Chapter D: Appleton and Company, New York (3)

Only the day before, Carter, the right tackle, had warned him: “If there was an election now, Bob, we’d make you captain again by a majority of one or two. But if Lane goes in and does his usual spectacular stunt, he’ll be the next captain as sure as fate. Take my advice and keep him out somehow. You’ve got Servis and Jackson, and--well, don’t be an ass!” And Syddington had shaken his head and answered righteously, “I can’t do that, Tom.”

And now he had done it!

He clenched his hands under the table and hated himself with an intensity that hurt. Gardiner and the trainer talked on. The clock on the mantel ticked monotonously.

It was not as if Lane would make a poor captain. On the contrary, Syddington knew that he would prove a good one. That the captain did not altogether like him, Lane knew. He had said a few days before--it had never been meant for Syddington’s ears, but nevertheless had reached them--“I’ll never get into the St. Eustace game until every other back is in the hospital. Syddington’s no fool!” And now Syddington hated Lane more than ever because he had rightly judged him capable of dishonesty.

And Lane would know, and Gardiner and Beck and Carter; and the fellows would suspect. But--and that was the worst of all--he himself could never forget. The clock struck the half-hour, and Gardiner looked up.

“Half after nine! This won’t do. We must get to bed. Don’t bother about to-morrow, Syddington. Get your mind off the game and go to sleep. It’ll be all right.”

Syddington rose and took up his overcoat. After he had struggled slowly into it he faced the others as if about to speak, but instead walked to the door in silence.

“Good night!” said Gardiner.

“Good night, Syddington!” echoed Beck.

The boy thought he could already detect a different tone in their voices, a foretaste of that contempt with which in future they were to consider him.

“Good night; good night, sir!” he answered, miserably. Then, with the door opening under his hand, he turned, his face pale but resolute, with something that was almost a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Mr. Gardiner, I wish you’d change that line-up, please.”

“Of course, if there’s anything----”

“I’d like Lane to go in at right half instead of Servis. Thank you, sir. Good night!”

When the door had closed coach and trainer faced each other smilingly.

“I didn’t think he could do it,” said Beck.

“Nor did I,” answered Gardiner. “And he didn’t.”

* * * * *

The autumn sunlight had disappeared slowly from the field of battle, and the first shadows of evening grew and deepened along the fences. The second half of the game was well-nigh over, and the score-board told the story thus:

Hillton 6 Opponents 8
Hillton’s Ball
3 Down 4 Yds to Gain
7 Minutes to Play

Over on the Hillton sections of the stand the cheering was hoarse and incessant, and crimson banners waved ceaselessly. It has ever been Hillton’s way to shout loudest under the shadow of defeat.

Hillton’s one score had been secured in the first three minutes of play. Quick, steady tackle-back plunges had carried the ball from the center of the gridiron to St. Eustace’s six-yard line before the latter team had awakened to its danger. From there Cantrell had skirted the Blue’s right end and Hale, the Hillton full-back, had kicked an easy goal.

But St. Eustace had pulled herself together, and from that time on had things her own way, forcing her rival to abandon offense and use every effort to protect her constantly threatened goal. Yet it was not until the half was almost over that St. Eustace finally managed to score, pushing her full-back through for a touch-down and afterward kicking goal.

The second half had started with honors even, but on his five-yard line Hale had failed miserably at a kick, and had been borne back for a safety. And now, with but seven minutes left, with the ball on Hillton’s fifty-yard line and four yards to gain on the third down, the Crimson was fighting valiantly against defeat.

Syddington, pale and panting, measured the distance to the St. Eustace goal with his eyes and groaned. If only Lane or Sanford, who had taken Cantrell’s place, could be got away round an end! If only they could get within kicking distance of that cross-bar! If----

“34--29--96--12!”

Lane was hurdling the line at right guard. Syddington dashed into the _mêlée_, shoving, shouting hoarsely. The blue line gave and Lane fell through, squirming, kicking. The Hillton stand went wild with joy. The score-board proclaimed first down.

“Get up! Get up!” called Syddington, a sudden note of hope in his strained voice. “That’s the stuff! We can do it again! Hard, fellows, hard!”

Aching, dizzy, but happy, nevertheless, red-faced and perspiring, Carl Lane dropped the ball and trotted back to his position.

“Signal!” cried Colton. “27--34--”

Lane crept, crouching, back of Sanford.

“--87--5!”

He dashed forward in the wake of the other half, the ball thumped against his stomach, was clasped firmly, and the next instant he was high in air. Arms thrust him back, others shoved him forward. For an instant the result was doubtful; then the St. Eustace players gave, the straining group went back, slowly at first, then faster. Lane, kicking friend and foe impartially in his efforts to thrust himself forward, felt himself falling head foremost. Some one’s elbow crashed against his temple, and for a moment all was dark.

When he came to, his face was dripping from the sponge and his head ached as if it would burst; but the score-board once more proclaimed first down, and the crimson-decked section of the grand stand had gone suddenly crazy. His name floated across to him at the end of a mighty volume of cheers.

He picked himself up, shook himself like a dog emerging from water, grinned cheerfully at Carter, and sped back of the line. Syddington, his blue eyes sparkling with newborn hope, thumped him on the shoulder as he passed.

They were past the middle of the field now, and once more Lane struck the blue-stockinged right guard for a gain. St. Eustace was yielding. Hillton was again on the offensive. From the fifty yards to the thirty-two went the conquering Crimson, Lane, Sanford and Hale hurdling, plunging, squirming between tackle and tackle. St. Eustace’s center trio were weak, battered, almost helpless.

