RACKLIFF'S TREACHERY.
Like one stunned Roy Hooker passed out through the gate and turned down
the street, dully conscious of the continued rejoicing uproar behind
him. Alternately buoyed by hope and weighted by fear, he had passed
the most trying hour of his life, and now in his bosom he carried a
heart that seemed sick and faint and scarcely able to pump the blood
through his veins.
"I was a fool to listen to Rackliff," he muttered; and over and over he
kept repeating, "I was a fool, a fool!"
Suddenly apprehensive lest he should be overtaken by some one who might
observe his all-too-evident wretchedness, he quickened his steps and
made straight for his home. He did not enter the house, and as he
slipped through the yard he cast sidelong glances toward the windows,
hoping his mother might not be looking out. In the carriage house he
sat down on the box beside his motorcycle.
"I was a fool--an awful fool!" he kept repeating.
Presently, his mind running over the game, feature by feature, he began
to realize that he had not felt as much elation as he would have
supposed might come to him on witnessing Springer's misfortune in the
fifth inning. He had imagined it would afford him unreserved
exultation to see Phil batted out of the box, but his rejoicing had
been most remarkably alloyed by an emotion of another sort, which even
now he could not understand. And, as he sat there, slowly but surely
he began to perceive the real reason for Springer's failure.
"It was lack of control," he finally exclaimed. "That's just it. He
was pitching all right until they broke his nerve by three hits in
succession. After that he couldn't find the pan to save his life. If
he'd been able to put the ball where he wished and steady down a
little, he might have stopped that batting rally and had the
satisfaction of pitching the game through to a successful finish. Now,
Rod Grant gets all the glory."
He was still sitting there, obsessed by his dismal meditations, when a
shadow appeared in the doorway, and he looked up to see Rackliff, the
stub of a cigarette in his fingers, gazing at him. For a full minute,
perhaps, neither boy spoke; and then Herbert, tossing the smoking stub
over his shoulder, sunk his hands deep in his pockets and uttered two
words:
"Hard luck."
"Rotten," said Roy. "But you certainly were all to the punk in your
judgment about that game."
"Oh, I don't know," objected Herbert, leaning against the side of the
doorway and crossing his tan-shod feet. "Barville should have won."
"How do you make that out?"
"They batted Springer out, didn't they? They sent him to the stable,
all right."
"He lost his control, and Eliot had to take him out."
"Well, if you hadn't been mistaken in your judgment, that would have
settled the game."
"If _I_ hadn't been mistaken!" cried Roy resentfully.
"Precisely."
"Why, I don't see----"
"Don't you? Then you should consult an oculist. You said Springer was
the only pitcher the team had; you insisted that Grant couldn't pitch a
winning game."
"Well, I know," faltered Roy; "but I----"
"You were mistaken--sadly mistaken. It's been an expensive blunder in
judgment for both of us."
A flush rose into Hooker's pale cheeks, and he stood up. "Now, look
here, Mr. Rackliff," he said harshly, "don't you try to shoulder it all
on to me. I won't stand for that. You professed to be dead sure that
under any circumstances Barville could down Oakdale. As to the matter
of expense, it may have been expensive for you', but, according to our
distinctly understood agreement, I don't lose anything."
Herbert lifted his eyebrows slightly, producing his cigarette case and
fumbling in it vainly, as it was empty.
"Agreement?" he said. "What agreement?"
Hooker choked. "You know; don't pretend that you don't know. I hope
you're not going back on your word. If you do----" He stopped, unable
to continue.
"Oh, yes," said Herbert slowly, "I think I know what you mean. Of
course I'm not going back on my word to a pal."
"Then give me the money I let you have to bet on Barville."
"Why, that money's gone. We lost it."
"Yes, but you pledged yourself to make good any loss I might sustain.
There are reasons why I must have that money back--right away, too."
"I'm sorry," murmured Herbert, regretfully returning the empty
cigarette case to his pocket; "but I'm afraid you'll have to wait a
while. I went broke myself--haven't got a whole dollar left in the
exchequer."
"But I've _got_ to have it," insisted Roy huskily. "I depended on
getting it back to-night."
Herbert laughed and snapped his yellow fingers. "When a thing is
impossible, it can't be done, old fellow. You don't need money in this
dead hole, anyhow. Why, a profligate couldn't spend ten dollars a week
here, if he tried. You'll simply have to wait until my old man coughs
up another consignment of the needful."
