CHAPTER XII
JOE'S SILENCE
"Rather queer," mused Joe, after a moment's silence. "I wonder he didn'tsay something to me after what happened. So he rooms here? It's a greatshack. I suppose if I stay here the full course I'll be in one of thesejoints. But I don't believe I'm going to stay. If I get a chance on the'varsity nine next year and make good--then a professional league formine."
He limped out of the dormitory, and the pain in his ankle made himkeenly aware of the fact that if he did not attend to it he might belame for some time.
"Red paint," he murmured as he let himself out. "I wonder what Westonwas doing with it? Could he---- Oh, I guess it's best not to think toomuch in cases like this."
He reached his rooming place and trod along the hall, his injured footmaking an uneven staccato tattoo on the floor.
"Well, what happened to you?"
"Where did you hike to?"
"Were you down to Glory's all by your lonesome?"
"What'd you give us the slip for?"
"Come on; give an account of yourself."
These were only a few of the greetings that welcomed him as he enteredhis apartment to find there, snugly ensconced on the beds, chair, sofaand table, his own room-mate and the other friends who had gone out thatwild night.
"What's the matter?" demanded Spike, in some alarm, as he saw his friendlimping.
"Oh, nothing much. Twisted ankle. I'll be all right in the morning. Howdid you fellows make out?"
"Nothing doing," said Ricky. "The boobs that shampooed us split after wegot on their trail, and we lost 'em. Did you see anything of 'em?"
"Not much," said Joe, truthfully enough.
"Then where did you go?"
He explained how he had twisted on his ankle, and turned back, and how,in coming home, he had met Kendall. He said nothing of watching Westonand another chap do something to the stoop of the unknown professor'shouse.
"Mighty white of Kendall," was Spike's opinion, and it was voiced byall.
"Oh, what a night!" exclaimed Slim Jones. "Home was never like this!"
"Well, you fellows can sit up the rest of the night if you want to,"said Joe, after a pause; "but I'm going to put my foot to bed."
"I guess that's the best place for all of us," agreed Ricky. "Come on,fellows; I have got some hard practice to-morrow. I may be called to the'varsity."
"Like pie!" jeered Slim Jones.
"Oh, ho! Don't you worry," taunted Ricky. "I'll make it."
There was a sensation the next morning. It seemed that a well-known andvery literary professor, returning from a lecture from out of town,before a very learned society, had slipped and fallen on his own frontporch, going down in some greasy red paint that had been smeared overthe steps.
The professor had sprained a wrist, and his clothing had been soiled,but this was not the worst of it. He had taken with him, on his lecture,some exceedingly rare and valuable Babylonian manuscripts to enhancehis talk, and, in his fall these parchments had scattered from hisportfolio, and several of them had been projected into the red paint,being ruined thereby. And, as the manuscripts had been taken from theYale library, the loss was all the more keen.
"I say, Joe, did you hear the news?" gasped Ricky, as he rushed intohis friend's room, just before the chapel call.
"No. Is there a row over the shampooing?"
"Shampooing nothing! It's red paint, and some of those musty manuscriptsthat a prof. had," and he poured out the tale.
"Red paint?" murmured Joe.
"Yes. There's a fierce row over it, and the Dean has taken it up. If thefellows are found out they'll be expelled sure. Oh, but it was a night!But the red paint was the limit."
Joe did not answer, but in a flash there came to him the scene whereWeston had entered his room, thrusting his hand into his pocket--a handsmeared with red.
"Fierce row," went on Ricky, who was a natural reporter, always hearingsensations almost as soon as they happened. "The prof. went sprawling onhis steps, not knowing the goo was there and the papers---- Oh me! Ohmy! I wonder who did it?"
"Hard to tell I guess," answered Joe, "with the bunch that was out lastnight."
"That's so. I'm glad it wasn't any of our fellows. We all stucktogether--that is all but you----" and, as if struck by a suddenthought, he gazed anxiously at Joe.
"Oh, I can prove an _alibi_ all right," laughed the pitcher. "Don'tworry."
"Glad of it. Well, let's hike. There goes the bell."
There was indeed a "fierce row," over the spoiling of the raremanuscripts, and the Dean himself appealed to the honor of the studentsto tell, if they knew, who the guilty one was.
But Joe Matson kept silent.
There was an investigation, of course, but it was futile, for nothing ofmoment was disclosed.
It was several days later when Joe, strolling across the college campusafter a lecture, came face to face with Weston. For a moment they stoodstaring at one another.
The hot blood welled up into the cheeks of the 'varsity pitcher, and heseemed to be trying to hide his hand--the hand that had held the redsmear. Then, without a word, he passed on.
And Joe Matson still maintained his silence.
The Fall passed. The Yale eleven swept on to a glorious championship.The Christmas vacation came and went and Joe spent happy days at home.He was beginning to be more and more a Yale man and yet--there wassomething constrained in him. His parents noticed it.
"I--I don't think Joe is very happy," ventured Clara, after he had goneback to college.
"Happy--why not?" challenged her mother.
"Oh, I don't know. He hasn't said much about baseball."
"Baseball!" chuckled Mr. Matson, as he looked out of the window at thewintry New England landscape. "This is sleigh-riding weather--notbaseball."
"Oh, I do wish Joe would give up his foolish idea," sighed Mrs. Matson."He can never make anything of himself at baseball. A minister now,preaching to a large congregation----"
"I guess, mother, if you'd ever been to a big ball game, and seenthousands of fans leaning over their seats while the pitcher got readyto deliver a ball at a critical point in the contest, you'd think he hadsome congregation himself," said Mr. Matson, with another chuckle.
"Oh, well, what's the use talking to you?" demanded his wife; and therethe subject was dropped.
Joe went back to Yale. He was doing fairly well in his lessons, but notat all brilliantly. Study came hard to him. He was longing for theSpring days and the green grass of the diamond.
Gradually the talk turned from debating clubs, from glees and concerts,to baseball. The weather raged and stormed, but there began to be thehint of mildness in the wintry winds.
In various rooms lads began rummaging through trunks and valises,getting out old gloves that needed mending. The cage in the gymnasiumwas wheeled out and some repairs made to it.
"By Jove!" cried Joe one day, "I--I begin to feel as if I had the springfever."
"Baseball fever you mean," corrected Spike.
"It's the same thing, old man."
Jimmie Lee, a little Freshman who roomed not far from Joe's shack, camebursting in a little later.
"Hurray!" he yelled, slapping our hero on the back. "Heard the news?"
"What news?" asked Spike. "Have you been tapped for Skull and Bones, orWolf's Head?"
"Neither, you old iconoclast. But the notice is up."
"What notice?"
"Baseball candidates are to report in the gym. to-morrow afternoon.Hurray!" and he dealt Spike a resounding blow.
Joe Matson's eyes sparkled.