“When will there be another meeting of the trustees?” inquired Don.
“In three days’ time. We did not get all business finished at the last meeting, due mostly to the football discussion, and we must meet again then.”
It was agreed that Don should inform the captains and lieutenants of each class to appear before the trustees and explain their stand. After he had left the colonel’s office he went to class and later hunted up the cadets whose presence would be required. All of them were instructed to keep things quiet until after the meeting of the trustees, and all agreed to do so.
On the night of the meeting the selected cadets were ready and met outside the colonel’s office. Hudson and Berry represented the first class, Douglas and Don the third. The trustees had arrived and were inside, settling themselves and talking.
The colonel opened the door and allowed them to march in, where they faced the slightly astonished trustees. They soon made out Melvin Gates, a tall, thin man with burning bright eyes and a lofty air about him. Colonel Morrell came briefly to the point.
“These cadets, gentlemen, represent the student body, and are here to speak for themselves. As you remember, at the last meeting it was decided that the school was not to play Dimsdale, now or ever, according to Mr. Gates. I passed that message on to the corps, but it seems that they refuse, for once, to accept the decision.”
Melvin Gates straightened up in his chair and shot a bitter look toward the stalwart cadets. “Oh, they refuse to accept it, do they?” he said, in a rasping voice.
The colonel looked at Hudson, who spoke up in reply. “Yes, Mr. Gates, the student body refuses to accept the decision. We are taught good sportsmanship here at Woodcrest and the doctrine that men are to be met and treated like men. We feel that it is unfair to brand the Dimsdale school of today with the stigma of a set of rowdies of the past, so we are here to respectfully protest the ban against playing them.”
“I don’t care what you are here to protest!” shouted Gates, rising in excitement. “I have refused to give my sanction to this game, or to the proposition of renewing any kind of relations with Dimsdale school, and I will not retract one word of it.”
“It is most unfortunate that you feel that way, sir,” replied the senior Cadet Captain. “For we are going to play them as soon as possible!”
There was a gasp from the assembled trustees and Gates’ face reddened. He snapped around on the silent headmaster.
“Morrell, are you going to allow this to go on?” he demanded.
“I do not see that I can do anything about it,” said the colonel. “It is the fervent wish of the entire corps that we play Dimsdale, and I am heartily in favor of it myself.”
“You know what this will mean to the school!” cried the angry Gates. “I will resign and withdraw every cent of my money.”
“I should be sorry to see you do that, Mr. Gates,” returned the colonel. “But I am not going to thwart my boys any longer.”
“All right, sir, all right,” ground out the trustee. “Then I resign, at once! How will you manage to get along without my money, Morrell? Answer me that!”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” put in Don. “But my father has agreed to become a trustee in your place if you should resign.”
Gates was taken aback. A murmur arose from the other trustees and more than one satisfied look was exchanged. The chief trustee shook with rage.
“Oh, very well, gentlemen, very well! If that is the way you feel about it, I see that there is nothing left for me to do but to resign. This is a pretty cheap game to play, Morrell.”
“It isn’t a game at all!” retorted the colonel, with spirit. “How long do you suppose these young men were going to submit to the rule of one man on a question like this? Don’t you see that for years you have made these young men the laughing stock of the neighboring preparatory schools, and that we have been questioned on all sides as to our sportsmanship? It was only a matter of time, Mr. Gates, and I was simply lucky enough to have Mercer’s father offer to take your place if you resigned.”
“Had it all planned out, eh?” snarled Gates. “Mercer’s father prepared to step in as soon as I stepped out!”
“Yes, but you can’t blame anyone if you want to step out,” returned the colonel. “If you will resign, someone must take your place. We will receive your resignation at any time, Mr. Gates.”
“You’ll get it soon,” the trustee promised. “Let me tell you, nothing good will come of all this. The idea of you young cadets wanting to play Dimsdale this year! Why, everybody knows that they will run away with you!”
The cadets flushed and Berry replied. “We will try hard to make them run after us, and not away with us, sir.”
“They’ll make a laughing stock of you!” shouted the irate trustee.
Colonel Morrell turned to his cadets. “You may go, boys,” he said. “Spread the news that Woodcrest will play Dimsdale!”
