REMARKABLE BEHAVIOR OF SAGE.
Crestfallen and deeply chagrined, Sage attempted to watch the game from
the side line. He gave no heed to the substitutes, who stared at him and
muttered among themselves. His face, at first flushed, gradually lost
its color until it became almost ghastly and haggard. He saw the
exultant, confident Barville team, with the ball in its possession,
tearing to pieces the defence of the locals in a manner that promised
disaster for Oakdale.
“They’ll seek explanations in the next intermission,” he whispered to
himself. “I can’t answer their questions.”
Turning suddenly, he left the field. Having passed outside, he made a
dash for the gymnasium, in which he began ripping off his sweat-soaked
football togs in a manner that was almost frantic. He did not pause for
a shower, knowing that there would be no time for it if he wished to get
away before his teammates appeared. Dully he seemed to hear the cheering
of the crowd upon the field, taking notice in a benumbed way that the
Barville cry was swelling stronger and more triumphant.
Leaving his playing togs as he had dropped them, he dashed bareheaded
from the gymnasium, flinging himself into his coat as he ran. Round the
corner he darted, scudded down Lake Street until the entrance to the
academy yard was reached, ran panting across the yard and settled into a
rapid walk when his feet were presently on the path that led across lots
between Middle and High Streets.
He had made his escape none too soon, for barely was he out of sight
when the third quarter ended and the Oakdale players came hurrying
toward the gymnasium. They were a soiled, battered, weary-looking band,
and more than one seemed to totter in his stride. In the gym they flung
themselves down upon benches and blankets, some even sprawling upon the
floor.
“Cripes!” groaned Sile Crane. “Them fellers sartainly made us fight. We
barely held ’em.”
“If they’d had another minute they’d have scored,” sighed Harry Hopper.
“They’re better trained than we are. They’re like iron. That’s what a
coach does for a team.”
Two chaps were rubbing Chipper Cooper’s left ankle, which he had
wrenched in a scrimmage. The smell of witch hazel and arnica filled the
room.
“Look at the confounded thing,” snapped Chipper, his face contorted by
grimaces of pain. “You can almost see it swell. I’ll be as lively as a
toad on that bum peg.”
“If Sage hadn’t messed things up!” muttered Rodney Grant, as if speaking
to himself. “What was the matter with him, anyhow?”
“Where is Sage?” asked Stone, looking around. “I don’t believe he came
in from the field. Here, Shea, go bring Sage.”
Piper touched Ben on the arm.
“Don’t bother to send for him, captain,” he advised.
“Why not?”
“You won’t find him out there. He’s gone.”
“Gone—where? Why——”
“I don’t know where,” said Sleuth; “but he’s gone. Here are his field
clothes just as he dropped them. He didn’t even stop to put them away.”
Astonishment was plainly revealed in Stone’s face.
“I don’t understand it,” he finally said in a low tone. “I can’t see why
Fred should desert us like this. What will we do if——” He checked
himself abruptly.
“He’s run away! He’s quit!” cried Nelson. “What do you know about that,
fellows?”
Hooker rose to the defence of his chum. “I’m dead sure Fred is sick,” he
said. “There’s no other explanation for his actions. He wouldn’t
acknowledge it, but he must be sick. You all know what a football
enthusiast he is, and you never before saw him put up such a numb,
bungling game.”
“At least,” said Stone, “if he had to quit, he might have let me know.”
The inexplicable action of Sage seemed to cast a heavier shadow upon the
team. Desperately though Stone sought to rally his players, he could not
help feeling that the effort was profitless. They returned to the game
in a spiritless, almost sullen humor, which made them, although they
fought stubbornly, quite unable to cope with the persistent, determined,
undaunted visitors; and, with the opportunity in their grasp, the
Barvilleites presently hammered out a touchdown and kicked the tying
goal.
Oakdale made a mighty effort to hold the game to a draw, and for a time
it seemed that such would be the result. In the very last minute of
play, however, getting within the home team’s twenty-five yard line, the
visitors made a field goal.
As the ball soared over the crossbar a groan of dismay came from the
Oakdale spectators.
“That settles it,” declared a keenly disappointed man. “Our boys are
beaten.”
He was right; the game ended with Barville victorious and jubilant.
It was a sore and disgruntled bunch of fellows who took their showers
and rubdowns in the gymnasium. With scarcely an exception, they were
disposed to place the blame of their defeat entirely upon Sage. Vainly
Hooker tried to defend his friend.
“He ran away without a word,” reminded Grant. “There’s sure no excuse
for that.”
“Nary bit,” agreed Crane. “He done us a dirty turn to-day, and it’ll
take a whole lot of explainin’ to put him right with the bunch.”
Roy was the first to leave the gymnasium, and he started almost at a run
for Sage’s home.
“I don’t understand it myself,” he muttered, as he hurried along. “I
can’t imagine what threw Fred into such a pitiful condition. I hope he
can explain.”
As he came within view of Fred’s home he discovered his chum and Mr.
Sage standing near the open stable door, apparently engaged in
conversation. At the same moment Fred seemed to espy Roy, and
immediately, with a quick word to his father, he darted into the stable
and disappeared.
Mr. Sage walked out to meet Hooker. There was a strange expression on
the man’s face, and Roy fancied that he seemed somewhat nervous and
distraught.
“I’d like to see Fred a minute,” said Hooker.
“I’m sorry,” was the answer, “but he’s not feeling well. He can’t see
you.”
His perplexity greatly augmented, Roy stared at the man.
“Is he ill?”
Andrew Sage seemed to hesitate. Lifting a hand to his lips, he coughed
behind it.
“Well, not—er—not exactly ill,” he answered; “but he isn’t feeling well
enough to talk with anyone, Roy. I hope you don’t mind?”
This treatment from his comrade piqued Hooker. “I didn’t suppose,” he
said, “that Fred would refuse to see me unless he was dangerously ill in
bed—and I know he isn’t that. It’s all right, though. Will you please
tell him that Barville won the game?”
Turning, he walked slowly away, his brow knitted with perplexity.
“I can’t understand it,” he told himself once more. “It’s too much for
me. He isn’t sick, that’s sure; and still, his father says that he
doesn’t feel well. Possibly,” he added resentfully, “the information
that Barville trimmed us will make him feel better.”