THE RED PAINT
Pursuing those who had given them the shampoo, Joe and his chums found
themselves trailing down a side street in the darkness.
"I wonder what they're up to," ventured Spike.
"Oh, some more monkey business," declared Ricky. "If they try it on any
more Freshmen though, we'll take a hand ourselves; eh?"
"Sure," assented the others.
"There they go--around the corner--and on the run!" suddenly exclaimed
Slim Jones. "Get a move on!"
Our friends broke into a trot--that is, all but Joe. He tried to, but
stepping on a stone it rolled over with him, and he felt a severe pain
shoot through his ankle.
"Sprained, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "I'm glad it isn't the baseball
season, for I'm going to be laid up."
He halted, and in those few seconds his companions, eager in the chase,
drew ahead of him in the darkness, and disappeared around another
corner.
"I can't catch up to 'em," decided Joe. "Wonder if I can step on the
foot?"
He tried his weight on it, and to his delight found that it was not a
bad sprain, rather a severe wrench that, while it lamed him, still
allowed him to walk.
"Guess I'll go back," he murmured. "If there's a row I can't hold up my
end, and there's no use being a handicap. I'll go back and turn in. I
can explain later."
He turned about, walking slowly, the pain seeming to increase rather
than diminish, and he realized that he was in for a bad time.
"If I could see a hack I'd hail it," he thought, but the streets seemed
deserted, no public vehicles being in sight. "I've got to tramp it out,"
Joe went on. "Well, I can take it slow."
His progress brought him to Wall street, and he decided to continue
along that to Temple, and thence to the modest side-thoroughfare on
which the Red Shack was located. But he was not destined to reach it
without further adventures.
As he came around a corner he heard the murmur of low voices, and, being
cautious by nature, he halted to take an observation.
"If it's my own crowd--all right," he said. "But if it's a lot of
Sophs., I don't want to run into 'em."
He listened, and from among those whom he could not see he heard the
murmur of voices.
"That's the house over there," said someone.
"Right! Now we'll see if he'll double on me just because I wasn't
prepared. I'll make him walk Spanish!"
"Got plenty of the magoozilum?"
"Sure. We'll daub it on thick."
"They can't be after Freshmen," mused Joe. "I wonder what's up?"
He looked across the street in the direction where, evidently, the
unseen ones were directing their attention.
"A lot of the profs. live there," mused Joe. "I have it! Some one's
going to play a trick on 'em to get even. I'll just pipe it off!"
He had not long to wait. Out of the shadows stole two figures, and, even
in the dimness he recognized one of them as Ford Weston. The other he
did not know.
"Come on!" hoarsely whispered the 'varsity pitcher to his chum. "I'll
spread it on thick and then we'll cut for it. Separate streets. I'll see
you in the morning, but keep mum, whatever happens."
The two figures ran silently across the street, and paused in front of a
detached house. One seemed to be actively engaged at the steps for a
few minutes, and then both quickly ran off again, the two separating and
diving down side streets.
"Huh! Whatever it was didn't take them long," thought Joe. "I wonder
what it was? Guess I'll----"
But his half-formed resolution to make an investigation was not carried
out. He heard shouting down the street, and thinking it might be a crowd
of Sophomores, he decided to continue on to his room.
"They might start a rough-house with me," mused Joe, "and then my ankle
would be more on the blink than ever. I'll go home."
He started off, rather excited over the events of the night, and found
that even his brief spell of standing still had stiffened him so that he
could hardly proceed.
"Wow!" he exclaimed, as a particularly sharp twinge shot through him. He
had gone about two blocks when he heard someone coming behind him. He
turned in apprehension, but saw only a single figure.
"Hello! What's the matter?" asked a young man as he caught up to Joe.
"Twisted my ankle."
"So? What's your name?"
"Matson--I'm a Freshman."
"Oh, yes. I think I saw you at Chapel. Kendall's my name." Joe
recognized it as that of one of the Juniors and a member of the 'varsity
nine. "How'd it happen?"
"Oh, skylarking. The Sophs. were after us to-night."
"So I heard. You'd better do something for that foot," he went on, as he
noticed Joe's limp.
"I'm going to as soon as I get to my room."
"Say, I tell you what," went on Kendall. "My joint's just around the
corner, and I've got a prime liniment to rub on. Suppose you come in and
I'll give you some."
"Glad to," agreed Joe. "I don't believe I've got a bit at my shack, and
the drug stores are all closed."
"Come along then--here, lean on me," and Kendall proffered his arm, for
which Joe was grateful.
"Here we are," announced Kendall a little later, as they turned into a
building where some of the wealthier students had their rooms. "Sorry
it's up a flight."
"Oh, I can make it," said Joe, keeping back an exclamation of pain that
was on his lips.
"We'll just have a look at it," continued his new friend. "I've known a
strain like that to last a long while if not treated properly. A little
rubbing at the right time does a lot of good."
Joe looked in delight at the room of his newly found friend. It was
tastefully, and even richly, furnished, but with a quiet atmosphere
differing from the usual college apartment.
"You've got a nice place here," he remarked, thinking that, after all,
there might be more to Yale life than he had supposed.
"Oh, it'll do. Here's the stuff. Now off with your shoe and we'll have a
look at that ankle. I'm a sort of doctor--look after the football lads
sometimes. Are you trying for the eleven?"
"No, baseball is my stunt."
"Yes? So's mine."
"You catch, don't you?" asked Joe. "I've heard of 'Shorty' Kendall."
"That's me," came with a laugh. "Oh, that's not so bad," he went on as
he looked at Joe's foot. "A little swelled. Here, I'll give it a rub,"
and in spite of Joe's half-hearted protests he proceeded to massage the
ankle until it felt much better.
"Try to step on it," directed Shorty Kendall.
Joe did so, and found that he could bear his weight on it with less
pain.
"I guess you'll do," announced the Junior. "Cut along to your room
now--or say--hold on, I can fix you up here for the night. I've got a
couch----"
"No, thank you," expostulated Joe. "The boys would worry if I didn't
come back."
"You could send word----"
"No, I'll trot along. Much obliged."
"Take that liniment with you," directed Kendall.
"Won't you need it?"
"Not until the diamond season opens, and that's some time off yet. Good
night--can you make the stairs?"
"Yes--don't bother to come down," and Joe limped out.
As he reached the first hall he was made aware that someone was coming
in the front door. Before he could reach it the portal opened and a
student hurried in, making for a room near the main entrance. In the
glare of the hall light Joe saw that the youth was Ford Weston.
He also saw something else. On Weston's hand was a red
smear--brilliant--scarlet. At first Joe thought it was blood, but a
slight odor in the air told him it was paint.
An instant later his eyes met those of the rival pitcher--at least Joe
hoped to make him a rival--and Weston started. Then he thrust his
smeared hand into his pocket, and, without a word, hurried into his room
and slammed the door.