The cadets saluted and left the room and in a short time the news was flying all over the school. The cadets went wild and the coach was enthusiastic. On the next day a formal challenge was sent to the rival school, and in another day the reply was received.
“We play ’em on November 24th,” said the coach, briefly. “I hear that they plan to wipe up the ground with us!”
“That is what you hear!” smiled Hudson, grimly. “Wait until you see the game!”
Chapter 8
An Old Score Settled
A low, gray ceiling of clouds hung over the field at Woodcrest when the cadet team came out to play that November afternoon. Stands were crowded, and as the team entered the field a cheer went up from the Woodcrest section and a yell of derision from the Dimsdale side of the field. Briefly, the cadet team looked at the beefy Dimsdale team across the field, where they were running signals. Grim mouths, bright eyes, and hearts filled with determination marked the silent purpose of the young soldiers.
When the news of the coming game with the Class A champions had been circulated around town great had been the derision. The two teams were in different classes, the preparatory school ranking in the higher Class A division and the military school in the lighter Class B aggregation. Woodcrest had not lost a game nor had Dimsdale, in each class. Crushing power lay with the preparatory school machine and nothing but the stings of years of insults and determined purpose with the cadets. Those who cared for such things had made heavy bets against the cadet team and the feeling was general that Woodcrest was in for a bad beating.
The football coach had not said much to his team, but he had said just enough. He told them that the feeling was against their chances of winning, that the whole thing was looked upon as foolishness, and that Dimsdale was frankly considering it nothing more than a practice game. This was their chance, he told them, to settle once and for all an old score, and his only plea was that they play like gentlemen and forget revenge.
“Because if you think of it merely as a revenge, you are sure to lose,” the coach wound up. “Bad sportsmanship spoils and defeats any game. Knowing you as I do and just how you feel, I know you’ll play your hardest, and my only request is that you play clean and hard.”
It was therefore a silent, grim group which trotted out on the gridiron and started to run through signals. Derisive yells and cat-calls came from the opposite side of the stands. They fell on heedless ears, or at least on unresponsive ones. Quarterback Vench called his signals quietly, the ball was snapped with calm accuracy, and although the hearts of the soldiers beat rapidly there was no outward sign to show that they were burning with an eager fire inside.
The cadet band struck up and played well, the cadets marching across the field to the grandstand side which they were to occupy. When they were seated the two teams began to take their places. Hudson, the Dimsdale Captain and the official met in the center of the field, the coin was tossed, and Dimsdale won the toss. They decided to kick and the teams lined up.
The ball was placed, the Dimsdale captain looked up and down his line to make sure that everything was ready. Tensely the cadets, spread out in receiving formation, waited. For an instant the field was in silence. Then, as both captains nodded, the referee blew his whistle sharply and the bitter game was on.
There was a thud as the ball was kicked and sailed in a long arc to the waiting arms of half-back Barnes. He tucked it under his arm securely and bounded off to the left side of the field. Realizing that he was in danger of outrunning his guards he slowed slightly and ranged himself behind Hudson, Berry and Vench. Behind this wall he ran the ball back to the center of the field before being downed. Lazily the preparatory players untangled themselves from the heap, but the cadets snapped into line with a spirit that showed their purpose.
Don and Jim were benched, as they were in nearly every game. In the following year, and their senior year they expected to play on the team regularly, but as yet they were only substitute. Jim played in the line in practice and Don had once or twice played halfback. Well wrapped in their heavy parkas they sat on the edge of the players’ bench, wholly absorbed in the game.
Vench called his signals and the ball was snapped to Berry, who made five yards through tackle. It was apparent that Dimsdale was playing lazy football. The team was heavy enough to hold the cadets from any dangerous threat and that was all they were doing. The next two plays did not gain anything and Vench kicked out of danger. The ends got down under the ball and brought the Dimsdale captain to earth with a telling slam.
Dimsdale began a march which was alarming, but an accident changed the situation. Berry pounced on the ball when the right halfback fumbled it. Woodcrest was on the forty-five yard line and prospects were good.
“Those guys are playing awfully sleepy football,” Don said to Jim. “Vench had better take advantage of it and get the ball across.”
