CHAPTER XXVII
THE ACCUSATION
Yale won from West Point. It was almost a foregone conclusion after thatsensational inning when Joe went down and out with his sprained arm,after saving the game. His mates rallied to the support of, not onlyhimself, but the whole team, and, the cadets, having been held runless,the wearers of the blue made a determined stand.
Weston was called on to go in and replace Joe, and the former 'varsitypitcher, in spite of his feeling against our hero, had that in him whichmade him do his best in spite of the odds against him.
Weston was half hoping that the game would be a tie, which would givehim a chance to go on the mound and show what he could do at pitchingagainst a formidable opponent of Yale. But it was not to be, though hebrought in one of the winning runs for the New Haven bulldog.
The crowd went wild when they saw what a game fight the visitors wereputting up, and even the supporters of the army lads hailed them withdelight as they pounded the cadet pitcher, for everyone likes to see agood play, no matter if it is made by the other side.
"Oh, wow! A pretty hit!" yelled the throng as Weston sent a two-baggerwell out in the field. His face flushed with pleasure, as he speededaround, and, probably, had he been taken in hand then, subsequent eventsmight not have happened, for his unreasonable hatred against Joe mighthave been dissipated. But no one did, and the result was that Westonfelt he had been wrongly treated, and he resolved to get even.
"Well played, boys, well played!" exclaimed the captain of the cadets,as he came up to shake hands with Hatfield. "You did us up good andproper. We can't buck such a pitcher as you have. What happened to him!"
"Sprained arm," explained Spike, who stood near.
"Too bad! Tell him to take care of it," rejoined the cadet. "Suchtwirlers as he is are few and far between. Well, you beat us, but that'sno reason why you can do it again. We'll have your scalps next year.Now, boys, altogether! Show 'em how West Pointers can yell."
The cheer for the Yale team broke out in a gladsome yell, tinged withregret, perhaps, for West Point had been sure of winning, especiallytoward the end, but there was no ill-feeling showing in the cries thatechoed over the field.
In turn the New Haven bulldog barked his admiration of the gallantopponents, and then came a special cheer for Joe Matson, whose pluckyplay had made it possible for Yale to win.
Joe, in the dressing room, heard his name, and flushed with delight.Trainer McLeary was rubbing his sore arm.
"Hurt much?" the man asked, as he massaged the strained muscles.
"Some," admitted Joe, trying not to wince as the pain shot along hisarm. "How are we making out?"
"We win," declared McLeary, as a scout brought him word. "And you didit."
"Not by pitching," asserted Joe.
"No, perhaps not. But every game isn't won by pitching. There are lotsof other plays besides that. Now you've got to take care of this arm."
"Is it bad?"
"Bad enough so you can't use it right away. You've got to have a rest.You've torn one of the small ligaments slightly, and it will have toheal. No baseball for you for a week."
"No!" cried Joe aghast.
"No, sir! Not if you want to play the rest of the season," replied thetrainer.
Now Joe did want to finish out the season, whether he came back to Yaleor not, for there were big games yet in prospect, particularly that withPrinceton, and, if it was necessary to play a third one, it would takeplace on the big New York Polo Grounds.
"And, oh! if I could only pitch before that crowd!" thought Joe, in amoment of anticipated delight.
"There, I guess you'll do, if you keep it well wrapped up, stay out ofdraughts and don't use it," said the trainer finally, as he bound upJoe's twirling wing. "No practice, even, for a week, and then verylight."
Joe half groaned, and made a wry face, but there was no help for it, herealized that. He was surrounded by his mates, as the game ended, andmany were the congratulations, mingled with commiserations, as theygreeted him.
Weston even condescended to say:
"Hope you won't be knocked out long, old man."
"Thanks," replied Joe dryly. "It'll be a week anyhow."
"A week!" exclaimed Weston, and he could not keep the delight fromshowing on his face. Then he hurried off to see one of the coaches. Joehad little doubt what it meant. Weston was going to try for his oldplace again while Joe was unable to pitch.
"Well," remarked De Vere, as his crony came out of the dressing rooms,whither he had gone. "I should think you could drop your other game, nowthat's he out of it."
"Not much!" exclaimed Weston, with some passion. "This won't last. He'llbe back pitching again, and do me out of it. What I'm going to do won'thurt him much, and it will give me a chance. I'm entitled to it."
"I guess you are, old man."
The Yale team went back jubilant, and there was a great celebration inNew Haven when the ball nine arrived. Fires were made, and the campus aswell as the streets about the college were thronged with students. Therewere marches, and songs, and Joe Matson's name was cheered again andagain.
Meanwhile our hero was not having a very delightful time. Not only washe in pain, but he worried lest the injury to his arm prove permanent.
"If I shouldn't be able to pitch again!" he exclaimed to Spike, in theirroom.
"Forget it!" advised the other. "You'll be at it again in a littlewhile. Just take it easy."
And Joe tried to, but it was hard work. It was galling to go to practiceand watch others play the game while he sat and looked on--especiallywhen Weston was pitching. But there was no help for it.
And then, like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, it came.
The week had passed and Joe, who had done some light practice, was sentin to pitch a couple of innings against the scrub. Weston was pulledout, and he went to the bench with a scowl.
"I'll get him yet," he muttered to De Vere. "He's put me out of itagain."
"I'd go slow," was the advice.
"It's been slow enough as it is," growled the other.
The day for the first Princeton game was at hand. It was to be played atYale, and everyone was on edge for the contest. Joe was practicallyslated to pitch, and he felt his responsibility. His arm was in goodshape again.
The night before the game the Dean sent for Joe to come to his office.
"What's up now?" demanded Spike, as his friend received the summons."Have you won a scholarship, or is the Dean going to beg of you not tothrow the game?"
"Both, I guess," answered Joe with a laugh. In his heart he wonderedwhat the summons meant. He was soon to learn.
"I have sent for you, Mr. Matson," said the Dean gravely, "to enable youto make some answer to a serious accusation that has been broughtagainst you."
"What is it?" faltered the pitcher.
"Do you remember, some time ago," the Dean went on, "that some red paintwas put on the steps of the house of one of the professors? Thegentleman slipped, fell in the paint, and a very rare manuscript wasruined. Do you remember?"
"Yes," answered Joe quietly, wondering if he was to be asked to tellwhat he knew.
"Well," went on the Dean, "have you anything to confess?"
"Who, me? Confess? Why, no, sir," answered Joe. "I don't know what youmean."
"Then I must tell you. You have been accused of putting the red paint onthe steps, and, unless you prove yourself innocent you can take nofurther part in athletics, and you may be suspended."