Syddington gazed longingly at the farthest white line, now well in view. If only Lane could skirt the end! There was no longer any thought of rivalry in his heart. If Lane could make a touch-down and save them from defeat, he might have the captaincy and welcome.

The St. Eustace quarter called for time. The battered center and right guard were taken out and their places filled with new men. The timekeeper approached, watch in hand.

“Two minutes more,” he announced.

Syddington’s heart sank; the panting players reeled before his eyes, and he grasped Carter’s shoulder to steady himself. Only two minutes! And success almost within grasp! He turned swiftly to Colton.

“Two minutes, Dan! Did you hear? There isn’t time to work it down. Try the ends; give it to Lane! We’ve got to score, Dan!” He thumped his clenched hands against his padded thighs and stared miserably about him. Colton patted him on the back.

“Cheer up, Bob,” he whispered--his voice was now such that he could only whisper or shout--“cheer up! We’ll make it. Two minutes is time enough to win in!” The whistle sounded again.

“Right tackle--back!” cried the quarter. Carter dropped out of the line.

“Signal! 16--34--58--5!”

A tandem play on left guard netted two yards; the new center was a good man. Syddington’s heart was leaping into his throat and thumping back again painfully. He clenched his hands, watched his man with every nerve and muscle tense, and awaited the next signal. Would it never come? What was the matter with Colton? Did he not know he was losing----

“Sig--” began the quarter; then his voice gave out in a husky whisper. “Signal!” he repeated, hoarsely.

“Block hard!” shouted Syddington.

“Watch out for fake!” shrieked the St. Eustace captain.

“44--22----”

The Blue’s right half ran back to join the quarter up the field. Hale, the Crimson’s full-back, stood with outstretched hands on the thirty-six-yard line, with Lane and Sanford guarding him. Syddington swung his arms and crouched as if on edge to get down under the punt, yet out of the corners of his eyes he was watching the St. Eustace left tackle as a cat watches a mouse.

“44--22--11--6!” gasped Colton.

Center passed the ball back straight and clean to Hale, and the latter sped it on at a short side pass to Lane, who had dropped back; Sanford dashed at the right end of the line, and Lane, the pigskin hugged close and his right arm rigid before him, fell in behind. Sanford sent the St. Eustace end reeling backward, and Syddington put the Blue’s full-back out of the play and went crashing to the ground with him. Sanford and Lane swept through outside of tackle and sped toward the goal.

Crimson banners waved and danced. The game was lost or won in the next few seconds. Victory for Hillton, defeat for her rival, lay in the crossing of those eight trampled white lines by the lad who, with straining limbs and heaving chest, sped on behind his interference.

Sanford, lithe and fleet, held a straight course for the right-hand goal-post. Ahead, with staring eyes and desperate faces, the St. Eustace quarter and right half advanced menacingly. Behind, pounding footsteps told of stern pursuit.

Then the quarter-back was upon them, face pale and set, arms outstretched, and Lane swung to the right. Sanford’s shoulder met the foe, and the two went to earth together, Sanford on top. He was up again in the instant, and, unharmed, once more running fleetly. But Lane was ahead now, and before him, near the ten-yard line, the blue-clad half-back was waiting. The man ahead stood for defeat, for Lane doubted his ability to get round him. Even running was agony, and dodging seemed out of the question. But just as hope deserted him Sanford came into sight beside him.

“Faster!” he panted. “To the right.”

Lane had no time to make his lagging limbs obey ere Sanford and the foe were piled together at his feet. He plunged blindly over the writhing heap, stumbled, fell on one knee, staggered up again, saw the yellowish turf rising and sinking before him, felt his knees doubling up beneath him, fell, rolled over twice, crawled and wriggled on knees and elbows from force of habit, and then closed his eyes, laid his head on his arm and was supremely content.

Syddington sped down the field with the roar of three thousand voices in his ears, and a great, almost sickening happiness at his heart.

Hillton had won!

For the moment thought refused to go beyond that wonderful fact. His team, the boys whom he had threatened, coaxed, driven, struggled with for months, had beaten St. Eustace!

He thrust his way through the little group and dropped to his knees. Lane opened his eyes and for an instant stared blankly into his face. Then recollection returned and he raised his head. Above him rose the goal-posts. He grinned happily.

“Over, eh, Syddington?” he asked, weakly.

“Yes, Lane, over. Are you all right?”

“Yes; a bit tuckered, that’s all. Let me up, please.”

They helped him to his feet, and he stretched his aching muscles cautiously. Beck handed him his head harness, and he turned and limped off. The cheering, which had almost subsided for want of breath, took on new vigor, and he went up the field to the wild refrain of “Lane! Lane! Lane!”

Hale kicked goal and the teams lined up for the kick-off once more. But when the ball had fallen into the arms of the Hillton left end the whistle shrilled and the battle was at an end. The score-board said:

Hillton 12. Opponents 8.

The crowds were over the ropes on the instant, and while the wearied crimson players were hoarsely cheering their defeated rivals, they were seized and borne off to where the band was playing Hilltonians. Then the procession round the field began. And when it had formed, Carl Lane, left half-back, borne upon the shoulders of four stalwart, shrieking friends, was at the head. And Syddington, almost at the end of the line of swaying heroes, saw, and was more than content.

“They’ll make him captain the day after to-morrow,” he said to himself, “and I’m glad--glad!”

And with the band playing as it had not played for two years, with every voice raised in song, Hillton marched triumphantly back to the campus.

* * * * *

It was the evening of the day following Hillton’s victory. The songs and cheering were over, and the big bonfire was only a mound of ashes. Syddington had lighted a fire in the study grate, for an east wind was sweeping across the Hudson and rattling the casements fiercely.

