A PERSISTENT RASCAL.
Nearly always it is false pride that spurs on the naturally decent
fellow who realizes he has made a mistake and knows deep down in his
heart that the course he is pursuing is wrong. Thus it was with Phil
Springer. Time and again his conscience condemned him and his judgment
bade him come forth like a man and own up to his error, but his pride
would not let him yield.
And so Phil found himself sulking at school, seeking to bear the
atmosphere of one who had been treated outrageously, and growing more
and more resentful and sullen as time passed and none of the fellows
came around to coddle and coax him. He had felt certain that he would
be approached by some of them, and repeatedly he had rehearsed the
speeches by which he would let them know exactly how he felt about it,
resolved carefully to avoid uttering a word which might convey the
impression that he regarded himself as a single whit at fault.
But no one--not even Cooper or Tuttle--approached him, and he began to
believe that the time he had spent in constructing and committing those
speeches of mingled defense and accusation had been wasted. He had
once been deeply concerned in a plan by which Rodney Grant had been
practically ostracized by the academy boys, and now, to his deepening
rage, while Grant floated high on the wave of popularity, he found
himself ignored.
Phil was naturally a sociable fellow, and a very little of such
treatment was sufficient to make him suffer keenly. Nevertheless he
sought to hide the fact beneath a haughty and disdainful air, which was
a course his disposition and temperament hardly qualified him to do.
His sister, who had not attended the game at Clearport, was the first
of his family to learn that he had fibbed about that game, and this she
did not discover until the following Monday morning, when her chum,
Lela Barker, told her everything.
"Oh, Phil," Sadie had said when she found a chance to speak with him
privately, "what made you tell father such a whopper about the game?
Why, it wasn't stopped by rain at all, and they say you ran away right
in the middle of it, and that Roger wanted you after that when they got
to hitting Rodney, and that you couldn't be found anywhere, and that
all the fellows are sore on you because you skipped out, and that----"
"Oh, cut it!" interrupted Phil. "What do I cuc-care what they say!
Let them talk their heads off."
"But, Phil," persisted the girl, "what made you do it? You don't want
to get everybody down on you, do you?"
"They can get down on me or not, just as they pup-please!" he flung
back. "I know when I get a rotten deal, and Roger Eliot, or Rod Grant,
or anybody else can't wipe his feet on me more than once--that's all!"
On Monday, when school was over for the day and the fellows hurried
over to the gym to dress for practice, Phil walked stiffly out of the
yard and turned his steps toward home. It is true that he longed and
almost hoped to hear some one of those fellows calling after him, but
not a soul seemed to observe which way he went, and resentful anger
blazed yet more fiercely in his soul.
Thus it was upon Tuesday night, when he observed that Roy Hooker was
one of the fellows who hastened toward the gym, which was enough to
convince him that Roy had practically been taken onto the team to do a
portion of the pitching.
When his sister again tried to talk with him about baseball that night
he cut her off in such a snappy, savage manner that she was really
frightened.
The next night, however, he did not walk down the path to the gate in
view of the scholars, so that they might take notice that he declined
to accompany the baseball squad. Instead of that, he dodged back round
the corner of the academy, crossed the yard at the rear, and took the
footpath across the field to High Street.
He was lonely and cast down and bitterly disappointed; for had he not
sounded the professed friendship of his chums of yesterday and found it
very shallow! Not one of them had shown the decency to give him a word
of cheer; they were willing that he, who but a short time ago they were
regarding as their star slabman, should slide back into shadows and
forgetfulness, while a practical stranger from a distant part of the
country filled his place. It was hard to believe of them, but he told
himself he was glad to find out just what they were.
Had Grant himself shown a further inclination to friendly advances Phil
might have met him halfway, but the Texan had some pride of his own,
and he was not the kind to seek continued rebuffs. Had he known that
Springer was ready and yearning to yield, doubtless Rod would have lost
not a minute in again putting forth the hand of friendship; but, being
unaware of what was passing in Phil's heart, and feeling that already
he had tried to do the right thing, the boy from the Lone Star State
remained aloof with the others.
