton’s first ball went wild and took Mr. Cross squarely in the ribs, dropping him where he stood, but not incapacitating him from hobbling to first a moment afterwards. So apparently painful was his progress down the line that Yardley men forbore to jeer and a murmur of sympathy arose from the feminine onlookers. Colton looked quite remorseful for a moment, but for a moment only. For just as soon as he had transferred his regard from Cross to the man at the bat, Cross, disabilities and all, streaked down to second, making one of the prettiest steals of the day and awakening peals of laughter from friend and foe alike. Dan ran to the base to cover, but Richards was taken so wholly by surprise that he didn’t even make the motion to throw down. Colton looked disgusted, tried to catch Cross napping, and turned his attention resolutely to the batsman. But Colton hadn’t found himself yet; that was apparent to everyone. With two balls and two strikes on the batsman he was unable to please the umpire and Captain Gale walked to first.

The next man came to bat and swung at a wide one and an attempt at a double steal was made. Cross, however, was out on a fast throw from catcher to third and it was a close decision that called Gale safe on second, so rapidly did the ball fly about. Such snappy work deserved applause and received it. The batsman made the second out, Colton to Millener, and right-fielder Boudinot, who followed him, fell a victim to Colton’s deceptive curves and canny change of speed. So ended the first inning, the score 3 to 0 and Yardley well pleased and confident of the outcome.

Dan’s first chance at the willow came in the next inning, after Millener, first man up, had hit a hard liner that first baseman was unable to handle. I wish I could say that Dan faced the enemy’s pitcher unflinchingly and drove out a three-bagger. But truth compels me to narrate the fact that Dan did nothing of the sort. It was his first appearance in a big game and he was distinctly nervous; and Herring and Patterson saw it and simply toyed with him. He aided in his own defeat by knocking two flies in succession, and then reached out for a wide ball and walked dejectedly back to the bench. He found the whole team smiling, not maliciously, but with a sort of “We’ve-all-been-there” expression that was rather comforting to him and helped him hold his head up again.

“You’ll do better next time,” muttered Alf, clapping him on the knee. “Just don’t let him scare you, Dan.”

Smith, who followed Dan at the bat, hit to Broadwood’s second baseman and a neat double play retired the side.

When Broadwood came up Colton was master of the situation and retired her in one, two, three order.

The first of the third found the head of the Yardley batting list up. Yardley cheers broke forth encouragingly as little Durfee selected his bat and strode to the plate. But a foul which settled with a smack into Patterson’s mitt spoiled his career at the outset. When, however, Colton smashed out a two-bagger over shortstop’s head, things looked rosy again. But Colton was too ambitious and was an easy out in trying to steal third. Condit popped an infield fly. Again Broadwood fell victim to Colton.

In the fourth inning Loring followed Colton’s example and got two bases on a drive into left field. Unfortunately he followed the pitcher’s example too closely and, like him, was put out trying to steal third.

Broadwood had a streak of luck in her half. With one down, Russell was hit by Colton and went to first. Boudinot then took advantage of Colton’s moment of upset and landed on an easy ball and sent it arching into center field. Out there there was a mix-up and Smith and Lawrence, each trying for the catch, collided and the ball fell to earth, leaving Russell on second and Boudinot on first. With only one man out, Kent sacrificed and advanced the runners. Broadwood was cheering imploringly for runs. Patterson, her catcher, looked wicked as he faced Colton. Colton settled down and pitched carefully, but Patterson was not to be denied. There was a sharp crack and away went the ball far over center-fielder’s head. That hit was good for three bases, and Russell and Boudinot scored.

Broadwood went crazy with joy and the green banners waved tumultuously. Up on the grand stand, Mr. Pennimore, Gerald, and Harry unanimously agreed that “it was perfectly rotten.” There was still a man on third and Broadwood kept up her cheering as Bray, her big first baseman, took his place at the plate. But Bray was far too eager to hit and Colton disposed of him easily.

