THE CRIMSON SPOT
"What do you think of him, anyhow?" asked Spike of his room-mate, as
Weston passed on. "Isn't he the limit!"
"He certainly doesn't seem to care much for me," replied Joe, with a
grim smile. "But I suppose it's natural. Almost anyone would feel that
way at the prospect of being replaced."
"Oh, he makes me tired!" exclaimed Spike. "He ought to stand for
Yale--not for Ford Weston. It's the first time in a good many years that
any player has placed himself above the team."
"But Weston hasn't done that yet."
"No, but that's what he's scheming for. He as good as said that he'll
pitch for the 'varsity no matter what happens."
"Who's that? What's up?" asked another voice, and, turning, the two
chums saw Ricky Hanover. "Oh, you're talking about Weston," he added, as
he noted the defeated pitcher walking away. "What's he been saying?"
They told him, and Ricky, making a wry face, went on:
"So that's how things are; eh? Well, if Weston tries that sort of game,
I can see the finish of the Yale nine. It'll be the tail end of the
kite, and the championship will be in the soup. In fact it's beginning
to gravitate that way now, with the loss of this Cornell game."
"But where does Weston get his pull?" demanded Spike. "How is it that
they put him in to-day, when it was almost known that he couldn't make
good. And here was Joe all ready to go on the mound. You saw what he did
when he got there and yet----"
"Spare my blushes! I'm a modest youth!" laughed Joe.
"That's all right, there's something back of all this," continued Spike,
vigorous in defence of his chum. "Why should the coaches put Weston in,
and then, when he slumped, call on Avondale before they did you, Joe? It
isn't right, and I think Horsehide should have made a better fight for
you. You claim he's a friend of yours, Joe."
"Well, yes, in a way. And yet if I had to depend on his friendship to
get on the mound I'd never go there. I want to stand on my own feet and
have the right to pitch because I can do better than some other fellow.
That's all I ask--a fair show. I don't want any favors, and Mr. Hasbrook
isn't the man to give them to me, if I'd take them."
"I guess you're right there," commented Ricky.
"But what I can't understand," went on Spike, "is how Horsehide seemed
to give in to the other two coaches. It was as plain as a flagpole that
he didn't want to pitch Weston to-day, and yet he had to in spite of
himself. Why was it?"
"Do you really want to know?" asked Ricky, and his voice was lowered,
while he glanced around as if to make sure that no one would hear him
save his two friends. "Do you really want to know?"
"Certainly," declared Spike, and Joe wondered what was coming.
"Well, it's because Weston is a member of the Anvil Club," said Ricky.
"It's a class secret society, and it has a lot of influence--more so
than even some of the big Senior clubs. Weston belongs and so do
Horsehide and the other two coaches. They were in college, and they
still keep up their affiliations. Now you know why they pitched Weston
to-day--because he demanded it as a part of his right as a member of the
Anvil Club."
"Do you mean to tell me," asked Spike, "that the secret society is
bigger than Yale--that it could make her lose a ball game?"
"No, not exactly," replied Ricky. "But it is powerful, and a member has
an unwritten right to demand almost anything in reason of the other
members, and by their promises made they are obliged to help him."
"But this wasn't anything in reason," said Spike. "Joe should have
pitched the game, and then we'd have won. It was unreasonable to let
Weston go in."
"Look here!" exclaimed Ricky. "I don't mean to say that Yale men would
do any underhand work to make any athletic contest go by the board. But
you can't say, right off the bat, that Weston's demand was unreasonable.
He thought he could pitch to a victory, and he probably said as much,
very forcibly. It was a chance that he might, and, when he appealed for
a try, on the ground that he was an Anvil man--they had to give it to
him, that's all. It was all they could do, though I guess Horsehide
didn't want to."
"But there's Avondale," went on Ricky. "What about him?"
"He's an Anvil man, too."
"And I'm not," broke in Joe. "Say," he asked with a laugh, "how do you
join this society?"
"You don't," spoke Ricky solemnly. "You have to be asked, or tapped for
it, just as for Wolf's Head, or Skull and Bones. Oh, it's an exclusive
society all right, and as secret as a dark cellar."
"And you really know this to be so?" asked Spike, almost incredulously.
