JOE'S SILENCE
"Rather queer," mused Joe, after a moment's silence. "I wonder he didn't
say something to me after what happened. So he rooms here? It's a great
shack. I suppose if I stay here the full course I'll be in one of these
joints. But I don't believe I'm going to stay. If I get a chance on the
'varsity nine next year and make good--then a professional league for
mine."
He limped out of the dormitory, and the pain in his ankle made him
keenly aware of the fact that if he did not attend to it he might be
lame for some time.
"Red paint," he murmured as he let himself out. "I wonder what Weston
was doing with it? Could he---- Oh, I guess it's best not to think too
much in cases like this."
He reached his rooming place and trod along the hall, his injured foot
making an uneven staccato tattoo on the floor.
"Well, what happened to you?"
"Where did you hike to?"
"Were you down to Glory's all by your lonesome?"
"What'd you give us the slip for?"
"Come on; give an account of yourself."
These were only a few of the greetings that welcomed him as he entered
his apartment to find there, snugly ensconced on the beds, chair, sofa
and table, his own room-mate and the other friends who had gone out that
wild night.
"What's the matter?" demanded Spike, in some alarm, as he saw his friend
limping.
"Oh, nothing much. Twisted ankle. I'll be all right in the morning. How
did you fellows make out?"
"Nothing doing," said Ricky. "The boobs that shampooed us split after we
got on their trail, and we lost 'em. Did you see anything of 'em?"
"Not much," said Joe, truthfully enough.
"Then where did you go?"
He explained how he had twisted on his ankle, and turned back, and how,
in coming home, he had met Kendall. He said nothing of watching Weston
and another chap do something to the stoop of the unknown professor's
house.
"Mighty white of Kendall," was Spike's opinion, and it was voiced by
all.
"Oh, what a night!" exclaimed Slim Jones. "Home was never like this!"
"Well, you fellows can sit up the rest of the night if you want to,"
said Joe, after a pause; "but I'm going to put my foot to bed."
"I guess that's the best place for all of us," agreed Ricky. "Come on,
fellows; I have got some hard practice to-morrow. I may be called to the
'varsity."
"Like pie!" jeered Slim Jones.
"Oh, ho! Don't you worry," taunted Ricky. "I'll make it."
There was a sensation the next morning. It seemed that a well-known and
very literary professor, returning from a lecture from out of town,
before a very learned society, had slipped and fallen on his own front
porch, going down in some greasy red paint that had been smeared over
the steps.
The professor had sprained a wrist, and his clothing had been soiled,
but this was not the worst of it. He had taken with him, on his lecture,
some exceedingly rare and valuable Babylonian manuscripts to enhance
his talk, and, in his fall these parchments had scattered from his
portfolio, and several of them had been projected into the red paint,
being ruined thereby. And, as the manuscripts had been taken from the
Yale library, the loss was all the more keen.
"I say, Joe, did you hear the news?" gasped Ricky, as he rushed into
his friend's room, just before the chapel call.
"No. Is there a row over the shampooing?"
"Shampooing nothing! It's red paint, and some of those musty manuscripts
that a prof. had," and he poured out the tale.
"Red paint?" murmured Joe.
"Yes. There's a fierce row over it, and the Dean has taken it up. If the
fellows are found out they'll be expelled sure. Oh, but it was a night!
But the red paint was the limit."
Joe did not answer, but in a flash there came to him the scene where
Weston had entered his room, thrusting his hand into his pocket--a hand
smeared with red.
"Fierce row," went on Ricky, who was a natural reporter, always hearing
sensations almost as soon as they happened. "The prof. went sprawling on
his steps, not knowing the goo was there and the papers---- Oh me! Oh
my! I wonder who did it?"
"Hard to tell I guess," answered Joe, "with the bunch that was out last
night."
"That's so. I'm glad it wasn't any of our fellows. We all stuck
together--that is all but you----" and, as if struck by a sudden
thought, he gazed anxiously at Joe.
"Oh, I can prove an _alibi_ all right," laughed the pitcher. "Don't
worry."
"Glad of it. Well, let's hike. There goes the bell."
There was indeed a "fierce row," over the spoiling of the rare
manuscripts, and the Dean himself appealed to the honor of the students
to tell, if they knew, who the guilty one was.
But Joe Matson kept silent.
There was an investigation, of course, but it was futile, for nothing of
moment was disclosed.
It was several days later when Joe, strolling across the college campus
after a lecture, came face to face with Weston. For a moment they stood
staring at one another.
The hot blood welled up into the cheeks of the 'varsity pitcher, and he
seemed to be trying to hide his hand--the hand that had held the red
smear. Then, without a word, he passed on.
And Joe Matson still maintained his silence.
The Fall passed. The Yale eleven swept on to a glorious championship.
The Christmas vacation came and went and Joe spent happy days at home.
He was beginning to be more and more a Yale man and yet--there was
something constrained in him. His parents noticed it.
"I--I don't think Joe is very happy," ventured Clara, after he had gone
back to college.
"Happy--why not?" challenged her mother.
"Oh, I don't know. He hasn't said much about baseball."
"Baseball!" chuckled Mr. Matson, as he looked out of the window at the
wintry New England landscape. "This is sleigh-riding weather--not
baseball."
"Oh, I do wish Joe would give up his foolish idea," sighed Mrs. Matson.
"He can never make anything of himself at baseball. A minister now,
preaching to a large congregation----"
"I guess, mother, if you'd ever been to a big ball game, and seen
thousands of fans leaning over their seats while the pitcher got ready
to deliver a ball at a critical point in the contest, you'd think he had
some congregation himself," said Mr. Matson, with another chuckle.
"Oh, well, what's the use talking to you?" demanded his wife; and there
the subject was dropped.
Joe went back to Yale. He was doing fairly well in his lessons, but not
at all brilliantly. Study came hard to him. He was longing for the
Spring days and the green grass of the diamond.
Gradually the talk turned from debating clubs, from glees and concerts,
to baseball. The weather raged and stormed, but there began to be the
hint of mildness in the wintry winds.
In various rooms lads began rummaging through trunks and valises,
getting out old gloves that needed mending. The cage in the gymnasium
was wheeled out and some repairs made to it.
"By Jove!" cried Joe one day, "I--I begin to feel as if I had the spring
fever."
"Baseball fever you mean," corrected Spike.
"It's the same thing, old man."
Jimmie Lee, a little Freshman who roomed not far from Joe's shack, came
bursting in a little later.
"Hurray!" he yelled, slapping our hero on the back. "Heard the news?"
"What news?" asked Spike. "Have you been tapped for Skull and Bones, or
Wolf's Head?"
"Neither, you old iconoclast. But the notice is up."
"What notice?"
"Baseball candidates are to report in the gym. to-morrow afternoon.
Hurray!" and he dealt Spike a resounding blow.
Joe Matson's eyes sparkled.