CHAPTER II
PLANNING A BATTLE
Professor Elias Rodd was rather elderly, and, as he never took muchexercise, his sprinting abilities were not pronounced. So it took himabout a minute and a half to cross the campus to where the little groupof lads awaited him--anxious waiting it was too, on the part of Joe andPeaches. And in that minute and a half, before the excitement begins, Iwant to take the opportunity to tell you something about Joe Matson, andhis chum Tom Davis, and how they happened to be at Excelsior Hall.
Those of you who have read the first volume of this series entitled,"Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars," need no introduction to our hero.Sufficient to say that he was a lad who thought more of baseball thanof any other sport.
Joe was the son of Mr. and Mrs. John Matson, and he had a sister namedClara. Joe's father was an inventor of farming machinery and otherapparatus, and had been employed by the Royal Harvester Works ofRiverside, which was located on the Appleby River, in one of our NewEngland States. Joe lived in Riverside, his family having moved therefrom Bentville.
In the previous story I told how Joe made the acquaintance of Tom Davis,who lived in the house back of him. Joe became interested in the SilverStars, the Riverside amateur nine, and through doing a favor for DarrellBlackney, the manager, was given a position in the field.
But Joe wanted to become a pitcher, and, in fact, had pitched for theBentville Boosters. He longed to fill the box for the Stars, and wasfinally given a chance. But he had incurred the enmity of Sam Morton,the regular pitcher, and there were several clashes between them.Finally Joe displaced Sam and won many games for the Stars.
Mr. Matson had some trouble with his inventions, for Isaac Benjamin,manager of the harvester works, and Rufus Holdney, the latter once afriend of the inventor, determined to get certain valuable patents awayfrom Mr. Matson. How they nearly succeeded, and how Joe foiled the plansof the plotters once, is told in the first book.
Though Joe aided his father considerably, the young pitcher never losthis interest in baseball, and when, at the last moment, word came thatMr. Matson had seemingly lost everything, Joe hid his own feelings andwent off to pitch the deciding championship game against the Resolutesof Rocky Ford, the bitter rivals of the Silver Stars.
Joe's heart was heavy as he pitched, for he knew that if his father losthis money through the taking away of his patents there would be nochance of his going to boarding school, and Joe desired that aboveeverything.
But he pluckily pitched the game, which was a close and hot one. Hewon, making the Stars the champions of the county league; and then Joehurried home.
To his delight there was a message from his father, stating that at thelast minute unexpected evidence had won the patent case for him, and hewas now on the road to prosperity.
So it was possible for Joe to go to boarding school after all, and, tohis delight, Tom Davis prevailed upon his parents to send him. So Joeand Tom went off together to attend Excelsior Hall, just outside ofCedarhurst, and about a hundred miles from Riverside.
Joe and Tom, who had each finished short courses in the Riverside HighSchool, started for Excelsior Hall at the opening of the Fall term, andhad spent the Winter, with the exception of the Christmas holidays, atthe institution. They liked it very much, and made a number of friendsas well as some enemies. Their chief foe, as well as that of nearlyevery other lad in Excelsior Hall, was Hiram Shell.
The months passed, and with the waning of Winter, Joe began to feel thecall of the baseball diamond. He and Tom got out some old gloves andballs and bats, and in the seclusion of their room they played overagain, in imagination, some of the stirring games of the Silver Stars.As yet, however, there had been no baseball activity at Excelsior, andJoe was wondering what sort of team there would be, for that there mustbe one was a foregone conclusion. Joe knew that before he picked outExcelsior Hall as his particular boarding school.
I might add that Dr. Wright Fillmore was the principal of ExcelsiorHall. He was dubbed "Caesar" because of his fondness for the character ofthat warrior, and because he was always holding him up as a pattern ofsome virtues to his pupils. Dr. Enos Rudden the mathematical teacher wasone of the best-liked of all the instructors. He was fond of athletics,and acted as sort of head coach and trainer for the football andbaseball teams.
As much as Dr. Rudden was liked so was Professor Rodd disliked. ProfessorRodd, who was privately termed "Sixteen and a Half" or "Sixteen" forshort (because of the number of feet in a rod) was very exacting, fussyand a terror to the lads who failed to know their Latin lessons.
And as we are at present immediately concerned with Professor Rodd, nowI will go back to where we left him approaching the group of students,with wrath plainly written on his countenance.
"Who--who threw that ball--that snowball?" the irate instructor cried."I demand to know. Look at my hat! Look at it, I say!" and that theremight be no difficulty in the boys seeing it Mr. Rodd endeavored to takeoff his head-piece.
But he found this no easy matter, for the snowballs, hitting it withconsiderable force, had driven it down over his brow. He struggled toget it off and this only made him the more angry.
"Who--who threw those balls at me?" again demanded Professor Rodd, andthis time he managed to work off his hat. He held it out accusingly.
"We--I--er--that is--we all were having a throwing contest," explainedTeeter Nelson, diffidently, "and--er----"
"You certainly _all_ didn't throw at me," interrupted the professor."Only two balls struck me, and I demand to know who threw them. Or shallI report you all to Dr. Fillmore and have him keep you in bounds for aweek; eh?"
"Nobody meant to hit you, Professor," put in Tom. "You see----"
"Will you or will you not answer my question?" snapped the instructor,in the same tone of voice he used in the classroom, when some lucklesslad was stuttering and stammering over the difference between the_gerund_ and the _gerundive_. "Who threw the balls?"
