Professor Schermer bowed gravely to the Faculty Committee and remarked to Professor Weyrich:
“Ach, Schon, I vass for you seeging”——
Suddenly he caught sight of, or recognized, the four culprits and, turning to them, he bowed again, his grave face taking on a worried expression.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “mine gute friends, the gute pad poys. I vass in hopes you would be gute poys before this.”
“Those,” exclaimed Professor Jervis, “are the young scoundrels who stole your pig, Schermer. We discovered their guilt and they have confessed.”
“Mine gute Provessor Jervis,” said Professor Schermer; “dot I alretty know long ago. They haf to me come to confess, unt they iss not sgoundrels, but gute pad poys.”
“They confessed to you that they stole the pig and you said nothing to the faculty of it?” exclaimed the worthy president in dismay. “Dear me, dear me, this is a state of affairs!”
“It seems to me it was a pretty fair thing to do,” declared Weyrich.
“It was this way, Professor,” declared Larry Kirkland, addressing Professor Weyrich and turning from Jervis, who was frowning angrily. “We took the pig as a lark. We carried it into the third floor of the dormitory and put it in Bartelme’s bed. We thought he would find it there and we’d have a joke on him. When we discovered how serious the matter was, we thought it was the fair thing to confess to Professor Schermer that we took the pig and offer restitution. He was very kind and offered to drop the entire matter.”
“Then if Schermer got his pig back why did he not tell us?” asked Professor Jervis angrily.
“I haf not der peeg,” said the little professor, nodding his great head sadly.
“What became of the ah—er—porcine victim of this escapade?” inquired Professor Weyrich, his eyes twinkling with enjoyment he could not entirely conceal.
“That is why I spoke just now,” volunteered Larry boldly. “We left the pig in Bartelme’s bed, tied hand and foot. Someone else took it before Bartelme got there. Two or three fellows were heard to carry something down the back stairs after we left. We have been trying to find who they were, so as to recover the pig for Professor Schermer, but until to-day we never have had a clue.”
“Ah—young man, you have a clue now?” inquired the worthy president. “What is it?”
“If you will tell me who informed the faculty that we stole the pig, I’ll tell you who took him from Bartelme’s room,” asserted Larry. “Then we’ll have a chance to recover it.”
“Unfortunately,” said the president sadly, “we cannot do that. The note naming you as the culprits was not signed.”
After some discussion the youths were requested to retire while the Faculty Committee discussed the question of punishment. Fifteen minutes later they were summoned to return. Professor Jervis, hot and angry, was just retiring.
“Anyhow,” he exclaimed angrily, “I’ll not be a party to it. I’ll not be a party to letting every young scoundrel who flaunts defiance in the face of the faculty go scot free.”
Jervis’ angry departure gave the youths a strong hint that they were to be permitted to escape punishment, and fifteen minutes later, after listening to a scathing reprimand, they emerged upon the campus with the weight lifted.
“Come on, fellows,” said Larry Kirkland; “let’s get back that pig. Professor Schermer is one of the squarest little men in the world and we ought to do anything to repay him.”
“But where is it?” inquired Trumbull.
“Come over to the rooms. I have a scheme and if you fellows will go through with it we’ll get that pig back.”
It was nine o’clock that evening when four young men advanced cautiously toward one of the fraternity houses just outside the college grounds. They were well prepared. By notes, telephone messages and other devices all the regular occupants of that house had been drawn to far parts of the town or the college colony. The one remaining was Harry Baldwin, who was lolling disconsolately upon a couch, pretending to study and smoking cigarettes when the door to his study opened, four fellows stepped inside and shot the bolt.
“Hello!” exclaimed Baldwin, starting up. “You came”——
“Baldwin,” said Big Trumbull, who had been nominated to do the talking, “we’ve come to find out what you did with Professor Schermer’s pig.”
“You stole him—you ought to know,” retorted Baldwin, betraying himself in his surprise.
“Then you are the one who wrote a note to the faculty?” demanded Trumbull. “That’s one thing we wanted to be sure of. Now, what did you do with the pig?”