The same idea seemingly occurred to the little quarterback. He surveyed the team before him over the backs of his teammates and then suddenly bent down. Calmly and quickly his signals came.
The ball snapped back. Berry, Barnes and Hudson doubled up and ran toward the right side of the field, and the Dimsdale team swung in that direction. Vench, the ball buried deeply in his stomach, swung left and let loose all of his speed. For a moment there was a wild mixup on the right side of the line and then Dimsdale woke up, but too late.
Vench was away and down the field and the goal was close at hand. He crossed it with the nearest Dimsdale player three feet in back of him. A wild roar went up from the Woodcrest stand and the Dimsdale team looked bewildered. Vench was slapped and shaken by his enthusiastic teammates and then they prepared to kick the ball. The kick was made successfully and the score stood seven to nothing for Woodcrest.
Now, however, it was a different Dimsdale team that lined up for the kick. Energy took the place of indifference. Helmets were pulled on tightly, belts hitched, feet kicked ridges in the field and an aroused and dangerous foe faced the cadet team. But they found a wideawake outfit waiting for them, and the game went on with a punch. This time the prep school team drove forward with purpose and held the cadet team to four straight downs, Vench declining to kick.
When the ball finally passed to Dimsdale the drive began. The smaller team was not able to hold the Class A group. Steadily they stormed down the field until they were under the shadow of the goal and a touchdown seemed the only final result. It was then that a merciful break came to Hudson.
This game against Dimsdale had been Hudson’s dream for years, and he was anxious to distinguish himself. His opportunity came with dazzling suddenness. Impatient at the time taken to put the ball over the goal line, and fearful that the half would end, for they were now in the second quarter, the Dimsdale quarterback called for a forward pass. The ball went to their left halfback, who tossed it like a bullet to the left end, hovering at that moment down near the goal.
Hudson had been slow to get away when the ball had been snapped and he was blaming himself for it, when he saw the ball come speeding through the air, over his head. He leaped into the air as though there were springs on his feet. The ball stopped in the cup of his hands and he landed, hesitated, slightly dazed, and then, with a bound that carried him forward, began to run up the field, to the opposite goal posts, which seemed miles and miles away.
A frantic roar burst from both stands and the Dimsdale players turned and threw themselves at him. One went down under his cleated feet and he avoided him, a second he straight-armed with no uncertain force and then he broke away on a long run. Chaos broke loose in the stands and the captain, his supreme chance with him and up to him, ran as he had never run before, to cross the goal line at top speed and touch the ball to earth amid a terrific uproar. The goal had barely been kicked before the whistle blew, ending the half.
Down in the locker room the coach was quietly encouraging. “You are doing splendidly, boys,” he smiled. “It is hurting the pride of the A champions terribly to have a score of 14 to 0 against them. You can all see we owe the last score, with all due credit to Hudson’s run, to the quarterback’s error. They were sure to drive over the goal, but he made the mistake of tossing a pass, which Hudson speared. The next time they begin to drive, look out!”
The coach turned out to be a true prophet. Dimsdale received the kick-off in the second half and drove with crushing force right down the field and over the line for their first touchdown. The cadets were unable to hold them and the goal was kicked, making the score 14 to 7. The drive was accompanied by rough handling on the part of the heavier players, and two of the cadets were slightly injured and had to be replaced. Jim was sent in and played guard, while Don waited for his chance.
“Well, it’s a cinch we’ll never beat them at straight football,” remarked Vench, as the quarter ended, the cadets failing to gain an inch either through the line or around the ends. “They roll over us like a steam roller! We’ll have to hold them down somehow!”
But the cadets were unable to do so. Once more the preparatory players drove the lighter players before them like grass and scored a touchdown. They failed to kick the goal and the score stood 14 to 13.
“They are going to drive again,” murmured the coach, to a friend. “My boys can’t hold them on a drive.”
And drive they did. They punched holes yards wide in the lighter team’s line, rolled over them in waves, and steadily forced them back. In one of these smashes Berry was hurt and was helped off the field. The coach looked over his players and nodded to Don.
