A NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH
During the short walk across the yard little was said. Stearns now
and then shot puzzled and anxious glances at Allan’s face, but the
latter looked straight ahead of him, and Stearns learned nothing. In
the office Professor Nast approached the subject at once. The Robinson
authorities, he stated, had written, saying that Ware had won third
prize in the mile event at an indoor meet of the St. Thomas Club,
in Brooklyn, on the evening of December 26th, and in support of the
contention enclosed a clipping from a newspaper. The clipping was
handed to Allan, and he read, opposite a big blue pencil mark:
“Mile run--Won by E. C. Scheur, N. Y. C. C. A. (45 yds.); second, T.
Webb, St. T. A. A. (45 yds.); third, A. Ware, E. A. A. (50 yds.).
Time--4m. 47s.”
Allan returned the clipping calmly.
“You understand,” said the professor, gently, “that the mere fact
of your having entered this meeting without permission would not of
itself render you ineligible on Saturday. The trouble is that the
meeting”--here he tapped the newspaper clipping with his pencil--“was
not an amateur affair; the prizes were purses of money, and, being an
‘open’ meeting, there were, as you may see, a number of professionals
participating. That--er--is the difficulty.”
“I know nothing about it,” said Allan, quietly.
Stearns sank back in his chair with a long sigh of relief. “I told you
it was all nonsense!” he exclaimed. The professor himself looked well
pleased.
“I did not run in that meeting,” continued Allan. “I have been in
Brooklyn but once, and that was fully six years ago.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said the professor, “very glad. Now,
while I am not in duty bound to explain the matter to the Robinson
authorities, yet it is better for various reasons to do so. And there
is one thing--” He paused and tapped the desk frowningly. “About this
clipping?” he asked. Allan shook his head.
“I’m afraid I can’t explain that. Perhaps there’s another ‘A. Ware’ and
perhaps ‘E. A. A.’ stands for something else besides Erskine Athletic
Association.”
“Stands for lots of things, probably,” said Stearns, a bit impatiently.
“We might find that out,” mused the professor. “Where were you, Ware,
that evening, the--ah--yes, the twenty-sixth of December?”
“I was in New York, visiting my aunt on Seventy-third Street. I was in
the house all the evening, except for about half an hour, when I went
out on an errand.”
“Well, you couldn’t have crossed the river to Brooklyn, run a mile race
and returned home in half an hour,” said the professor, lightly. “Now,
will you get your aunt to write me a letter, stating those facts and
assuring me that you were not and could not have been in Brooklyn? It
is not, you understand, that I doubt your word, Ware, but I have my
duties in these affairs and I must perform them. Simply a letter, you
understand, will suffice.”
“I will do my best,” Allan replied; “but----”
“Eh?” shouted Stearns.
“But my aunt has left New York city and is traveling in the West,
probably in California now. I shall have to find her address from my
mother first, and by that time----”
“Now, look here, sir,” interrupted Stearns. “Surely Ware’s word of
honor is enough in a case of this sort? It’s only a--a coincidence of
names, sir.”
“For my own satisfaction Mr. Ware’s word is sufficient,” replied the
chairman, with dignity, “but the rules require evidence, and I must
have it. I only ask Mr. Ware to supply me with a statement from some
person who knows of his whereabouts on the evening in question.
Perhaps there is some other person who will do as well?” But Allan
shook his head.
“No, sir, I’m afraid not. My aunt lives alone except for the servants,
and I saw no one I knew that evening. I will telegraph to my mother at
once, and perhaps I will be able to get a letter from my aunt before
Saturday. But it’s a pretty short time.”
“Produce your evidence any time before the two-mile race is called,”
said the chairman, kindly, “and it will be all right. And, by the way,
a telegram will answer as well as a letter, if your--er--aunt is in the
West. I am anxious to help you in every way possible, and I regret that
the duties of my office require me to be or--er--seem exacting. Another
thing, Ware; the Athletic Association will incur all the expenses of
telegraphing in this affair; and you need not--ah--spare money. Good
morning.”
“Oh, it will be all right,” said Stearns, cheerfully, as they hurried
together to the telegraph office. But Allan shook his head despondently.
“No, I’ve felt ever since yesterday that something would happen to ball
things up. And now it’s happened. And I don’t believe I’ll hear from my
aunt in time. However, I wouldn’t have got better than second place,
anyway. But I did want to run,” he ended, dolorously.
“Nonsense! Cheer up! We’ll make the wires hum. We’ve got pretty near
two whole days, and we can telegraph around the world fifty times in
two days.”
The telegram asking for his aunt’s address was duly despatched to his
mother in New Haven, and after that there was nothing left to do save
wait her reply. Allan parted from Stearns and went dejectedly back to
his room. There he found Pete engaged in a carouse with Two Spot. They
wouldn’t let Pete practise with the shot to-day, or again before the
meet, and he was feeling quite lost in consequence. Allan wanted some
one to unfold his tale of woe to, and he was glad to find Pete awaiting
him. Pete, as the story was told, grew very indignant, and offered to
punch Professor Nast’s head. But Allan finally convinced him that the
chairman of the Athletic Committee wasn’t at all to blame.
