MR. BARRY ASKS QUESTIONS
If there had been any guide-book of the prosperous town of Kingswood
undoubtedly Mr. Rupert Barry's mansion would have received a prominent
mention in its pages. Stone steps zigzagged between stone walls to the
top of the hill. The mansion of the eccentric millionaire, in the midst
of spacious grounds, could scarcely be seen from the road. It seemed
as though the architect and builder had found a positive pleasure
in concealing from view as much as possible of the rich and ornate
structure.
It was already dark when Bob Somers and Coach Roger Steele began
mounting the steps. The glare from electric lamps on the street flooded
some of the flights; others were left in almost abysmal blackness.
As the two neared the bronze gate at the top the sound of wildly
scurrying feet caused both to stop. A series of savage snarls and
barks echoed weirdly, as the yellow dog, dark and formless in the
gloom, hurled its body against the gate.
"I don't wonder Mr. Barry hasn't many visitors," murmured Steele,
softly.
"Hope we don't get as hot a reception inside the house," chuckled Bob,
in equally low tones.
"Unless some one can persuade the menagerie department to leave I shall
leave," said Steele. "Ah! The situation is saved."
"Come here, Canis; come right here!"
The two recognized the harsh voice of Mr. Barry, and, an instant later,
heard the sound of his footsteps on the gravel path.
"Who is there?" The words were flung at them with a sort of challenging
querulousness. "Confound that dog! Who is there, I say?"
The tall, gaunt form of the millionaire presently loomed above the
ornamental curves and twists of the gate.
"Roger Steele and Bob Somers," answered the coach.
"Then why didn't you say so before?"
The gate swung silently back on its well-oiled hinges. Several sharp
commands promptly reduced Canis to a state of docility.
"Come in."
Neither Bob Somers nor Steele had ever visited the Barry mansion, so,
as they followed the elderly gentleman along the path, they looked
about them with the greatest interest.
It was a beautiful, starlit night with enough illumination to show a
profusion of shrubbery and flower beds. Here and there great pines,
dark and forbidding, rose like grim sentinels against the sky. Above
the stone coping of the wall which surrounded the grounds, masses of
buildings and scattered lights faintly indicated the town.
The stately mansion looked dull and gloomy, six heavy columns at the
entrance alone showing in a lighter tone. All the windows but one were
staring patches of dark, while from the exception rays of greenish
light poured out, to streak across the veranda with weird effect.
Mr. Barry immediately led the two boys into his study, brightly
illuminated by an electric lamp with a green shade. In the center
of the large room stood a table piled high with books. Everything
indicated that the millionaire had been busy writing when disturbed by
the barking of Canis.
He motioned his visitors to seats near by, taking his own in the
revolving chair before his writing materials.
The green light brought out his angular features with uncompromising
frankness, giving him the appearance of some inquisitor of old about to
interrogate an unwilling subject.
"Mr. Steele," he jerked out sharply, after his stern gaze had rested on
their features for a moment, "what is the matter with the ball nine?"
[Illustration: "WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH THE BALL NINE?"]
"It has not shown its true worth yet," answered Steele, calmly.
"Why so? You have played four games, and each time met defeat." His
eyes shifted to Bob Somers. "It is not what I expected. You understand,
of course, that in order to gain the field the nine must make a good
showing--a very good showing?"
"Yes, sir; we understand," said Steele.
"I had hoped by the enthusiasm displayed in putting the athletic
affairs of the school on a sound basis that the baseball team would
have a corresponding strength. I'm disappointed."
Roger Steele was not flustered by the manner or tone of his questioner.
"You must remember this, Mr. Barry," he answered, quietly: "the nine
has met two of the strongest amateur clubs in the vicinity. I'm not
offering excuses--only explaining the facts."
Mr. Barry's silver knife rattled vigorously on the table.
"What kind of teams did you expect to play?" he demanded.
Coach Steele ignored the thrust.
