CHAPTER XXII
THE CRIMSON SPOT
"What do you think of him, anyhow?" asked Spike of his room-mate, asWeston passed on. "Isn't he the limit!"
"He certainly doesn't seem to care much for me," replied Joe, with agrim smile. "But I suppose it's natural. Almost anyone would feel thatway at the prospect of being replaced."
"Oh, he makes me tired!" exclaimed Spike. "He ought to stand forYale--not for Ford Weston. It's the first time in a good many years thatany player has placed himself above the team."
"But Weston hasn't done that yet."
"No, but that's what he's scheming for. He as good as said that he'llpitch for the 'varsity no matter what happens."
"Who's that? What's up?" asked another voice, and, turning, the twochums saw Ricky Hanover. "Oh, you're talking about Weston," he added, ashe noted the defeated pitcher walking away. "What's he been saying?"
They told him, and Ricky, making a wry face, went on:
"So that's how things are; eh? Well, if Weston tries that sort of game,I can see the finish of the Yale nine. It'll be the tail end of thekite, and the championship will be in the soup. In fact it's beginningto gravitate that way now, with the loss of this Cornell game."
"But where does Weston get his pull?" demanded Spike. "How is it thatthey put him in to-day, when it was almost known that he couldn't makegood. And here was Joe all ready to go on the mound. You saw what he didwhen he got there and yet----"
"Spare my blushes! I'm a modest youth!" laughed Joe.
"That's all right, there's something back of all this," continued Spike,vigorous in defence of his chum. "Why should the coaches put Weston in,and then, when he slumped, call on Avondale before they did you, Joe? Itisn't right, and I think Horsehide should have made a better fight foryou. You claim he's a friend of yours, Joe."
"Well, yes, in a way. And yet if I had to depend on his friendship toget on the mound I'd never go there. I want to stand on my own feet andhave the right to pitch because I can do better than some other fellow.That's all I ask--a fair show. I don't want any favors, and Mr. Hasbrookisn't the man to give them to me, if I'd take them."
"I guess you're right there," commented Ricky.
"But what I can't understand," went on Spike, "is how Horsehide seemedto give in to the other two coaches. It was as plain as a flagpole thathe didn't want to pitch Weston to-day, and yet he had to in spite ofhimself. Why was it?"
"Do you really want to know?" asked Ricky, and his voice was lowered,while he glanced around as if to make sure that no one would hear himsave his two friends. "Do you really want to know?"
"Certainly," declared Spike, and Joe wondered what was coming.
"Well, it's because Weston is a member of the Anvil Club," said Ricky."It's a class secret society, and it has a lot of influence--more sothan even some of the big Senior clubs. Weston belongs and so doHorsehide and the other two coaches. They were in college, and theystill keep up their affiliations. Now you know why they pitched Westonto-day--because he demanded it as a part of his right as a member of theAnvil Club."
"Do you mean to tell me," asked Spike, "that the secret society isbigger than Yale--that it could make her lose a ball game?"
"No, not exactly," replied Ricky. "But it is powerful, and a member hasan unwritten right to demand almost anything in reason of the othermembers, and by their promises made they are obliged to help him."
"But this wasn't anything in reason," said Spike. "Joe should havepitched the game, and then we'd have won. It was unreasonable to letWeston go in."
"Look here!" exclaimed Ricky. "I don't mean to say that Yale men woulddo any underhand work to make any athletic contest go by the board. Butyou can't say, right off the bat, that Weston's demand was unreasonable.He thought he could pitch to a victory, and he probably said as much,very forcibly. It was a chance that he might, and, when he appealed fora try, on the ground that he was an Anvil man--they had to give it tohim, that's all. It was all they could do, though I guess Horsehidedidn't want to."
"But there's Avondale," went on Ricky. "What about him?"
"He's an Anvil man, too."
"And I'm not," broke in Joe. "Say," he asked with a laugh, "how do youjoin this society?"
"You don't," spoke Ricky solemnly. "You have to be asked, or tapped forit, just as for Wolf's Head, or Skull and Bones. Oh, it's an exclusivesociety all right, and as secret as a dark cellar."
"And you really know this to be so?" asked Spike, almost incredulously.