“It’s a beastly way to have things end, after you’ve been practising
hard all spring,” he said, as he arose impatiently from his chair and
strolled to the desk. A Latin book was lying on the blotter, with
a slip of paper marking the page where Allan had been at work when
Stearns appeared. Now he opened the book, crumpled the marker into a
ball and tossed it disgustedly onto the floor. Then he drew up a chair
and plainly hinted that he desired to study. Pete, however, refused to
heed the hint.
“It’s a mighty foolish business,” he said, thoughtfully.
Allan grunted.
Two Spot had discovered the little ball of paper and was making believe
that it was a mouse. She rolled it from under the couch with playful
pawings and frantic rushes, and finally tossing it in the air, so that
it fell at Pete’s feet, she stopped, blinked at it and suddenly fell
to washing her feet, as though too dignified to do aught else. Pete
stooped absent-mindedly and picked up the bit of paper, unfolding it
slowly and smoothing it across one huge knee.
“Seems to me,” he said presently, “you chaps have forgotten one thing.”
“What’s that?” Allan asked, ungraciously.
“To wire the St. Thomas Club people and ask them if you ran in their
old meeting.”
“Well, that’s so,” said Allan, hopefully. “But, then, there was
probably some one there named ‘A. Ware,’ and they’d just answer ‘yes.’”
“Ask ’em if Allan Ware, of Erskine, ran in the meeting, and, if he
didn’t, who the dickens the ‘A. Ware’ was who did run. Tell you’ve got
to know in a hurry, and that it’s blamed important.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Allan, “that’s a good idea. Funny we didn’t think
of it, wasn’t it?”
For answer Pete grunted, as though he didn’t think it at all funny.
“Hello, who’s ‘Horace L. Pearson, N. Y. A. C.’?” asked Pete, holding up
the scrap of paper rescued from Two Spot, and which now proved to be
torn from the program of the Boston indoor meeting.
“I don’t know; why?” asked Allan.
“I used to know a fellow of that name out in Colorado. He was sort of
studying mining. What does ‘N. Y. A. C.’ mean?”
“New York Athletic Club. It’s probably the same fellow. I remember him
now. He was the chap that thought Rindgely was me.”
“Eh?” asked Pete. “How was that?”
So Allan told him, and Pete grew very thoughtful as the short narrative
progressed. When Allan had finished he asked:
“I suppose these fellows that do stunts at the Boston meet go to pretty
near all of them, don’t they?”
“Oh, I don’t know; a good many, I guess. Why?”
“Just wondering,” answered Pete. “Come on and send that telegram. If
you address it to the president or treasurer or something, it will do,
won’t it?”
“I’ll send it to the chairman of the Athletic Committee,” said Allan,
seizing his hat. “I’m glad you thought of it, Pete. You’re some good in
the world, after all, aren’t you?”
“Sure. See you this evening. I want to see Tommy. Where do you suppose
I’ll find him?”
“Oh, come on down to the telegraph office.”
“Can’t; I want Tommy.”
“Well, try the Purple office; maybe he’s there. Don’t forget to come
around to-night. I may get an answer from my mother by that time.”
Pete was successful. To be sure, Tommy wasn’t in the office of the
Purple, but Pete hadn’t supposed he would be; Tommy wasn’t so easily
caught. But by tracing him from one place to another, Pete at last came
up with him in the library, where he was eagerly securing data for an
article on rowing which he was preparing for a Boston Sunday paper.
“You see,” he explained, hurriedly, “I don’t know very much about
rowing, but it wouldn’t do to say so, and so I come here and consult
these gentlemen.” He indicated the half-dozen volumes by which he was
surrounded. “If I only wrote what I knew, you see, I’d never make any
money.”
“Well, that’s the first time I ever heard you acknowledge you didn’t
know it all, from throwing to tying,” said Pete.
“Oh, a fellow has to keep up a front,” said Tommy, shrewdly, with a
grin.
Pete slipped into the next chair, and for the next quarter of an hour
they whispered fast and furiously. When Pete got up, he said:
“This isn’t for publication in your old paper, Tommy, you know. And
don’t say anything about it to any one, will you?”
And Tommy pledged himself to secrecy, adding:
“And I think you’ve got it, Pete. Are you going to see him to-night?”
“As soon as I can find him in his room,” Pete replied.
“Then I’ll come around to Allan’s to-night and hear what’s happened.”
“Maybe I won’t tell Allan,” answered Pete. “Anyhow, not unless I have
to. I’ll see what the coyote has to say for himself.”
“Rindgely? Oh, he’ll have plenty to say, all right. He’ll talk himself
blue in the face if you let him.”
“Maybe I won’t let him,” answered Pete, grimly.