“I didn’t take the—pig. I won’t tell you anything,” declared Baldwin defiantly.
“Sit on him, fellows,” ordered Trumbull.
The sitting-upon process, accomplished by four athletic youths was extremely efficacious. In three minutes Baldwin, helpless and ready to cry from rage, weakened.
“Let loose and I’ll tell you,” he said, surrendering.
“Two of you climb off,” ordered Trumbull. “Now, Baldwin, where did you take that pig?”
“We took him in an automobile,” replied Baldwin sullenly.
“Why?”
“Well, we saw you fellows put it in Bartelme’s room and we thought it would get you in bad if the pig never came back.”
“Who were we?” demanded Trumbull.
“Don’t answer that, Baldwin,” said Winans as Baldwin opened his mouth to reply. “Don’t make him any worse of a tattletale than he is.”
“All right,” assented Trumbull. “Now, Baldwin, what became of that pig?”
“We hauled it out to that road house, about seven miles out, and gave it to the fellow who keeps the garage there.”
“All right, Baldwin—and if you’ve lied to us we’ll be back.”
“I’ll get even with you fellows for this,” stormed Baldwin as the quartette released him and started to retreat from the fraternity house. “I’ll see that the faculty knows all about this business.”
“Lock the door again, Win,” ordered Trumbull threateningly. “Now, Baldwin, that won’t do. The faculty knows we took the pig. It has tried us and found us innocent of wrongdoing. It wants to find the ones who really stole the pig.”
“You fellows aren’t going to tell”——
“Oh, shut up,” exclaimed Trumbull in disgust. “No—you keep your mouth shut and if we get that pig back we’ll keep quiet.”
Three hours later the rejoicing quartette, with a trussed pig emitting muffled squeals in the tonneau of the automobile, returned and, after a breathless skirmish to avoid the night watchman, they reached the pen behind the biological laboratory and the precious pig was left grunting indignantly.
Early ones among the students the following day found Professor Schermer busy in his laboratory, speaking endearing words in broken German to the pig, which, trussed upside down on the table, was squealing its indignation as the scientist gloated over the discovery that his precious germs not only were intact, but that the cultures had developed amazingly during piggy’s period of freedom.
Cascade was winning. After the defeat at the hands of the strong team from St. Mary’s, the re-arranged club settled to its task and, improving with every game, it became one of the strong contenders for honors in the college circuit. In the second encounter, St. Mary’s had been overthrown and Larry Kirkland, who was playing brilliantly at third base, was the deciding factor in the victory.
For a week after the scene on the bench during the game with St. Mary’s, Harry Baldwin had failed to make any move, beyond striving to conciliate Coach Haxton and regain his standing with the other players. He reported for practice the day after the game, and although not received warmly by either the coach or the other players, he had worked faithfully, avoiding any reference to the trouble; and he had privately apologized to Haxton for his loss of temper and breach of discipline.
Not a hint had been dropped as to the means by which the pig had been recovered. Baldwin at first seemed to avoid the quartette who had forced him to confess, but by degrees he returned to his attitude of scornful superiority toward them and truckling with Haxton.
Larry Kirkland, who was watching in silence, commenced to hope that the disciplining had taught Harry Baldwin a valuable lesson and several times, during practice, he purposely had called to Baldwin to practice at third and had voluntarily gone to hit “fungoes” to the fielders, permitting his rival to practice in the position. His generous behavior toward Baldwin had won him much sympathy from the veterans, and it seemed that Baldwin himself had decided to bury the hatchet and work in harmony with his foe.
Larry was happy and was working harder than ever for the interests of the team. Although Haxton had not seen fit to give Katsura an opportunity to pitch, he had allowed him to pitch to the regular players during practice and it was evident that he was watching with much interest the effective use of the slow curve by the little brown youth who appeared to have so little speed and yet continued to puzzle the best batters on the team.