With the score 3 to 2 in Yardley’s favor the game went on without further scoring until the sixth inning. Anyone not owning allegiance to Blue or Green would probably have voted the next inning and a half quite uninteresting. But to the audience it was all breathlessly exciting. Every move in the game was closely watched, every moment had its thrill. Dan faced the redoubtable Herring again in the fifth, and, although he was not so nervous this time, he again failed to connect with the ball. In the first of the sixth Yardley got a man as far as second, but no further.

When Broadwood came to bat in their half of this inning it was seen that the first man up was a new player. His name was Little and he had taken Russell’s place in center field. Broadwood cheered expectantly when he stepped to the plate. Evidently he had a reputation as a hitter. If he had, he fully lived up to it, for he found the second ball offered and sent it over Lawrence’s head for a home-run, tying the score and throwing Broadwood adherents into a veritable delirium of delight.

“Why didn’t Lawrence play further out?” demanded Harry angrily. “I saw Millener wave to him. I’ll bet that run will lose us the game!”

“It doesn’t look as easy as it did after the first inning, does it?” asked Gerald dubiously. “Still, we’ve got just as good a show as they have.”

“No, we haven’t. They’re beginning to find Colton now. They’ll start in and knock him all over the place, I’ll bet! You just wait and see!” Harry’s tones were so lugubrious that Mr. Pennimore thought he ought to cheer him up. So he remarked pleasantly:

“Well, well, that was a fine hit, wasn’t it?”

The remark was received with silent disgust.

Amidst renewed cheering from Broadwood, Boudinot stepped to the plate and gripped his bat.

CHAPTER XXVI
DOUBLE PLAY

But Harry’s dismal prophecy was not, for the time at least, to come true. Colton steadied down magnificently and Boudinot, Kent and Patterson were easy victims. A sigh of relief swept over the Yardley ranks as the last men went out. Fortune still smiled impartially upon the Blue and the Green alike, and there were still three innings to be contested.

A little breeze came along the hillside and brought a measure of relief to the perspiring players and spectators. The sun was almost two hours nearer the horizon.

In the first of the seventh Yardley again got men on bases, and with two out and men on first and second, Dan went to bat. As he picked out his bat he looked inquiringly at Payson, but the coach shook his head. “Do the best you can,” he said simply. Dan’s best wasn’t good enough. It was an easy hit into second baseman’s glove. Secretly, however, he was encouraged, and entertained hopes of being able to get a safe hit off the Blue’s pitcher before the game was over. That hope wasn’t realized, but it comforted Dan at the time.

Colton pitched wonderful ball in the seventh and eighth, and Broadwood could do nothing with him, although in the eighth an error on the part of Condit at third put a man safe on first, and a poor throw to second by Richards later gave the same runner another base. But he didn’t get beyond the second bag.

The ninth inning opened with Lawrence at bat for the Blue. Yardley had congregated her cheering forces back of third base and was whooping things up in great style. The time had come for a rally and the School at large meant to do all it could to bring it about. The blue-stockinged players themselves brightened up and looked more determined. Up in the grand-stand Gerald and Harry were leaning forward on the edge of the seat and breathing hard. Mr. Pennimore had lighted a cigar. As he was an infrequent smoker, Gerald knew that the cigar was to quiet his father’s nerves.

Lawrence came to bat, looking fiercely determined, and after he had struck four fouls hit the ball into first baseman’s hands. A poor beginning, that. But the cheerers seemed undismayed and when Loring followed him they gave him a cheer that was a cheer, a cheer with three “Lorings” on the end.

Alf had been batting finely and great things were expected of him. Just what he would have accomplished will never be known, for an in-shoot struck him on the wrist and he walked to first nursing the injured member and scowling fearsomely at Herring. Herring, however, was probably quite as regretful over the occurrence as Alf. Once on the bag Alf recovered his good temper and, just to prove that all was forgiven, immediately stole second amidst the wild plaudits of his friends. He made a fine slide and beat the ball by what looked to be about a half-inch, but which was probably somewhat more. Richards, looking just as grimly determined as Lawrence, singled between shortstop and third baseman, and Alf went on to third. He would have kept on for home, and might possibly have made it, had not Colton, coaching behind that base, held him. Colton came in for a good deal of criticism, but with only one out, he played it safely and wisely.