"Tony Tippen is a pitcher of exceptional ability," he said, "and has
good support. Without Tippen in the box I believe we could even now
defeat the Stars. The Goose Hill lads are big, husky chaps whose
players are much older and far more seasoned than ours."
"Why didn't you select bigger boys--Earl Roycroft, for instance? As
guard on the football eleven he played exceptionally well."
The coach flushed slightly.
"I have played on a champion university team," he said, "and when
engaged by the athletic association of the Kingswood High I was given
a free hand to choose whichever candidates seemed to be the most
promising. I believe in the end my selections will prove to be wise
ones."
"Am I to understand, then, that you consulted no one in the matter?"
"No; I can hardly say that, Mr. Barry."
"Have you any objections to letting me know from whom you received
suggestions?"
"Not the slightest. Bob Somers, for one; also Sam Randall, Harry
Spearman and several others."
There was an awkward pause while the two waited for Mr. Barry to speak.
The rattle of the silver knife alone broke the silence of the big room.
"Your reply has the merit of frankness," said the millionaire, at
length. He leaned forward, resting his chin in the palm of his hand.
"Remember--there must be no sentiment in this matter. Throw off any
player who does not come up to requirements. To be honest with
yourself and the school you cannot do otherwise."
Coach Steele quieted a feeling of indignation which suddenly flared
up within him. After all, he reflected, a man who had made such a
magnificent offer to the school, and who felt such a deep interest in
the welfare of its ball nine, must be pardoned if he spoke a little
brutally.
"I don't believe there's a single member of the team who would not
cheerfully step out if he thought it best for the school," he said.
"I'm sure of it, too," spoke up Bob Somers, earnestly. "You see, Mr.
Barry, several of us traveled around a good bit, and, as Roger said,
haven't had as much opportunity to play in regular games."
"That doesn't affect the matter," returned Mr. Barry, bluntly. "If you
can't play, why are you on the team?"
"Oh, we don't admit we can't play," laughed Bob. "I think, before very
long, your opinion of the club will change."
"I hope so," said Mr. Barry. "My object in sending for you was to
enforce upon you--I am going to speak plainly--this principle: there
must be no favoritism. Meanwhile I suspend judgment."
The two rose to their feet and bowed.
"You may be sure there'll be no favoritism while I am coach," said
Steele, a trifle stiffly. "I hope, Mr. Barry, we shall see you at the
next game."
"Very probably." Mr. Barry pressed a button. "Cassius will accompany
you to the gate."
Coach Steele and Bob Somers, bidding the millionaire good-evening, were
presently joined in the hallway by the servant, already provided with a
lantern.
"A little light on a dark night ain't such a bad thing," said Cassius,
cheerily, as he led the way outside. "A header down them steep steps
wouldn't be calc'lated to do a feller any good."
"No; not even a ball player could stand it," chuckled Bob.
Cassius laughed softly.
"All who play ball ain't ball players," he remarked. "Great sport,
though. Nobody 'ud ever think it, but Mr. Barry's one o' the greatest
fans out--yes, sir. Never goes to any of the big cities without taking
in a game or two. Latin an' ball playin's his hobbies."
The latch clicked sharply as Cassius pulled open the big bronze gate.
"Good luck, boys. I sure hope you'll win the grounds," he said, as his
swinging lantern began to cut a pathway of yellow light down the zigzag
stone steps.
Once on the street, Coach Steele and Bob Somers watched his form slowly
remounting, to disappear behind the first turn, leaving only erratic
spots of light flitting from place to place on coping or shrubbery.
"Some visit, that!" laughed Roger. "Still there's a rugged honesty
about the man I like."
"Eight forty-five P. M. 'Coach Steele discovers there's a
rugged honesty about the man he likes.' I'll make a note of that."
A slight boy suddenly emerged from the deep shadow of a tree-box a few
paces distant, and, as he advanced into the cold glare of an electric
light, its rays revealed the grinning face of Benny Wilkins.