Larry, Katsura, Winans and Trumbull had continued their practice work after dinner each evening, and frequently, while resting from their exertions, they discussed plays and how they should be made. Larry explained to them some of Krag’s theories of baseball, and they found much pleasure in debating over plays made by the professional teams reading the accounts of games in the newspapers and arguing as to how the plays should have been made. Dalmores, the quiet, thoughtful, big fellow, who had played two years on the team, joined them and became one of the evening practice class.
They were sitting on the grass one Thursday evening, after a lively practice session, discussing the chances of victory in the game with Golden University, which was the most important game of the year.
“We’ve got to make a lot of improvement in the next ten days,” said Dalmores. “They hit Arksall hard last year, when he seemed to be pitching just as well as ever. They have five of last year’s men on the team—and they say the new men are better than the ones they lost.”
“We have a chance if Arksall is good,” said Winans. “For me, I’d rather have Katty here pitching against them. Arksall has a habit of weakening when they get a few hits, and that is just the time Katty begins to pitch.”
“Hey—what are you running away for?”
Trumbull shouted the question at Larry Kirkland, who, arrayed in his best garments, was trying to slip out of the house and around the corner unobserved.
“Going fussing again?” called Winans. “Shame on you—and the big game with Golden only ten days off.”
“You fellows are only jealous,” called Larry, hurrying away. “I’ll be home early.”
“I thought something was up when he rushed away as soon as we quit practicing,” said Winans, kicking his feet into the air. “I wonder what the attraction up at St. Gertrude’s is? This is calling evening, isn’t it?”
“Girl from up his way,” volunteered Trumbull. “I saw him hiding a photograph when I went into his room the other day and he blushed until I was afraid he’d set the curtains afire.”
Meantime the “attraction,” Helen Baldwin, was waiting nervously in the reception room at St. Gertrude’s Seminary for Larry Kirkland. She had telephoned to him earlier in the day, asking him to be sure to keep his promise and call, and he was hastening to respond to the request.
During the term he had found himself more and more interested in the pretty cousin of his enemy and her friendship had become so important a part of his life that he found himself thinking of her frequently during the week and longing for the arrival of Thursday evening. That the girl found pleasure in his calls he was certain. Twice she had told him how lonely and homesick she was and had hinted that by representing himself as her cousin he could call more than once a week. The suggestion, made in half jest, half earnest, had worried him, and when he protested that such a thing would be dishonorable, she had laughed it off and said she was joking.
The telephone message that had been left for him, set him a-flutter with excitement and he had hurried away as quickly as possible from his comrades.
He found the girl cuddled into the corner of a big divan, her fair hair piled with studied carelessness upon her small head and her high-colored, rounded face was marred by a petulant, pouting expression.
“I was so afraid you wouldn’t come,” she said. “The person who took my message did not seem able to understand anything.”
“I came as soon as possible,” he replied, seating himself near her as she drew aside her skirt to make room for him. “They said you wished to see me and that it was important.”
“Oh, Larry,” she said, frowning prettily and using his name for the first time in their acquaintance, “I am so worried. Harry was here to-day to bring me some money from Uncle Barney. He found out that you have been calling on me and he was furious.”
“I do not see what he has to do with it,” replied Larry, stiffening in an instant.
“He said terrible things about you,” she continued. “I was so worried for fear you boys had been having trouble again. Why cannot you be friends?”
“I’m afraid we never can be friends,” said Larry. “But I thought we had ceased being enemies. We have been getting along very well lately.”
“Harry says you undermined him and got his place on the team,” said the girl. “He said you were a sneak, and that you took advantage of him.”
“He wouldn’t dare say that to me—or to any of the fellows who know what happened,” retorted Larry, angered by the accusations. “I have tried to treat him fairly.”
“But you are playing in his place, aren’t you?”
The tone, more than the question, was accusing, and Larry found himself confused and placed on the defensive.
“Yes,” he replied, unwilling to tell the circumstances.
“Then he is right—in a way,” she said. “If it were not for you he’d still be playing?”
“I suppose so,” he responded. “The manager made the change—we had nothing to do but obey him.”
