SOME MEAN TRICKS LEFT OVER
Mr. Schimmelpodt had offered that fifty dollars in a moment of
undue excitement.
For two or three days afterward he wondered if he couldn't find
some way out of "spending" the money that would yet let him keep
his self-respect.
Finding, at last, that he could not, he wrote out the check and
mailed it. He pinned the check to a half-sheet of paper on which
he wrote, "Rah mit Prescott!"
A few days later Mr. Schimmelpodt turned from Main Street into
the side street on which Dick's parents kept their store and their
home.
"Ach! Und dere is de door vot that boy lives by," thought Mr.
Schimmelpodt, just before he passed Dick's door. "Yen der game
over was, und I saw dot boy go down---ach!"
For Mr. Schimmelpodt had suited the action to the word. Out from
under him his feet shot. But Mr. Schimmelpodt, being short and
flabby of leg, with a bulky body above, came down as slowly as
big bodies are supposed to move. It was rather a gradual tumble.
Having so much fat on all portions of his body Mr. Schimmelpodt
came down with more astonishment than jar.
"Ach! Such a slipperyishness!" he grunted. "Hey, Bresgott---!
look out!"
The door had opened suddenly at this early hour in the morning.
Dick, charged with doing a breakfast errand for his mother at
the last moment, sprang down the steps and started to sprint away.
At the first step on the sidewalk, however, Dick's landing foot
shot out from under him.
He tried to bring the other down in time to save himself. That,
too, slipped. Dick waved his arms, wind-mill fashion in the quick
effort to save himself.
"Bresgott," observed the seated contractor, solemnly, "I bet you
five tollars to den cents dot you-----"
Here Schimmelpodt waited until Dick settled the question of the
center of gravity by sprawling on the sidewalk.
"---Dot you fall," finished the German, gravely. "I---Und I yin!"
"Why, good morning, Mr. Schimmelpodt," Dick responded, as he started
to get up. "What are you doing here."
"Oh, choost vaiting to see bis you do the same thing," grunted
the contractor. "It was great sport---not?"
"Decidedly 'not,'" laughed Dick, stepping gingerly over a sidewalk
that had been spread thinly with some sticky substance. "Can
I help you up, Mr. Schimmelpodt?"
The German, who knew his own weight, glanced at the boy's slight
figure rather doubtfully.
"Bresgott, how many horsepower are you alretty?"
But Dick, standing carefully so that he would not slip again,
displayed more strength than the contractor had expected. In
another moment the German was on his feet, moving cautiously away,
his eyes on the sidewalk. Yet he did not forget to mutter his
thanks to the boy.
As Dick now went on his way again, slipping around the corner
and into a bakeshop, he noticed that his right wrist felt a bit
queer.
"Well, I haven't broken anything," he murmured, feeling of the
wrist with his left hand. "But what on earth happened to the
sidewalk."
As he paused before his door on the way back, he looked carefully
down at the sidewalk. Right before the door several flags in
the walk appeared to be thinly coated with some colorless specimen
of slime.
"It looks as though it might be soft soap," pondered Prescott,
examining the stuff more closely. "It'll be dry in a half an
hour more, but I think I had better fix it."
In the basement was a barrel of sand that was used for sanding
the icy sidewalk in winter. As soon as Dick had run upstairs
with the bread he went below, got a few handfuls of sand and fixed
the sidewalk.
At recess Dick noticed just enough about his wrist to make him
speak about it to Submaster Luce.
"Let me see it," demanded coach. "Hm!" he muttered. "Another
peculiar accident, and only two days before our game with Chichester!
See Dr. Bentley about your wrist at his office this afternoon.
I'm beginning to think, Prescott, that it's a fortunate thing
for you that the medical director is paid out of the fund. You'd
bankrupt an ordinary citizen if you're going to keep on having
these tumbles."
Dr. Bentley's verdict was that, while the wrist was not in a condition
that need bother men much in ordinary callings, yet, as a pitcher's
wrist, it would need rest and care.
"I've just got the tip that I'm to pitch in the Chichester game,"
said Dave, coming to his chum that afternoon.
"Yes; Doe thinks I ought to look after this wrist---that it wouldn't
stand extraordinary strain during the next few days. But, Dave,
old fellow, watch out! Keep your eye on the sidewalks near your
home. Don't prowl in lonely places after dark. Act as if you
were made of glass until you get on the field at the Chichester
game."
Darrin glanced shrewdly at his friend, then nodded.
"I'm on, Dick! Confound that fellow, Ripley. And he's as slick
and slippery as an eel. I don't suppose there is any way that
we can catch him?"
"If I knew a way I'd use it," growled Prescott. "I'm sick of
having this thing so onesided all the time. Ripley plans, and
we pay the piper. The blackguard!"
"Then you're sure Ripley is at the bottom of these accidents?"
"The accidents are planned," retorted Dick. "Who else would care
to plan them, except that disagreeable fellow?"
"I'd like to get just proof enough to justify me in demanding
that he stand up before me for twenty rounds," gritted Dave Darrin.
Dave did take extraordinary care of himself, and was on hand to
pitch at the game with Chichester. This game, like the first,
was on the home grounds.
It was a close game, won by Gridley, two to one. In some respects
Chichester's fielding work was better than the home team's. It
was undying grit that won the battle---that and Dave Darrin's
pitching.
As the jubilant home fans left the ball grounds it was the general
opinion that Dave Darrin was only the merest shade behind Dick
Prescott as a pitcher.
"Either one of them in the box," said Coach Luce to a friend,
"and the game is half won."
"But how about Ripley?"
"Ripley?" replied the coach. "He made a good showing in the tryouts,
but we haven't had in the field yet. He will be, though, the
next game. We play Brayton High School over at Brayton. It's
one of the smaller games, and we're going to try Ripley there."
Then the coach added, to himself:
"Ripley is presentable enough, but I believe there's a big yellow
streak in him somewhere. I wouldn't dare to put Fred into one
of the big games requiring all the grit that Prescott or Darrin
can show!"