FROM THE BAR Z RANCH.
Although he had promised to return early that night, the Texan did not
return at all. Dick was highly vexed over Buckhart’s failure to come in
as soon as he had promised, finally falling asleep with the intention to
give Brad a piece of his mind in the morning.
In the morning the Texan was still absent. Dick became alarmed. As soon
as possible he telephoned to Mabel and learned that Brad had bidden her
good night before ten-thirty the previous evening.
What had become of Buckhart? This was the question which soon stirred up
no end of excitement, but midday delivery brought Dick a letter which he
anxiously opened, reading the following message:
“DEAR PARD: Suppose you’re a heap worried about me. You needn’t be.
I’m all right. Will explain on meeting you in Providence. I’ll be
there in time to do the backstopping in that game. Depend on me.
“Faithfully, BRAD.”
Not thirty minutes behind the letter arrived a startlingly picturesque
individual who nearly pulled the door bell out by the roots and scared
Maggie when she appeared at the door by yanking off his broad-brimmed
hat, making a sweeping bow and huskily saying:
“How are yer, miss? Is this yere the ranch where Brad Buckhart can be
found?”
Maggie was tempted to close the door in the face of that bewhiskered,
sunburned, booted, and spurred man. From his Stetson hat to his
high-heeled boots he looked like the burlesque Western desperado seen on
the stage. Around his waist he wore a loose belt which supported a
pistol holster, the latter, however, being empty.
“Mr. Buckhart—he—rooms here,” faltered Maggie, “but you see,
sir—he—ain’t to home now.”
“Waal, that’s all right, my gal,” said the fierce-looking man, “I’ll
just walk in and wait for him. You see I’m from his father’s ranch, the
Bar Z, and the old man axed me to look up Brad while I was on yere. You
can show me his room, little gal. I’ll squat thar.”
Shiveringly Maggie led the way to Buckhart’s room, into which the
visitor strode with an air of perfect self-assurance.
“I—I’m afraid you’ll have to wait an awful long time, sir,” said the
girl. “I understand Mr. Buckhart he has gone away somewhere, sir.”
“Waal, whar’s he gone?”
“I dunno, sir. I dunno’s anybody knows, sir.”
Dick Merriwell looked in from the adjoining room. He had the singular
letter in his hand, for he was still puzzling over it.
“Do you want to see Buckhart, sir?” he inquired.
“I sure do,” answered the visitor. “Mebbe you can tell me when he’ll git
back. My name is Bill Bugle, and I’m a cow-puncher from the Bar Z. You
see the boy’s old man axed me would I drop round and see him and bring
back a report as to how he was gittin’ along here. Who are you?”
“My name is Merriwell, and I’m——”
“Put her thar!” shouted Bugle, extending his hand. “Why, you’re Brad’s
kid pard. You’re the youngster he’s writ so much about to his old man.
I’m certain powerful glad to meet up with you.”
Maggie retreated, leaving them together, and in a very short time Dick
and the visitor became surprisingly friendly. The door into the hall was
closed, and, listening from the stairs some minutes later, Miss Swazey
heard Dick and Bugle laughing in the most friendly manner. They seemed
to be enjoying something like a joke.
A little later Dick gave out the contents of the letter he had received.
When its genuineness was doubted he asserted that the writing looked
like that of Buckhart, and he was confident the Texan would show up in
Providence according to his promise.
Among the freshmen who accompanied the team to Providence were to be
seen the entire Ditson crowd. On reaching the city they took a suite of
rooms at a medium-priced hotel, and immediately pooled every dollar they
could raise for the purpose of betting against Yale.
“It’s a dead cinch!” Mike Lynch asserted. “Without Buckhart behind the
bat Merriwell will be hammered out of the box.”
“But how do you know for a fact that he won’t have Buckhart?” inquired
Mel Daggett. “Of course we all know that the Texan isn’t with the team,
but they say Merriwell has heard from him and he’s promised to be in the
game.”
“That’s all right, Mel,” smiled Duncan Ditson knowingly. “We have
reasons to know that Buckhart won’t show his nose on the field
to-morrow. He won’t be in the game, so don’t you worry about your money.
Here’s where we fellows make a clean-up that will put us on our feet
again.”
“If we don’t,” said Jim Poland; “if we lose, I’m ruined this time. I
don’t know how I’m going to raise another dollar.”