“Go in for Berry, Mercer,” he said, and was none too hopeful when he said it for Don’s playing was not spectacular and the coach wished that he had a star just at that moment.
Don tossed aside his parka and ran on the field, grateful for a chance, but not at all glad that Berry had been crippled for the time being. He reported to the referee and then, pulling his helmet down over his forehead and tightly around his ears, took his place in the backfield and bent down to catch the signals.
Dimsdale lost the ball on downs and the cadets got it almost in the shadow of the goal posts. It looked very much as though the usual thing would happen, the failure to advance and the necessity of a kick to save themselves, or losing the ball right there. The ball was snapped and a scant two yards were made.
Don played an average, ordinary game, carrying the ball twice for short gains and playing his part as interference. He found himself opposed to one large player on the other side who began to rough him with unnecessary force. It was the right halfback, a heavy-set individual who threw all of his weight with paralyzing force on Don at every opportunity. Don made no complaint, because it was part of the game for the other fellow to drop him whenever possible, and for some time he tried to believe that the man was not stepping out of bounds, but before long he knew this wasn’t so.
He carried the ball again and the same player tackled him, rolling him over and thudding down on him violently. The breath was knocked out of him and he wobbled slightly when he got up, but he said nothing, partly from a lack of breath and partly from a desire not to complain. But when the same man viciously dug him with his elbow he protested.
“Keep your elbow to yourself or I’ll report it to my captain,” he warned him.
“Aw, run and tell your mama, soldier boy!” was the derisive answer.
Don made no reply but his eyes blazed as he went back to the place he occupied. The next few plays were grim and hard-fought. The cadets had managed to make first down and still held the ball.
“Are you all right?” Vench said to Don, as they formed again.
“Yes, only that big circus wagon over there is roughing me every chance he gets!” snapped Don.
“They are all doing it,” replied the plucky little quarterback, wearily. He had worked with all his strength and was ready to drop. He fumbled the ball on the next pass and it rolled away. Immediately, every available player sprang toward the ball, but luckily a cadet fell on it, saving it for his team.
“Three downs, eight yards to go,” groaned the coach. “They’ll never make it, and Dimsdale will make another march down the field. It won’t even do any good to kick.”
Don had run toward the rolling ball, to be met by his heavy rival and knocked flat. There was no excuse for it, as there had been no danger that he would recover the ball, but he went flying, nevertheless, to land with jarring force on his stomach. With his breath whistling through his set teeth he staggered to his feet and walked to Vench, his eyes burning.
“Let me run that ball!” he hissed in the quarterback’s ear. “Just give me a chance to run that ball once!”
Chapter 9
Terry Engages in an Argument
Mr. Vench had passed the ball more than once to Don without anything spectacular having happened, but he was willing to do it once more. One look at the flushed face of his friend showed him that Don was mad clear through and that he could be counted upon to put at least as much of a punch into the play as anyone. Accordingly, after a brief nod and a sweeping glance over the two tense teams Quarterback Vench bent over the center.
“19-84-6-10-2” he called, and the ball was snapped to him. The play meant that Don was to take the ball through tackle and guard, on the right side of the line.
The long, tapering fingers of Vench rested lightly but firmly on the ball and he swung it on to Don, who was passing him on a dead run, his head down, his eyes alert. Don’s eager hands swept the ball out of the quarterback’s grasp and he hurled himself into the gap which his teammates had opened between guard and tackle. For a single moment there was utmost confusion and then the Dimsdale players became aware that he had the ball. Those who were still on their feet swung in toward him.
They met a fighting-mad young savage. The first man clutched at Don’s flying legs, only to be hurled violently to one side like a piece of paper. A second lunged and felt his one hand slide off the halfback’s jersey. Then, up in front of Don loomed the big, beefy bruiser who had aroused his anger. There was a determined look in this man’s face as he lunged at the running back.
Straight as a ramrod Don’s hand shot out in the approved straight-arm, to catch the player squarely in the face. His head went back suddenly and he was pushed to one side, to drop limply to the ground, surprised and stunned. He had met his match and had received the worst of it. Don swept on out into the open field and began a run that brought the stands to their feet. Past the two half backs, narrowly missed by the Dimsdale fullback, and running a nip and tuck race with the enemy fullback Don beat the nearest man over the goal line by inches and touched the ball to the ground as the exhausted Dimsdale quarterback fell over him.
