Chapter VII (2)

From the bank came encouraging cheers for "Mr. Stone." He made no offer at the first ball, which was out of reach. Then came a strike.

The spectators fidgeted in their seats; the field was almost quiet. Then bat and ball met with a sharp crack, and Curly sped toward first.

Across that base he sped, swung in a quick curve, and made for second. The center fielder had picked up the ball and was about to throw it in.

It was a narrow chance, but when Curly scrambled to his feet after his slide, the umpire dropped his hand. Curly was safe. From the bank and along the base line came loud cheers for Willard's.

But the following batsman struck out miserably. The next attempted a sacrifice, and not only went out himself, but failed to advance the runner.

Then Curly, seeing no help forthcoming, advanced himself, starting like a shot with the pitcher's arm and rising safe from a cloud of dust at third.

Apthorpe went to bat, weary but determined. Curly, on third, shot back and forth like a shuttle with every motion of the pitcher's arm. With two balls in his favor, Apthorpe thought he saw his chance, and struck swiftly at an outshoot.

The result--he swung through empty air--appeared to unnerve him. He struck again at the next ball, and again missed.

But he found the next ball, and drove it swift and straight at the pitcher.

Curly was ten feet from the base when ball met bat. He stopped, poised to go on or to scuttle back, and saw the pitcher attempt the catch, drop the ball as if it were a red-hot cinder, and stoop for it.

Then Curly settled his chin on his breast, worked his arms like pistons and his legs like driving shafts, and flew along the line.

Beside him scuttled a coach, shouting shrill, useless words. All about him were cries, commands, entreaties, confused, meaningless. Ten feet from the plate he launched himself through space, with arms outstretched. The dust was in his eyes and nostrils.

He felt a corner of the plate. At the same instant he heard the thud of the ball against the catcher's glove overhead, the swish of the down-swinging arm, and----

"Safe at the plate!" cried the umpire.

At second Apthorpe was sitting on the bag, joyfully kicking his heels into the earth. On the bench the scorer made big, trembling dots on the page. Everywhere pandemonium reigned. The home nine had won game and championship.

Curly jumped to his feet, dusted his bedraggled clothes, and walked into the arms of Harris.

"The best steal you ever made!" cried Harris, thumping him on the back. As he went to the bench he heard an excited and perspiring youth exclaim proudly, "I have him in Greek, you know!"

Two minutes later the cherry-colored banners of Durham departed, flaunting bravely in the face of defeat.

Willard's danced across the terrace, shouting and singing. In their possession was a soiled and battered ball, which on the morrow would be inscribed with the figures "9 to 8," and proudly suspended behind a glass case in the trophy room.

Curly and Harris sat together in the former's study. Supper was over. Curly held a sealed and addressed letter in his hands, which he turned over and over undecidedly.

"Then--if you were in my place--under the circumstances--you--you wouldn't hand this in?" he asked.

"Let me have it, please," said Harris, with decision. He tore the letter across, and tossed the pieces into the waste basket.

"That's the only thing to do with that," he said. And in the successful two years of teaching since then Curly has come to feel that Harris was quite right.

PATSY

He made his first appearance one afternoon a week or so before the Fall Handicap Meeting. Mosher, Fosgill, Alien, Ronimus, and several more of us were down at the end of the field putting the shot. Fosgill, who was scratch man that year, had just done an even forty feet and the shot had trickled away toward the cinder path. Whereupon a small bit of humanity appeared from somewhere, picked up the sixteen pounds of lead with much difficulty, and staggered back to the circle with it.

"Hello, kid," said Fosgill; "that's pretty heavy for you, isn't it?"

"Naw," was the superb reply; "that ain't nothin'!"

We laughed, and the youngster grinned around at us in a companionable way that won us on the spot.

"What's your name?" asked Ronimus.

"Patsy."

"Patsy what?"

"Burns."

"How old are you?"

"'Leven."

"You're a Frenchman, aren't yon?"

"Naw."

"You're not?" Ronimus pretended intense surprise.

"He's a Dutchman, aren't you, Patsy?" said Mosher.

"Naw."

"What are you then?"

"Mucker," answered Patsy with a grin.

For the rest of that day and for many days afterwards Patsy honored us with his presence. After each put he ambled forth, lifted the metal ball from the ground with two dirty little hands, snuggled it against the front of his dirty little shirt, and labored back with it. At the end of the week Patsy had become official helper.

He was a diminutive wisp of humanity, a starved, slender elf with a freckled face, wizened and peaked, which at times looked a thousand years old. It reminded you of the face of one of those preternaturally aged monkeys that sit motionless in a dark corner of the cage, oppressed with the sins and sorrows of a hundred centuries. And yet it mustn't be supposed that Patsy was either a pessimist or a misanthrope. Patsy's gray Irish eye could sparkle merrily and his thin little Irish mouth usually wore a whimsical smile. It was as though he realized that life was but a hollow mockery and yet had bravely resolved to pretend otherwise, that we, young and innocent, might still preserve our cherished illusions.