“Harry said you took unfair advantage of him,” she said easily. “I told him I did not believe it.”
“Thank you,” he said. “The truth is he lost his temper in a game and threatened to quit, so the manager took him at his word—and put me in his place.”
“I’m sorry you boys cannot play your foolish games without quarreling. Why don’t you let him play? It seems to me it is babyish to be fighting over a little thing like that.”
“I couldn’t let him play if I wanted to,” he answered. “Girls don’t understand things.”
“Harry says he is going to play in the game against Golden,” she answered innocently. “He said he must play because he has invited several of his girl friends to come and see him—and he would be so ashamed if he did not get to play.”
“Did he say how he was going to get back onto the team?” Larry was becoming suspicious. He realized that the girl did not understand that she was betraying secrets, and felt guilty in drawing admissions from her.
“Oh—he has several plans,” she replied innocently. “I told him I would ask you not to play”——
“But you do not understand,” he interrupted. “Mr. Haxton says who will play, and we have nothing to do with it. If he thinks Harry ought to play he will.”
“Harry is mad at Mr. Haxton, too,” she ran on. “He asked Mr. Haxton to put him on and Mr. Haxton refused—because he doesn’t like Harry any more, although he owes Harry lots and lots of money. I thought maybe, if Mr. Lawrence wrote you to come home you could go—and then Harry could play.”
Larry laughed quickly. He knew the girl did not have the least conception of what it meant to him, or to Harry Baldwin to play in the greatest game of the year, and he forgave her because of her ignorance.
“But Mr. Lawrence is not at the ranch,” he answered. “He is leaving to-day to be gone a month.”
He had cause to remember, later, that remark, although at the time it seemed unimportant.
“Well,” she said resignedly, “I’m sure I don’t care. Harry seemed so anxious to play I thought I’d help him. It doesn’t seem important to me.”
“I am sorry he is so disappointed,” said Larry forgivingly. “I know how it would be.”
“Oh, he hasn’t given up hope yet,” the girl replied carelessly. “He has another plan if Mr. Haxton won’t let him play.”
“I wonder what it can be?” mused Larry, secretly tolerant of the girl’s ignorance.
He was to learn later.
Two days before the game with Golden University the blow fell. Larry Kirkland, playing the best ball he ever had played and inspired with confidence and the hope of winning his C, was at the athletic field early, busily engaged in catching with Katsura.
“You want to be ready, Katty,” he cautioned. “Arksall is likely to weaken at any time and if he does you are our only hope. I believe Haxton knows it. He has been studying you every day. He asked Torney about you and the big fellow said you had him all puzzled, because it looked as if the batters would kill every ball you pitched, and they couldn’t hit it at all.”
“I’ll be ready,” smiled Katsura. “I have studied the Golden batters. Last year I watched them and when they played St. Mary’s this year I sat in the stands. I saw many things that I would have done very differently.”
“Kirkland!”
The call came from a group of older men gathered near the front of the stands, who for some time had appeared to be in earnest conversation.
“Coming,” called Larry cheerfully as he trotted along the front of the stands to the lower boxes and leaped the barrier at a bound. He had recognized Professor Terbush, the representative of the faculty, and Clark, the student representative. They were with Haxton and Paw Lattiser, and several seniors, and seemed to be excited over something.
“Mr. Kirkland,” said Professor Terbush quickly. “This is rather serious and I hope you will answer our questions honestly and frankly. I warn you any attempt at deceit will be discovered.”
“Oh, I say, Professor,” drawled Lattiser, “that sounds as if you had found Kirkland guilty already.”
“I admit the circumstances look bad for him,” said the professor, frowning at the challenge. “I still hope the young man may be able to prove that he is innocent.”
“Innocent of what?” gasped Larry, too taken aback to understand fully what was meant. “What am I charged with?”
“We have here,” said Professor Terbush, waving a letter in one hand, “a letter from the athletic committee of Golden University protesting against you as a member of the Cascade team.” The professor frowned heavily, his voice pregnant with accusation.