A mighty roar went up that lasted for at least three minutes and in that period a try for a goal was made but the ball missed the uprights by inches. They were taking their places once more when the whistle blew, ending the game with the score standing at 20 to 13 in favor of Woodcrest.
To the Class A champions the defeat was a crushing one and they left the field utterly humbled. To the cadets, suffering under the insults and sneers of years, the victory was more than sweet, and the score caused special rejoicing. Don was made much of and the coach assured him of a star’s position on the team in the following season.
“Nothing but pure fighting spirit won that game for you, boys,” the coach told them in the locker room. “Those fellows could parade through you for a touchdown every time they wanted to, but it was your alertness, as typified by Hudson’s catch of the forward pass, and your sheer determination, as Mercer showed, that took the game, not to mention the intelligent handling of the little quarterback. Man to man you were outplayed and outweighed, but you beat a mighty good team by courage and fighting spirit.”
During the game Terry was engaged in an unexpected argument. It was the custom at Woodcrest when they had a game of any kind to place cadets at the entrances of the rival grandstand to direct people to their seats or to stop any horse play in the stands. As Terry was not on the football squad he was assigned to the task of standing guard at one end of the visitors’ grandstand.
Terry did not mind in the least. He was dressed in his dress parade uniform and for the time being had a little authority, even though it was limited to bossing small boys and directing people to seats. There were enough girls in the stand near him to make him anything but sorry that he had on his best uniform, and he could see the game perfectly. Terry had no fault to find with his post.
Before the game started many couples and groups had passed him and entered the stands, picking their own seats, and the red-headed cadet did not move. He was only to pick seats when it became crowded, and not even then unless requested, so he contented himself with watching the people as they passed him and entered the stand. All of them were friends of the preparatory school team and they carried red banners with a black D on them. A number of young men sat very near where Terry was standing and they looked him over and made a few would-be funny remarks to which Terry paid no attention.
When the Woodcrest team trotted out some of the Dimsdale supporters booed it heartily and the blood rushed to Terry’s cheeks. For the moment he regretted the fact that he was not on the football team and playing in today’s game. Grimly he pictured himself smashing wide holes through the opposite lines and the prospect was pleasing. He decided that he had had enough of running and that on the next gathering of football candidates he would surely be there.
Something that was being said by the well-dressed youths near him attracted his attention at this point. One of them, in a plaid wool shirt and gray flannel slacks, was addressing a few of his friends.
“It’s a wonder these soldier boys ever got up the nerve to play us,” he announced. “Of course, it will be a walk-away with ’em. Alongside of our fellows they look like a kindergarten.”
Terry rolled his head uneasily, much as though his collar was too tight and choking him. It was not his business to argue with visitors who might occupy the grandstand and he knew it. In the end, the score would speak for itself and it would be foolish to pick and bicker about it. Nevertheless, his one foot beat the boards of the grandstand flooring impatiently.
“What’s been the matter with this cadet team for so long?” asked one of the boys. The lad in the plaid shirt took it upon himself to answer that.
“They’ve been afraid to meet us,” he said, with conviction. “Those fellows haven’t wanted to meet us, and I don’t know what made them do such a foolish thing this year. Silliest thing I ever heard of.”
This was too much for the red-headed cadet. He swung around on the group just back of him, at the same time pointing to the furry individual in the plaid shirt.
“Look here, mister!” he growled. “Let me correct you on one point. The student body of this school has been dying to get a crack at your school for years, in fact, for every year the games haven’t been played. But I’ll tell you why the games haven’t been played. We have had a trustee named Gates who holds a grudge against Dimsdale because of some rough work they pulled off years ago when they won a game. While we had this trustee we couldn’t play you, because he controlled the school, but he is gone now and that is why we’re playing you.”
“Well, that was pretty poor sportsmanship,” protested the boy from the other school.
“Oh, I agree with you perfectly there,” replied Terry, earnestly. “Very bad sportsmanship, but it happened. This year we purposely got him to resign in order to play you and resume athletic relations with your school. Maybe you’ll win the game, and then again, maybe you won’t, but I just didn’t want you to go around with the idea that Woodcrest has been afraid to play you in the past.”