We made a good deal of Patsy. We pretended that he was very, very old and sophisticated--not a difficult task--and deferred to his judgment on all occasions. But in spite of this Patsy never became "fresh." To be sure, he speedily began calling Fosgill "Bull," but I don't think he meant the slightest disrespect; everyone called the big fellow "Bull," and it is quite possible that Patsy believed it to be a title of honor. He was attentive to all of us, but his heart was Fosgill's. He used to wait outside the Locker Building until we came out after dressing and then walk beside Fosgill until he reached the Square. Then Patsy would say:

"Good night, Bull."

And Fosgill would answer gravely:

"Good night, Patsy."

And Patsy would disappear.

But the evening of the Handicaps we took him back to the boarding house with us, and he sat beside Fosgill and ate ravenously of everything placed before him. We learned Patsy's life story that evening. He went to school--generally. He lived with Brian. Brian was his brother, eighteen years old, and a man of business; Brian drove for Connors, the teamster. Patsy wasn't sure that he had ever had a mother, but he was absolutely certain about his father. He still had vivid recollections of the night they broke down the door and put the handcuffs on father after father had laid out the lieutenant with a chair. Patsy didn't know just what father had done, but he had an idea it was something regarding the disappearance of numerous suits of clothes from a tailor's shop. Patsy was going into business himself just as soon as they let him stop school; he was going to sell papers. He had tried several times to wean himself from education, but each time they haled him back to the schoolhouse. Patsy thought the thing was terribly wrong.

When the snow covered the field we saw Patsy only occasionally. In the spring we got to work early. We believed we had a good show to win the Dual that year and a fighting chance at the Intercollegiate. We were strong on the sprints and distances, fair at the jumps and hurdles, and rather weak at the weights. We had a good man in Fosgill at the shot put, but that's about all. Along in May we had it doped out that if we could get first in the shot put we could win out by a point or two. But there wasn't anything certain about it, for our opponent was strong on second, near-"second," and third-place men.

Patsy appeared with the first warm day, looking thinner and littler and older than ever. That first day the assistant manager was holding the tape for us, and it occurred to him to pick up the shot and toss it back. But he did it only once. The next time Patsy was astraddle of that sixteen-pound lump and was looking the assistant manager sternly in the eye.

"I'm doin' this," said Patsy.

After that he did it and no one disputed his right. When the gates were closed and fellows had to show their H. A. A. tickets to get in, Patsy was admitted without question. When all the other youngsters for miles around were gluing their faces to the iron fence watching the baseball games, Patsy's allegiance never faltered. He was somewhere around Fosgill, regarding that hero with worshiping gaze. It was in May, I think, that Patsy made his Great Resolution. He confided it to us on the steps of the Locker Building when we were waiting for one of the crowd.

"I've decided not to go into business," said Patsy.

"What are you going to do?" asked Billy Allen.

"I'm going to college," replied Patsy easily. "I'm goin' to be a shot putter."

"Good for you, kid!" said Billy. "What college you going to?"

Billy winked at us and we watched eagerly while Patsy's countenance took on its expression of lofty contempt.

"Huh!" said Patsy. That was all, but that eloquent monosyllable consigned all other colleges than ours to the nethermost regions.

"But you'll have to go to school a long time, Patsy," said I, "if you expect to get into college."

"Yep, I know. It's tough, but I guess I can do it. Was--was it hard for you?"

I was forced to acknowledge that it had been.

"An' you ain't much of a shot putter, either," said Patsy reflectively.

Fosgill had done forty-two, eight and a half that afternoon and we were feeling pretty hopeful and good-natured after dinner. Some, one mentioned Patsy, and Mosher spoke up:

"Say, fellows, let's see that that little cuss does get into college. What do you say?"

"I'll go you!" cried Fosgill. "He's an all-right kid, is Patsy, and he deserves something better than spending his life on the streets. We'll adopt him."

"Sure thing," said Allen. "But we'll have our hands full. And what's to happen when we leave college?"

"We'll get some one to look after him We'll have a talk with Brother Brian about it. But, say, Bull, imagine Patsy putting the shot!"

We laughed at that--which we wouldn't have done if Patsy had been there.

"Well, I guess he won't make much of a show at athletics," said I, "but if we keep him off the streets we'll be doing a whole lot. And I like Patsy."

We all did. And before we left the table that night we had the thing mapped out. Patsy was to be cared for and looked after. He was to finish grammar school, go to Latin school, and then to Harvard. And there were to be funds where they'd do good. Yes, we had it all fixed up for Patsy and we'd have done it just as planned if Patsy hadn't gone and spoiled it all. And it happened like this:

When the Dual Meet came along in June we were all to the good. We couldn't see how we were to lose first in anything except the quarter, the high hurdles, the hammer throw and the broad jump. And we had enough seconds and thirds in sight to make good. If Bull Fosgill could beat Tanner with the shot we were it.

That's the way we had the situation sized up, but of course things don't happen just as expected; they seldom do in athletics. Some of the firsts we had claimed went glimmering and we took in seconds and thirds where we hadn't expected them. But the final result was just about what we had figured it, and along toward five o'clock the meet depended on the outcome of one event, and that event was the shot put. To be sure, they were still fussing with the pole vault, but we were certain of first and third places and so could discount that.

By some freak of fortune I had managed to qualify with a put of thirty-eight, one and a half. There were four of us in the finals, Fosgill, Tanner and Burt of the enemy, and I. Of course Patsy was there, and he worked like a Trojan. You could see, though, that it went against the grain with him to fetch for our opponents; Patsy had a good deal of the primeval left in him. And it's safe to say that no one there was more interested. I don't think he doubted for a moment that Fosgill would win, and I fancy he thought me pretty cheeky for aspiring so far as the final round.

Fosgill was ahead with forty-one, ten and a half, Tanner had done three inches under that, and Burt and I were fighting along for third place, doing around thirty-eight, six. It was pretty close work, and even the officials were excited. We had finished one round when the accident occurred.

Tanner was in the circle. Fosgill was down near the end of the tape and Patsy was close behind him. Tanner hopped across the circle, overstepped--fouling the put--and sent the shot away at a tangent. Fosgill had turned his head to speak to the measurer and never saw his danger. Tanner let out a shout of warning, and others echoed it. But it was Patsy who acted. He threw himself like a little catapult at Fosgill and sent him staggering across the turf. Then Patsy and the shot went down together.

It was all beastly sudden and nasty. When we bent over that poor little kid he was sort of greenish-white and I'll never forget the way his freckles stood out. The shot had struck him on the breast and Patsy's weak little bones had just crushed in. Well, we did all we could; put him in a carriage at the gate and rushed him to the hospital. He was still breathing, but the doctor said he never knew anything after the shot struck him--not until evening. Well, we were all frightfully cut up, and Tanner sat down on the ground and nearly fainted. Fosgill kept saying "Poor little Patsy! Poor little kid!" half aloud and walking around in circles. He wanted to go to the hospital with him, but we told him he could do no good, and we each still had two puts.

After a while we got our nerve back after a fashion, and went on, but, thunder! not one of us was worth a hang. I did thirty-six and thirty-seven, eleven, and won third place at that. Neither Fosgill nor Tanner equaled his first records and the event went to Bull at the ridiculous figures of forty-one, ten and a half. We got the meet by four and a half points. It was almost six o'clock by that time, and Fosgill and I and three others piled into Alien's auto and raced up to the hospital.

They had just taken Patsy off the operating table and put him to bed. The doctor told us that the examination showed that there was nothing to be done; the heart had been injured and was liable to stop work any moment. Fosgill got the doctor to promise to call him up on the 'phone if Patsy showed any signs of consciousness. And he left orders that everything possible was to be done. Tanner had begged us to look after the kid and let him pay everything, but though we promised, we hadn't any idea of doing it; Patsy was our kid. We went back to training table, but we were a low-spirited lot. And just when we were finishing dinner the call came from the hospital.

We made a record trip in Billy's machine and when we tiptoed into the accident ward the nurse smiled at us. And so did Patsy. He was a pathetic-looking little wisp as he lay there with the bedclothes lifted away from his body, but he smiled and moved his head a bit on the pillow. Fosgill sat down at the head of the cot and leaned over, his mouth all atremble.

"Hello, Bull!" whispered Patsy.

"Hello, Patsy!" answered Fosgill, trying to smile.

"Did you--beat him?"

"Yes, Patsy."

"I knew--you would. I told--him so." He glanced at me: "Did you--beat--that--other chap?"

I nodded and Patsy looked at me with a new respect.

"Good--for you," he whispered.

"Are you--does it hurt much, Patsy?" asked Fosgill.

"No, not much."

"That's good. We'll have you out before long."

Patsy grinned.

"Shut up!" he whispered. "You can't--fool me, Bull. I'm--a goner."

Fosgill muttered something and Patsy's eyes brightened.

"Bull," he whispered, "do you--think I--had a mother--like--other kids?"

"I know you did, Patsy."

"That's good," sighed the kid happily. "I guess--may be--I'll see her--where--I'm goin'."

"You saved my life, Patsy," muttered Fosgill, "and there isn't a thing I can do for you. I wish--oh, it's a shame, kid!"

"Huh! I'm glad--Bull. I'd--'a' done most anything--for you, Bull. You've been good--to me; so's the--others." He closed his eyes wearily for a moment. Then, "Do you think," he asked slowly, "I could--have learned--to put--the shot, Bull--some day?"

"Yes," answered Fosgill sturdily. "You had the making of a great shot putter, Patsy. You'd have made a record for yourself, I'll bet!"

"Are you--kiddin'--me, Bull?"

"No, Patsy. I'll leave it to the others. Isn't it so, fellows?"

We nodded vehemently, and Patsy closed his eyes with a smile of ineffable content on his little face. Presently the eyes flickered open again.

"Anyhow," he said quite strongly and with an approach to his old air of self-importance, "anyhow--I guess I won--for Harvard--to-day. Huh?"

"Yes, you did, Patsy," answered Fosgill. "We've got you to thank for it, dear little kid."

Patsy smiled. Then:

"Good-by--Bull," he said very softly. His eyes half closed.

We waited in silence while the moments crept by, but Patsy didn't speak again.

HIS FIRST ASSIGNMENT

Tom Collins read again the inscription on the directory at the foot of the stairs:

Room 36 _City Editor and Reporters_

glanced again toward the elevator, again drew his letter of introduction from his pocket, and--again retreated to the doorway. Once more his heart had failed him.

The result of the impending interview with the city editor of the Washington Evening World meant so much to him that he feared to meet it. Another failure and--what? Surely not starvation. To a youth of nineteen, normally healthy and hopeful, the idea of starvation in a great city, surrounded by thousands of human beings, seems preposterous. And yet when the few coins yet remaining in his pocket were gone he would be absolutely at the end of his resources; unless--unless fortune favored him in the next few minutes. He had tried every newspaper office in the city with disheartening results; every office save this one. He reread, perhaps for the twentieth time, the letter he held, then placed it back in its envelope with a sigh. The words sounded so empty and perfunctory, the _World_ was such a big paper, his own ignorance was so great, and--and he was discouraged. However--

He thrust the letter back into his pocket, jammed his cap resolutely onto his head, and strode determinedly to the elevator.

"City editor," he announced gruffly.

Room 36 seemed acres big to Tom as he closed the door behind him. Some dozen men and youths occupied the apartments and to the nearest of these Tom applied. He was not much over Tom's age and was busily engaged in cutting a newspaper into shreds with a pair of extraordinarily large shears. When interrupted he looked up carelessly but good naturedly and pointed to a far corner of the room.

"That's the city ed; the fellow with the glasses."

Tom thanked him and went on.

The man with the glasses took no notice of his approach but continued his writing, puffing the while on a very black briar pipe. He was apparently about thirty-five years of age, had a fierce and bristling mustache, and rushed his pencil vindictively across the copy paper as though he were writing the death sentence of his worst enemy.

"Well?"

Tom started. The voice was as savage as the man's appearance, and Tom's heart sank within him.

"What do you want?" The editor's forehead was a mass of wrinkles and his eyes glared threateningly from behind his glasses. Tom found his voice and laid the letter on the desk.

"Humph," said the editor. He read the short message and tossed it aside. "Ever done newspaper work?" he asked.

"No, sir," Tom replied.

"Then what do you want to begin for?"

"To make a living."

"Oh," sneered the editor, "thought perhaps you wanted to elevate the press. You're a college graduate, of course?"

"I went to college for a year and a half, sir; I had to leave then."

The editor's face brightened.

"Did they throw you out?"

"No, I--I had no money left; my father died very suddenly, and--and so I had to leave."

"Too bad; if you'd been fired there might have been some hope for you." Tom tried to detect a smile somewhere on the frowning face; there was none. "So you think you can do newspaper reporting, do you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Of course you do! I never found a college boy yet that wasn't plumb sure he could start right in on fifteen minutes' notice and beat Horace Greeley or old man Dana. It's so easy!"

"I don't think that," answered Tom, "but I think I could do reporting-- after a day or two. I'm ignorant as to the exact duties of a reporter, but I can learn, and I can write English."

"But can you find out what other reporters can't? Can you interview the last new senator in town and make him tell you what he wouldn't have printed for a year's salary? Can you do that?" Tom hesitated; but he was gaining courage, and the other's gibes were slowly arousing his resentment.

"If those things can be done by other fellows, I can do them."

"Well, you've got confidence," acknowledged the editor, grudgingly. "But we don't break new men in here on the _World_; we wait until they have learned somewhere else, then we offer them a better salary; those are our methods. You go to work on the _Despatch_ or the _Star_, or somewhere, and when you prove that you can do as good work as three or four men on our staff you'll hear from us."

The city editor went back to his pencil. Plainly the interview was at an end. Tom turned away. "Good day, sir," he muttered. There was a lump in his throat and his hand, seeking refuge in his pocket, closed on the half dozen coins. He turned suddenly and faced the city editor again.

"Look here," he said doggedly, "I've got a right to better treatment than you have given me. I handed you a letter of introduction that ought to have a little weight, and--and even if it hasn't, it entitles me to common courtesy from you. I'm not a beggar asking for alms. All I want is a chance to show that I can do your work decently. I don't even ask any pay, I--I--"

Tom's words died away. After all, what was the use? He had his answer and there could be no benefit gained from prolonging the interview. But the city editor was looking at him curiously now.

"Here, hold on there," he commanded, and when Tom again faced him: "If you'd brought me a letter from Queen Victoria or the Angel Gabriel you'd have gotten the same treatment. I talk to an average of ten men like you every day of my life; young chaps who don't know what a newspaper's run for; who don't care, either. They think reporting or editing is a nice easy way to make a living, and so they come here expecting to fall into a position. They don't get it. But when a fellow shows sense I give him a chance. And I'll give you one. Hold on," he continued as Tom opened his mouth to thank him, "I'm not offering you a place; I'm not even giving you a fair deal."

He paused and took a card from a drawer, scowling more than ever.

"Write your name there and send it up to Senator August at the Hotel Torrence. If he sees you, interview him on the decision of last night's conference; find out whether they agreed on a nominee. You read the papers? Then you'll know what we're after. Now there's your chance, just a bare fighting chance; do you want it?" The card held the single line "For _The Washington Evening World."_ Tom put it in his pocket.

"I know how desperate the chance is, sir, and I'll take it. And--and thank you."

"All right. And remember that the last edition goes to press at five o'clock," he added grimly.

As Tom passed out the youth by the railing had stopped cutting up newspapers and was writing as though his very life depended upon it. When he reached the street Tom remembered that he might have used the elevator.

"Senator August left ten minutes ago," said the hotel clerk affably as he caught sight of the inscription on the card which Tom Collins held. "A new reporter," he added to himself.

"Left?" echoed Tom in dismay. "Where has he gone?"

"New York, I think. Went to the depot for the 2.20."

Tom glanced at the clock. Another moment and he was boarding a passing car. He had six minutes to catch the 2.20. His chances of success were slim. For that matter, thought Tom, the whole undertaking was the merest forlorn hope; not even the fighting chance that the city editor of the _World_ had called it. For supposing that he found Senator August and got speech with him, was it likely that he would tell an inexperienced chap like Tom what the best reporters in Washington had failed to worm out of him?

The Democratic National Convention to nominate a candidate for the presidency was but a month away. On the preceding evening, in a little room in the Hotel Torrence, Senator August, representing the sentiment of the Eastern democracy, and Senator Goodman, possessing full power to act for his party in the great West, had met to decide on a Democratic nominee. Dissension threatened. The East favored a man of moderate views on the subject of currency reform; the West and the greater portion of the South stood unanimous for a politician whose success in the coming battle would presage the most radical of measures. Final disagreement between the Democrats of East and West meant certain victory for the Republican Party. And to-day all the country was asking: Have the leaders agreed on a nominee; if so, which one? Senator Groodman, as uncommunicative as a statue, was already speeding back to the far West; and Senator August, equally silent, was on his way home. The newspapers were hysterical in their demands for information; all day the wires leading to Washington had borne message after message imploring news, but only baseless rumors had sped back. And Tom Collins, knowing all this, realized the hopelessness of his task.

At the depot he left the car at a jump and dashed into the station. A train on the further track was already crawling from the shed. There was no time for inquiries. He ran for it and swung himself onto the platform of the Pullman. A porter was just closing the vestibule door.

"Is Senator August on board?" gasped Tom. The porter didn't know. But he assured Tom that that was the train for New York and so the latter entered the Pullman. The car held seven men and an elderly lady. Tom's idea of a senator was a big man dressed in a black frock coat, a black string tie and a tall silk hat. But there was no one in sight attired in such fashion and Tom paused at a loss. Perhaps it was chance that led him halfway down the aisle and caused him to question a military, middle-aged gentleman who wore a quiet suit of gray tweeds and was deep in a magazine. The face that looked up was shrewd but kindly, albeit it frowned a little at the interruption.

"I am Senator August," was the unexpected reply.

"Oh!" exclaimed Tom blankly. Then he pushed aside a small valise on the opposite seat and took its place. The frown on the senator's face grew.

"Reporter?" he asked laconically.

"Yes," answered Tom. "I'm from the Washington _World._ I just missed you at the hotel so I took the liberty of following you to the train." Tom thought that sounded pretty well and paused to see what impression it had created. The result was disappointing.

"Well?" asked the senator coldly.

"The _World_ would like to know what decision was reached at last night's conference, senator."

"I don't doubt it," answered the senator dryly. "Look here," he continued with asperity, "I've refused to talk to at least two dozen reporters and correspondents to-day. The results of last night's conference will be made public by Senator Goodman and myself at the proper time and place; and not until then. And that is all that I can tell you."

"But--" began Tom.

"Understand me, please; I will say nothing more on the subject."

"Will you give me some idea as to when the proper time will be?" asked Tom respectfully.

"No, I can't do that either. Perhaps to-morrow; perhaps not for several days."

"Are you going to New York, sir?"

"I am on my way to my home in Massachusetts."

"Thank you. Have you any objection to my accompanying you on the same train?" Senator August opened his eyes a little.

"Is that necessary? The announcement will be made to the Associated Press and, unless I am mistaken, the _World_ is a member of it."

"Very true, sir, but I was assigned to get the result of the conference and I've got to do it--that is, if I can."

"Very well, I have no objection to your traveling on the same train with me, just as long as you don't bother me. Will that do?"

"Yes, sir, thank you. I am sorry that I have troubled you."

"You're what?" asked the other.

"Sorry to have troubled you, sir."

"Hm; you're the first one to-day that has expressed such a feeling. You must be new at the business."

"I am," answered Tom. "I've been a reporter only half an hour. In fact I'm not certain that I am one at all."

"How's that?" asked the senator, turning his magazine face down on the seat beside him.

And Tom told him. Told about his three weeks of dreary search for a position, of his interview with the city editor of the _Evening World_, and of the forlorn hope upon which he was entered. And when he had finished his story, Senator August was no longer frowning; the boy's tale had interested him.

"Well, he did put you up against a hard task; doesn't seem to me to have been quite fair. He knew that every reporter had failed and he must have known that you would fail as well. Seems to have been merely a neat way of getting rid of you. What do you think?"

Tom hesitated a moment.

"I don't think it was quite that. And, anyhow, I knew what I was doing, and so it was fair enough, I guess."

"But surely you had no idea of success?"

"I ought not to have," answered Tom hesitatingly, "but I'm afraid I did."

The senator looked out of the window and was silent for a moment while the express sped on through the afternoon sunlight. When he turned his face toward Tom again he was smiling.

"Well, you appear to have pluck, my lad, and that is pretty certain to land you somewhere in the end even if you miss it this time. I'm very sorry that I am obliged to be the means of destroying your chance with the _World_; but I have no choice in the matter, I----"

"Tickets, please."

Blank dismay overspread Tom's countenance as he looked up at the conductor.

"I--I haven't any."

"Where do you want to go?"

Tom put his hand into his pocket and brought out all his money; less than two dollars. He held it out to the gaze of the conductor.

"How far can I go for that?" he asked.

"Is that all you have?" asked the senator. Tom nodded. "All right conductor; we'll arrange this; come around again later, will you?" The conductor went on. Tom stared helplessly at his few coins and Senator August looked smilingly at Tom.

"How about following me home?" he asked.

"I--I'd forgotten," stammered Tom.

"Well, never mind. I'll loan you enough to reach the first stop and to return to Washington. Nonsense," he continued, as Tom began a weak objection, "I haven't offered to give it to you; you may repay it some day." He pressed a bill into the boy's hand. "At Blankville Junction you can get a train back before long, I guess. Never mind that cold-blooded editor on the _World_; try the other papers again; keep at it; that's what I did; and it pays in the end. Hello, are we stopping here?"

The train had slowed down and now it paused for an instant beside a little box of a station. Then it started on again and a train man appeared at the far end of the car holding a buff envelope in his hand.

"Senator August in this car?" he asked.

The telegram was delivered and its recipient, excusing himself to the sad-hearted youth on the opposite seat, read the contents hurriedly. Then he glanced queerly at Tom, while a little smile stole out from under the ends of his grizzled mustache.

"You are lucky," he said. Tom looked a question, and the senator thrust the message into his hands. "Read that," he said; "it is from my secretary in Washington." He pressed the electric button between the windows and waited impatiently for the porter. Tom was staring hard at the yellow sheet before him; he reread it slowly, carefully, that there might be no mistake. It was as follows:

"_Senator Harrison M. August, "On train 36, Waverly, Md._

"Following telegram just received: 'Chicago, 8, 1.45 P.M. Have just learned reliable source Republican managers using our silence regarding conference to advance W's candidacy in Middle West and have published report that we have agreed on compromise candidate. If report goes undenied many votes will be lost, especially in Iowa and Wisconsin. Advise immediate publication of our statement to press. Answer Auditorium, Chicago. Goodman.' Have advised Goodman of delay in reaching you.

"_Billings_."

"Do you understand what that means?" asked Senator August. Tom could only nod; he was too astounded to speak. The senator handed a message to the porter. "Get that off as soon as we reach Baltimore and bring me a receipt for it." Then he turned again to Tom and thrust the pad of Western Union message blanks toward him.

"We reach Blankville Junction in eight minutes. Write what I dictate to you as fast as you can. You know shorthand? All the better."

The senator leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he began to speak, rapidly but distinctly, and Tom's pencil flew over the pages, while the train sped on toward the junction.

The hands of the office clock pointed to twenty minutes after five when Tom reached the _World_ building. There was no hesitancy now; he pushed open the little gate and hurried toward the city editor, who had already placed his hat on his head and was bundling up some papers to carry home. He met Tom's advance with a frown.

"Well?" he asked coldly.

For answer Tom placed a little package of copy before him.

"What's this?" he demanded. But there was no necessity for reply for he was already reading the sheets. Halfway through he paused and lifted a tube to his mouth. "Brown? Say, Joe, get a plate ready for an extra in a hurry; about half a column of stuff going right up." Then he turned again to his reading. At the end he gathered the copy together and placed it on his desk.

"Where'd you get this?"

"On the New York express."

"What station?"

"I left the train at Blankville Junction."

The city editor dated the copy with a big black pencil, ran three strokes the length of each sheet, wrote a very long and startling head over it and thrust it into the hands of a waiting boy.

"Copy-cutter," he said. And as the boy sped off the editor turned to Tom. "How'd you do it?" he asked, frowning tremendously.

But the city editor's frowns no longer struck terror into Tom's heart, and he told the story briefly, while his hearer puffed rapidly at his pipe. Only once was he interrupted.

"Hold on there," said the editor. "Are you certain he said he'd not give out the statement again until he reached New York?"

"Quite certain," was the reply. Something almost resembling pleasure appeared on the city editor's face.

"He'll not get there until 8.30; too late for the evening papers. The biggest beat of the year, by George!" For a moment the glasses and the frown were lost in a cloud of smoke. Then "Go on," he commanded.

Tom finished his story in a few words; told how he had found a train already waiting at the Junction, how he had written out his copy on the way back to Washington; and how, had it not been for a long delay just outside the city, he would have reached the office in time for the regular edition. And when he had finished he waited for a word of commendation. But none came. Instead, the city editor nodded his head once or twice, thoughtfully, frowningly, and said: "Well, you needn't wait around any longer; there's nothing else to be done."

Tom arose, looking blankly at the speaker. Had he failed after all! Surely he was not being turned away? But the city editor's next words dispelled all doubt.

"We go to work on this paper at eight o'clock, Mr. Collins; and by eight I mean eight, and not ten minutes past. I can't have any man working for me who cannot be prompt. You understand?"

As Tom clattered happily downstairs a deep reverberation that shook the building from top to bottom told him that the presses were already printing the result of his first assignment.

PEMBERTON'S FLUKE

For an hour and a half Yale and Princeton had been battling on the gridiron; for an hour and a half the struggling lines had advanced and retreated from goal line to goal line; for an hour and a half the ball had gone arching up against the blue November sky, had been carried in short, desperate plunges or brilliant runs to and fro over the trampled white lines of Yale Field; for an hour and a half twenty-five thousand persons had watched the varying fortunes of the contest with fast-beating hearts, had waved their flags, sang their songs and shouted their cheers; and now, with the last half drawing toward its close, the score board still proclaimed: "Yale, 0; Opponents, 0."

Pemberton had found the contest exciting, breathlessly so at moments, but disappointing. Being a freshman, as well as a 'varsity substitute of a week's standing, he was intensely patriotic, and the thought of a tie game was unbearable; to a youth of his enthusiasm a tie was virtually a defeat for the Blue; and a defeat for the Blue was something tragic, inconceivable! Pemberton was a sandy-haired, blue-eyed, round-faced chap of eighteen; in height, five feet nine; in weight, one hundred and sixty-eight; neither large nor heavy, but speedy as they make them, a bundle of nerves, endowed with a fanatical enthusiasm and a kind of brilliant, dashing recklessness that often wins where larger courage fails.

At Exeter he hadn't gone in for football until his senior year; the Physical Director couldn't see the thing from Pemberton's viewpoint; physical directors are narrow-minded souls; Pemberton will tell you so any day. With three years of lost time to make up, Pemberton had put his whole mind into football with the result that he had made the team in time to play for five short, mad minutes against Andover. This fall he had distinguished himself on the Freshmen Eleven, and the game with the Harvard youngsters, if it hadn't resulted in a victory for Yale, had, at least, made the reputation of Pemberton, left half back. In that somewhat one-sided contest he had shown such dash and pluck, had eeled himself through the Crimson's line, or shot like a small streak of lightning around the ends so frequently that he had been called to the 'varsity bench. And on the 'varsity bench, one, and quite the smallest one, of a long line of substitutes, he had sat since the beginning of the Princeton game, with an excellent chance of staying there until the whistle blew.

He wasn't a fellow to accept inactivity with gracefulness. That "they also serve who only stand and wait," he was willing to accept as true; but that wasn't the kind of serving he hankered for; Pemberton's ideal of usefulness was getting busy and doing things--and doing them hard.

On opposite sides of the field rival bands were blaring out two-steps, the strains leaking now and then through the deep, thundering cheers. Down on Yale's thirty-five-yard line Princeton was hammering at right guard for short gains, edging nearer and nearer the goal, and thousands of eyes fixed themselves expectantly on Princeton's left half back, dreading or hoping to see him fall back for a kick. On the thirty yards Yale's line braced and held. Princeton tried a run outside of left tackle and got a yard. The ball was directly in front of goal.

"Sturgis is a dub if he doesn't try it now," said the big fellow on Pemberton's left.

"But he couldn't do it from the forty-yard line, could he?" asked Pemberton.

"Search me; but from what he's done so far to-day I guess he could kick a goal from the other end of the field. Nothing doing, though; they're trying right guard again. There goes Crocker."

Yale's line gave at the center and a Princeton tackle fell through for two yards. The Princeton cheers rang out redoubled in intensity, sharp, entreating, only to be met with the defiant slogan of Yale. Pemberton shuffled his scarred brown leather shoes uneasily and gnawed harder at his knuckles. Princeton was playing desperately, fighting for the twenty-yard line. A play that looked like a tandem at right guard resolved itself into a plunge at left tackle and gave them their distance. The Yale stands held staring, troubled faces. The Princeton stands were on their feet, shouting, waving, swaying excitedly; score cards were sailing and fluttering through the air; pandemonium reigned over there. Pemberton scowled fiercely across. His left-hand neighbor whistled a tune softly. Princeton piled her backs through again for a yard.

"Oh, thunder!" muttered Pemberton.

The other nodded sympathetically.

"Here's where Old Nassau scores," he said.

A last desperate plunge carried the little army of the Orange and Black over the coveted mark. The left half walked back; there were cries, entreaties, commands; the cheering died away and gave place to the intense silence of suspense; Pemberton could hear the little Princeton quarter back's signals quite plainly. Then, after a moment of breathless delay, the ball sped back, was caught breast high by the left half, was dropped on the instant and shot forward from his foot, and went rising toward the goal. The Yale forwards broke through, leaping with upstretched hands into the path of the ball, yet never reaching it. The field was a confusion of writhing, struggling bodies, but the ball was sailing straight and true, turning lazily on its shorter axis, over the cross bar.

Over on the Princeton side of the field hats were in flight, slicing up and down and back and forth across the face of the long slope of yellow and black; flags were gyrating crazily; the space between seats and barrier was filled with a leaping, howling mass of humanity, and all the while the cheers crashed and hurtled through the air. Well, Princeton had something to cheer for; even Pemberton grudgingly acknowledged that.

"Have we time to score?" he asked despondently.

His neighbor turned, stretching out his long, blue-stockinged legs.

"There's about five or six minutes left, I guess," he answered. "We've got _time_ to score, but will we?"

Pemberton didn't think they would. Life seemed very cruel just then.

"Hello," continued the other, "Webster's coming out! I guess here's where your Uncle Tom gets a whack at Old Nassau--maybe." He sat up and watched the head coach alertly. The next moment Pemberton was peeling off his sweater for him.

Princeton ran Yale's kick-off back to her forty yards. The Blue's right guard was taken out, white and wretched, after the first scrimmage. Princeton started at her battering again, content now to make only sufficient gains to keep the ball. But with a yard to gain on the third down a canvas clad streak broke through and nailed her tackle behind the line. Pemberton, shouting ecstatically, saw that the streak was his erstwhile neighbor, and was proud of the acquaintance. Then Yale, with the ball once more in possession, started to wake things up. Past the forty yards again she went, throwing tackles and full back at every point in the Tiger's line for short gains, and showing no preference. But, all said, it was slow work and unpromising with the score board announcing five minutes to play. The Yale supporters, however, found cause for rejoicing, and cheered gloriously until there was a fumble and the Blue lost four yards on the recovery. Time was called and the trainers and water carriers trotted on the field. The head coach and an assistant came toward the bench, talking earnestly, the former's sharp eyes darting hither and thither searchingly. Pemberton watched, with his heart fluttering up into his throat. The head coach's gaze fixed itself upon him, passed on up the line, came back to him and stayed. Pemberton dropped his eyes. It isn't good form to stare Fate in the face. Was it a second later or an age that his name was called?"

"Go in at left half; tell Haker to come out. And--er--Pemberton, here's a pretty good chance to show what you can do."

Pemberton peeled off his white jersey with the faded "E" and raced into the field. Haker looked down uncomprehendingly at him from the superior height of six feet when he delivered his message. Pemberton repeated it. Haker shoved him aside, mumbling impatient words through swollen lips. It was only when he saw the head coach beckoning him from the side line that he yielded and took himself off with a parting insult to Pemberton:

"All right, Kid."

Pemberton's eyes blazed and his fists clenched. Kid! Well, he'd show Haker and everyone else whether he was a kid! Then he looked at the score board with sinking heart. Only four minutes left! Four minutes! But he took heart; after all, four minutes was two hundred and forty seconds, and if they'd only give him the ball! He had run a mile in 4:34 1-5! Suddenly the whistle blew and the players staggered to their places. It was second down now, with nine yards to gain. The tandem formed on the left, and Pemberton ranged himself behind the big tackle disapprovingly. Where was the use, he asked himself, of wasting a down by plunging at the line? What had they put him in there for if not to take the ball? Then the signal came and the next moment he was in the maelstrom. When the dust of battle lifted, the ball was just one yard nearer the Princeton goal.

Princeton expected Yale to kick, for it was the third down and there was still eight yards wanted, and so the Princeton right half trotted tentatively to join the quarter. Yale placed a tackle, full back and left half behind her tackle guard hole on the left. Her right half fell back about six yards to a position behind quarter. It might mean a kick or a tandem, or a run around left end; Princeton's right half hesitated and edged back toward his line. Pemberton, puzzled, awaited the signal. Of course the ball was his, but why was he placed so far away from it? The only play from just this formation that he was acquainted with was one in which he merely performed the inglorious part of interference. However, maybe the quarter knew his business, though deep down in his soul he doubted it.

Now, for an understanding of the remarkable events which followed, it is necessary to take the reader into the confidence of the Yale quarter back. Despite Pemberton's misgivings he really did know his business, which was to get that pigskin over the Tiger's goal line in the next four minutes, taking any risk to do it. And the present play was a risk. As planned it was this: at the snapping of the ball the head of the tandem, the tackle, was to plunge straight through the line between tackle and guard as though leading a direct attack at that point; full back and left half were to turn sharply to the left before reaching the line and clear out a hole between end and tackle; right half back, standing well behind the quarter, was to receive the ball on a toss and follow the interference; quarter was to stop tacklers coming around the right end of his line; in short, it was a play apparently aimed at the left center of Yale's line, but in reality going through at the left end. But the Yale quarter had reckoned without Pemberton.

The play started beautifully. The ball was snapped back into quarter's waiting hands, tackle plunged madly ahead into the Princeton's defenses, the quarter swung around back to the line, ready for the toss to the right half, who was on his toes, waiting to dash across to where the hole was being torn open for him. And then something went wrong! A figure sped across toward the right end of the line between quarter and right half just as the ball left the former's hands. The ball disappeared from sight; and so, in a measure, did Pemberton.

His excited brain had confused the 'varsity with the freshman signals. Starting on the supposition that he was to receive the ball, the numbers had somehow conveyed to him the idea that the play was around right end. The fact that he was to be practically unprovided with interference did not bother him; if he had had time to consider the matter he would probably have decided that they knew his ability and were not going to insult him by offering assistance. But Pemberton wasn't one to be worried over details. What was wanted was a touchdown, or, failing that, a good long gain. So, with the rest of the back field plunging toward the left, Pemberton started on his own hook toward the right.

He was glad the quarter tossed the ball so exactly; otherwise he would have had to slow down. As it was he was going like an express train by the time he swept around the Princeton line outside of end. Pemberton could not only run like the wind, but could start like a shot from a rifle. That he got clean away before the opponents had found the location of the ball was partly due to this fact and partly to the fact that Yale's backs were messing around in a peculiarly aimless manner which, to the Princeton players, suggested a delayed pass or some equally heinous piece of underhand work. So Princeton piled through Yale's line to solve the difficulty, thinking little of the absurd youth who had shot around her left end without interference.