FELLOWS WHO MADE MISTAKES.
Roy Hooker lived one block further down the street. The popping
explosions of an approaching motorcycle greeted Phil's ears as he
walked on, and up the street came a chap astride such a machine, the
lamp of which had not yet been lighted. The motorcycle swerved into
Hooker's yard and nearly ran Springer down.
"Hey!" cried Phil, dodging. "What are you trying to do, Hooker?"
But it was not Hooker who shut off the motor and tumbled off the
machine as it slackened speed. It was Herbert Rackliff, soaked,
mud-bespattered, limp and in a temper.
"Why in the dickens don't you get out of a fellow's way?" snapped
Herbert, supporting the machine and glaring round at Phil. He bore
little resemblance to the usual dapper, immaculate, self-possessed
young fellow from the city whose tailored clothes and swagger manners
had aroused the envy and admiration of a number of country lads
thereabouts.
"Oh, is it you?" said Springer. "I thought it was Hooker. What are
you doing out in this rain with his machine?"
"Just getting back from Clearport," answered Herbert, with a sour
laugh. "If I owned this old mess of junk I'd pay somebody to take it
away. She stopped twice on me and skidded me into the ditch once.
Came mighty near leaving her there and hoofing it."
In truth, Rackliff was a sight, and Springer restrained a laugh with
some difficulty as he observed:
"It must have taken you a deuce of a while to get back on that thing,
for the game was over by three o'clock."
"Half past three," corrected Herbert, turning to trundle the motorcycle
toward the carriage house, the door of which, seen through the
twilight, was standing open.
"I caught the three-twelve train from Clearport," said Phil,
unconsciously starting to follow Rackliff.
"Huh!" grunted the other. "Know you did, but you didn't wait to see
the finish. If you had----"
By this time Springer was at the speaker's side and had seized his
mud-spattered, rain-soaked sleeve.
"What are you talking about?" he cried. "Rain stopped the game right
after the fifth. Saw I had barely time to get into my togs and catch
that three-twelve, so I hustled."
Rackliff started to laugh, but finished with a hollow cough. "Bet I've
caught a rotten cold," he gasped. "The game went for the full nine
innings. Didn't begin to rain until I was pretty near halfway home."
Phil was struck dumb for the moment, and before he could recover
Hooker, having heard their voices, came running out to the carriage
house, calling to Rackliff. Springer followed the drenched and
complaining city youth into the shelter of the building, where Roy
recognized him and seemed to betray embarrassment.
"Take your old machine," said Rackliff, "and I hope it may be my
everlasting finish if I ever ride another rod on it. Look at me! I'm
a complete wreck, and all because you were too blamed stingy to lend me
the price of carfare from Clearport. This suit is ruined, and I'm
soaked to the bone. You ought to use an axe on the thing next time it
gets out of order, Hooker."
"And these are the thanks I get for furnishing some means of
transportation," said Roy resentfully. "Well, I don't know that I
should expect anything else."
Herbert, producing his cigarette case, gave a little half-muttered sigh
of relief when he found that the contents of the case had escaped a
wetting.
"Gimme a match, one of you fellows," he coughed. "I'm just crazy for a
smoke. This has been the rottenest day I've seen in a long time."
Hooker, having seen that the motorcycle was placed on its rack,
supplied the match, and Rackliff fired up, the light seeming to shine
through his thin, cupped hands as he protected the blaze from the light
draught that came in through the open door. He looked tired, and the
first whiff or two set him coughing again.
By this time Springer had recovered, and he ventured to ask:
"What's this Rackliff tells me about the gug-game going nine innings?
It began to rain in the fifth and, wishing to get home as soon as I
could, I ducked when that was over. I didn't have an idea----"
"It didn't rain any to speak of until long after the full game was
over," said Hooker. "You should have stayed, Phil; they wanted
you--bad--in the eighth. Eliot was simply tearing things up in his
frenzy to find you."
"Why--why, what happened?" faltered Springer, a sickening feeling
stealing over him. "Tut-tell me what ha-happened, Roy."
"The Porters got after Grant and bumped him to beat the band. Came
within one tally of tying the score. If you'd been there Eliot would
have shoved you in, and you'd had a chance to win all sorts of glory
saving the game."
"Perhaps he would, and perhaps he wouldn't," muttered Phil.
"Oh, it's a dead sure thing he would have done it."
"How do you know?"
"Didn't I tell you he tried to find you! Why, he even sent for me; he
was going to put me in."
"You?" breathed Springer incredulously.
"Yes, me; and I didn't have on a playing suit. If Grant hadn't managed
to steady down at the last moment, I'd gone onto the slab. What made
you skin out, Phil?"
After a few moments of silence, Springer forced himself by a great
effort to speak:
"I tut-told you I thought the game was o-over."
"You might have waited for the rest of the bunch. If you'd done that
you'd known it wasn't over. The fellows are pretty sore on you, for
they say you deserted."
Phil flushed and flared. "Let them be sore, I don't care! I'm the one
to be sore! I got a rotten deal to-day. I had every reason to suppose
I was going to pitch that game, but Roger Eliot ran Grant in. I want
him to understand he can't play that sort of fuf-funny business with
me; I won't sus-stand for it. I'm glad they hammered Grant! Did they
win?"
"No; we pulled through by the skin of our teeth--seven to six. It was
an awful snug rub. I believe I could have stopped the Porters if I'd
got the chance; I'm dead sure you could. That's why I say you made a
big mistake by scooting."
Herbert Rackliff, smoking, laughed sneeringly.
"Don't blame Springer a bit," he said. "He did get a rotten deal, and
he has a right to resent it. What ails you, Hook; are you going to let
Eliot softsoap round you? He'll do it if you'll let him, for he's got
to have some sort of a scrub pitcher to fall back on for part of the
work. Of course, this wild and woolly Texan will be the star and get
all the glory, but somebody must do the dirty work. Hook, you're a
lobster. I didn't think you'd fall for taffy like that. You give me a
cramp." He coughed behind a thin hand as he finished, his flat chest
torn and his stooping shoulders shaken by the effort.
"Now that will about do for you!" blazed Roy, turning on his erstwhile
chum. "I want you to know that, at least, I'm no traitor to my school
team, and, though you hinted for me to favor you to-day, I'd done my
level best to win for Oakdale if I'd ever got the chance."
"You're a fool," returned Herbert coldly. "Springer is a fool, too.
He made a chump of himself when he taught Grant to pitch. In this
world the fellow who looks out for himself and lets others do the same
for themselves is the one who gets along. You can bank on that every
time. Think it over and see if I'm not right. Good night." With
which expression of selfish wisdom, he turned up his coat collar,
snapped aside his half-smoked cigarette and took his departure, leaving
Phil and Roy staring at each other in uncomfortable silence.
After a time Springer succeeded in forcing a laugh.
"That's just about what you told me a few days ago, Hook," he said,
"but I really didn't need anyone to point out that I had made a fool of
myself. Sorry I didn't wait to make sure rain was going to stop the
game to-day. What makes it worse, I told my folks a lie about that
game. I'll feel cheap enough when they fuf-find out the truth. Guess
I'll be going, too. So long, Hook."
"Good night," said Roy.
He stood at the open door and watched Phil's figure disappear into the
gloom of the rainy night that was coming on.
"Told your folks a lie, did you?" he muttered after a time. "Well,
that wasn't half as bad as stealing from them, and I----" Without
finishing the sentence, he closed the door of the carriage house.