BAD NEWS.
Wilbur Keene, bronzed, flushed, well satisfied, yet modest in bearing,
entered the locker house, surrounded by his comrades of the varsity
nine, which had just defeated Cornell in the game for which Merriwell
had coached Keene and which proved to be one of the closest and most
exciting games of the season.
Every one was congratulating Wilbur and telling him what a wonderful
game he had pitched. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say nearly
every one was congratulating him. Two of the varsity pitchers, Pumper
Welch and Dudley Towne, had not expressed themselves. Towne seemed
wavering, but Welch wore a sullen, half-sneering look upon his not
unhandsome face. Hitherto Pumper had been considered the leading pitcher
for Yale, and now he realized that a rival who might snatch some of
these honors from him had suddenly arisen.
“You certainly held ’em down in the tight places, Keene, old man,” cried
the tall Scotchman, Greg McGregor, slapping Wilbur on the shoulder. “You
pulled out of the bad holes in beautiful shape.”
“It was control—control that did it,” asserted Cranch, the catcher. “On
my word, Wilbur seemed able to put that ball precisely where he wanted
to put it. Never caught a fellow with better control in all my life.
And, say, Keene, where did you get that queer hinkey-dink curve that you
use for a strike-out?”
“I got that where I got my control,” answered Keene. “I’m not too proud
to acknowledge that I owe it all to Merriwell’s coaching. The first
thing he did was to keep at me about perfect control. Said it was more
important than speed or curves. Said it was the first thing a pitcher
ought to work for. As for that little hinkey-dink curve, as you call it,
I got that trying to throw Merriwell’s combination ball. I didn’t get
the combination, but I did get a queer little quirky shoot, which I used
in the game to-day.”
At this moment Greg McGregor made a lunge through the crowd and seized a
lad who was trying to slip out.
“No, you don’t!” shouted Greg triumphantly. “Hi, fellows! Here he is!
Here’s Merriwell! He was making a sneak.”
The freshman was dragged back into the room and surrounded by the
bronzed, bare-armed, laughing youths.
“I take off my hat to you, Merriwell,” said Bill Leyden, with mocking
seriousness. “When it comes to coaching pitchers, you seem to have me
skinned a mile.”
Leyden was the baseball coach.
“Hi, Merriwell!” cried Ben Carter. “Heard about the horrible calamity
that happened to your class team this afternoon? It’s simply awful.”
Now, the Yale freshmen had been playing Highbridge High, and, regarding
the game as a cinch, the class of Umpty-ten had sent out a wretchedly
small aggregation of rooters.
“What did they do?” laughed Dick. “Did they win by a score of about
twenty to nothing?”
“Hardly that,” returned Carter. “Highbridge ate ’em up.”
“Go on!” mocked Dick.
“It’s a fact.”
“Oh, you’ll have to tell that to some one else.”
“I’m not joshing,” persisted Carter. “That’s the report. Umpty-ten was
trimmed by Highbridge. Horrible doings. Two pitchers knocked out of the
box.”
“I can’t believe it,” said Dick, the smile slowly disappearing from his
face. “Why, no one regarded Highbridge as dangerous. Both Jones and
Robinson told me I would not be needed with the team to-day. That’s how
I happened to be here.”
“You never can tell,” chuckled Carl Henderson. “Sometimes these things
happen when they’re least expected. It’s possible you might have saved
the game if you’d been with the team, Merriwell.”
“And it’s possible I might have lost this game if he had been with his
own team,” confessed Wilbur Keene. “Every time I found myself in a hard
hole I got a nod of encouragement from Merriwell, and it seemed to
stiffen my backbone.”
“Well, will you hear that blamed fool?” muttered Welch, in Dud Towne’s
ear. “He makes me sick at the stomach.”
“If this keeps up,” said Towne, “Merriwell will have the credit for
winning the game, not Keene.”
“It was a fluke, anyhow,” growled Welch. “Keene never pitched like that
before, and I doubt if he ever will again.”
“What was that fellow trying to do who got hit by the ball in the
seventh inning?” inquired Towne. “How did he happen to be on the field?
I know him. He’s a freshman by the name of Lynch.”