It was all over! The boys had broken training, the field was left to the pranks of the winter winds, canvas jackets and padded trousers were put away, and the football season was at an end. Well, it had been a successful one, and next year----

His hands dropped and he sat upright, staring blankly before him. He had forgotten. Next year meant little to him now. Lane had earned the captaincy twice over. If it must go to some one other than himself, he was glad that Carl Lane was to be that person. He would nominate Lane himself. He began to fashion a little speech in his mind; and when he was in the middle of it, there came a knock at the door and Lane entered. Syddington stared a moment in surprise.

“How are you, Lane? Glad to see you,” he said, finally. “I--I was just thinking about you when you knocked. Sit down, won’t you?”

“Thanks.” Lane tossed his cap on the table and drew a chair toward the hearth. “Cold, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Syddington went back to the armchair and wondered what the visit meant. Lane had not the air of a casual caller; his face was serious and held a suggestion of embarrassment. There was a moment’s silence; then Lane went on in a tone of frank sincerity:

“Look here, Syddington. The fellows are talking about the captaincy.” He was watching Syddington closely. “And I find that I can have every vote but four.”

“I don’t know who the four are,” answered Syddington, bravely, “but if I’m one of them you can count me out. I’m going to vote for you, and if you’ll let me, I’ll put your name up.”

“Thank you. I didn’t expect that. I fancied you’d want it yourself.”

“So I do. So does every fellow, I guess. But you’ve won it, Lane, fair and square, and I don’t begrudge it to you. I’ll acknowledge that I did at first, but after you won the game----”

“You mean that you knew before the game that I might get the captaincy?” Lane’s voice was full of wonder.

“Yes. Carter told me.”

“And you let me play?”

“Yes, although--” he faltered--“although I came near not.”

“I see. And I owe you an apology. I didn’t think you’d let me on, and I said so. I think it was a mighty plucky thing to do, mighty plucky, Syddington, and--and awfully decent. And now, look here. What I came here to say was just this.” He rose and took his cap from the table. “I can have the captaincy to-morrow, perhaps, but of course I’m not going to accept it.”

“Not going to--to----”

“Would you take it if you were in my place? If I had given you the chance to win the big game, knowing that if you did you’d get the captaincy; if you knew I’d set my heart on keeping it; if I’d slaved all fall to turn out the finest team Hillton’s had in years; if--if----”

“But that has nothing to do with it,” faltered the other.

“Yes, it has everything to do with it,” said Lane, earnestly. “It’s a matter of fair play--and no holding. If I took that captaincy after what you’ve done I’d detest myself.”

“But--but it doesn’t seem right.”

“It is, though. You’re a captain from head to heels, and I’m not. And--I guess that’s all.” He moved toward the door. Syddington followed with pale face.

“I--I don’t know how I can thank you, Lane, honestly! If you change your mind----”

“I sha’n’t. And as for thanks--I think we’re quits. Good night!”

“Good night!” replied Syddington. “I--” he faltered and the color flooded into his cheeks--“I--I want to shake hands with you, Lane.”

CLASS SPIRIT

Peter Doe descended the marble steps of the big dormitory with discouragement written large upon his face. When he reached the sidewalk he drew a blank book from his pocket and studied it with frowning brows until he had crossed the avenue, and, half-unconsciously, perched himself on the top rail of the college fence. Then he sighed and returned the book to his coat.

Peter had been canvassing for the freshman crew for four days. Armitage and the rest had spoken cheerfully of eight hundred dollars as the probable result of his labors. To-day Peter shook his head ruefully. The book in his pocket held subscriptions representing only two hundred and sixty-four dollars, of which nearly half was “pledged,” a term possessing doubtful significance. And Peter was discouraged.

When Ronald Armitage--popular, influential and much sought--had requested Peter to join the squad of canvassers, Peter had been secretly much flattered, and had acquiesced instantly, gladly. For two whole days he had haunted the dormitories, indifferent to all discourtesies.

Peter was glad to be of service to his class. He believed that a man’s first duty was to his college, his second to his class, his third--well, the third did not as yet trouble him. He stood just five feet six and one-half inches, and had all a small man’s admiration for brawn and athleticism. His complexion was pink and white, a fact which worried him so much that in summer he spent precious hours lying with his face upturned to the sun in the hope that he would tan. But he never did; he simply got very red and the skin peeled off his nose.

Peter’s crowning glory was his hair, which was of the color of red gold. It was very beautiful hair from an artistic point of view, but it did not please Peter. At preparatory school it had won him the name of “Little Goldie,” a title which still clung to him among his acquaintances. He was good at studies, and was visibly impressed with the seriousness of existence.

After a while Peter slipped from the fence. He was eighteen years old, and at eighteen discouragement is a matter of a moment. Peter set his face toward Haworth Hall and Vance Morris, resolved to play his last card. Vance Morris was one of the richest men in college, and by far the wealthiest in the freshman class.

Peter had gone to school with him at St. Matthew’s, but their acquaintance was only of the nodding kind. Armitage had told Peter that Morris was “good for a hundred at least.” Fortune had apparently played into the collector’s hands at the very beginning of his canvassing, for, crossing the yard in the morning he had encountered Morris, and had, not without a struggle with his diffidence, stopped him and asked for a subscription.

“We, that is, Armitage and the others, you know, thought that about one hundred dollars would be--er--enough,” he had announced. Whereupon Morris, who was plainly in a hurry to reach the square, had grinned and replied:

“Really? That’s very modest of them, isn’t it? Don’t you think they’d rather have a thousand?”

The tone had made Peter feel a bit uncomfortable, but he had managed to give audible expression to the belief that a hundred would do very nicely; upon which Morris had again grinned down upon him from his six feet two inches, and had started away.