With that Terry walked away, leaving the boys somewhat impressed. Terry noted that a man well along in years was looking at him as he walked down the steps and when Terry moved near him the man spoke.
“I heard what you said to those fellows,” he said, nodding to the boys. “So it’s been old man Gates who has kept the two schools from playing, eh?”
“Yes, he has kept bad feelings alive between the schools for a number of years,” Terry replied. “But I guess that business is about over. I don’t know why he had to be so bitter about it, but some folks hang onto a grievance like grim death!”
“Yes, and Gates is just that kind,” nodded the man. “But I wonder if he hasn’t got a good idea in doing it?”
“I don’t know,” Terry said. “What do you mean?”
“Did you ever know that Gates’ son was put out of Dimsdale years ago for dishonesty?” the man asked.
Terry was instantly alert. “No, I never knew that. Young Gates went to school here, you know. Is that the same one?”
“Yes, Arthur Gates is the same one. He was put out of Dimsdale for dishonesty in his lessons at examination time when I went there, some years ago. I had no idea that it was Gates who was forbidding your school from playing against my Alma Mater, but now I think he must have been doing it deliberately, to keep you folks from knowing about his son.”
“Yes, but that seems foolish,” Terry argued. “It was hardly possible that anything would be said about his son.”
“It might come out accidentally,” the man said. “Or perhaps Gates is sore at the school in general. I still believe that Gates did it intentionally.”
So did Terry and for the next few moments he was so busy with his thoughts that he did not notice the people who passed him. In a few minutes the game began and he was lost in the details of the struggle. Great was his rejoicing when the cadet team put the ball over in the first quarter and at the groans which came from those beside him Terry chuckled gleefully.
And when Don crashed the line for his thrilling run down the field Terry’s joy knew no bounds. He tossed his hat and cheered loudly. When the people began to pour from the stands he waited until the party of young men, now strangely silent, passed him. Then, in a voice like that of the young man in the plaid shirt he said: “Of course, it will be a walk-away with ’em. Alongside of our fellows they look like a kindergarten.”
The young men looked around and Terry smiled. “Pardon me,” said the red-headed boy. “Can you tell me who won the game?”
“Aw, go run around the lots!” snorted the leader, and Terry chuckled.
That night there was no studying done. A huge bonfire was kindled and until late they enjoyed themselves around it. The football team, held down to training for some weeks, was now allowed to break from the rules and eat something more sweet than substantial.
“And so that is why the Gates’ have kept things at dagger points between the two schools, is it?” asked Don, when Terry told the events of the afternoon.
“Yes,” nodded Terry. “Young Gates in particular seems to be a bird of very black feathers!”
Chapter 10
The Eagles Disappear
Colonel Morrell was interested when Don told him what Terry had learned. He had never known that young Gates had gone to Dimsdale.
“It seems that a lot is coming out concerning that man all at once,” the genial headmaster remarked, running his hand through his gray hair. “Unfortunately, it does not happen to be of the best, either. I think I will write to the headmaster of Dimsdale and confirm that, because we don’t want to pin anything on Gates if it doesn’t belong there.”
“No,” admitted Don. “He has a bad enough name now, and there is no use in adding to it.”
After the big game the school settled down to a few quiet days of normal routine. Now that the old and bitter score had been settled the cadets felt satisfied and they found that outsiders had a deeper respect for them. The lofty airs of Dimsdale students had quite vanished and the two schools looked forward to playing annual games.
The colonel informed Don that Terry’s information was correct. “Professor Strong, the headmaster of Dimsdale, writes to say that Gates was a pupil there some years ago and that he was dismissed for dishonesty,” the colonel said. “It appears very much as though his failings run along the one line.”
On the following Wednesday after the big game a startling thing happened. A group of the cadets were talking around the door of the classroom when a cadet from Clinton Hall joined them. It was early in the day and none of the boys from Locke had been outside yet.
“What’s the excitement, Apgar?” asked Jim noting the flushed face of the cadet.
