AT WEST POINT
"We'd a right to that game!"
"Sure we had."
"And we did have it in the refrigerator, only it got out through the
drain pipe, I guess."
"It's tough luck!"
The Yale team and its admirers--no, in this case its sympathizers--were
coming off the field after the Harvard defeat. All sorts of comments,
excuses, philosophical expressions, and revilings at fate, were heard.
Joe said but little, though he thought much. Every error--every little
point he had missed--seemed to stand out glaringly.
"Never mind, old man!"
It was Spike who spoke, putting his arm affectionately around his chum's
shoulders.
"I--I can't help it," replied the pitcher, bitterly. "We lost the game."
"That's just it--we did--not you. Cæsar's ghost, man! You can't carry
the whole blame of losing the game, any more than you can claim the
whole credit when we win. It's all in the day's work."
"I know, but----"
"'But me no buts,' now Joe. Just brace up. This is only one of the
championship games. There are more to come, and we'll get enough to put
us on top of the heap. I only wish I had your chances to perform in
public."
"I wish you had, Spike. But I guess this was my last chance."
"Nonsense! They'll play you again. Why Weston--or Avondale either, for
that matter--wouldn't have done half as well, I think."
"Oh, so that's your opinion; is it?" snapped a voice behind them. There
was no need to turn to know that Weston was there, and it took but a
glance to show that he was frowning and sneering.
"It sure is," retorted Spike, sturdily, for he was not afraid to air his
opinions.
"Well, you've got another think coming," snapped Weston. "I'll pitch a
game pretty soon, and show you what's what."
Joe did not make reply, but he wondered if Weston's words held
significance.
"Maybe they won't let me pitch after this," he mused. Spike, reading his
thoughts, said:
"Now don't you go to thinking gloomy thinks, Joe. You're all right if
you only believe so. Have some confidence in yourself."
"I have, but after the way things went to pieces in the last inning I
don't know what to think."
"Oh, bosh! If you'd had anything like decent support it never would have
happened. Hutchinson muffing that ball started us down hill."
"That's what!" chimed in Jimmie Lee, coming along just then. "This is
only one game--the fortunes of war. We'll beat 'em next time; wallop
Princeton, and take the championship."
"West Point is next on the list," went on Joe. "I wonder what sort of a
game they play?"
"Like clockwork," explained Spike. "I saw one, once, and they put it all
over Yale. But we've got to win this one."
"That's what!" declared Jimmie. "I say, I know a nice place where we can
get a dandy rabbit. Let's stay over to-night. I can stand some cuts,
we'll take in a show, and have supper after it. Come on, and we can go
to New Haven in the morning."
"No, I guess I'll go back with the team," said Joe, slowly. "They might
think I was trying to dodge if I sneaked off. I'll go back with the
rest."
"All right--then we'll go to Glory's and have a feed," insisted Jimmie.
"I've got to do something to raise my spirits."
They went to the dressing rooms, and soon the players and their friends
were moving to the hotel where they had stopped.
Yale had cheered her successful rivals, and had been cheered in turn,
and now, as the team walked through the Cambridge streets they heard, on
all sides of them, the jubilant expressions that told of joy over the
victory. To Joe it was gall and wormwood, for, in spite of the efforts
of his friends to make him feel better, he half blamed himself for the
defeat.
On the way home in the special train he was gloomy and silent, but
later, when he and his chums went to the well-known resort, and heard
the Yale songs, and saw the jolly faces of the students--jolly in spite
of the defeat--he felt better.
"It's only once in a while that the bulldog loses his grip," declared
Ricky Hanover. "We'll get a strangle hold on the rest of the games and
come out on top of the heap."
College life resumed its usual routine after this big game. There were
others in prospect, though, and practice went on unceasingly.
Joe half feared he would be displaced from his position on the 'varsity,
but he was not. True, Weston and Avondale were called on at times, for
the policy of the coaches was to have the best pitchers always in
reserve. But Joe seemingly was the first one to be called on. Nor did
Mr. Hasbrook reproach him, personally, for the defeat.
All the players received a calling down for their loose methods in the
Harvard game, and their faults were pointed out in no uncertain fashion.
In a way the loss of the contest did good, for, following it, the
practice was snappier than it had been in a long while.
"We want to defeat the army lads!" exclaimed the head coach a few days
before the West Point game.
Contrary to the general custom the two who were to pitch and catch were
announced the night before. It was at a meeting of the team, during
which the coaches gave some good advice. Joe saw Weston in close
conversation with Mr. Benson and Mr. Whitfield, and he had a fear that
the deposed pitcher was trying to "pull strings" and make a place for
himself.
"Of course you'll pitch, Matson," said Mr. Hasbrook, in such a
matter-of-fact voice that Joe was rather startled. "And Kendall will
catch."
There was a murmur, possibly at the remembrance of the Harvard game, but
no one said anything. Joe, who sat beside Spike, whispered:
"I wonder when you'll get your chance?"
"Oh, some day, maybe," was the answer. "I can wait. I'm glad you've had
yours."
"I must make good, though," declared Joe, half fearful that he would
not.
They arrived at West Point to be enthusiastically greeted by the cadets,
who took charge of the team, the substitutes and the "rooters" in right
royal fashion. A big crowd had assembled, and as the day was a fine one
there was every prospect of a game that would be all that was desired.
"I wonder if we'll win?" mused Joe, as he got into his uniform and
started out on the field. The cadets were already at practice, and
showed up well.
"A fine, snappy lot of fellows," observed Jimmie Lee. "We've got our
work cut out all right."
"That's what," declared Hen Johnson.
As Joe left the dressing room, he saw Weston talking to Mr. Benson,
who was having a conversation with the trainer. The former 'varsity
pitcher--who was now second choice it seemed--was much excited, and as
Joe passed he heard Weston say:
"Well, I want half the game, anyhow. Can't I have it?"
"I--I'll see what I can do," replied Mr. Benson. "I'll do all I can."
"I'm tired of playing second fiddle," snapped Weston, as he drifted out
behind a knot of players. Joe began to think of many things.