But Peter had trotted after him. “Then we--then I may look for one hundred, Morris?”

“You may,” the other had answered. “Oh, yes, you may look for it. There’s my car.”

It was a hard race to the square, but Peter sprinted desperately and swung himself up on the rear platform a second after Morris.

“You--you promise?” gasped Peter.

“Oh, yes, confound you! Get off or you’ll break your neck!”

Peter did not break his neck, but he afforded much amusement to a group of students by rolling riotously over the street for several yards. To-day, as he skirted the yard toward Morris’s room, he recalled that hard-bought promise and was comforted. Another hundred would bring his list up to the sum of three hundred and sixty-four dollars, far removed from the fabulous amount predicted by Armitage, but, after the ill success of the past four days, something over which to rejoice. During the bitterest moments of his laboring, Peter had comforted his soul with thoughts of that one hundred dollars.

Peter found Morris alone, lying at ease in a big, hospitable armchair, and in good humor.

“Hello!” Morris held forth a big, brown hand. “Glad to see you. Sit down.”

Peter made known the object of his visit, and finally Morris yawned and stretched a hand toward his desk.

“All right; toss me my check-book.”

Peter eagerly brought book and pen, ink and blotter, and the big freshman, using the arm of the chair for support, scrawled illegible characters. Then he tore off the little strip of pale-green paper and handed it to Peter.

“That’s the best I can do for you.”

He yawned again and closed his eyes. Peter opened his. “But--but this--this is for only ten dollars!”

“You’re good at figures,” muttered Morris, sleepily.

Peter stared at him in silence while the brass-dialed clock ticked twenty times. This, then, was the realization of his magnificent hopes!

A paltry ten dollars where he had looked for a hundred! What would Armitage and the others say? What would they think of him? Peter’s voice trembled in shrill, indignant protest:

“This isn’t fair, Morris! It isn’t honest! It isn’t--isn’t decent! Why, you promised a hundred, and I--we all counted on it; and now--now you give me this measly little ten!”

Morris swung slowly round and stared in bewilderment.

“Well!” he muttered, in awestruck tones.

“You ought to do more than this for the crew!” Peter went on, waving the check wildly in air. “You can afford to give what you promised, and--and by jiminy, _you’ve got to_!”

“Got to!” growled the other. He drew himself from the chair until he towered above Peter like a step-ladder above a footstool. He put his hands in the pockets of his jacket and looked down in frowning amusement. “_Got to!_” he repeated.

Peter’s face blanched from pale to the perfect whiteness of newly fallen snow, but he held his ground. His voice broke, but he answered:

“Yes.”

Morris laughed and slapped Peter on the shoulder.

“Good for you! But look here, take that check and get out. It isn’t your funeral, you know. And besides, ten dollars isn’t to be sneezed at. If every fellow in the class gave ten dollars----”

“But you know every fellow can’t!” broke in Peter. “You know lots of them can’t afford to give anything! But you can, Morris; you can afford to give what you promised--more than that.”

“Oh, leave off!” said Morris. “Run along with your check, like a good little boy.”

Peter hesitated; then he folded the slip of paper and placed it in his pocket. Taking the pen, he dipped it into the ink and wrote a receipt. Then he faced Morris again.

“Yes, I’ll take this on account. But I’ve got to have ninety more,” he said, doggedly. “And I’m going to have it. I’m going to keep at it until I get it. You’ve got to do what is right, Morris!”

“You’re like what’s-his-name’s raven,” sighed the other. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. When you get a hundred dollars out of me for the crew, I’ll--I’ll give you another fifty!” He laughed uproariously.

Peter strode to the door, and when he reached it turned and faced Morris impressively.

“Remember your promise!”

The door closed sternly behind him. Morris dropped into the armchair and laughed until the tears came. That was on Thursday.

The next day Peter returned. Morris’s study was filled with students. Morris was courteous to a fault, but Peter refused to be placated.

“Can you let me have that ninety dollars for the freshman crew to-day?” he asked. The crowd grinned. Morris shook his head and looked devastated with grief.

“I regret that I can not; not to-day. Perhaps next fall--or a year from yesterday, now----”

When the door was closed between him and the laughing enemy, Peter turned and shook a small, tightly clenched fist. “Wait!” he whispered, hoarsely.

That was on Friday.

Returning across the yard from chapel the next morning, Peter encountered Wyeth, Morris’s roommate. He carried a valise, and Peter knew that he was going home over Sunday.

“Beg pardon,” said Peter, “but can you tell me where I can find Morris?”

Wyeth hesitated. Then he laughed and played traitor. He jerked his head in the direction of Haworth, and scuttled for the car. Peter’s heart leaped as he hurried across the campus. When he reached the dormitory he crossed the courtyard and sprang up the stairs two at a time. The outer door was ajar. On the inner he knocked boldly. There was no response. He knocked again, then entered the study. The room was deserted. The sunlight shone in brightly through one window, where the curtain was drawn back. Peter investigated the bedroom to the left. It was empty. He crossed to the opposite door. Within lay Morris on a gorgeous brass bedstead, his big chest rising and falling in mighty respirations, his half-opened mouth emitting sounds resembling the subterranean roar of an idle geyser. One arm lay straight beside him; the other crossed his body, clutching the embroidered quilt.

The clock in the next room ticked on, slowly, monotonously, while Morris slept and Peter evolved an idea, an idea so grand, so desperate, that his flaming locks stirred uneasily upon his scalp and his breath came in gasps. Then he sighed as if from his very shoes. His mind was made up!