“Didn’t you fellows hear what happened last night?” the cadet cried. “The eagles are gone!”
“What? The eagles gone?” a dozen voices cried out.
“Sure, sawed right off at the base. Some of the fellows are out there looking at them now.”
Instantly there was a wild rush for the front door of Locke Hall. Interest and excitement ran high. The eagles referred to were two huge ornaments placed on the wide steps leading up to the main hall, and they had been donated to the school by an army officer who had learned his first military tactics at Woodcrest. They were made of hollow brass, stood four and one half feet high, and had looked bravely out across the campus for a number of years, a very real part of the makeup of the cadet school. They had always seemed immovable, and to be told that they had been carted off was a distinct shock to the young soldiers, to whom they were a source of intense pride.
Don, Jim and Terry reached the front steps as soon as any of the others and took in everything at a glance. The parapet of the steps looked strangely bare without the great brass birds, and the cadets hurried to look at the spot where they had stood. Sure enough, they had been sawed off close to the stone, and only an iron stem with some flakes of fillings remained to show where they had been.
“Now, who in the world could have done that?” gasped Hudson, looking about him in a dazed way.
“Whoever did it must have been awfully careful about it,” ventured Berry. “It was done in the night and no one heard it, apparently.”
“Somebody had better hunt up the colonel,” suggested a cadet, and in a few minutes the headmaster was out on the steps, his face grave and thoughtful.
They kept a respectful silence while the colonel looked on the stone rampart and examined the rough stumps of iron upon which the eagles had been mounted. He then looked over the assembled cadets.
“None of you gentlemen heard any sound of sawing during the night, did you?” he questioned.
None of the cadets had heard anything. By this time almost the entire corps had assembled. Barnes reminded the colonel that the previous night had been a very dark one.
“True,” nodded the colonel. “It looked like a storm and I remember that there was no moon and no stars. Well, this is a pretty serious business, boys.”
“It’s a pretty small kind of a trick,” growled Hudson.
“We’ll have to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible,” the colonel went on. “No clues as yet, eh?”
“Here is one!” cried Lieutenant Thompson, suddenly straightening up. He had bent down, looking around the ground just beyond the steps. They all looked curiously, to see that he held a small red book in his hand. The colonel took it and looked it over, and a gasp went up from those nearest him.
“A Dimsdale year book, eh?” boomed the colonel.
It was indeed a small instruction book with the words “Dimsdale School” printed across the cover. A murmur of understanding went up from the students.
“A little revenge for the football defeat,” cried Vench, voicing the sentiment of all of them.
“It looks very much like it,” nodded the colonel, pocketing the book. “A very unfortunate way to feel, to put it mildly. I’m glad you found that book, Thompson, though I’m sorry it had to be just the way it looks.”
Before anything more could be said the class bell rang out and the cadets started for their classes, talking it over between them. Vigorous resentment was felt against the rival school.
“Too bad those fellows have to be such poor sports,” growled Terry, as a group of the third class men made their way down the hall.
“They can’t seem to take defeat graciously or even without crying about it,” Don said, regretfully.
“Did you fellows see the date on that rule book?” Jim asked.
“No, what was the date?” Vench asked.
“I was near enough to see it plainly. It had 1938 on it. Isn’t that a pretty old rule book for a Dimsdale student to be carrying?” Jim asked.
“It does seem odd, if you look at it that way,” Don assented. “You are sure it was a 1938 book?”
“Oh, yes. I saw it at close range.”
The school buzzed with the news all day and knots of cadets talked it over from every angle. The colonel was unusually silent and in the late afternoon he sent three seniors as a committee to Dimsdale to protest and lay the matter before the school authorities there. When they came back there was a session with the colonel and then more and eager talk around the building. Hudson had been on the committee and he entertained a big group in his room just before study period. The cadets stood around or sat on his bed and drank in his words.
“The headmaster there was pretty well put out about it all,” the senior captain told his audience. “He looked through the book and was unable to identify it as the property of any of the students. Did you guys know that the book was an old 1938 one?”