“On what grounds?” stormed Larry hotly. “Why shouldn’t I play on Cascade?”
“The charge is professionalism,” replied the instructor. “We have investigated and we are commencing to fear that the charge made against you is based upon facts.”
“Professionalism?” Larry first was puzzled, then flamed with anger. “How can I be a professional? I don’t understand.”
“The letter charges that you once played on a professional baseball team. Is that true?”
“How Can I Be a Professional?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Certainly I am sure. I never was with any such team.”
“Weren’t you once with the Giants, at Portland?”
“No—y-e-s, I was for one day.”
“Ah,” said Professor Terbush, turning to the others with an “I told you so” air, “I thought as much.”
“Hold on a moment, Mr. Terbush,” said Lattiser. “This isn’t any of my cross-examination, but it seems the witness needs a lawyer. Tell us the circumstances, Kirkland.”
Larry, who had been confused and guilty-looking under the accusing looks and tone of the faculty member, flashed a grateful smile at Lattiser, as he suddenly recalled having told the veteran of his experience with the Giants.
“It was when I was nearly fifteen years old,” he said. “I met them—or one of them—on a train coming West. They took me out to the ball park with them and I sat on the bench with them during the game and that night I came on home. I never have seen the team since.”
“That hardly makes a professional of him, Professor,” laughed Lattiser.
“Ahem—I suppose not,” agreed Professor Terbush, “providing the young man is able to sustain his statements with proof. However, that is but part of the indictment against him.”
He paused, cleared his throat and waved the accusing letter impressively. “It also is charged that he has employed a professional from that team to coach him.”
“That is false,” cried Larry, who seeing that he had the sympathy of one or two of the committee and the active support of Lattiser was commencing to recover from the confusion into which the unexpected attack had thrown him.
“Young man,” said Professor Terbush severely, “I have no doubt that the Golden University committee has good grounds for presenting these charges. It is unbecoming in you to accuse them of lack of verity.”
“Oh, I say, Professor,” drawled Lattiser, “there’s a chance they are mistaken, isn’t there? Give Kirkland a chance.”
“Do you mean to insinuate that I am dealing unfairly?” demanded the professor, outraged.
“Not at all, not at all,” agreed Lattiser. “I merely wanted him to have his constitutional rights—which he seems entitled to even in a college.”
“I shall be only too glad if the young man is able to disprove charges, which, if sustained, would bring lasting disgrace upon the fair name of our school,” said Professor Terbush, entirely overlooking the hidden sarcasm of Lattiser’s concluding sentence.
“I can explain,” said Larry. “Mr. Krag was my friend. When he retired from baseball he was employed by my guardian as foreman on the ranch. He never has been paid to coach me—and, in fact, never has done much coaching excepting to tell me where I was wrong and to offer advice.”
“You admit he has coached you?”
“I suppose it amounts to that. He has tried to help me learn the game.”
“The final charge is even more serious,” said Professor Terbush, adjusting his glasses and looking at the letter as if reading. “It charges that your guardian, Mr. James Lawrence, maintains a paid ball club on the ranch, that you are its captain, and that, for winning a certain game, to wit, a game against a team representing Pearton, Mr. James Lawrence paid you the sum of $1,000, and agreed that, if you succeeded in winning a place on the Cascade team he would give you a like present in addition to paying the expenses of your education.”
“It’s a lie!” cried Larry, goaded by the injustice of the accusations as well as by the tone of the faculty representative.
“Young man—young man,” cried Professor Terbush in an outraged tone, “do not further prejudice the committee against yourself by such violent language toward your superiors.”
“By the way, Professor,” said Lattiser calmly, “you speak of his superiors. Who are they? Who signs that letter? Who makes these accusations?”
“The letter is from the athletic board of Golden University. The charges have been made to them and they have requested that we investigate and, if we find the charges true, to bar Kirkland from participating in athletic events, which, of course, it is our duty to do.”
“Yes, but who makes the charges?” persisted Lattiser. “It seems to me it is one man’s word against another—and we ought to know who the other is.”