He crept into the study and locked the hall door, dropping the key into his pocket. On the wall by the fireplace hung a monstrous Mexican hat, three pairs of spurs, a quirt, and, gracefully encircling these, a long, braided rawhide lariat. With the aid of a chair Peter took the lariat from its place and crept noiselessly back to the bedroom. The giant still slept. With thumping heart Peter set to work.

For the next ten minutes he worked like a beaver--or a burglar. He made eight trips under the bed. At seven minutes past nine by the brass-dialed clock the last knot was tied, and Peter, trembling, breathless but triumphant, viewed his work with satisfaction. His enemy was delivered into his hands!

He returned to the study. He had no right, he told himself, to disturb Morris’s slumber; he must wait until the sleeper woke of his own accord. The hands of the clock crept round toward ten. Peter recollected that he was missing an English lecture, and would undoubtedly be kept from German. His regret, however, was but passing.

He took up a magazine, but had turned only two leaves when there reached him a sound like the spouting of a leviathan. He drew his knees together and shivered. The giant was waking! Then the bed creaked alarmingly and Peter crept to the door. At the same instant Morris opened his eyes, yawned, blinked, yawned again, tried to stretch his arms, and stared.

“Hello, Goldie! That you? What in thunder----”

He raised his head as far as circumstances allowed and saw himself, like Gulliver, enmeshed in a network of thongs. Amazement gave way to understanding, understanding to appreciation, appreciation to laughter. The bed shook. Peter gained courage and entered.

“Oh, Goldie,” cried the giant, “you’ll be the death of me yet, I know you will!”

Peter waited in silence.

“I didn’t think you were such a joker, Goldie, honest, I never did!”

“I’m glad I’ve amused you,” replied Peter, with immense dignity. “I assure you I had no idea of a joke.”

“No idea of a joke!” said Morris, vainly striving to wipe his streaming eyes on the pillow-slip by rolling his head. “Then what do you call this?”

“Business.”

“Business? Oh, well, call it what you like; it’s good, mighty good. To think that you managed to hog-tie me like this without waking me up! It’s--it’s-- By the way, what time is it?”

“Just ten o’clock.”

“Great Scott! You don’t mean it? Here, untie these knots and let me up. I was going to be in town at eleven.”

Peter shook his head. Morris stared. The truth dawned.

“You don’t mean--” he began, incredulously. Peter nodded.

“_Well, I’ll be jiggered!_”

He lay and stared in amazement. Peter stared uncompromisingly back. The study clock ticked unnaturally loud. Peter was pale and Morris was of a redness that verged on purple. The storm broke suddenly.

“Why, you little red-headed, snub-nosed idiot!” bellowed Morris. “When I get up I’ll smash you into slivers! I’ll----”

He strove mightily to wrest himself from the clutches of the encircling lariat. He heaved, strained, twisted, writhed; but rawhide is uncompromising to a degree. At the end of one strenuous minute he subsided, panting, perspiring, glaring like a trapped lion. Peter sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t want you to think,” he announced, “that I have taken this course willingly; you--you have driven me to it. I gave you full warning.”

Morris roared loudly, inarticulately. Peter waited politely, then continued, “I gave you fair warning. I told you I had to have the money. I regret putting you to this--this inconvenience, and----”

For a space the bed rocked like a scow in a squall.

“And assure you that as soon as you do your duty to the freshman crew and to yourself I’ll let you up.”

“Duty!” frothed Morris.

Peter interlaced his fingers round one knee and settled himself comfortably against the foot-rail. He observed the captive gravely, dispassionately, almost indulgently, as a just parent might view a disobedient child to whom punishment is being meted out. Then he began to talk. He pointed out to Morris that a college man’s duty does not end with himself; that he should consider the good of the university and his class, and stand ready and eager to support the honor of each to the best of his ability; that he should be willing to sacrifice his personal pleasure to that end. Class spirit, said Peter, was one of the most beautiful things about college life.

Peter talked leisurely, eloquently, even convincingly. Having established--to his own satisfaction, at least--the claim that the class body possesses on its members, he passed to the subject of the benefits of athletics. When he had exhausted that, he indicated the self-evident fact that athletics can prosper only with the support of the students. Morris by this time had raged himself dry of expletives, and was a silent, if unenthusiastic, auditor.

Peter was encouraged, and his eloquence increased. The freshman class, he declared, was in many ways the most important of all. Its contests on track, field and river were watched with interest second only to that given to the struggles of the varsity teams and crews. The class that attained honor in its freshman year established a stable basis for future glory. Those whose privilege it was to make possible that honor, either by labor or by financial support, should deem themselves fortunate.

Morris was now groaning impotently. Peter brushed a stray wisp of red-gold hair from his brow and went on, his eyes transfixing his victim. There were many in the class, he said, who could afford to contribute but little to the cause. There were others so fortunate as to be in position to give generously. It was the duty, the privilege of every fellow to give according to his means. In the case of Morris----

The clock chimed the half-hour. Morris gave a deep sigh and yielded.

“Goldie, for heaven’s sake cut it out!” he begged. “Let me up and I’ll write you a check for fifty dollars.”

“Ninety,” corrected Peter, firmly.

“Well, ninety.”

Peter rose and untied several knots. The result was not quite what Morris had expected. He found only his right arm free.

“Where’s your check-book?” asked Peter.

“In the desk. Aren’t you going to let me up?”

The only response was the sound of pen on paper. When Peter reappeared he placed the book before his captive and put the pen into his hand. “After you’ve signed,” he said.

Morris grumbled, but with some difficulty affixed his signature to the check for ninety dollars. Peter tore it off and once more presented the book. Morris stared. “What’s this?” he demanded.

“Another one for fifty,” answered Peter, quietly. “Remember your promise.”

“My promise?” cried Morris.

“Certainly. When I got one hundred from you for the crew you were to give me fifty more. Have you enough ink?”

Morris glowered, glancing from Peter’s inexorable countenance to the open check-book. Then he grinned craftily and signed.

“Now you’ve got to untie me,” he said.

Peter folded the two slips carefully and placed them in his pocket. Then he wrote a receipt for one hundred and forty dollars, Morris watching him uneasily.

“Thank you!” said Peter, laying down the receipt. “I am certain that you’ll be glad in the end that you were able to do so much for the crew. I am now going over to the bank”--Morris writhed--“to get these cashed. As soon as possible I’ll return and set you free.”

For a moment Morris fought against fate. Then he capitulated.

“Hold on, Goldie! I know when I’m beaten. I give you my word I won’t stop those if you’ll let me up now. What’s more, I won’t lay a hand on you, honor bright!”

Peter set about untying the knots; it was a long task.

“Had breakfast?” asked Morris, presently.

Peter had not. He had quite forgotten it.

“Well,” said Morris, “wait until I get my clothes on and we’ll go over to Brimm’s and have some.”

“All right,” stammered Peter. He flushed with pleasure and embarrassment.

“But what I can’t understand,” said Morris, a little later, stretching his cramped arms above his head, “what I can’t understand is why you want to go to all this bother about crew money. It isn’t your funeral.”

Peter Doe paused in the labor of undoing a particularly obstinate knot that confined Morris’s chest, and stared at the conquered giant in real surprise.

“Why, class spirit, of course!” he said.

THE FATHER OF A HERO

The Hero sat in the window-seat, and nursed his knee and frowned. He was rather young to be a hero, he lacked a month of being twenty; he looked eighteen. He had a round face, with a smooth, clear skin, over which spring suns had spread an even coat of tan that was wonderfully becoming. His eyes were blue, and his hair was as near yellow as hair ever is. For the rest, he was of medium height, slim, and well-built. His name was James Gill Robinson, Jr. Throughout college he was known as “Rob”; on the baseball diamond, the players, according him the respect due a superior, called him “Cap.” His father, with the privilege of an extended acquaintance, called him “Jimmie.”

The father leaned back in a dark-green Morris chair, one gray-gaitered foot swinging and his right thumb reposing between the second and third buttons of his white vest. This was a habit with the thumb, and meant that Mr. James Gill Robinson, Sr., was speaking of weighty matters, and with authority. The father was well this side of fifty and, like his son, looked younger than he was, for which an admirable complexion was to be thanked. He wore side-whiskers, and the brows above the sharp blue eyes were heavy and lent emphasis to the aggressive character of the lower part of his face. But if he was aggressive he was also fair-minded, and if he was obstinate he was kind-hearted as well; and none of these are bad qualities in a lawyer. And of course he was smart, too; as the father of James Gill Robinson, Jr., he couldn’t have been anything else.

Through the open window the length of the Yard was visible, intensely green and attractively cool. Fellows with straw hats adorned with fresh new bands of all colors and combinations of colors, fellows flannel-trousered and vestless, lounged on the grass or intersected the verdant, tree-shaded oblong, bearing tennis racquets or baseball bats. It was mid-June, warm, clear, and an ideal Saturday.

The Hero turned from a brief survey of the outside world and faced his father again, listening respectfully to the latter’s remarks, but quite evidently taking exception to the gist of them. At length he was moved to defense.

“But look here, dad, seems to me the showing I made last year proves that I haven’t neglected study.”

“That’s not the point, sir. I’ll acknowledge that you--ah--did uncommonly well last year. I was proud of you. We all were. And I take it for granted that you will do equally well, if not better, this year. I expect it. I won’t have anything else, sir! But you don’t gather my meaning. This is an old subject of controversy between us, Jimmie, and it does seem to me that by this time you should have come to an understanding of the position I take. But you haven’t; that’s clear, sir, and so I’ll state it once more.”

He paused, and glanced at a massive gold watch.

“It is twelve minutes after two; I’m not detaining you?” he asked, with a broad suggestion of sarcasm.

“No, sir, I have ten minutes yet,” answered the Hero.

“Ah, thank you. Well, now--” Mr. Robinson drew his eyebrows together while he silently marshaled his arguments. Then--“I have never,” he said, “opposed athletic sports in moderation. On the contrary, I think them--ah--beneficial. Mind you, though, I say in moderation, distinctly ‘_in moderation!_’ In fact, in my own college days I gained some reputation as an athlete myself.”

The Hero suppressed a smile. His father’s reputation had been gained as short-stop on a senior class nine that, with the aid of pistols, old muskets, and brass bands, had defeated, by a score of 27 to 16, a sophomore team, his father having made three home runs by knocking the ball into a neighboring back yard. The Hero had heard the history of that game many times.

“But you, sir,” continued Mr. Robinson, severely, “you, sir, are overdoing it. You are allowing athletics to occupy too much of your time and thought. I take to-day to be an average one?”

“Hardly, sir,” answered the Hero. “Saturday is always busier than week-days, and to-day we have one of our big games.”

“I am glad to hear it, very glad. I reached here at eleven o’clock, and you dragged me out to the field while you practised batting. At twelve you had a recitation. At one you took me to the training table, where I sat among a large number of very--ah--frivolous young men who constantly talked of things I do not, and do not care to understand. You have now kindly allowed me a half-hour of your society. In a minute or two you will tear off to the field again, to be there, so you tell me, until half past five. Now, sir, I ask you, is what I have described an equable adjustment of study and athletics, sir?”

“I’m very sorry, dad,” replied the Hero, earnestly. “If I’d known you were coming to-day I could have fixed things a little differently. But as it was, I couldn’t very well give you much time. I wish you’d come out to the game, sir. It’s going to be a thundering good one, I think. Princeton is after our scalps.”

“No, Jimmie, I refuse to lend countenance to the proceedings. You are overdoing it, sir, overdoing it vastly! Why, confound it, sir, who are you here at Harvard? What do I see in the morning paper? ‘Robinson is confident.’ ‘Plucky captain and first-baseman of the Harvard nine looks for a victory over the Tigers.’ That’s the sort of stuff I read, sir! A whole column of it! That’s who you are, sir; you’re just the baseball captain; you’re not James Robinson, Jr., not for a minute! And the papers are full of silly talk about you, and refer to you as ‘Rob.’ It’s disgraceful, if nothing else!”

“Well, dad, I don’t like that sort of notoriety any better than you do, but I don’t think it’s fair to blame me for it. When you win a big case at home it’s just the same, sir; the papers even print your picture sometimes, and that’s more than they do with mine, because they can’t get it.”

His father glared silently. It was too true to bear contradiction. But he wasn’t one to back down any further than was absolutely necessary.

“Maybe, sir, maybe. But let me inform you that winning an important case in the courts is decidedly different from winning a game of baseball before a lot of shouting, yelling idiots with tin horns and flags! Eh? What?”

“Well, I don’t altogether agree with you there, dad. In either case it’s a matter of using your brain and doing your level best and keeping your wits about you. The results may not be on a par as to importance, sir, although--” he smiled slightly--“maybe it depends some on the point of view. I tell you what, sir,” he went on, “you come out to the Princeton game this afternoon and if, when it’s over with, you say that trying to win a big game of college baseball isn’t worth doing, why, I’ll give up the captaincy and have nothing more to do with such things next year! What do you say, sir?”

“I refuse to enter into any such agreement, sir. Moreover, I have no intention of sitting on a plank in the hot sun and watching a lot of idiots run around the bases. No, sir, if you’ve got to take part in that game, as I suspect you have, you go ahead and I’ll look after myself. Only I must have at least one undisturbed hour with you before my train goes.”

“Certainly, dad; I’ll be with you all the evening. I hope you’ll be comfortable. You’ll find the library at the Union very pleasant if you want to read. I will be back here at about half after five. I do wish, though, you’d come out, sir.”

“You’ve heard me on that subject, Jimmie,” replied Mr. Robinson, severely. “Naturally, you--ah--have my wishes for success, but I must decline to make myself miserable all the afternoon.”

After the Hero had gone, Mr. Robinson, with much grumbling, strove to make himself comfortable with a book. But he had looked upon his journey to Cambridge as something in the way of a holiday, and sitting in a Morris chair didn’t conform to his idea of the correct way of spending it. The Yard looked inviting, and so he took the volume and went out under the trees. But he didn’t read. Instead he leaned the back of his immaculate gray coat against a tree-trunk and fell to thinking. From where he sat he could see, at a distance, the window of the room that he had occupied during his last two years in the Law School. That window suggested memories.

Presently he heard a voice near by. A fellow passing along in front of Matthews was hailing another.

“Aren’t you going over to the game?” he asked.

“Sure. What time is it?”

“Ten of three. Better come along now. I’ll wait for you.”

A moment later the other emerged from the doorway.

“How are you betting?” he asked.

“Even that we win.”

“Think so? Princeton’s got a wonderful young nine, they say.”

“So have we. ‘Rob’ says we’re going to win, and what he says goes, my boy.”

“Yes, he knows his business all right.”

“Well, I guess! He’s the best captain Harvard’s had for years and years, and he’s as level-headed as they make them. All ready?”

They went off in the direction of the Square. Mr. Robinson watched them and wondered what they would say if they knew “Rob’s” father had overheard them. He rather wished they could have known who he was. Then he frowned impatiently as he realized that in a moment of weakness he had coveted glory in the rôle of “Rob’s” father. But he was glad he had overheard that conversation. Even if Jimmie was paying altogether too much attention to baseball and too little to the graver features of college life, still he was glad that Jimmie was a good captain. He was--yes, he was proud of that.

It was very cool and restful there on the grass, with the whispering of the little breeze in the leaves above him, and he laid the book carefully aside, folded his hands, and closed his eyes. The Yard was deserted now save for the squirrels and the birds, and so for quite an hour none disturbed Mr. Robinson’s slumber. Once his hat fell off, and after a sleepy attempt to find it he let it go. His trousers gradually parted company with his gaiters, exposing a length of thin, black-clad ankle. Altogether he presented a most undignified spectacle, and a squirrel who ran down the tree-trunk and surveyed him from a position a foot or two above his head chattered his disapprobation. Perhaps it was this that woke Mr. Robinson up.

He yawned, arranged his trousers, recovered his hat, and looked at his watch. It was just four o’clock. He felt rather stiff, but the nap had rested him, and so he returned the book to the room with the idea of taking a walk. Swinging his gold-headed cane jauntily, he passed through the Square and made his way toward the river. The breezes would be refreshing, he told himself. But long before he reached the bridge disturbing sounds came to him, borne on the little west wind that blew in his face:

“Ha-a-ar-vard! Ha-a-ar-vard! Ha-a-ar-vard!”

He crossed the bridge, left the river behind and went on. Now from the right, around the corner of the Locker Building, came wild, confused cries:

“That’s pitching, old man; that’s pitching!” “Now, once more; make him hit it!” “Put it over; you can do it!” “Hai, hai, hai! Now you’re off! Down with his arm! On your toes, on your toes!” “_Look out!_ Twenty minutes, Mr. Umpire!” “_He’s out at first!_”

Then the cheering began again.

Mr. Robinson frowned, but kept on his way. He was back of the stands now. The scene was hidden from the street by a long strip of canvas. He looked about him; the road was deserted hereabouts. He stooped and strove to look under the canvas, but he saw only a pair of sturdy, red-stockinged legs. The cheering became wild and incoherent, and was punctuated with hand-clapping and the stamping of many feet on the boards. Mr. Robinson went on at a faster gait, something of excitement appearing in his face. At the gate a few loiterers stood about. Mr. Robinson approached one of them and asked with elaborate indifference:

“What--ah--what is the score?” “Seven to six in favor of Princeton. They’ve knocked Miller out of the box.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Robinson glanced at his watch. “I--ah--suppose the game is about over?”

“Last of the sixth. There, that’s three out. This is the seventh now.” From the left somewhere came cheers for Princeton.

“Thank you.” Mr. Robinson turned and went on, followed by long, inspiriting “Ha-a-ar-vards!” But the scenery was not attractive and the breeze was no longer cool. He stopped, frowned, and gazed absorbedly at the sidewalk, drawing figures with the end of his cane in the gravel.

“It must be very close,” he muttered. Then, after a moment, “Jimmie will be badly disappointed if they’re beaten.”

With sudden resolution he stuck his cane under his arm, pulled his waistcoat free of wrinkles, and walked quickly, determinedly, back to the entrance. At the ticket booth he drew a bill from his pocketbook and, in the act of purchasing, recalled his informant of a few minutes before. He was still there, craning his head and listening.

“Here, do you want to see the last of this?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” was the eager answer.

“Two tickets, please.”

Mr. Robinson strode through the gate followed by a freckle-faced, rather tattered youth of sixteen, and sought a seat.

“You come along with me,” he said to the boy. “I may want to know who some of these fellows are.”

Seats were hard to find, but in the end they obtained them on a stand back of third base. Mr. Robinson settled his stick between his knees and looked about him. The triangle of stands was crowded with excited men and women; men in straw hats and all sorts of vivid shirts, women in cool cotton dresses, with here and there a touch of crimson ribbon. The field stretched away green and level as a carpeted floor to the river and the boathouse. Princeton was at the bat. Mr. Robinson turned to his new acquaintance.

“Seven to six, you said?” The boy glanced at the little black score-board.

“Yes, sir, that’s right. See? Harvard made three in the first and two in the third and one in the fifth, and Princeton made three in the third and four in the fifth. That’s when they didn’t do a thing to Miller. Gee, I could hear ’em hittin’ him outside there! I’d like to been inside then, wouldn’t you?”

“Hm, yes,” replied Mr. Robinson.

“Say, what made you so late?” asked the other with a suspicion of a grievance in his voice. “Gee, if I’d been going to this game I bet you I’d been on time!”

“I--ah--I was detained,” replied Mr. Robinson. He realized that the boy held him in some contempt, and knew that it would never do to tell the whole truth about it; the other would simply look upon him as a lunatic. Clearly, too, he owed his acquaintance an apology. “I am sorry that I didn’t get here sooner,” he said, “so that you could have seen--ah--more of the contest.”

“So’m I,” was the frank response. Then, “Still, maybe if you’d come before you wouldn’t have taken me in with you?”

“That’s true; maybe I wouldn’t have--ah--noticed you. So perhaps it’s just as well, eh?”

“Yep. _Hi-i-i!_”

Mr. Robinson gave attention to the game in time to see the second Princeton batter thrown out at first. The stands subsided again, and the ushers waved their hats and the cheering broke out afresh.

“Supposing you tell me who some of the men are,” suggested Mr. Robinson.

“Sure thing. That’s Hanlon pitching. He’s pretty good, but he ain’t as good as Miller, they say. I guess ‘Mill’ must have had an off day. And that’s Morton catching. Say, he’s a peach!”

“Indeed?”

“You bet; a regular top-of-the-basket peacherina! You just keep your eye on him.”

“Thank you, I will,” answered the listener. “And the small fellow at first base?”

The boy turned and stared at him, open-eyed and open-mouthed. Then he whistled softly but with emphasis.

“Say!” he exclaimed, finally, “where’ve you been?”

“Well, I--” Mr. Robinson faltered, and the other gave a grunt of disgust.

“Gee, I thought everybody knew ‘Rob’!”

“Knew----?”

“‘Rob.’ His name’s Robinson; they call him ‘Rob’ for short. He’s the captain, of course. Didn’t you know that?”

“Well, yes, I did, now that you mention it,” answered the man humbly. “Is--is he pretty good?”

“Pretty good! Why, he’s a star! He’s a wonder! He’s--” Words failed him. “Say, you must live in Chelsea!” he said at last.

“Chelsea?” repeated Mr. Robinson. “No, I don’t live there.”

“Anybody’d think you did,” muttered the boy.

The third man went out on a long fly to center field, and Harvard trotted in to bat.

“If Harvard loses this game,” said the boy, “it’ll break her record. She ain’t lost one this year. That’s Greene going to bat. He ain’t much good at hittin’; he generally strikes out.”

Greene sustained his reputation, and a tall youth, whom Mr. Robinson was informed was Billings, the left-fielder, made a hit to short-stop and reached first by a bad throw. Harvard filled the bases in that inning and the excitement became intense. A base-hit would bring in the desired two runs. But the Princeton pitcher wound himself into knots and untangled himself abruptly and threw wonderful balls, and the umpire, a short, round, little man with a deep voice, yelled “Strike!” “Strikes!” “Striker’s out!”

“Aw, thunder!” lamented Mr. Robinson’s companion. “That’s two gone. Ain’t that mean?”