DICK IS REBUFFED
For a moment the four cadets--two on one side and two on the
other--stared at each other. The face of Dick Hamilton was rather pale,
but he held himself well in control. As for Paul, he had one hand on the
shoulder of his chum, and had taken an eager step forward to confront
Porter.
That bully regarded the two friends with a sneer on his face, and the
countenance of Weston wore an amused smile.
"Well, I thought you were going to say something," half-snarled Porter.
"If you are, put some steam on. We're in a hurry."
"You made an accusation just now," went on Paul, making a motion to Dick
to keep silent.
"I did, and I think I can back it up. Why it's plain to everybody how
the thing is worked. It's even known as Hamilton's football team, and no
wonder he is picked to play on it."
"It isn't my team at all!" burst out the young millionaire.
"Well, you're paying for the coaches," put in Weston. "That's why
they----"
"They don't know a thing about it!" cried Paul Drew. "That's what I want
to say. From the beginning it was feared that something like this might
crop up, and so Dick arranged to hand the money to the athletic
committee, of which I happen to be a member. Our committee pays the
salaries of the coaches, and also for their board, and the coaches
themselves only know that much. They have no more idea that Dick is
footing the bills than that an inhabitant of Mars is doing it, and if
any one makes a statement to the contrary--well, we have a way of
dealing with such persons at Kentfield," and Paul looked significantly
at Porter and Weston.
"Does that satisfy you?" asked Dick quietly, as Paul paused. "I would
have told you the same thing, but perhaps it is just as well to come
from a member of the committee. I am only too glad to help out the team
by hiring the coaches, but they don't know me from any other player, and
I took my chances with all of you. If I had been turned down, as I half
expected to be, it would have made no difference."
"Wait until you get turned down, and then you'll sing a different tune,"
remarked Porter bitterly, and Dick realized how he must feel.
"I'm sorry," said the young millionaire gently, "and if I had any
influence at all you should be on the Varsity, for I think you are a
good player."
"The coaches don't," and Porter laughed sarcastically.
"There's plenty of chance yet," went on Dick. "We are to have another
practice game this week, and there may be a turn about in some players."
"I have a large sized gold framed picture of 'em naming me," exclaimed
Porter with sarcasm. "But I take back what I said about your money
getting you on. It did seem so, at first."
"Perhaps naturally," agreed Dick. "But your apology is accepted," and he
held out his hand. "I hope we can be friends," he concluded.
"I guess so," mumbled Porter, with rather a shamed air.
"I presume Mr. Weston seconds what his friend says," spoke Paul
significantly.
"Oh, yes," and it was with rather an obvious effort that the crony made
reply. "Come on, Porter, or the best billiard tables will all be
occupied."
"Well, I'm glad that's over," remarked Dick to Paul, as they turned
away. "I was afraid this would crop up, and it's just as well to settle
it. I only hope it does settle it, and that no other fellows will think
as Porter and Weston did."
"Oh, some of them are bound to think it anyhow," said Paul easily.
"Don't mind it, for it will wear away sooner or later. I'm afraid,
though, that the team will be known as yours."
"I don't want that, Paul."
"Can't be helped, old man. After all it's a high honor. I wish I could
afford a football team, and a steam yacht."
"Maybe you will some day. And, come to think of it I may not have a
steam yacht much longer."
"Why, are you going to sell it?"
"No, but dad's finances are in a bad way, and may become worse."
"You don't mean to say he's lost all his money?" and Paul gave Dick a
startled glance.
"Oh, we have enough to keep the wolf from howling under the parlor
windows, and I don't expect to have to go to work in Uncle Ezra's woolen
mill right away, but dad is involved in some trolley deal, and it's
'crimping' him, as he says. He's got most of his money tied up in it
now, and some men, of whom Porter's father is one are trying to get the
road away from dad."
"Does Porter know this?"
"He doesn't know it's my father whom his father is fighting, and I'd
just as soon he wouldn't. But I've got to do something to help out, and
one thing is to locate a Mr. Duncaster," and Dick told of his encounters
with the eccentric man, and how he held a large block of stock in the
trolley line.
"I'll help if I can," agreed Paul. Then they got their ice cream sodas,
and strolled back to the academy.
That night Dick wrote his father a long letter, explaining about the
football team, and also detailing his meetings with Mr. Duncaster.
* * * * *
"He lives in a place called Hardvale," wrote Dick, "and he seems to be
as hard as the place is named. However, I'll try to see him, and get him
to sell you the stock. You had better write me some specific
instructions, and say how high I can go in bidding for it. If Mr.
Porter, whose son is here at Kentfield, learns that Duncaster has the
stock, he may have a try for it, so I'll have to go at it quietly. But
I'll do my best."
* * * * *
Then, having done as much as he could in his father's business matters,
our hero resumed his interrupted studies.
There was more football practice the next day, and the coaches now put
the Varsity team through some rigorous work. The cadets were a little
inclined to find fault at the strenuous tasks assigned to them, but the
experts were exacting, and said that if Kentfield expected to be in the
championship class she must work for it.
Meanwhile the scrub was being moulded into shape, for a good opponent is
a necessary element in practice, and unless there is something to fight
against practice goes for little.
And how eager that same scrub was to make touchdowns against the
Varsity! How they did work, taking desperate chances all the while, and
the individual players making names for themselves by brilliant dashes.
For they all wanted to get on the first team, and they bore in mind what
the coaches had said about giving them a chance if they did well.
"We certainly have our work cut out for us," remarked Dick, after a
particularly gruelling day. "I'm as lame as a fellow who's tumbled
downstairs."
"Same here," agreed Paul. "Some one walked all over me in that last
scrimmage."