“We are not interested in the person making the charges,” replied Professor Terbush. “What interests us is whether or not they are true.”
“I know who makes the charges,” Larry exploded angrily. “It is no one connected with Golden University—it is a person in this college.”
“Be careful what you say, Kirkland,” said Haxton quickly. “That’s a pretty serious charge.”
“I know it,” said Larry. “But there are some things in that letter only one person knows”——
“That is beside the question,” decided Professor Terbush quickly. “We must ascertain the truth or falsity of the charges. Are you able to prove your assertions.”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Lattiser. “It seems to me that in law a man is innocent until proved guilty, and that the burden of the proof is on the accuser.”
“Not in this case,” said Professor Terbush severely. “Our honor and the honor of the school is at stake. We must not evade our duty on technicalities.”
“I can prove it,” declared Larry quickly. “Major Lawrence can disprove every charge made against me.”
“Very good, very good,” said Professor Terbush. “I recall Major Lawrence. It seems to me he once made this institution a munificent donation. A worthy man—we will write him.”
“But,” protested Larry in dismay, “if you write him I cannot play in the game. He is not at home; he has gone East—and perhaps will be traveling for a month or more.”
“That is unfortunate,” said the professor seriously. “I sincerely wish he were here to disprove the accusations. Under the circumstance there seems nothing to do but submit to the suggestion of the committee. We cannot afford to take chances of placing a lasting blight upon our honor as a college.”
“Seems to me,” said Lattiser dryly, “you can afford to place a lasting blight upon Kirkland’s honor and integrity without much effort.”
“Mr. Lattiser,” protested the faculty member, “your construction of our motives is almost insulting. We but do our duty.
“Gentlemen,” he continued, turning to the other members of the athletic committee who had remained silent, “what is your judgment?”
“I think we ought to give Kirkland a square deal,” said James, who represented the under classmen. “He hasn’t been proved guilty. What do you think, Mr. Haxton?”
“Well,” said Haxton, “I’ve thought all along he played a little too well and knew too much to be an amateur.”
“You believe him guilty?”
“I don’t know anything about it—it looks funny.”
“I think we should suspend Mr. Kirkland from playing,” announced Professor Terbush, “and suspend judgment in his case until he is ready to produce his alleged proof.”
“Then I don’t play against Golden?” asked Larry beseechingly.
“We cannot afford to risk the honor of our noble institution,” replied Professor Terbush. “We hope you will be able to prove your innocence, and present the proof you say you can get.”
Larry, almost stunned by the judgment, walked unsteadily out of the stand and down onto the playing field. Katsura, who had been watching from afar, ran to meet him.
“What’s the matter, Larry?” inquired the little brown boy anxiously.
“They’ve thrown me off the team, Katty,” he wailed. “They won’t let me play with Golden.”
“Baldwin?” asked Katsura, stiffening quickly.
“It must have been. No one else could or would have done it,” said Larry, walking unsteadily toward the club rooms.
A flutter of golden banners, ribbons, flags and flowers grew to a wave of gold as the team of Golden University raced out from a gateway between the stands and scattered rapidly to their positions on the playing field. The adherents of Golden, banked on the big stands to the third-base side of the oval, arose and sent volley after volley of cheers across the field to where the students and admirers of Cascade sat. A return broadside of applause greeted the opening attack of the greatest baseball battle of the year as the men and girls of Cascade welcomed the visitors.
Five minutes later a tumult suddenly broke loose on the Cascade side of the field. A ripple of applause, starting at one end of the stands grew and spread, until suddenly five thousand of the lovers of Cascade arose, and screamed their welcome to their team. Then, volley for volley, the rival schools fired their cheers across the field at each other, challenging to battle. The waves of blue on one side marked the sea of blue banners, and the sunshine slanting upon the golden banners sent the challenge back in heliographic flutters.
The long, rippling yell of Golden answered the booming, resonant war cry of Cascade as the teams practiced. Down in front of each section cheer masters, animated jumping-jacks, armed with flags and megaphones, spurred the throat-weary ones to louder efforts, while the teams, tense and silent, practiced with set lips.