Roy sat down again, his face wearing such a look of dismay that Herbert
was both puzzled and amused.
"To see you now," observed the city youth, "any one might fancy you a
bank cashier who had speculated disastrously with the funds of the
institution. Four dollars and sixty-five cents--that was the amount of
your loss; and you look as if you had dropped a thousand."
"I want to tell you something," said Hooker suddenly; but again he
stopped short and seemed to find it impossible to proceed.
"I'm listening," encouraged Rackliff. "Let it come. Great Scott! I'd
like to have a cigarette."
But Roy, after remaining silent a few moments longer, slowly shook his
head. "I won't tell you," he muttered; "I can't. But look here, Rack,
you've got to get that money for me as soon as you can. I need it--if
you only knew how I need it!"
"I'll drop my old pater a line to-night, informing him that I'm
financially ruined. Gee! that makes me think of that little runt,
Cooper! He certainly irritated me some by his insolent yapping."
"You came pretty near getting into trouble trying to coach Barville.
You certainly had your nerve with you. I'd never had the crust to try
that."
Herbert frowned. "It would have been all right, only for that big
stiff, Bunk Lander. He threatened to punch me up, and I knew he was
just the sort of a brainless fellow to do it. Only for his
interference, Barville would have taken the game, and we'd be on Easy
Street to-night."
"Eh?" exclaimed Roy, puzzled again. "I don't think I quite get you. I
don't see how Lander's interference with you had anything to do with
the result of the game."
The city youth coughed and shrugged his shoulders, a singularly crafty
smile playing over his face.
"Of course, you don't see," he nodded. "I'll admit that I was somewhat
too hasty. I should have waited a while longer before I attempted to
put in my oar. That was where _I_ blundered; but I didn't quite reckon
on Lander."
"You've got me guessing. I wish you'd explain."
"I will. Did you think I took that journey to Barville on your old
motorcycle merely for recreation?"
"Not exactly; I had an idea you went over there to talk with Copley and
Roberts for the purpose of finding out how strong the Barville nine
really was."
"Well, that was a part of the reason, but not the whole of it. I had
something else on my mind. In case I became satisfied that the two
teams were pretty evenly matched, I had a little plan through which I
felt confident I could make it a dead sure thing for Barville. I was
not off my base, either, and it would have worked out charmingly if
that big duffer, Lander, hadn't dipped in and messed it for us."
"I'm still in the dark."
"Don't you remember that when I got back I asked you about Eliot's
signals to the pitcher?"
"Yes."
"I thought I knew them, but I wanted to be dead sure; for I'd made
arrangements with Copley to tip off certain Barville batters who could
be trusted to the kind of balls that would be pitched. This was to be
done in case the necessity arose, which it did when Oakdale took the
lead and Springer seemed to be going well, with every prospect of
holding them down. Then I proceeded to get down close to the ropes
back of first base, where, by watching, I could come pretty near
catching Eliot's signs. Sometimes I couldn't see them distinctly, but
almost always I could. I was tipping off the Barville batters when
they proceeded to fall on Springer and pound him beautifully. They did
so because they knew just the kind of a ball he was going to pitch."
"Great Caesar!" muttered Roy, who was again standing. "You did that?
How----"
"Oh, I'm surprised at your dullness," laughed Rackliff. "You heard me
coaching. You heard me calling out for the batters to 'get into it,'
'hit it out,' 'drop on it,' 'give it a rise,' and so forth."
"Yes."
"Yes; well, there you are. When I said 'get into it,' it meant that
Springer would pitch an in-shoot. 'Hit it out,' meant that he would
use an outcurve, and----"
"Holy smoke!" gasped Hooker. "It's a wonder nobody got on. Do you
suppose Lander----"
"Nit. That big bonehead didn't tumble. He was simply sore because I
was a student at Oakdale and seemed to be rooting for Barville. All
the same, he stuck to me like a leech, and I had to quit or get into a
nasty fight with him. I couldn't afford to have my face beaten up,
even to win ten dollars. By Jove! I've simply got to have a whiff."
In silence Hooker watched the shifty, scheming, treacherous city youth
turn and search on the drive outside the door, recover the cigarette
stub he had tossed away, relight it, and inhale the smoke with a relish
that told of a habit fixed beyond breaking. Thus watching and thinking
of the fellow's qualmless treachery to his own school team, Roy felt
the first sensation of revulsion toward Rackliff.