That night Ditson and Lynch slept well after drinking to their good
luck, which they believed was assured. The following forenoon the Yale
men put in some light practice on the field. They waited in vain for the
appearance of Buckhart, although Dick remained confident that Brad would
show up.
But when the time arrived for the team to dress and proceed to the field
Buckhart was still missing. No one seemed more disappointed over this
than Bill Bugle, who hung around the boys, and, through Dick’s
intercession, was finally given permission to ride to the field on the
barge with the players.
“I used to play this yere game some myself,” he announced. “I wonder if
you youngsters wouldn’t let me git holt of the ball. I’d like to do some
batting for ye when ye practice.”
“We’ll have to take you for a mascot,” said Robinson. “If you can bat
for us, we’ll let you do so.”
There was more or less laughter and joshing from the Providence boys as
the Yale team marched onto the field with Bugle at the side of Blessed
Jones. Every one watched with intense curiosity to see what the man
would do when he seized a bat and prepared to take part in the practice.
To the surprise of all, he hammered the ball in a scientific manner,
driving it wherever he chose and in whatever manner he chose.
But Buckhart was still absent and the Yale players were downcast. They
were talking about a substitute catcher when Bugle announced that he was
going to do the catching himself. They gave very little heed to this
until Tucker called attention to the fact that the Westerner was
shedding his garments. The man had stepped out into an open space near
the Yale bench where he proceeded to kick off his high-heeled boots,
skin his shirt over his head, and snap himself out of his trousers
before a hand could be lifted to prevent. These movements produced a
most astonishing metamorphosis, for beneath those outer garments Bugle
wore the baseball uniform of Yale Uumpty-ten. Not only that, but his
whiskers and long hair vanished with the rest of his outfit, and, as he
turned toward the bench, Dick Merriwell observed:
“I told you Brad would arrive on time, boys. Here he is.”
The astonishment of the Yale lads was unspeakable, for before them stood
Buckhart, smiling and wiping some of the grease paint from his face with
a soiled handkerchief.
“Just a little joke,” explained Brad, with a wink. “We’ll talk it over
later, fellows. Now let’s get into this game and eat Brown up.”
In the midst of the universal excitement the consternation of the Ditson
crowd failed to attract particular attention. As for Lynch and Duncan,
both seemed to fancy themselves dreaming. They were aroused by Daggett,
who snarled at them:
“You know a lot, don’t you? You knew Buckhart wouldn’t be here, but
there he is!”
“Yes, there he is,” muttered Poland, who had lost heart at once, “and
Yale will win this game. Fellows, we’re busted, every blamed one of us.”
Jim was right, for Yale put up a great game against the clever Brown
freshmen. Nevertheless, it was nobody’s game until the eighth inning,
when, with the bases filled, Buckhart smashed out a home run that proved
to be the undoing of Brown. Among Dick’s backers the man behind the bat
was the one who really won the game.
It was true the entire Ditson crowd was unspeakably disgusted and sore.
That night they quarreled among themselves, and Mel Daggett wore a black
eye for some days thereafter.
Of course Dick had known for a certainty that Buckhart would be in the
game, having penetrated the disguise of the young Texan shortly after he
appeared as Bill Bugle. The letter was a clever forgery. Brad had
succeeded in escaping through his own efforts, having broken the lock on
the door of the wretched room in which he found himself confined.
Although the Texan believed there had been no intention to perpetrate
serious injury upon him, he thirsted for revenge upon the fellows who
had sought to carry through such a rascally piece of business. This led
him to visit the costumer so often patronized by Dick, where he secured
the cowboy outfit and made himself up to pass as a cattleman from the
Bar Z.
“But the fact that they lost their bets doesn’t satisfy me by a whole
lot,” he declared. “I’d like to have proof of the identity of those two
gents who nabbed me in the cab. If I ever do get such proof, I’ll light
on them all spraddled out. You hear me softly warble!”
A few days later, Dick was pitching for practice, when a number of the
members of the varsity nine happened along and were at once struck with
the wondrous way in which Dick manipulated the ball.
“The varsity nine is mighty weak as to pitchers,” said one of the
spectators of Dick’s skill. “I wish it were possible to get Merriwell to
help us.”
The others laughed at the idea of the possibility of a mere freshman
giving instructions to the men of the varsity nine. Yet this chance
remark made by a junior classman led on to very practical results. For
not long after that Dick was called upon to give a practical
demonstration of his cleverness with the ball for the edification of the
varsity nine.