In the throng just back of first base Larry Kirkland, miserable and dejected, was sitting alone brooding over the injustice of his lot and striving to hide the hot anger that was consuming him. During all the applause and the cheering he had remained silent; nor had he joined in the Cascade yell that greeted the diamond warriors when they ran onto the field.
Kirkland had fresh reason for anger and resentment.
In the first bitterness of his disappointment he had made desperate efforts to reach Major Lawrence by telegraph, to disprove the accusations of professionalism and to secure reinstatement before the game was played. In this he had been aided most actively by Paw Lattiser, who had come to his rescue with advice and who had attempted to cheer him in his disappointment. But Major Lawrence had gone East on a long-deferred business trip and could not be located and, as a crowning blow, he had taken Krag with him, so that after telegraphing several times to Pearton, and sending messages to be forwarded, it became evident that it would be impossible to reach Major Lawrence and secure his evidence in time to compel the reinstatement of Larry Kirkland prior to the game with Golden, and the effort had been abandoned reluctantly. Although Larry did not know it, Paw Lattiser had carried the case before the faculty, and urged strongly that justice be done, but the faculty had declined to interfere in the matter or dictate to the Athletic Board of Control.
This disappointment was a bitter blow to Larry Kirkland. He had staked his hopes upon the game with Golden, and further, to be barred from that contest meant the loss, for a year at least, of the coveted C—the honor mark of Cascade and the Cross of Honor for college athletes. So bitter had been his disappointment that he had refused to attend the game, in spite of the urging of Katsura and of the others who had remained loyal to him in his troubles. To his surprise, Larry discovered that he had more friends in Cascade than he ever had imagined. Several of the Seniors, who scarcely had spoken to him before, had come to him to express their sympathy and their indignation and to pledge him their assistance and two or three of the team who belonged, by former alliance, to the Haxton-Baldwin crowd, had assured him that they believed him innocent and that in their opinion it was a contemptible trick to protest him at the last minute.
Larry had won further admiration by maintaining strict silence in regard to his suspicions. To Katsura and Winans he had expressed his belief that Harry Baldwin was behind the accusations, and Katsura gravely had advised him not to mention his belief or make any charges until he had the proof.
It was because of this that Larry, sitting in the stands, was raging inwardly. At the last moment, as he heard the noise of the excited students pressing toward the grounds, he had abandoned his idea of remaining at the house and studying, and had hurriedly joined the throng. After all, he argued, it was selfish to place his own interests above those of the college. He would cheer as loyally, and “root” as hard for Cascade as if he were playing.
It was while he walked toward the athletic field that he heard a thing that revived all his anger and disappointment. Just ahead of him three young fellows, bearing Golden flags, were hastening along, and talking in rather loud tones.
“I don’t care,” said one of them, “Wallace had no right to bring those charges. He has done the same thing he accuses this Cascade man of doing”——
Wallace! Larry suddenly realized that the trio of Golden youths were talking about him. The name Wallace aroused a memory. He could not think for a moment in what connection he had heard the name. Then one of the youths ahead said:
“Pshaw! They all do it. I’ll wager half the fellows on both teams have taken money for playing.”
“It wasn’t so much his protesting this Kirkland,” responded the other, “as the way he did it. Wallace said he found out a week ago that Kirkland’s uncle was going away, and that he didn’t make the charges until he was sure the old man couldn’t deny them. It seems this uncle, or guardian, or whatever he is, is very rich and Wally was afraid he might come down and deny it all.”
“All I have to say,” said the third, “is that it wasn’t square. He either ought to play or ought not—and it wasn’t right to make the charges knowing he couldn’t prove or disprove them.”
As they passed out of hearing Larry Kirkland stood still, wondering and pondering over the situation. He recalled Wallace vividly. He was the tall pitcher who had been imported by Harry Baldwin to pitch for Rogue River ranch team against Shasta View on the memorable occasion which had served to embitter the feud of the Baldwin and Lawrence families. But how had Wallace known that Major Lawrence was going East? Larry cudgeled his brain for a solution of that mystery as he walked more slowly toward the field.