“Oh, I suppose he’s one of Merriwell’s chums,” answered Welch, with
scornfully curling lips. “He was sneaking in to get a word with
Merriwell when that swift foul tip caught him and stretched him out
cold.”
“There he is now,” said Dud, jerking his head toward Lynch. “If I
remember right, he’s no friend of Merriwell.”
“Then why did Merriwell take such an interest in him after he got
knocked silly? Why did Merriwell come here and work over the fellow the
way he did?”
“Did he do that?”
“Sure. I wouldn’t stay on the bench, you know. I was here, and I saw
them lug Lynch in. A doctor came along, but he wasn’t needed. Merriwell
had the fellow’s shirt torn open at the throat and was chafing his
wrists and moistening his forehead. By the time the doctor got ready to
do something his assistance wasn’t needed.”
“That’s like Merriwell. He does those things for friends and foes alike.
Let any one need assistance and he doesn’t stop to ask whether the
person is a friend or an enemy.”
“Haw!” grunted Welch. “He’s a great poser. He’s always trying to show
off. Of course he’s all swelled up now because he’s been coaching a
varsity pitcher. They wanted me to let him give me points. Think of
that! I’m not taking any coaching from a freshman. I notice that you
didn’t grab at the proposition. Keene was the only one who——”
“And Keene pitched the game to-day and won it,” interrupted Towne, with
a shade of regret in his voice.
“Any one would think you were sorry that you didn’t let Merriwell coach
you.”
“Perhaps I am.”
This was too much for Pumper Welch.
“You make me sick, too!” he said. “Go ahead and coax Mr. Merriwell to
coach you. Perhaps you’ll pan out a great pitcher under his
instructions. Oh, thunder, what fools some fellows are!”
With this final exclamation, Welch strode disgustedly away. As soon as
possible Dick escaped and made his way from the field. He was disturbed
over the rumor that Umpty-ten had lost to Highbridge High, and at the
gymnasium he sought for confirmation of this report. Apparently it was
true, for every one who had heard anything at all about it said the same
thing. As Dick was leaving the gym he encountered Bertie Lee.
“Hello, Kid,” he called. “What do you know about the Highbridge game?”
“Only what I’ve heard. I was out to watch the Cornell game.”
“That report must be a josh,” said Dick. “Highbridge couldn’t beat
Umpty-ten.”
“It doesn’t seem possible,” said Lee, swinging in at Dick’s side and
stretching his short legs to catch Merriwell’s stride. “Say, I want to
tell you something, Dick. I saw Lynch when he sneaked in onto the field
to-day and I followed him. I think I was the first fellow to reach him
after the ball stretched him out. Do you know what made me follow him?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. I got a look at his face, and I knew he was up to
some trick. If ever I saw a sneaky, bloodthirsty mug, it was that of
Mike Lynch. You know I’ve had trouble with him, and I don’t love him
any. I’m scared to death of him now. He’d cut his grandmother’s throat,
that fellow would. Funny nobody noticed what he had in his hand when he
was hit by the ball.”
“What he had in his hand?”
“Yes.”
“What did he have in his hand?”
“I can’t show you here. I’ve got it. It’s in my pocket. I picked it up.
I want you to have it. You better find out what Mike Lynch was going to
do. He was sneaking up behind you.”
“I’ve wondered what he was trying to do,” said Dick. “Lee, you’ve got my
curiosity aroused. Come on over to the house and show me what it was you
picked up.”
Bertie followed Dick to his room on York Street. The moment the door was
closed behind them Dick expectantly faced the little fellow, who had
once been prominent in the Ditson set, but who was now practically
ostracized.
“I’m liable to get hurt for this,” said Lee, who now appeared genuinely
alarmed. “Those fellows have threatened me. They suspect I’ve told you
about several of their sneaking plots and schemes against you.”
“It’s too late to back out now, Kid,” said Dick. “You know I won’t
betray you. You may as well tell me the whole business. What was it you
picked up on the field after Mike Lynch was knocked senseless?”
Bertie unbuttoned his coat and produced something from beneath it.
“This is what I found,” he announced, handing it over to Dick.
It was an old-fashioned percussion-cap pistol.