CHAPTER XXIII
JOE'S TRIUMPH
"Red paint!" exclaimed Ricky.
"Who put it there?" asked Spike, and he looked queerly at Joe.
"Not I," replied the pitcher. "And yet it's fresh. I can't understand.You say you heard someone in here, Ricky?"
"As sure as guns."
"Maybe it was some of those pesky Freshies trying some of their funnywork," suggested Spike.
"Hazing and tricks are about over," came from Joe, as he looked moreclosely at the red spot. "And yet someone seems to have been in here,daubing up my clothes. I wonder if they tried it on any more? Lucky itwas an old suit."
He looked in the closet, but the coat, with the crimson spot on thesleeve, seemed to be the only one soiled.
"I have it!" suddenly cried Spike.
"What, for cats' sake?" asked Ricky.
"It's good luck!"
"Good luck?" demanded Joe. "How do you make that out? These aren't myglad rags, that's a fact, but still paint is paint, and I don't want itdaubed all over me. Good luck? Huh!"
"Of course it is," went on Spike. "Don't you see? That's red--Harvard'shue. We play them next week, you'll pitch and we've got their coloralready. Hurray! We're going to win! It's an omen!"
"Caesar's pineapples!" exclaimed Ricky. "So it is. I'm going to grind outa song on it," and, having rather a knack with verse, he was soonscribbling away in rhyme. "How's this?" he demanded a few minutes later."Listen fellows, and pick out a good tune for it," and he recited:
"We've got Harvard's colors, We'll tell it to you. The red always runs At the sight of the blue. So cheer boys, once more, This bright rainbow hue, The Red will turn purple When mixed with the blue!"
"Eh? How's that?" he asked proudly. "Pretty nifty I guess! Your UnclePete isn't so slow. I'm going to have the fellows practice this for thegame, when you pitch, Joe."
"Maybe I won't."
"Oh, yes you will. But what do you think of it?"
"Rotten!" exclaimed Spike.
"Punk!" was the opinion of Slim Jones, who had entered in time to hearthe verse. "Disinfect it, Ricky."
"Aw, you fellows are jealous because you can't sling the muse aroundwhen you want to. Guess I'll try a second spasm."
"Not in here," declared Spike, quickly. "This is a decent, law-abidingplace, and, so far, has a good reputation. I'm not going to have theDean raiding it just because you think you're a poet. That stuff wouldgive our English Lit. prof. a chill. Can it, Ricky, can it."
"You're jealous, that's all," and despite the protest Ricky proceeded togrind out a second verse, that he insisted on reading to his audience,which, by this time had increased to half a dozen lads from neighboringrooms. There was quite a jolly little party, and Ricky demanded thatthey sing his new song, which they finally did, with more or lesssuccess.
The strains wafted out of doors and passing students were attracted bythe sound until the place was swarming with congenial spirits, andnothing was talked of but the coming game with Harvard.
"It's queer though, about that red paint," said Spike, later that night,when he and Joe were alone.
"It sure is," agreed the pitcher.
"Maybe Hoppy sent someone around to do a bit of daubing, and the chapgot in here by mistake," suggested his chum. But inquiry developed thatthis was not so, and the mystery remained unsolved for a time.
But after he got in bed, Joe did some hard thinking. He recalled thered paint episode of the spoiled manuscript, and wondered, withoutbelieving, if Weston could have come to his room.
"He might have," reflected Joe, "and he might have had a hardened spotof red paint on his clothes from daubing it on the steps that time. Ifthe hardened upper crust rubbed off, it would leave a fresh spot thatmight have gotten on my coat. And yet what would he be doing in mycloset, let alone in the room here? No, it can't be that. Unlesshe sneaked in here--knowing Spike and I would be away--looking forsomething to use against me.
"He doesn't want me to pitch, that's a fact, and if he could findsomething against me he'd use it. But he can't. I'm glad I'm not acandidate for any of their queer secret societies here, or I'd beworrying about them not asking me to join. I'm going to keep out of it.But that red spot is sure queer."
All Yale was on edge on the day before the Harvard game, which was totake place on the Cambridge diamond. The team and the substitutes weretrained to the minute, and all ready to make the trip, together withnearly a thousand "rooters" who were going along to lend moral support.Particular pains had been taken with the pitching staff, and Joe,Weston, McAnish and Avondale had been worked to the limit. They had beencoached as they never had been before, for Yale wanted to win this game.
As yet it was not known who would pitch. At least the 'varsity candidatesdid not know, and Joe was hoping for at least half a game. He was modest,for Weston arrogantly declared that he would last the nine innings. Hisfriends said little, but he had a certain power in college not to beoverlooked.
The stadium was thronged with spectators as the teams trotted out for alittle warming-up practice. In the cheering stands for the wearers ofthe blue the locomotive cry, the Boola song, a new one--"BulldogGrit!"--and Ricky's effusion were gone over again. "Hit the Line!" cameas a retort, and the cheerers tried to outdo each other.
"Do you think you'll pitch, Joe?" asked Spike, in a low tone, as he andhis chum practised off to one side.
"I don't know. There are all sorts of rumors going about. I'd like to--Iguess you know how much--just as you would like to catch--but we can'talways have what we want. The coaches are having a talk now. Westonseems pretty confident."
"Yes, the cad! I wish he'd play fair."
"Oh, well," said Joe, with an air of resignation, "I suppose he can'thelp it. I guess I shouldn't like it if I'd pitched for a year, and thenfound a new man trying for my place."
"But if the new man was better than you, and it meant the winning of thegame?" asked Spike, as he took a vicious ball that Joe slugged to him.
"Oh, well, of course in theory the best man ought to play--that's notsaying I'm the best man by a long shot!" Joe hastened to add; "but evenin theory it's hard to see another man take your place."
"Something's doing," said Spike suddenly. "The conference has brokenup."
Joe looked nervously to where the coaches and captain had been talking.Tom Hatfield was buttoning on his shortstop glove, and then taking itoff again as though under a strain.
He walked over to the umpire, and Weston, seeing him, made a jokingremark to a companion. He started for the players' bench, for Harvardwas to bat last, and Yale would come up first for the stick-work.
"It looks like him," remarked Spike in a low voice.
"Well, I'll be ready when they call me," said Joe, with a good nature hedid not feel.
The umpire raised his megaphone. There was a hush, and then came thehollow tones:
"Batteries for to-day. Harvard: Elkert and Snyder--Yale: Matson andKendall."
"By Halifax!" cried Spike, clapping Joe on the back with such force thathe nearly knocked over his chum. "You pitch, old man!"