A PROTEST FROM HARVARD.
Dick Merriwell was satisfied with the result of the game. Poor as the
work of the Boston team had been, it had still served to show players as
observant as Phillips and Brady certain tricks they would have to be on
the lookout for when it came to the meeting with the Harvard varsity
nine. The old-timers on the Boston team had known what to do well
enough; the trouble was that they had forgotten how to do it. For
instance, Bill Brady had noticed a peculiar shifting of the infield
whenever two men were on the bases with one out, a shifting that was
evidently meant to make a double play easier.
“They learned that trick from Jimmy Collins ten years ago,” laughed Dick
Merriwell, when Brady spoke of it. “And they have kept on using it right
along. I wondered if those fellows would try it. Did you notice anything
else, Bill?”
“Yes,” said Brady, with a grin. “If the ball is hit where nine balls out
of ten are hit under those conditions, they make a double play—if it
isn’t, it’s a sure safe hit, because there’s a big hole between first
and second they don’t cover at all, and another right inside of third.”
“Exactly,” said the universal coach, with a smile. “It pays to keep your
eyes open in baseball, just as it does in everything else. You can’t do
it all yourself—you’ve got to use the other fellow’s mistakes sometimes
to help you out. That’s inside baseball, and I think it’s the way to get
along in the law or business, too.”
Altogether, by the time that Dick Merriwell had gone over the game with
the Yale team, which had attended in a body, although Phillips, Brady,
and Winston had been the only ones in uniform, a lot of things, that
might be looked for to make up a part of the Harvard attack, were
foreseen and discounted.
“This will all help,” said Merriwell, “but don’t get the idea that you
can win the game by just being ready for a few old tricks. They have a
great way at Harvard of working out a system and sticking to it, but
some time they’re going to fool us. In the past, we’ve beaten them some
times by being wide awake. They stick too long at anything that has
worked well once up there. But that doesn’t mean they’re going to keep
on doing it. They may make a change now. It’s a good time for them to do
it. So we’ve got to be ready to shift whenever they do—to follow them,
if they lead the way.”
Dick Merriwell had to hasten away from the conference with the baseball
team to attend the meeting of the football players, who were that day to
elect a new captain. He had no vote, nor, theoretically, any voice in
that election. But, as a matter of fact, he had a great deal of
influence; and, while he did not want to interfere in the free choice of
the players, he was far from anxious to see Parker elected captain of
the team. He knew the junior only slightly, and he knew, moreover, that
he was a first-class football player: strong, rugged, and, on the field,
quick and intelligent. To all appearances, Parker would make a good Yale
captain. But Dick distrusted him.
In the football season, Parker stuck admirably to his training. But now,
as Dick knew, he took no pains to keep himself in good condition. He
drank more than was good for him; he smoked immoderately, and,
generally, he set a bad example for athletes, who should, to keep
themselves ready always to do their best, be very careful, even when not
in the strictest of training. Dick heard of all this, but he did not
feel justified in moving against Parker for such a reason. Parker might
retort that, so long as he observed training rules in the football
season, it was no one’s business what he did at any other time. And
there was just enough truth in that, in case Parker had much support
among the players, to make it embarrassing for Dick to oppose him on
such grounds.
Sherman, captain of the baseball team, who had a vote in the election as
an end of the eleven the previous year, although he had played his last
game on the gridiron for Yale, walked over to the meeting in Dwight Hall
with Dick. At the door of the room they were joined by Sam Taylor, the
big senior catcher, who had been a tackle on the football team.
Dick knew that both the seniors were devoted to him, and would do what
he asked. So he halted them, just before they went in, and spoke
earnestly to them, explaining his feelings.
“I don’t care who else is elected,” he said, in a low voice, “but, until
we know more about him, I don’t think Parker is the right stamp of man
for a Yale captain. So, if it looks as if he were going to be elected,
it would be a good thing, if you could do it, to get the election
postponed.”
Sherman and Taylor, whose opinion as to Parker agreed fully, and on even
better evidence than his, with that of the universal coach, nodded their
heads in agreement. Parker, entering at that moment, flushed angrily as
he saw what was going on. He had not heard what was said, but he was no
fool, and he was well able to guess.
There was no choice on the first ballot. There were three candidates.
They were Parker, Jackson, second baseman of the baseball nine, who, as
a quarter back, seemed to many the logical captain for the football
team; and a big fellow called Jones, the center, who received only four
votes.
The other fifteen votes went, eight to Parker, and seven to Jackson, so
that neither had a majority of all the votes. Jones, evidently, would
withdraw on the next ballot, and both Sherman and Taylor knew that his
four votes would be divided evenly between Parker and Jackson, giving
Parker the captaincy by a vote of ten to nine—close, but sufficient.
Suddenly Taylor had an inspiration.
“Back me up in this,” he whispered to Sherman, then got up.
“Fellows,” he said, “Danby isn’t here, but I don’t think we ought to
finish this election, close as it is, without giving him a chance to
vote. It would look as if we were forgetting him and all he did for
Yale, just because he has had to leave college. We elected him captain
unanimously after the Harvard game last fall, and I move that we adjourn
this election now to give him a chance to come here and vote.”
“Second the motion,” cried Sherman, rising at once, and when Dick
Merriwell, who presided, put it, the motion was carried with little show
of dissent, though Parker was obviously furious.
Dick Merriwell breathed a sigh of relief. He had no feeling of dislike
for Parker, for he knew little of him, but he was almost convinced that
he was not the man for captain, and he thanked Taylor as they left the
building.
“You’ve won this time,” said Parker, coming up to them, cold hatred in
his tone as he stared insolently at the universal coach. “But you’ve
only postponed it. I’ll be captain of the Yale football team next fall
in spite of you, Mr. Merriwell.”
“I shall be the first to congratulate you when you are elected, Parker,”
said Dick Merriwell quietly. “As you know, I have no voice in the
election. As you probably know, also, if I had a vote, I should cast it
against you, as matters stand. But, if you are elected, I shall do my
best to work with you to turn out a winning team.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Parker hotly. “The captain of the team
selects the head coach, you know, and, universal coach or no, I’ll
decide on who is to be in full charge of the football team. If I want
your advice, I shall ask you for it, you may be sure.”
And he walked off angrily, leaving Sherman and Taylor to give vent to
their rage. But Dick Merriwell himself only smiled.
“He’s very young,” he said. “I don’t know what he’s got against me—but I
imagine a guilty conscience may have something to do with his feelings.”
“Conscience!” exclaimed Sherman satirically, although he was one of the
mildest and gentlest men in Yale. “I don’t believe he has one.”
At his rooms, Dick Merriwell learned that a caller had been waiting some
time to see him. To his surprise it was Bowen, the Harvard catcher and
captain.
“Hello, Bowen!” exclaimed Dick. “I’m glad to see you. But I thought
you’d be back in Cambridge, coaching your batters on how to knock
Phillips out of the box by this time.”
“I wish I were there,” said Bowen gloomily. “I can’t say I’m glad to see
you, Mr. Merriwell. I’m more sorry that I can say to have to be here.
I’ve got the most unpleasant duty to perform I ever tackled. Mr.
Merriwell—I hardly know how to say it. But I’ve got to file a formal
protest against your playing Phillips against Harvard, on the ground
that he is a professional, and has accepted money for playing baseball.”
It took a good deal to startle Dick Merriwell, but Bowen’s amazing
charge accomplished it.
“What!” he cried. “You can’t be serious, Bowen. It’s too absurd even to
merit a denial.”
“I’d have said the same thing myself until I saw the proofs,” said Bowen
miserably. “I did, in fact. But they convinced me. I hope there’s some
way that the charge can be disproved. But unless it is, I’ll have to
stand on the protest.”
“What are the proofs?” asked Dick, in a tense voice.
He was furiously angry, but not at Bowen. The Harvard captain, with such
a charge brought in a way that had convinced him of its truth, could act
in no other way. And Dick could see that the Harvard man was distressed
and disturbed by the affair.
“They’re pretty strong,” said Bowen unhappily. “Mr. Chetwind, a member
of the New Haven Country Club, says he sent a registered letter to
Phillips, which was received by Phillips on Tuesday morning. Chetwind
has the post-office receipt card, signed by Phillips, which was returned
to the postman when the letter was delivered. This letter, according to
Chetwind, contained a hundred dollars, the price agreed upon between an
agent of his and Phillips. I’ve looked Chetwind up, and the worst thing
I can find about him is that he consented to pay an amateur to pitch for
an amateur team against another amateur team. He seems to stand well
here in New Haven, and to be rated as a man of his word. You probably
know more about him than I have been able to find out in a brief
investigation.”
“Chetwind is all right,” said Dick Merriwell, stunned by what Bowen told
him. “The thing’s incredible. But Chetwind, so far as I know, has never
done a crooked think or told an untruth in his life. Can you tell me how
you found this out?”
“Only in part,” said Bowen. “I got an anonymous letter telling me what
had happened. I wouldn’t pay any attention to such a thing as a rule.
But, intending to turn the whole thing over to you, I stayed over, and
just happened to ask Chetwind about it. To my amazement, he confirmed
the story. He seemed to be both angry and alarmed when he found that I
had heard about it, and he wouldn’t tell me who his agent was. But he
has the receipt for the registered letter, and showed it to me.
“He said he would never have opened his lips on the subject, but that
when I asked him point-blank about it, he couldn’t lie. I guess I showed
him what I thought about him for consenting to descend to such a step to
get a good pitcher for his club, and he seems to be ashamed of his part
in it. I’ll leave it to you to investigate, of course, Merriwell. I’m
more sorry than I can say to have had to bring you such a story.”
“I don’t see how you could help yourself,” said the Yale coach kindly.
“You had no choice in the matter, and it’s certainly not your fault. In
spite of what you’ve learned, I’m sure that this can be disproved.
There’s no reason in the world for Phillips to do anything of the sort.
His parents are not wealthy, but they are well off, and he has as much
money as he needs. But I will investigate and let you know what I find
out.”
“I hope you can explain it,” said Bowen, and departed, evidently
unhappy.
------------------------------------------------------------------------