"I--I'm afraid I did," faltered Joe. "I threw one, and--and----"
"I threw the other," popped out Peaches. "But it was an accident,Professor."
"An accident! Humph!"
"Yes," eagerly went on Peaches, who, having been longer at the schoolthan Joe, knew better how to handle the irate instructor. "You see itwas this way: We were having a contest, and wanted to see who couldthrow over the trees. Instead of throwing _primus_, _secondus_, and_tertius_ as we might have done, Joe and I threw together--um--er--ah_conjunctim_ so to speak," and Peaches managed to keep a straightface even while struggling to find the right Latin word. "Yes, wethrew _conjunctim_--together--and we both wanted to see who coulddo the best--er--_supero_--you know, and--er we--well, it was anaccident--_casus eventus_. We are awfully sorry, and----"
Professor Rodd gave an audible sniff, but there was a marked softeningof the hard lines about his face. He was an enthusiastic Latin scholar,and the trial of his life was to know that most of his pupils hated thestudy--indeed as many boys do. So when the teacher found one who tookthe trouble in ordinary conversation to use a few Latin words, orphrases, the professor was correspondingly pleased. Peaches knew this.
"It was a _casus eventus_--an accident," the fair-cheeked lad repeated,very proud of his ability in the dead language.
"We are very sorry," put in Joe, "and I'll pay for having your hatironed."
"We threw in _conjunctim_," murmured Peaches.
"Ha! A very good attempt at the Latin--at least some of the words are,"admitted Professor Rodd. "They do credit to your studying, Lantfeld,but how in the world did you ever get _casus eventus_ into accident?"
"Why--er--it's so in the dictionary, Professor," pleaded Peaches.
"Yes, but look up the substantive, and remember your endings. Here I'llshow you," and, pulling from his pocket a Latin dictionary, which he wasnever without, Professor Rodd, sticking his battered hat back on hishead, began to quote and translate and do all manner of things with thedead language, to show Peaches where he had made his errors. And Pea
ches,sacrificing himself on the altar of friendship, stood there like a man,nodding his head and agreeing with everything the instructor said,whether he understood it or not.
"Your _conjunctim_ was not so bad," complimented the professor, "but Icould never pass _casus eventus_. However, I am glad to see that youtake an interest in your studies. I wish more of the boys did. Nowtake the irregular conjugation for instance. We will begin with theindicative mood and----"
The professor's voice was droning off into his classroom tones. Peachesheld his ground valiantly.
"Come on, fellows, cut for it!" whispered Teeter hoarsely. "Leg it,Joe. Peaches will take care of him."
"But the hat--I damaged it--I want to pay for it," objected our hero,who was square in everything.
"Don't worry about that. When Old Sixteen gets to spouting Latin orGreek he doesn't know whether he's on his head or his feet, and as for ahat--say, forget it and come on. He'll never mention it again. Peachesknows how to handle him. Peaches is the best Latin lad in the wholeschool, and once Sixteen finds some one who will listen to his newtheory about conjugating irregular verbs, he'll talk until midnight.Come on!"
"Poor Peaches!" murmured Tom Davis.
"Never mind, Sister," spoke George Bland, as he linked his arm in thatof Joe. "Peaches seen his duty and he done it nobly, as the novels say.When Sixteen gets through with him we'll blow him to a feed to make itup to him. Come on while the going's good. He'll never see us."
Thus the day--rather an eventful one as it was destined to become--cameto an end. The boys filed into the big dining hall, and talk, which hadbegun to verge around to baseball, could scarcely be heard for theclatter of knives and forks and dishes.
Some time later there came a cautious knock on the door of the room thatTom Davis and Joe Matson shared. The two lads were deep in their books.
"Who's there?" asked Joe sharply.
"It's me--Peaches," was the quick if ungrammatical answer. "The coast isclear--open your oak," and he rattled the knob of the door.
Tom unlocked and swung wide the portal, and the hero of the Latinengagement entered.
"Quick--anything to drink?" he demanded. "I'm a rag! Say, I neverswallowed so much dry Latin in my life. My throat is parched. Don't tellme that all that ginger ale you smuggled in the other day is gone--don'tyou dare do it!"
"Tom, see if there's a bottle left for the gentleman of thirst,"directed Joe with a smile.
Tom went to the window and pulled up a cord that was fastened to thesill. On the end of the string was a basket, and in it three bottles ofginger ale.
"Our patent refrigerator," explained Joe, with a wave of his hand. "Dothe uncorking act, Tom, and we'll get busy. You can go to sleep,"--thislast to a book he had been studying, as he tossed it on a couch.
"Oh, but that's good!" murmured Peaches as he drained his glass. "Now Ican talk. I came in, Joe and Tom, to see if you didn't think it would bea good thing to have a fight."
"A fight! For cats' sake, who with?" demanded Tom.
"Are you spoiling for one?" asked Joe.
"Oh, I mean a snowball fight. This is probably the last of the season,and I was thinking we could get a lot of fellows together, make a fort,and have a regular battle like we read about in Caesar to-day. It wouldbe no end of sport."
"I think so myself," agreed Joe.
"Bully!" exclaimed Tom sententiously, burying his nose in his ginger aleglass. "Go on, tell us some more."
"Well, I was thinking," resumed Peaches, "that we----"
He was interrupted by another tap on the door. In an instant Peacheshad dived under the table. With one sweep of his arm Joe noiselesslycollected the bottles, while Joe spread a paper over the glasses. Theknock was repeated, and the two lads looked apprehensively at the door.