LEN HOWARD AGAIN
For several moments I lay still, struggling to collect my thoughts.
Then, pressing my hand to my head to relieve the numb, sickening
sensation produced by the blow, I sat up and stared about me in the
darkness.
The next instant a dark figure not ten feet before me scrambled up
from the grass and dashed out of the gate. I was too much shaken up to
think of pursuit, so I sat still, listening attentively to the rapidly
receding footsteps.
From the sound of these I felt confident that there were but two
persons; and they were certainly badly frightened, for they lost no
time in covering ground, and were in a few seconds far down the road,
out of earshot.
“Now what on earth could those fellows have been up to?” I wondered, as
I sat silently awaiting developments.
As nothing further occurred, I concluded that the mischief must have
been summarily postponed on account of my appearance.
Whoever the mischief makers were, and whatever their plans may have
been, they could not have regretted my presence on the scene more than
I did myself. My head was aching and throbbing, while the stinging
sensation at the one side of my forehead, and a little stream of blood,
which I could feel trickling down my cheek, showed me how severe the
blow had been.
As I rose to my feet I groped about in the dark until I found my hat,
which had rolled several feet away from me; and then, brushing off
the dust, I stepped over to the spot where I had been sleeping, and
examined the grass carefully to see if the mysterious visitors had left
any traces behind them.
No results rewarded my search; so, as I was more interested in my own
condition than in their plans, I decided to let the matter drop.
“We are quits,” I said to myself, as I walked away toward Colver Hall.
“I gave you a bad scare, and you gave me a bad scar, though, after all,
I think you have the best of the bargain. One thing is certain: the
next time I fall in with any fellows bent on mischief, I’ll leave them
to the tender mercies of proctor Murray. The rôle of night watchman
doesn’t suit me at all.”
On reaching my room I lit the gas, and examined my face in the mirror
which stood over the mantelpiece. The skin had been broken, but the cut
was not deep, nor the wound so bad by any means as it might have been,
considering the force of the blow. On washing away the blood, I found
my forehead somewhat swollen and purple, but in other respects fairly
presentable, so I felt there was cause for congratulating myself on
escaping so luckily.
It seemed quite evident to me that the injury I had sustained had been
purely accidental. It was more than probable that the two students,
whoever they were, had been planning some escapade, and, when I
suddenly rose and interrupted them, they had become startled, and had
dashed off without waiting to learn who it was. Not seeing me in the
dark, the last of the two had run straight over me, kicking me in the
head. The appearance of the wound, the manner in which I had received
the blow, and the effect it had in tripping up the runner and sprawling
him out on the grass――all confirmed me in this solution of the matter.
“It will probably be explained to-morrow,” I thought; “for when I am
seen at morning prayers with a black and blue forehead, the fellow who
kicked me will no doubt recognize the mark and let me into the secret.
I suppose they were Freshmen, and up to some of their tricks.”
I slept soundly all night in spite of my wound, and was awakened on the
following morning by the sound of the college bell ringing for prayers.
Without losing a moment’s time I sprang out of bed and scrambled into
my clothes as best I could in the few minutes I had to spare.
The night’s rest had refreshed me completely, and had relieved my head
of all sense of pain, although the purple bruise had deepened in
color, and the swelling had scarcely diminished.
As I hurried down stairs and across the campus, the last taps of the
college bell were sounding, so that I reached the chapel just as the
doors were being closed. A small crowd of tardy students were pressing
in, and they kept the main door open just long enough to prevent my
being shut out. I was the last one in, and all alone I walked down the
aisle to my seat, the object of the curious gaze of over one hundred
and fifty pairs of eyes. This I was well accustomed to, for I prided
myself on the exactness with which I could calculate the time needed to
reach morning prayers, and I was usually one of the very last to enter.
But this morning my appearance must have been interesting, and it
certainly aroused attention. A snicker ran along the lines of students
as I passed the various pews, and several of those nearest the aisle
plucked at my coat and gave vent to such whispered exclamations as “Oh,
what an eye!” “Who built that lump on your forehead, Harry?” and so on.
As I took my seat Rod Emmons, who sat next to me, said,
“That’s a bad bruise, Harry. How did you get it?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“What an answer!” he exclaimed.
I laughed.
“I mean it all the same,” I said. “I got that bruise in the dark last
night, and I am looking this morning for the fellow that hit me.”