Millener went to bat with Alf on third and Richards on first. Richards was not a good man at stealing and Durfee, who was coaching at first, held him there and awaited a hit. Millener was anxious enough to hit, too; you could see that. But nothing came to his liking. Perhaps the cross-fire of coaching got on Herring’s nerves. At all events, after scoring two strikes on Millener he was unable to put another ball over, and Millener trotted to first on four balls. That filled the bases and Yardley’s cheering took on new volume and stridency. Surely the game was won now! With three on bases and only one man down, things looked very good!

But when it was seen that the man up was Vinton, the prospect didn’t appear quite so bright. Vinton had shown that while he could play his position at second to the King’s taste he was no batter. Many wondered why Payson didn’t substitute another player, one whose ability to bat was proved. The truth is that Payson didn’t dare to, as he explained afterwards. He expected the game to run into extra innings and he had no one amongst the substitutes who could hold down second satisfactorily. So he chanced it, knowing that even if Dan went out there was still Smith to depend on.

Dan, when he realized the situation and what was expected of him, rather wished for a moment that Payson had taken him out. But that was for a moment only. Then his fighting spirit arose and he determined to show them that Payson knew what he was about. So he faced Herring with a fine assumption of confidence and so impressed the latter that when the catcher called for a straight ball he shook his head and tried a drop instead. Dan was learning now, and the drop didn’t deceive him. He let it go by and heard the umpire say “Ball!” But the next delivery caught him napping, and the score was even. Then came something that looked just about right, and Dan stepped forward and struck it. But the ball went glancing back over the stop and the umpire called “Foul! Strike two!”

Dan’s heart sank then. But outwardly he only smiled grimly and took a firmer grip on the bat. The next delivery was so palpably wide that Dan didn’t even hesitate about refusing it. Then perhaps Herring was impatient, for he sent a slow ball that dropped ever so little as it neared the plate, and Dan, with a sudden suffocating sensation in his throat, swung at it hard. Bat and ball met with a comforting sound that sent him speeding down the line to first. High and far went the ball. Dan rounded first and started toward second. Then, realizing that he was blocked, he slowed up and scampered back so as not to be in the way of Millener if that player had to return to first. That was a long fly, but Broadwood’s center-fielder was under it as it came down, and Dan was out.

Over on third, however, Alf was poised, one foot on the bag, ready to sprint for home as soon as the ball touched earth or player. And the instant center-fielder caught it Alf settled his head between his shoulders and dug out for the plate. In came the ball, center-fielder to shortstop, shortstop to catcher, but it didn’t come quick enough to keep Alf from scoring. He was over the base and rolling out of the way amidst a cloud of dust when the catcher swung for him. And down on third Richards was watching hard for a chance to follow Alf in, and on second Millener was dancing exultantly about. Dan walked back to the bench and into the arms of the players there. They thumped him and shouted congratulations into his ears. They had to shout, for the cheering section was making such a noise that only shouts could be heard even over here at the bench. Dan grinned and sank into a seat. Danforth, whom Dan had displaced at second and who had been looking pretty glum all the afternoon, reached over and shook hands smilingly. Then came Alf and squeezed himself in beside Dan and rumpled his hair and punched him and beamed ecstatically. Meanwhile Smith was trying what he could do. Two balls and then a shout of joy as the ball arched up and away into left field dwindling to silence as left-fielder pulled it down, tossed away his glove and trotted in.

The side was out and the score stood 4 to 3 in Yardley’s favor. Cheered to the echo the blue-stockinged players ran into the field. The day was not yet won, and they all realized it. Some of the enemy’s best batters were coming up and if victory was to remain with the Blue it behooved the latter’s warriors to battle grandly.

“Now, then, fellows!” cried Millener. “Buck up, and get this over! Play the game!”

The last half began amidst such a pandemonium of sound as hadn’t been heard on Broadwood Field for years. Cheers for Yardley and cheers for Broadwood met in midfield and clashed heavenward in a mighty volume. Then, “Batter up, please!” called the umpire, and the final struggle was on.