But the effect of the hard work was fast becoming noticeable, for the
team was getting to be like "nails" as Mr. Martin said, and the players
were working more in unison.
There was a practice game between the Varsity and scrub on Saturday, and
it was the best one yet, from a critical football viewpoint. The coaches
nodded their heads in approval when the first team made six touchdowns.
And, though the scrub did manage to get a field goal, it was not to the
discredit of the Varsity.
"We're picking up," declared Dick, as he ducked under a shower bath in
the gymnasium. "We'll be able to challenge Blue Hill again, and they
won't dare turn us down."
"I think we're going to try on some other team first," said Paul. "I
heard the coaches talking about it. But say, who's going to be our
captain--have you heard?"
"Not a word about it. Maybe it will fall on you, since Teddy is out."
"Jove! it would be an honor, but I don't hope for it. I'd like to see
you fill that berth," went on Paul unselfishly.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Dick. "I guess--blub--glub--ugh!" for he turned
his head up and the shower from the spray filled his mouth and nose
unexpectedly.
"Wow! That was a wet one!" he cried when he had caught his breath.
"Dutton would like to be captain, I hear," put in George Hall, who was
in the next shower to Paul. "He says he's going to try for it."
"And he'd be a good one," declared Dick heartily, for he and his former
enemy were now firm friends, though not exactly chums.
There were many speculations as to who would head the eleven, but the
coaches had advised the cadets to wait until the Varsity team was
definitely selected before holding an election, and this had been agreed
to.
There came a long telegram for Dick late that Saturday night. It was
from his father, and showed more plainly than anything else how anxious
the financier was. For he did not wait to write a reply to Dick's
letter, preferring the speed of the wire.
* * * * *
"See Duncaster by all means," read part of the message, "and offer him
ten points above par for the stock--all he has. It's a big price, but it
will soon be worth more. See him soon."
"I'll make a trip out there Monday," decided Dick. "Whew! Things are
beginning to happen evidently."
With Paul for a companion our hero hired an auto and made the journey to
Hardvale. Grit sat on the floor of the tonneau, with a contented look on
his ugly but honest countenance.
"Grit may come in handy if Duncaster sets his dogs on us," remarked Dick
with a grim smile, as they bowled along at good speed.
"Why, do you expect trouble?" asked Paul.
"Not exactly, but I imagine he hasn't much use for me. He didn't act
very friendly the last time we met, and then the sight of the auto may
make him angry, remembering how we ran him down. But it's too slow to
take a horse. I hope we find him at home."
It was rather a lonesome part of the country through which they were
traveling--a sparsely settled district that, somehow, reminded the young
millionaire of the gloomy landscape at Dankville where his Uncle Ezra
lived.
Mr. Duncaster was at home, a fact which a crabbed old housekeeper
conveyed to the boys in no very cheerful voice.
"But I don't believe he'll see you," she added. "He's just woke up from
his afternoon nap, and he's always a little riled then."
"Hum," mused our hero, "rather an unfavorable time to call, but it can't
be helped. Will you tell him Dick Hamilton wants to see him?" he
requested of the housekeeper.
"Oh, I s'pose so," and the woman went off grumbling, leaving the two
lads standing on the doorstep.
"Polite," commented Paul with a short laugh.
The woman came back presently.
"He wants to know what you want," she said.
"I'd like to see him, and explain in person," said the young
millionaire, "but will you tell him it is about the stock of the Midvale
Electric Road he holds. I wish to purchase it for my father."
"Oh, you do; eh?" snarled a voice behind the housekeeper, and the
wizzened and rather scowling face of Mr. Duncaster was thrust out. "So
that's why you called on me, Dick Hamilton? I haven't forgotten you, as
you'll note. Ha! There's another of the tin soldiers," he sneered as he
caught sight of Paul. "If I had my way you'd all be breaking stone on
the road, and you wouldn't have those soldier suits on, either," and he
chuckled hoarsely. Clearly he was none the better for his nap.
"I called in reference to the Midvale stock," explained Dick, trying
hard to keep down his anger and speak politely. "My father told me to
offer you ten above par for it."
"Ten; eh?" and Mr. Duncaster chuckled. "Did he say you were to go higher
in case I refused that offer?"
"No, he did not."
"Well then you can go back where you came from and tell your father that
I won't sell."
"Do you mean for that price? Do you want more money? I can wire my
father, and say----"
"You needn't say anything for me!" snapped the crabbed man. "I won't
sell at that price, nor any other he can offer me. I've had a better
offer than his, you can tell him, but I won't do business with him. Now
get away from here! This isn't war time and I don't want a couple of tin
soldiers on my front steps," and once more the old man chuckled at his
insulting words.
Dick and Paul flushed, but made no retort.
"Won't you consider any offer at all from my father?" asked the young
millionaire, wondering if the other bid for the stock had come from Mr.
Porter. "I will send him a message, telling him you----"
"I told you that you needn't tell him anything from me!" snapped Mr.
Duncaster. "I won't sell, and that's all there is to it! Now get out!"
and he slammed shut the door.
For a moment Dick paused irresolutely on the steps. Then, with a shrug
of his shoulders, he said:
"Turned down! Well I'll have to try some other way. It will be a
disappointment for dad though."
As the two chums walked out of the yard the chauffeur came toward them
with a small pail.
"What are you going to do?" asked Dick.
"Get some water for the radiator. It's almost out. I see a well over
here."
He approached it to draw up the bucket, when a window was raised, and
the head of Mr. Duncaster was thrust out.
"Here! Keep away from that well!" he cried. "You shan't have any of my
water for your old rip-snorting contraption. I believe you are the
fellow who ran into me the other night. Get away from there and water
your machine somewhere else."
"Hum! You're a cheerful companion for yourself in your old age,"
remarked the chauffeur, as he turned back.