Halfway across the field, as the path curved round some bushes,
Springer came upon Herbert Rackliff, sitting on a stone, manicuring his
nails with the file blade of a pearl-handled knife, a cigarette
clinging to his moistened lower lip.
"Hello," said Herbert, with no intonation of surprise, as he looked up.
"How do you happen to be dodging across this way, Springer?"
Phil was annoyed. He had never liked Rackliff. Still here was some
one to whom he could talk, and desire to "chin" was strong upon him.
He stopped.
"This is a short cuc-cut for me," he explained. "What are you doing
here?"
"Trimming my nails a bit. Have to do my own manicuring down in this
jumping-off place, and I never have time for it mornings; barely get to
the old academy soon enough to escape the tardy record--sometimes I
don't escape. Never knew you to come this way before, even if it is a
short cut. In a hurry?"
"Ye-yes--no, not exactly; but this was as good a way as any."
"You don't seem to be practicing with the great Oakdale nine," said
Herbert, bringing forth a fresh cigarette. "I'm surprised at that."
"Are you? Well, you needn't be."
In lighting the cigarette Rackliff was seized by a choking fit of
coughing, which led him to wipe his eyes with a dainty silk
handkerchief.
"I knew I'd catch a beastly cold coming home through the rain the other
night on that old lemon of Hooker's," he said when he could get his
breath. "I hate a cough; it always seems to tear my lungs out. Next
thing I know I'll be throwing one of 'em up."
"You don't look well."
"I have felt better. Never mind, I'll get over it; but, oh! you bet
your life you'll never catch me on a motorcycle again. They are rotten
dirty things anyhow; simply cover you with dust when they don't paste
you with mud. Have a smoke?"
"Don't care if I do," said Phil, accepting the proffered cigarette case
and selecting one. "I don't make a practice of using the things, but I
need something to cheer me up."
Rackliff also supplied a match, and then motioned toward a near-by
stone, urging Phil to sit down and make himself comfortable.
"You haven't looked hilariously cheerful of late," said the city youth.
"Sort of taken your downfall to heart, haven't you?"
"My dud-downfall?"
"Yes. Oh, you're down and out, all right, and you must realize it--you
do, too. Your proficient pupil, Mr. Rodney Grant, has tumbled you off
the pedestal and taken your place."
"I wish you wouldn't tut-talk about him!" cried Phil.
Herbert shrugged his narrow shoulders and smiled.
"You don't like him any better than I do, that's plain. You thought
you liked him once, but you've found him out. He's a conceited pup.
Strange how everybody seems to fall for him, even Lela Barker. Now
she's just about the nicest little clipper around these parts, but
she's got country ideas, and she can't see the difference between a
gentleman and a common cowpuncher--which latter Grant is, and mighty
common, at that. Your sister is Lela's chum; I should think you might
get your sister to open Miss Barker's eyes to that fellow. Couldn't
you show him up somehow and fix it so your sister would put Lela wise
to him?"
"If I could, I wouldn't take all that trouble," replied Phil, who had
seated himself and was puffing at the cigarette in a way that
threatened to demolish it in short order. "He isn't worth it."
"Perhaps not, but I should think you'd want to get back at him after
the turn he's done you. I never saw anything dirtier--never. After
you coached him he simply wormed his way into Eliot's favor and crowded
you out as soon as he could. He's got everybody saying that he's a
better pitcher than you ever were or ever could be. You bet he doesn't
miss a chance to sneer about you behind your back; that's him. I'm
glad you've shown spirit enough to resent it, and not to go crawling
around after him or any of the rest of that bunch."
"You'll never see me cuc-crawling after anybody!" cried Springer
fiercely; "and Grant better keep a decent tut-tongue in his head! He
needn't think because he happens to have an ugly temper and belongs to
a fighting family that everybody is afraid of him. I can stand a lot,
but there's a limit."
Herbert turned his head away for a moment to conceal the gleam of
satisfaction that sprang into his eyes, coughing behind his hand.
"You're made of different stuff from that soft slob Hooker," he said.
"I did think that Hook had some sand and spirit, but I've changed my
mind; he has just about as much backbone as a jellyfish. He can talk
and blow, but it's all wind. You're a fellow with genuine spirit and
pride; nobody wipes his feet on you."
"Not if I know it," growled Phil, flattered by the words of the crafty
fellow.
"Of course not; and that's the way to be. It's only the marks who let
themselves be used for footmats; Hooker's a mark. They'll use him, all
right. He'll do the dirty work they would have given you if you'd let
them, while Grant will get all the glory."
Springer laughed. "Perhaps he won't get as much glory as he expects.
Clearport came near batting him out. Wait until he goes against
Wyndham next Saturday."
"Now you're talking!" exclaimed Rackliff with enthusiasm. "There will
be something coming to him then. I fancy it may be possible that you
would enjoy seeing Wyndham beat Oakdale?"
"Shu-surest thing you know," answered Phil, who had been cleverly led
into making such a confession. "I hope Wyndham eats them up alive!"
"Your desire will be gratified. Wyndham will make monkeys of them."
"You're confident."
"Dead sure."
"I don't just see how you can be."
"I suppose you've heard how Wyndham actually buried Barville last
Saturday. The score was seventeen to three--something awful."
"But Clearport came mum-mighty near beating Wyndham the week before."
Herbert winked wisely. "Maybe they did, and maybe they didn't," he
said.
"Oh, but they did! They batted Wyndham's new pitcher, Newbert, off the
slab."
At this Rackliff laughed. "Tell it to the marines. I happen to know
Dade Newbert; we were chums. I own up I was surprised when I heard how
the Porters had biffed him. Wrote him asking about it. He'd been out
the night before the game--out with a hot bunch playing poker till
daylight. He didn't want to pitch anyhow, but the captain just shoved
him in; so when he got tired and Wyndham seemed to have a safe lead, he
just lobbed the ball over and let Clearport hit. Of course he was
taken out, and that gave him a chance to look on while Twitt Crowell
did the heavy work."
"If that's right," said Phil, "Newbert can't be trusted. Why, he might
have thrown the game away."
"Oh, he reckoned Crowell was good enough for the Porters, that's all.
The result proved his judgment correct."
"Still a fellow who'll tut-take such chances is liable to do anything.
He cuc-can't have any real loyal interest in his team. If he took a
notion, he'd throw a game."
"You must remember," reminded Rackliff, "that Newbert doesn't belong in
Wyndham, and it really doesn't make any great difference to him whether
that team wins or not. Of course, if he's pitching, ordinarily he'll
do as well as he can on his own account. And let me tell you, Spring,
old fel, he's a lulu; there's nothing down in this neck of the woods
that can pitch with him. I'm betting that he makes the Oakdale batters
look like monkeys."
"You haven't had very good lul-luck betting, have you?"
"Might have done better," admitted Herbert, shrugging. "I'll even it
all up next Saturday, though, if these pikers around here have sand
enough to give me another show."
"Perhaps you will, and, then again, perhaps----"
"I'll bet you five or ten, even money, that Wyndham wins."
"Thought you went bub-broke last Saturday."
"I'll have some more money by to-morrow."
"Well, I don't want to bet. I hope Wyndham does win. It will make me
happy."
"Then you'll be happy, all right, Bo."
"Looks like the fight for the championship will be between Wyndham and
Oakdale. If Wyndham takes the first game from Oakdale, the chances for
this town will be mum-mighty slim."
Herbert rose to his feet.
"Oakdale hasn't one chance in a hundred to win next Saturday," he
declared in a manner which seemed to denote that he positively believed
what he was saying. "It's dead lucky for you, old man, that you're not
going to pitch. Your dear friend Grant is enjoying great popularity
just at present, but even the dummys will realize that he's a
fourth-rater after they see him pitch against Newbert. Dade knows what
I want him to do, and for old times sake he'll do his prettiest. And,
by the way, if you want to coin some easy money, just find a sucker who
is ready to back Oakdale for a little bet."