Cross, the first of the foe to face Colton, was an easy proposition and struck out miserably. And Yardley acclaimed wildly. Then came Gale, the Broadwood captain. He looked at once anxious and determined. He found the first ball thrown for a safe hit over shortstop. Then it was Broadwood’s turn to shout, and she did it. After Gale came the dangerous Little, and the Yardley outfield fell further back. But although Little hit, his effort was good for only one base. Things began to look interesting now and Boudinot, after lingering at the bench for several moments listening to instructions, stepped to the plate with a gleam in his eye that put Colton on his mettle.

For a minute or two it seemed that Colton had taken his measure, for he worked two strikes on him in succession. But after that Colton couldn’t please the umpire and Boudinot walked to first and filled the bases. If there had been pandemonium before, what ensued is beyond any language I know. Back of first and third the Broadwood coachers were yelling themselves hoarse. Colton was plainly nervous, so nervous that he made the mistake of throwing to first in an attempt to catch the runner there. That almost proved disastrous, for Millener was not looking for the throw, and only stopped it by a hair’s breadth. If it had gone by, at least two men would have scored and the game would have been lost then and there. Richards walked down to the box and talked a moment with Colton, finally clapping him encouragingly on the shoulder before he returned to his mask and mitt.

Broadwood’s next man was Kent, the shortstop. He wasn’t big but he was spry and very much in earnest. He smiled derisively at the first ball and looked pained when the umpire called it a strike. He even wanted to argue about it, but the official refused to let him. So he gave his attention to Colton instead, looking quite incensed. Colton sent in an exasperating in-shoot that fooled Kent quite as fully as had the first delivery and the umpire called:

“Strike two!”

Kent got madder still, so mad that he quite forgot caution and stepped out after the next ball and, contrary to all law, found it squarely on the end of his bat. In raced the man on third, down from second went the next runner, off for second streaked the third, and away went Kent and the ball simultaneously, the former for the first bag and the latter, to all appearances, for somewhere in right center-field. Broadwood leaped deliriously and waved her banners. All this is what the first moment saw. The next saw a lad poised midway between first base and second and some yards back of the line, leap high into the air in the path of the speeding ball, saw the ball tip the upthrust glove, bound into the air, and come down in that same glove, saw the lad race to second and tag that base, and saw Broadwood’s discomfiture and defeat, Yardley’s ecstasy and victory!

Over on a corner of the Yardley bench the scorer bent over his book while the crowds overflowed the field. He was putting the finishing touches to his work, and as he figured the last summary he smiled in contentment. Here is the story the score-book told:

YARDLEY | R | H | P | A | E | BROADWOOD | R | H | P | A | E
Durfee, ss | 1 | 1 | 1 | 6 | 1 | Cross, 2b | 0 | 2 | 2 | 5 | 1
Colton, p | 1 | 1 | 0 | 1 | 0 | Gale, 3b | 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 1
Condit, 3b | 1 | 1 | 1 | 0 | 1 | Russell, cf | 0 | 0 | 0 | 3 | 0
Lawrence, rf | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 1 | Little, cf | 1 | 1 | 2 | 0 | 0
Loring, lf | 1 | 1 | 0 | 0 | 0 | Boudinot, rf | 1 | 1 | 1 | 0 | 0
Richards, c | 0 | 1 | 9 | 2 | 0 | Kent, ss | 1 | 0 | 0 | 3 | 1
Millener, 1b | 0 | 1 | 11 | 0 | 0 | Patterson, c | 0 | 0 | 5 | 2 | 1
Vinton, 2b | 0 | 0 | 3 | 3 | 0 | Bray, 1b | 0 | 0 | 13 | 0 | 0
Smith, cf | 0 | 0 | 2 | 0 | 0 | Minot, lf | 0 | 0 | 2 | 0 | 0
| | | | | | Herring, p | 0 | 0 | 0 | 2 | 1
Totals | 4 | 6 | 27 | 12 | 3 | Totals | 3 | 5 | 27 | 18 | 5

Innings | 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
Yardley | 3 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1—4
Broadwood | 0 0 0 2 0 1 0 0 0—3

Home Run—Little. Three-base Hit—Patterson. Two-base Hits—Colton, Loring. Sacrifice Hits—Kent, Vinton. Stolen Bases—Cross, Loring, Durfee. Bases on Balls—Off Herring, 2; off Colton, 3. Struck Out—By Herring, 5; by Colton, 7. Hit by Pitched Ball—Cross, Boudinot, Minot, Loring, Smith. Double Plays—Cross to Bray, Vinton unassisted. Time of Game—2 h. 35 m. Umpire—Gill.