"Well, no one says so out and out, but I've heard rumors before, and
to-day they were strong enough to hear without a megaphone. Oh, Weston's
got the thing cinched all right."
"Then I haven't a chance," sighed Joe, and more than ever he regretted
coming to Yale. Yet, deep in his heart, was a fierce desire to pitch the
college to a championship.
"Haven't a chance!" cried Spike, indignantly. "Do you mean to say,
Ricky, that they'll let Weston go on losing games the way he did
to-day?"
"No, not exactly. But they'll pitch him because he will appeal to their
society side, and bamboozle 'em into thinking that he has come back
strong, and can sure win."
"And if he doesn't--if he slumps as he did to-day?"
"Then they'll put in Avondale or McAnish."
"And Joe won't get a show until last?" asked Spike.
"That's about the size of it."
"I don't believe so."
"All right. Just watch," said Ricky, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Of
course," he went on, "the coaches may wake up to the fact before it's
too late, or there may be such a howl made that they'll have to can the
society plea. But it's a queer situation. Come on down to Glory's and
we'll feed our faces."
"Wait until we get un-togged," suggested Spike, for he, too, had on a
uniform, hoping for a chance to play. But it had not come.
It was late when Joe and his chum got back to their room. They had met
congenial spirits at the popular resort, and a sort of post-mortem had
been held over the game. But, though the faults of many players were
pointed out, and though Joe received due praise for his work, little had
been said of Weston's poor pitching.
"It's just as I told you," declared Ricky. "There are too many members
of the Anvil Club, and affiliated societies, and they hate to hurt
Weston's feelings, I guess."
The 'varsity pitcher was not present.
"Well, it sure is a queer state of affairs," commented Spike, as he and
Joe reached their apartment. "I wish we could do something. It's a
shame, with a pitcher who has your natural abilities, Joe, that----"
"Oh, forget it, old man, and go to sleep," advised Joe. "I'm much
obliged for your interest in me, but maybe it will come out right after
all."
"Humph! It won't unless we make it," murmured Spike.
The coaches tried some shifting about of players when the next practice
came on, though Weston was still retained on the mound. Joe was told to
go in at shortstop, and he made good there, more by hard work than
natural ability, for he wanted to show that he would do his duty
wherever he was placed. Weston seemed to be doing better, and he got
into more plays, not being content to merely pitch.
"We'll trim Harvard!" was the general opinion, and Yale stock, that had
gone down, took an upward move.
The Harvard game was soon to come--one of the contests in the
championship series, though Yale generally regarded the fight with
Princeton as the deciding test.
It was one afternoon following some sharp practice, when the 'varsity
seemed on edge, that Joe said to Spike:
"Come on, let's take a walk. It's too nice to go back and bone."
"All right--I'm with you. We'll get out in the country somewhere."
Weston passed as this was said, and though he nodded to the two, there
was no cordiality in it.
Joe and Spike thoroughly enjoyed their little excursion, and it was
almost dusk when they returned. As they entered their room, Ricky came
out to greet them.
"What have you fellows been doing?" he demanded. "I came in to have a
chat, and I found your room empty. A little later I heard you in it, and
then, after I had found my pipe which I dropped under the bed, and went
in again, you weren't to be seen. Yet I was sure I heard you moving
about in it."
"We haven't been home since practice," declared Spike.
"You say you heard someone in our room?" inquired Joe.
"I sure did."
"Maybe it was Hoppy."
"No, for I asked him, and he said no."
"Any messages or letters left?" asked Spike, looking around, but no
missives were in sight.
"Oh, well, maybe it was spooks," declared Joe. "I'm going to get on
something comfortable," and he went to the clothes closet, presently
donning an old coat and trousers. Ricky made himself comfortable in an
armchair, and the three talked for some time.
"I say, what's that on your sleeve?" asked Ricky of Joe during a pause.
"It looks like red ink. See, you've smeared Spike's trigonometry with
it."
"Quit it, you heathen!" exclaimed the aggrieved one.
"Red ink," murmured Joe, twisting his sleeve around to get a look at the
crimson spot. He touched it with his finger. "It's paint--red paint!" he
exclaimed, "and it's fresh!"