Suddenly an idea sprang into his mind that drove his selfish thoughts from him. Instead of going to his seat in the stand immediately he hastened to the club house and advanced toward Coach Haxton.
“Why, hello, Kirkland,” said Haxton a little awkwardly. “Sorry you’re not with us”——
“Thank you,” replied Larry chillingly. “But I dropped in to tell you something, if you do not object to taking advice.”
“Glad to get it,” said the coach in more friendly tones. “We may need it with the team broken up this way.”
“It’s this,” said Larry quickly, “I know this fellow Wallace who is pitching for Golden. Batted against him once. He has a lot of speed and a fast curve, but he is liable to be wild. Besides, if your players wait and make him pitch hard he’ll tire himself out before the end. He hasn’t the strength to keep up his speed and he gets wilder when he tires.”
“Thank you,” said Haxton. “I’ll remember it.”
“When he gets fussed up,” said Larry, “bunt toward him and he will fall all over himself. I think you can beat him that way.”
“I say,” said Haxton with genuine friendliness, “it’s awfully decent of you to try to help after—after—well, after what has happened.”
Larry had gone to his seat torn by conflicting emotions. He regretted giving the advice, yet felt that he had done his duty. He found it hard to hope that Cascade would win. But, before the second inning was played, he had forgotten his own troubles and was cheering as loyally as any over the plays. The third, fourth and fifth innings passed and still neither team had been able to score. Golden’s batters were hitting freely, but unluckily, and the splendid defensive work of Cascade was holding them in check. It was evident that Haxton was following Larry’s advice. The batters were waiting and forcing Wallace to pitch many balls to each of them and it was evident to Larry that the strain was telling upon him. In the sixth inning a base on balls and a sacrifice put Rodney on second base and Harry Baldwin, hitting the first ball pitched to him, drove home the first run and Cascade went wild. But in the seventh, Arksall wavered, grew wild, and in trying to get the ball over the plate was freely batted, and four Golden runners crossed the plate.
In this dilemma Haxton turned to Katsura. The little brown fellow smiled, trotted out, pitched a few practice balls, and stepping to the slab began floating his tantalizing slow twisters across the plate, and the rally ended quickly. Larry applauded wildly as Katsura, still smiling coolly, trotted back to the bench. He was not discouraged, for he believed that Katsura, with his skill and cunning, would stop Golden from scoring and he hoped that Cascade could score freely when Wallace, worn down by the strain, weakened. He weakened in the eighth inning, grew wild, and Cascade quickly tied the score. Two runners were on the bases when Harry Baldwin, disobeying orders, struck out, and Larry felt a pang of fierce joy at the discomfiture of his rival.
The ninth came with the crowd working itself to a high pitch of excitement and the score tied. The first Golden batter retired, and the next hit a slow, easy bounder to the shortstop, who, hastening unnecessarily, threw the ball against the stands, allowing the runner to reach third. The situation was dangerous. Haxton called the shortstop and second baseman closer to the plate and played to cut off the runner. Katsura, pitching as coolly as in practice, refused to permit the batter to hit a good ball, and as a result gave him a base on balls, increasing the chances of a double play.
The next batter drove a bounder straight at Harry Baldwin. The crowd checked its cheer. Baldwin scooped the ball perfectly. He could throw to the plate and shut off the runner there, or he could throw to second and try for the double play that would end the inning. He paused an instant, steadied himself and threw to first base. The moment he threw he started trotting off the field, and, aroused suddenly by the roar of surprise and anger from the Cascade followers, he stopped as if bewildered. He had forgotten how many batters were out—and had permitted the runner to score from third without an effort to stop him. A moment later a fly ended the inning. Cascade rallied desperately in their ninth, but failed to score. Larry Kirkland, dejected, yet inwardly glad that it was Baldwin who had lost the game, joined the rush toward the exits. Baldwin’s blunder had cost Cascade the game and the championship.