What a journey home in the automobile that was! Mr. Pennimore, Gerald, Dan, Alf, and Harry in the tonneau, and Tom beside the chauffeur! How the blue flags snapped and fluttered their signal of victory as the big car ate up the white road! How, as they rehearsed the struggle, they always came back sooner or later to Dan’s double play!

“Why, Dan,” declared Alf vehemently, “you won that game just as much as though you had made a home-run with the bases full! If you hadn’t doubled then Broadwood would have scored twice at least! Confound you, Dan, you’re always doing some spectacular stunt and making a blooming hero of yourself! Why can’t I be a hero, I’d like to know? But you just wait until next year. If I can’t find any other way of doing it I’ll set fire to Dudley and rescue Tom in his nightie from the devouring flames! I’ll be a hero or perish!”

“So that,” inquired Mr. Pennimore when they had ceased laughing at Alf’s sally, “is what you call a ‘double play.’ Well, it strikes me, Dan, that double plays are your forte.”

“That’s the first one I ever made, sir,” answered Dan.

Mr. Pennimore smiled.

“Technically, yes, I dare say. But I wonder if we can’t put the term ‘double play’ to a broader interpretation. It seems to me, now, that anyone who not only makes his own career successful but finds time to look after the welfare of his friend might very well be said to be making a double play. What do you say, Mr. Dyer?”

“Yes, sir, you’re right,” answered Tom with decision. “And that’s just what Dan’s done, as we all know.”

“Yes, and here is one who knows it better than the rest of us,” said Mr. Pennimore, with an affectionate look at Gerald.

Gerald smiled and glanced shyly at Dan.

“I know one time when he made a double play, and a bully one,” he affirmed amidst laughter. “And that was when I tried to make a ‘steal for home.’”

“And which,” added Mr. Pennimore, “unlike most ‘double plays,’ instead of resulting in a ‘put-out’ perhaps prevented one!”

And he chuckled quite as heartily as any one at his joke.

Here, then, let us leave them for a time, speeding home through the warm, amber glow of late afternoon, the wind in their faces and joy in their hearts, feeling as only boys can feel after a battle bravely fought and a victory well won.

THE END.

BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to follow the text that they illustrate, so the page number of the illustration may not match the page number in the List of Illustrations.

Printer's, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

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Table of Contents

- DOUBLE PLAY
- CONTENTS
- LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
- CHAPTER I BACK TO SCHOOL
- CHAPTER II IN 7 DUDLEY
- CHAPTER III DAN BEGINS RIGHT
- CHAPTER IV GERALD IN GRIEF
- CHAPTER V ALF TAKES A PUPIL
- CHAPTER VI A VISIT TO NEW YORK
- CHAPTER VII THE SNOW BATTLE
- CHAPTER VIII GERALD REVOLTS
- CHAPTER IX GERALD LEAVES SCHOOL
- CHAPTER X A VISIT FROM KILTS
- CHAPTER XI HOCKEY AT BROADWOOD
- CHAPTER XII YARDLEY GETS REVENGE
- CHAPTER XIII WORK IN THE CAGE
- CHAPTER XIV POLITICS AND CHESS
- CHAPTER XV THE LISTS ARE POSTED
- CHAPTER XVI GERALD MAKES A BARGAIN
- CHAPTER XVII THE CLASS GAMES
- CHAPTER XVIII FUN AT THE CIRCUS
- CHAPTER XIX WHAT PELL SCHOOL DID
- CHAPTER XX THE SLUMP
- CHAPTER XXI DROWNED!
- CHAPTER XXII THE RESCUE
- CHAPTER XXIII THE LAST PRACTICE
- CHAPTER XXIV ON YARDLEY HILL
- CHAPTER XXV THREE TO THREE
- CHAPTER XXVI DOUBLE PLAY
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE