KEWPIE STATES HIS CASE
“Whatever’s going on?” asked a pleasant voice from the doorway that led
into the room behind the shop. “Is――is anything wrong, Polly? Dear me,
child, you’re running that all over the counter!”
More than two dozen pairs of eyes turned to where Mrs. Deane looked
perplexedly about her. She was a sweet-faced little woman whose white
hair was contradicted by a plump, unlined countenance and rosy cheeks.
Elk’s uplifted arm dropped slowly back. For a short moment the silence
continued. Then a veritable Babel of voices arose. “Hello, Mrs. Deane!”
“Say, Mrs. Deane, don’t you remember me paying you ten cents last
Friday? Miss Polly says I still owe――” “Mrs. Deane, when are you going
to have some more of those twirly things with the cream filling?” “Mrs.
Deane, will you wait on me, please? I want――” “Aw, I was ahead of
him――”
The Widow Deane beamed and made her way to the rear of the counter,
greeting the boys by name. She was fond of all boys, but those of
Hillman’s School she looked on as peculiarly her own, and she knew the
names of nearly every one of them and, to a remarkable extent, their
taste in the matter of pastry and beverages. “I couldn’t imagine what
had happened,” she was explaining to Cas Bennett as she filled his
order for two apple turnovers. “All of a sudden everything became so
still in here! What was it?”
Cas grinned. “Oh, just some of Nod Turner’s foolishness,” he replied
evasively. “He and Thurston were――were talking.”
They were still talking, for that matter, although their fickle
audience no longer heeded. The interruption had quite spoiled Elk’s
great scene, and after lowering his arm he had not raised it again.
Even he realized that you couldn’t start anything when Mrs. Deane was
present. But he was still angry and was explaining to Laurie none too
elegantly that vengeance was merely postponed and not canceled. Ned,
maintaining outward neutrality, watched Elk very closely. Ned had an
idea, perhaps a mistaken one, that when it came to fistic encounters it
was his bounden duty to substitute for Laurie, and he had been on the
point of substituting when Mrs. Deane’s appearance had called a halt.
Laurie’s smile gave place to sudden gravity as he interrupted Elk’s
flow of eloquence. “That will do,” he said. “I’m not afraid of you,
Thurston, but it’s silly to get so upset over a trifle. Of course I
shouldn’t have taken your wheel, but I didn’t hurt it any, and you’ve
bawled me out quite enough, don’t you think? I’ll apologize, if you
like, and――”
“I don’t want your apology,” growled Elk. “You’re too blamed fresh,
Turner, and you talk too much. After this you let everything of mine
alone. If you don’t, I’ll do what I was going to do when the old lady
came in. Understand?”
“Perfectly,” replied Laurie soberly. “Have a soda?”
“Not with you, you little shrimp!” Elk strode away, fuming, to elbow
his way to the fountain.
“What did you have to say that for?” asked Ned. “You had him pretty
nearly calmed down, and then you had to spoil it all by offering him a
drink. When he said you talk too much he was dead right!”
“Oh, well, what’s he want to kick up such a fuss for?” asked Laurie
cheerfully. “Come on. I’ve got to beat it to gym for practice.”
They waved a farewell to Polly over the heads and shoulders of the
throng about the fountain, but that young lady demanded speech with
them and left her duties for a hasty word nearer the door. “I’ve just
got to see you boys about Kewpie,” she announced. “It’s very important.
Can’t you come back a minute before supper, Ned?”
“Kewpie?” asked Laurie. “What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I want to talk about. There isn’t time now.”
“All right, we’ll be back about five thirty,” agreed Ned. “By. See you
later.”
“Wonder what’s up,” said Laurie when, having reached School Park, they
turned their steps briskly over the slushy pavements toward Hillman’s.
“Looked perfectly normal last time I saw him.”
“Kewpie? Sure, all except his size. That’s not normal. By the way, he
was looking for you, Polly said. Matter of life or death.”
“Huh, I know what he wants. He’s got it into that crazy head of his
that he can pitch, and he wants me to give him a try-out. I sort of
half promised I would.”
“Mean he wants to pitch for the nine?” asked Ned incredulously.
“Well, he wants to get on the squad, anyway. Thinks that if I tell Mr.
Mulford he’s sort of good, Pinky will take him on.”
“Would he?”
Laurie shrugged. “I don’t believe. Mulford warned the fellows two weeks
back that if they didn’t report for indoor work he didn’t want them
later. And he generally keeps his word, Pinky does.”
“Why didn’t Kewpie think of it before?” asked Ned.
“Search me, old dear. What’s troubling me is that he’s thought of it
now. He’s been pestering the life out of me for a week.”
“What’s he want you to look him over for? Why doesn’t he ask Cas
Bennett or some one who knows something about pitching?”
“Reckon he knows they wouldn’t bother with him. Thinks because Pinky’s
got it into his old bean that he can make a catcher of me that I can
spot a Mathewson or a Mays with my eyes shut. I appreciate his faith
in me and all that, Ned, and it wounds me sorely that my own kith and
kin――meaning you, old dear――haven’t the same――er――boundless trust in my
ability, but, just between the two of us, I don’t know a curve from a
drop yet, and if I can stop one with my mitt I’m as pleased as anything
and don’t care a continental whether the silly thing stays in said mitt
or doesn’t. Frankly, I’m plumb convinced that Pinky had a brain-storm
when he dragged me in from the outfield and stuck me behind a wire
bird-cage!”
“Oh, I guess he knows his business,” responded Ned. “Anyhow, you’ve got
to do your best. If you don’t I’ll lick the daylight out of you.”
“Don’t you mean _into_ me?” asked Laurie sweetly. “Seems to me that
ought to be the proper phrase. Having, as I understand physiology, no
daylight in me, to start with――”
“Oh, shut up! I mean what I say, though. We agreed when we got here
last fall that I was to go in for football and you for baseball. I know
I didn’t make very good――”
“Shut up yourself! You did so!”
“But that’s the more reason you should. The honor of the Turners is at
stake, partner. Don’t you forget that!”
“Oh, I’ll do my best,” sighed Laurie, “but I certainly do hold it ag’in
Pinky for butting in on my quiet, peaceful life out in the field and
talking me into this catching stuff. Gosh, I had no idea the human hand
could propel a ball through space, as it were, the way those pitcher
guys do! Some time I’ll break a couple of fingers, I suppose, and then
I’ll get let out.”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” said Ned grimly. “All the big league catchers have
two or three broken fingers on each hand. Don’t count on that, old son!”
They had crossed Walnut Street now and were stamping the melted snow
from their shoes on the drier concrete sidewalk before the school
property. Above the top of a privet hedge the upper stories of the
school buildings were in sight, West Hall, School Hall, and East
Hall facing Summit Street in order. In the windows of West Hall, a
dormitory, gaily hued cushions added color to the monotony of the
brick edifice, and here and there an upthrown casement allowed a white
sash-curtain to wave lazily in the breeze of a mild March afternoon.
As the two boys turned in at the first gate, under the modest sign
announcing “Hillman’s School――Entrance Only,” Laurie broke the short
silence.
“What are you doing this afternoon?” he asked.
“I don’t know. There isn’t much a fellow can do except read.”
“Or study,” supplemented Laurie virtuously. “Better come along and
watch practice a while.”
But Ned shook his head. “Not good enough, old-timer. That baseball cage
is too stuffy. Guess I’ll wander over to the field and see if there’s
anything going on.”
“There won’t be. They say the ice has gone to mush. Listen. If you see
Kewpie, tell him I died suddenly, will you? And how about Polly? Shall
I meet you there?”
“Yes, five thirty we told her. So-long!”
“By, old dear! Here’s where I go and lose a finger!”
Ned climbed to the second floor of East Hall and made his way along the
corridor to No. 16. The door was ajar, and when he had pushed it open
he discovered Kewpie Proudtree stretched at length on the window-seat.
It was no unusual thing to find Kewpie in possession of No. 16, for he
appeared to like it fully as well as his own quarters across the way,
if not better. Kewpie laid down the magazine he had been examining and
laboriously pulled himself to a sitting posture.
“Hello, Nid,” he greeted. “Where’s Nod?” It was Kewpie who had tagged
those quaint nicknames on the Turner twins, and he never failed to use
them.
“Gym,” answered Ned. “Practice.”
“_What!_ What time is it? And here I’ve been wasting my time waiting
for him!”
“Too bad about your time! Get your cap, and let’s go over to the field.”
But Kewpie shook his head sadly, relapsing against the cushions. “I’m
not feeling very well, Nid,” he said plaintively.
Ned looked at him with more interest, wondering if it could be Kewpie’s
state of health that was concerning Polly Deane. But it was difficult
to associate that youth’s bulk with illness, and Ned abandoned the
idea. “What’s wrong with you?” he inquired jeeringly.
“It seems to be my stomach,” said Kewpie, laying a sympathetic hand on
that portion of his anatomy.
“Does, eh? Well, what have you been eating?”
“Eating? Nothing much. Well, I did have a cream-puff and a tart at the
Widow’s, but I guess it isn’t that.”