"Well, no one says so out and out, but I've heard rumors before, andto-day they were strong enough to hear without a megaphone. Oh, Weston'sgot the thing cinched all right."
"Then I haven't a chance," sighed Joe, and more than ever he regrettedcoming to Yale. Yet, deep in his heart, was a fierce desire to pitch thecollege to a championship.
"Haven't a chance!" cried Spike, indignantly. "Do you mean to say,Ricky, that they'll let Weston go on losing games the way he didto-day?"
"No, not exactly. But they'll pitch him because he will appeal to theirsociety side, and bamboozle 'em into thinking that he has come backstrong, and can sure win."
"And if he doesn't--if he slumps as he did to-day?"
"Then they'll put in Avondale or McAnish."
"And Joe won't get a show until last?" asked Spike.
"That's about the size of it."
"I don't believe so."
"All right. Just watch," said Ricky, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Ofcourse," he went on, "the coaches may wake up to the fact before it'stoo late, or there may be such a howl made that they'll have to can thesociety plea. But it's a queer situation. Come on down to Glory's andwe'll feed our faces."
"Wait until we get un-togged," suggested Spike, for he, too, had on auniform, hoping for a chance to play. But it had not come.
It was late when Joe and his chum got back to their room. They had metcongenial spirits at the popular resort, and a sort of post-mortem hadbeen held over the game. But, though the faults of many players werepointed out, and though Joe received due praise for his work, little hadbeen said of Weston's poor pitching.
"It's just as I told you," declared Ricky. "There are too many membersof the Anvil Club, and affiliated societies, and they hate to hurtWeston's feelings, I guess."
The 'varsity pitcher was not present.
"Well, it sure is a queer state of affairs," commented Spike, as he andJoe reached their apartment. "I wish we could do something. It's ashame, with a pitcher who has your natural abilities, Joe, that----"
"Oh, forget it, old man, and go to sleep," advised Joe. "I'm muchobliged for your interest in me, but maybe it will come out right afterall."
"Humph! It won't unless we make it," murmured Spike.
The coaches tried some shifting about of players when the next practicecame on, though Weston was still retained on the mound. Joe was told togo in at shortstop, and he made good there, more by hard work thannatural ability, for he wanted to show that he would do his dutywherever he was placed. Weston seemed to be doing better, and he gotinto more plays, not being content to merely pitch.
"We'll trim Harvard!" was the general opinion, and Yale stock, that hadgone down, took an upward move.
The Harvard game was soon to come--one of the contests in thechampionship series, though Yale generally regarded the fight withPrinceton as the deciding test.
It was one afternoon following some sharp practice, when the 'varsityseemed on edge, that Joe said to Spike:
"Come on, let's take a walk. It's too nice to go back and bone."
"All right--I'm with you. We'll get out in the country somewhere."
Weston passed as this was said, and though he nodded to the two, therewas no cordiality in it.
Joe and Spike thoroughly enjoyed their little excursion, and it wasalmost dusk when they returned. As they entered their room, Ricky cameout to greet them.
"What have you fellows been doing?" he demanded. "I came in to have achat, and I found your room empty.
A little later I heard you in it, andthen, after I had found my pipe which I dropped under the bed, and wentin again, you weren't to be seen. Yet I was sure I heard you movingabout in it."
"We haven't been home since practice," declared Spike.
"You say you heard someone in our room?" inquired Joe.
"I sure did."
"Maybe it was Hoppy."
"No, for I asked him, and he said no."
"Any messages or letters left?" asked Spike, looking around, but nomissives were in sight.
"Oh, well, maybe it was spooks," declared Joe. "I'm going to get onsomething comfortable," and he went to the clothes closet, presentlydonning an old coat and trousers. Ricky made himself comfortable in anarmchair, and the three talked for some time.
"I say, what's that on your sleeve?" asked Ricky of Joe during a pause."It looks like red ink. See, you've smeared Spike's trigonometry withit."
"Quit it, you heathen!" exclaimed the aggrieved one.
"Red ink," murmured Joe, twisting his sleeve around to get a look at thecrimson spot. He touched it with his finger. "It's paint--red paint!" heexclaimed, "and it's fresh!"