THE NEXT MORNING.
Early the following morning Tommy Tucker, in pajamas, came bouncing into
Dick’s room. Merriwell was already up. He had bathed and was partly
dressed.
“Pa-pore! pa-pore!” cried Tommy, flourishing a newspaper. “All about de
great fire last night! Dinsmore & Hyde’s old warehouse burned to de
ground! Pa-pore! pa-pore!”
“Shut up, you yapping idiot!” cried Dick laughingly. “Where’d you get
the paper?”
“Oh, I fixed it with Maggie last night. Bribed her to rise early this
morn’ and hustle out for a newspaper. She just left it at our door. See,
here’s all about the fire, Dick!”
Blessed Jones turned over in bed, jabbed his head halfway under a
pillow, and smotheredly droned:
“‘Him that disturbeth the sleep of the righteous let him be condemned to
fire and brimstone and let him burn forever.’”
“Oh, you were there, old snooker!” cried Tommy. “You ought to be
interested in this report. You were with the gang last night.”
Buckhart stuck his head into the room.
“Read it, Tucker,” he urged.
Thus requested, Tommy read the account of the fire which had destroyed
the old warehouse and which was believed beyond question to be the work
of incendiaries. Indeed, it was said that the watchman at Gray S.
Walpole’s lumber yard had detected two of the firebugs in the act of
leaving the basement of the warehouse. According to the statement of
Hatch, one of these chaps had been dressed in bright red and looked like
the devil himself. The watchman acknowledged that the appearance of this
fellow so startled him that he permitted them both to get a flying
start, and, in spite of his efforts to run them down, they had managed
to avoid him and escaped in the darkness.
Thinking of what had really happened when the watchman saw that
crimson-clad figure, Merriwell was compelled to laugh.
“It says here,” said Tommy, “that the old building was fully covered by
insurance. I guess the owners are mighty glad it burned.”
“But not the insurance company, Tucker. Of course that fire was an
accident and we could prove it, but it’s just as well for us if we can
escape getting mixed up in the business. If the fellows are wise,
they’ll keep still about it.”
“I’ll have to read this to Big,” said Tommy, rising. “See you later,
fellows. Ta! ta!”
Merriwell and Buckhart were ready to start out for their usual morning
walk, and Jones was sitting yawning on the edge of the bed when callers
arrived. They were Jack Spratt, Otis Fitch, and Rob Claxton. Hearing
them come in, Tucker promptly appeared, followed a moment later by
Bouncer Bigelow, who was rubbing his eyes and yawning, his uncombed hair
standing up like a topknot.
“Have you fellows seen the morning newspaper?” was Claxton’s anxious
inquiry.
“Sure,” answered Tucker. “I took pains to provide them with a few
morning shivers by reading the report of a fire that occurred last
night.”
“I was in hopes the firemen would be able to save the building,” said
Claxton. “I dislike very much to think that I was in any way responsible
for that fire.”
“You really were not responsible, Claxton,” said Dick. “None of us
fellows were. The really responsible ones are the chaps who carried
Tucker into the basement of that building and attempted to have fun with
him.”
“Gwathuth!” lisped Fitch. “I’ll never forget the thtart I got when I
thaw thothe fellowth. Wonder where they got their cothtumes?”
“Didn’t you read about that in the paper?” asked Tommy. “The shop of
Julius Steiger, the costumer, was broken into and looted last night. A
number of valuable costumes and wigs were stolen.”
“Which explains the astonishing disguises worn by Tucker’s captors,”
said Dick. “While I don’t fancy being mixed up in this affair, I
wouldn’t hesitate to testify against those rascals if they were
arrested.”
“I wonder what became of that document they persuaded me to sign?”
laughed Tommy. “If they ever try to use that paper, it will be their
prompt undoing. Of course, old Sate has it in his possession. Oh, I’ll
see that chap again, and I’ll know him, too. I’ve got a nice little
razzer hidden up my sleeve for Mr. Sate. If I ever get a good
opportunity, I’m going to slice him good and deep.”
“You sus-seemed to cuc-cuc-come out of the bub-business all right,”
observed Spratt. “You don’t look any the w-w-worse for wear.”
“Thank you, thank you,” bubbled Tucker. “And you, Spratt, are looking
perfectly divine this morning.”
“But I haven’t a cent to my nun-name,” said Jack quickly.
“My dear boy, you misunderstand me!” cried Tommy. “Can’t I pay a man a
compliment without wanting to borrow money?”
“I sus-suppose you can,” answered Spratt, “but sus-somehow you
nun-nun-never do.”
“Now that’s an insult!” snapped Tommy belligerently. “I challenge you to
a duel. Let’s not lose a moment’s time. Let’s fight a duel right away.”
“You needn’t lose any time,” laughed Dick. “It only takes two seconds to
fight a duel.”
Tucker collapsed on a chair.
“I was going to spring that myself,” he said dolefully. “It must be
awfully stale.”
“It is,” said Dick. “I thought I was stealing a lap on you.”
“You have certain enemies, Tucker,” observed Jones, “who seem determined
that you shall not play on the team.”
“Thus far they’ve simply injured themselves,” said Dick. “They must be
disgusted with the way everything has gone against them. We play Brown
at Providence, Saturday, and if we win that game it will be the utter
discomfiture of our enemies and the enemies of the team.”
“Oh, we’ll win the game, partner,” said Buckhart confidently.
“I hope we do,” nodded Dick; “but Brown has a hot team, they say—the
best freshman team she’s had in years.”
Dick smiled.
“Well, how about uth?” inquired Otis Fitch.
“It has been generally reported that Yale has the weakest freshman team
she’s had in years, but I notice we’ve been winning thus far.”
“Even with Sam Kates in the box,” grunted Bigelow. “Of course, you’re
going to pitch Saturday, Dick? You wouldn’t think of putting Kates
against Brown?”
“I wouldn’t put him against Brown. I shall wait to hear what Captain
Jones has to say.”
“You’ll pitch, all right,” announced Blessed. “And you’ll pitch the
whole game, too.”
“Very well,” said Dick, “that seems to be settled.”
“And that settles the game,” asserted Spratt. “I’ll bet my last dollar
we win. It’s a sure thing.”
“Better not bet,” said Dick. “There’s nothing like a sure thing in
baseball. I may have my off day—I have one sometimes. Anyhow, I shall
have to depend on my backers. Without good backing I can’t hope to get
away with that game. Only for old Brad behind the pan to steady me and
assist me in working the batters I fear I’d make a pretty poor showing.
In most cases the success of a pitcher depends on the sort of catcher he
works with.”
“Oh, dear, partner, let up on that!” exclaimed the Texan, really
confused. “You know you can pitch ball without any old catcher at all
behind the pan.”
“Yes, I can pitch, but I can’t win games, Brad. To win games I need the
backing of the whole team, and the man I depend on most is the man
behind the bat.”