“Oh, no, of course not, you silly prune! And you probably had a nut
sundae with whipped cream and sliced peaches and a lot of other truck
on it. Funny you don’t feel well, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t have any whipped cream,” said Kewpie indignantly. “It――it
makes me bilious.”
“Well, come on over to the field. It’ll do you good.”
“I’ve been there. There’s nothing doing, Nid. The rink looks like
tapioca pudding, and you can go in to your ankles anywhere you walk.
Look at my shoes.”
“Yes, and look at that window-seat, you crazy galoot! Why don’t you
wipe your dirty feet on your own cushions?”
“Oh, that’ll come off.” Kewpie flicked at the muddy stains with a
nonchalant hand. “Say, listen. I’ve been trying to get hold of Nod all
day. How long’s he going to practise?”
“Search me. They keep at it until five or a bit after, I think. What
you got on your so-called mind, Kewpie?”
Kewpie hesitated and finally decided to take Ned into his confidence.
“Well, it’s like this,” he began impressively. “A fellow needs more
exercise than he gets along this time of year, Nid. Of course, it’s all
right for you fellows who play basket-ball or hockey, but I couldn’t
get into those things, and there isn’t much else to keep you fit. Now――”
“Except pastry at the Widow Deane’s, Kewpie.”
Kewpie ignored the interruption. “Well, anyway, I’ve been thinking
that if I could get into baseball it would be a mighty good thing for
me. Sort of keep me in training, you know. I――I’m likely to put on
weight if I don’t watch out. You understand.”
“What’s your line?” asked Ned innocently. “Short-stop?”
Kewpie grinned. “Pitcher,” he said.
“Really? Why, I didn’t know you were a baseball pitcher. Ever worked at
it much?”
“Sure,” said Kewpie. Then his gaze wavered and he hedged a trifle. “Of
course, I’ve never tried for the team or anything like that, but last
spring we had a scrub team here and I pitched on it――generally. I’ve
got something, too, let me tell you.” Kewpie’s assurance returned. “All
I need is practice, Nid. Why, I can pitch a drop that’s a wonder!”
“Too bad you didn’t go out for the team this year,” said Ned. “I
understand Mr. Mulford won’t take any fellows on who didn’t report
early.”
Kewpie’s dejection returned and he nodded. “I know,” he answered.
“That’s why I wanted to get Nod to――to sort of speak a good word for
me. You see, if I can show him I’ve got something on the ball and he
tells Pinky, why, I guess Pinky wouldn’t want to lose me.”
“Why don’t you speak to Pinky yourself?”
“Oh, you know how coaches are. They don’t believe what you tell ’em
half the time; think you’re just stringing ’em to get on the squad.”
“And, of course, you wouldn’t do that,” said Ned gravely.
“Oh, shut up,” answered Kewpie, grinning. “You don’t think I can pitch,
I’ll bet.”
“You win,” replied Ned simply.
“All right, then, I’ll show you, by Joshua! You get Nod to catch me,
and you’ll see. Honest, you might help a fellow, Nid, instead of
joshing him. Why, say, look how I got you on the football team last
fall! If I hadn’t told Joe Stevenson about you being a star half-back――”
“Yes, and you came mighty close to getting your silly dome knocked
clean off you,” interrupted Ned grimly. “A nice bunch of trouble you
got me into!”
“Well, it came out all right, didn’t it?” asked Kewpie irrepressibly.
“Didn’t you win the old game for us with that kick of yours? Sure, you
did! I’ll say so!”
“Never you mind about that, old son. If you expect me to help you get
on the baseball team you needn’t crack up what you did last fall!”
Kewpie looked momentarily pained, but perhaps he was accustomed to the
ingratitude of human nature. Anyway, he arose with careful deliberation
from the window-seat, an inquiring palm laid against his stomach, and
smiled forgivingly down on Ned. “Well, I’ve got to be going back,” he
announced. “Tell Nod I’ll be in about six, won’t you? And――er――say,
you don’t happen to have a half-dollar you don’t need right away, I
suppose.”
“I might,” answered Ned, reaching into a pocket. “Going to bribe your
way into baseball, you fat rascal?”
“No, but I went off without paying for the stuff at the Widow’s, Nid;
clean forgot all about it, and――”
“Kewpie, don’t lie, or you won’t get this!”
Kewpie grinned. “Well, I didn’t exactly _forget_ it, maybe, but it――it
sort of passed out of my mind at the moment. You understand. I really
ought to go back there and pay it, Nid.”
“That’s all right. I can save you the trouble. I’m going down there
myself pretty soon. How much is it?”
“Twenty cents,” faltered Kewpie.
“Fine! Then you won’t need the other thirty, old son.”
There was deep reproach in Kewpie’s face as he went out.