Some of them knew it. Hudson went on: “Professor Strong said that to his knowledge there is not a 1938 instruction book in the school, and he doesn’t know of a single student who has a book as old as that. He expressed his regret that such a thing happened, but he does not believe for a minute that Dimsdale fellows did it. The only thing that makes it look bad is the fact that they lost that game last Saturday and of course it looks exactly as though they were out for revenge and took it out on our eagles. The student council over there is going to take up the matter and push it hard, because it looks bad for the whole school.”
“I hope they didn’t have anything to do with it,” Berry declared promptly. “I hope the little book was just a plant, because I hate to think those fellows are such downright poor sports. But, as you say, it looks bad in the face of the past game.”
“We’ll all have to do a little detective work from now on,” Barnes suggested. “Let’s see if we can’t find someone who met suspicious characters around here on that night, or something that will give us a clue.”
“It might be a good stunt to go over to Dimsdale and rummage around in their boathouse or the sheds back of the school,” a senior said, but the majority were against that.
“Not right now,” Hudson declared. “That would be the surest way to start trouble. Let’s wait until something more definite than that little book points to Dimsdale as the guilty party. We all think somebody from that school took the eagles, but until we have positive proof we’ll give ’em the benefit of the doubt.”
“But isn’t it funny that no one heard them cut the eagles off?” asked Vench.
“I wouldn’t say so,” Thompson replied. “You see, they were cemented into the stone by a single rod. Now, it was no trouble at all to slip a thin metal saw in between the base of the eagles and the stone and saw through. An iron saw doesn’t make much noise and it probably didn’t take much time. Whoever did it knew just how to go about it.”
There the matter rested for the time being, but the cadets continued to wonder and speculate. The student council of the rival school met and presented a resolution that they believed the students of Dimsdale to be not guilty in the matter of the theft of the brass eagles. Professor Strong talked with the colonel by telephone and informed him that he could not find a 1938 rule book in the institution nor could he find a single student who had a book as old as that. Further check, which was fairly accurate, revealed the fact that every Dimsdale boy had been in his room on the night of the mysterious affair, though there was nothing to show that some few students might not have sneaked from the building after lights were out. All these facts made some impression on the more thoughtful cadets, but it was not enough to make them feel altogether sure that the rivals had no hand in the affair.
“Too bad about it all,” sighed Don. “Just when the relations between the schools were being mended so nicely! But we’ve simply got to find those eagles.”
“Yes,” Terry agreed. “No one has found out a thing, as yet. Apparently no one saw any suspicious characters around on that night and nothing has been learned down in the town. I’m afraid we’ll have to look further afield for them.”
On the following day Jim showed a dispatch from the weekly town paper to some of the cadets. Under an editorial heading, entitled “The Revival of Ancient Rowdyism,” there followed a long article about the notoriously poor sportsmanship of Dimsdale.
“See who the author is?” Jim asked as they pored over the dispatch.
“The editor, of course,” said Douglas.
“No,” Jim denied. “Look at this passage.” He read it to them all. “‘A prominent citizen of this town, one of the newest and most influential of our local citizens, tells us that he is not in the least bit surprised at the turn things have taken. This citizen, formerly a trustee at Woodcrest, has stood out for years past as unalterably opposed to the resumption of relations between the two schools, having had occasion years ago to witness more than once the regrettable lack of honor and sportsmanship on the part of Dimsdale students. It is altogether too bad that young men, growing up in institutions of this kind, where they are fitting themselves to take an active part in the affairs of life, should have so little respect for the principles of decency and honor.’”
“Now, who wrote that?” Jim challenged.
“The editor,” said Don. “But Melvin Gates stood at his elbow when he did it.”
“I can’t understand it,” Vench said. “He certainly seems determined to keep alive bad feelings between the schools.”
“All in all, that editorial is quite unfair to Dimsdale,” Hudson declared. “Maybe a few fellows from that school did saw off the eagles, but there was no occasion to slam the whole school that way.”
When Don, Jim and Terry were alone in their room Don said, “Melvin Gates is taking an awful chance by writing, or being party to the writing of, such a piece as that. What is to hinder someone from coming out and telling the truth about his son?”
“Perhaps he figures that if they did, Woodcrest people would naturally take his part against Dimsdale. I wonder if you fellows are getting the same idea that I am?” Jim advanced.