Further conversation was interrupted by Professor Fuller, who came
forward to the pulpit at this moment, and began prayers.
At the close, when the students were streaming out, some to breakfast
and others to recitations, I received inquiries and expressions of
sympathy from all sides; but though I made no secret of my mishap,
no one seemed to know more of the affair than myself. As the morning
progressed without my obtaining any new light on the subject, I
concluded that the students whom I had interrupted the night before
must have had a special reason for keeping silent.
“And besides,” I thought, “perhaps after all they were not students at
all, but town fellows trespassing on the campus, and frightened off by
my voice, thinking I was the proctor.”
In the belief that the matter would solve itself, if a solution
was forthcoming, I decided to let it drop, and accordingly gave up
inquiring about it.
During the recitation hour between four and five o’clock that
afternoon, as I was speculating on the chances of my being called upon
next to recite, some one nudged me, and a small, folded piece of paper
was slipped into my hand. This, on opening, I discovered to be a note,
which read as follows:
DEAR HARRY:
Meet me at the north entrance to Warburton Hall at five o’clock
sharp. Don’t fail, for I have something of importance to tell
you. Pass this word on to Tony Larcom. He must be there, too.
Yours in haste,
RAY WENDELL.
Tony was reciting at the time, and making a fine botch of it, too, to
the general amusement of the class. The meeting of the evening before
had evidently interfered seriously with his preparation, for though
he was making a brave fight, Professor Fuller caught him on a knotty
question before which Tony’s wits availed him nothing. So down he sat,
as smiling and unabashed as if he had scored a brilliant success. Then
I handed Ray Wendell’s note to my neighbor, and saw it pass rapidly
along the line. Tony read it, looked toward me, and nodded his head.
Immediately after the recitation he joined us, and together we hurried
over toward Warburton Hall. Ray Wendell was standing at the north
entrance, evidently awaiting us.
As we came up, Ray said,
“I’m glad you are prompt, for we’ve no time to lose.”
At this moment Len Howard came down the stairs, tennis racket in hand,
and was about to pass us when he saw Ray.
“Hullo, Wendell,” he said; “when can you play tennis with me again?”
“I don’t know,” answered Ray. “Baseball will take all my time now, I
think.”
“Then why not play me before the baseball season sets in? Couldn’t we
have a few sets to-morrow?”
“I shall be away to-morrow,” said Ray.
“Then some time next week. How about Monday noon?”
“I can’t say; I may be too busy.”
“See here, Wendell, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll play you for fifty
dollars a side, and put up the money at once. Now, there’s a chance for
you.”
“I don’t play for money,” answered Ray coldly, “and, to be perfectly
frank, Howard, I don’t care particularly to play at all. I understand
that you had money up on that last series of games, and――――”
“Well, and what if I did?” broke in Howard. “Is it any of your
business?”
“It is none of my business whether you bet or not, but it _is_ some of
my business whom I play tennis with, and I say again, I don’t care to
play.”
“Oh, pshaw, you are afraid to play me,” said Howard.
“If I wasn’t afraid to play you before, when I thought you were the
better player, why should I be afraid now, when I know I can beat you?”
rejoined Ray, with a slightly sarcastic accent.
“You can’t beat me――it was all luck――you couldn’t beat me again to
save your life!” burst out Howard excitedly. “I tell you I’ll bet you
anything that――――”
“And I tell you that I won’t bet anything, and that baseball is all I
have time for at present.” Here Ray turned away.
Howard stood irresolute for a moment, as if about to say something
more; then wheeling sharply on his heel, he exclaimed with a sneer,
“Oh, you’re a coward!” and walked off.
Ray’s face flushed a moment as he looked after him. Then he bit his
lip, and, turning to Tony, said,
“I think, perhaps, you were right about him, after all. He certainly
seems to be nursing a grudge against me for some reason. Perhaps I had
better play him again, and let him beat me badly. It might do him good.
Anything to please him, of course.”
“Well, it wouldn’t help him much,” returned Tony, “unless you let him
win back the money he lost on the last games with you.”
Ray made no answer to this, but caught up his notebooks, which had been
resting on a box behind the door.
“Come up to my room,” he said, “I’ve a telegram from Slade to show
you,” and he led the way up stairs.