AMY WINS A CUP
In the afternoon Clint hobbled down to the tennis courts to watch the
final match in the tournament between Amy and Holt. They were hard at it
when he arrived and half a hundred enthusiasts were looking on and
applauding. Clint didn't play tennis and thought it something of a waste
of time. But today he had his eyes opened somewhat. Amy was a brilliant
player for his years, and Holt, who was a substitute end on the varsity
football team, was scarcely less accomplished. In fact, Holt had secured
the lead when Clint reached the court and the score of the first set was
5-2 in his favour.
"Byrd hasn't found himself yet," volunteered a boy next to Clint. "He
lost two games on his service. Banged the balls into the net time after
time. He'll get down to work presently, though, I guess."
Even as Clint's informant ended there came a burst of handclapping and
Harry Westcott, who was umpiring, announced: "The games are 5--3.
Holt leads."
Amy had the service and secured two aces at once, Holt returning twice
into the net. Then a double fault put the score 30--15. Holt got the
next service and lobbed. Amy ran up and smashed it safe into the further
corner of the court. Again Holt tried lobbing, and this time he got away
with it, for Amy drove the ball out. With the score 40--30, Amy served a
sizzling ball that Holt failed to handle and the games were 5--4. The
boy beside Clint chuckled.
"He's getting down to work now," he said.
But Amy's hope of making it five--all died quickly. Holt won on his
first service and although Amy returned the next he missed the back line
by an inch. Holt doubled and the score was 30--15. Amy tried to draw
Holt to the net and pass him across court, but Holt secured applause by
a difficult back-hand return that just trickled over the net and left
Amy standing. The set ended a minute later when Amy drove the service
squarely into the net.
"Holt wins the first set," proclaimed Westcott, "six games to four."
The adversaries changed courts and the second set started. Again Amy won
on his service and again lost on Holt's. There were several good
rallies and Amy secured a round of hearty applause by a long chase down
the court and a high back-hand lob that Holt failed to get. Amy was
playing more carefully now, using easier strokes and paying more
attention to placing. But Holt was a hard man to fool, and time and
again Amy's efforts to put the ball out of his reach failed. The set
worked back and forth to 4-all, with little apparent favor to either
side. Then Amy suddenly dropped his caution and let himself out with a
vengeance. The ninth game went to forty-love before Holt succeeded in
handling one of the sizzling serves that Amy put across. Then he
returned to the back of the court and Amy banged the ball into the net.
A double fault brought the score to 40-30, but on the next serve Amy
again skimmed one over that Holt failed with and the games were 5-4.
"I hope he gets this," murmured Clint.
"Hope he doesn't," replied his neighbour. "I want to see a deuce set."
So, apparently, did Holt, but he was too anxious and his serves broke
high and Amy killed two at the start. Then came a rally with both boys
racing up and down the court like mad and the white ball dodging back
and forth over the net from one side to the other. Holt finally secured
the ace by dropping the ball just over the canvas. Amy, although he ran
hard and reached the ball, failed to play it. Another serve was returned
low and hard to the left of the court, came back in a high lob almost to
the back line, sailed again across the canvas with barely an inch to
spare and finally landed in the net. Holt looked worried then. If he
lost the next ace he would have lost the set. So he tried to serve one
that would settle the matter, but only banged it into the net. The next
one Amy had no trouble with and sped it back along the side line to the
corner. But Holt was there and got it nicely and again lobbed. Amy
awaited with poised racket and Holt scurried to the rear of the court.
Then down came Amy's racket and the ball sailed across almost to the
back line and bounded high, and although Holt jumped for it, he missed
it and it lodged hard and fast in the back net.
"Byrd wins the set, 6--4! The score is one set each!"
Amy, passing the end of the net to change court, stopped a moment in
front of Clint. "How's the knee?" he asked.
"Rotten, thanks. Say, I thought you said you weren't taking chances,
Amy."
Amy grinned and doubling up the towel with which he had been wiping his
face and hands let it drive. Clint caught it and draped it over his
knees. "Go on and take your beating," he taunted.
But it was quite a different Amy who started in on that third and
deciding set. Holt never had a real chance after the first two games.
Amy took them both, the first 50-0 on his service and the second 30-50
on Holt's. After that Amy found himself and played tennis that kept the
gallery clapping and approving most of the time. It was only when he had
run the set to 4-0 that he eased up a little and allowed Holt the
consolation of one game. The next went to deuce and hung there some
time, but Amy finally captured it. By that time Holt's spirit was pretty
well broken and he put up scarcely any defence in the final game and Amy
slammed his serves over almost unchallenged and won a love game.
"Game, set and match to Byrd!" announced Westcott above the applause.
"Byrd wins the School Championship!"
Amy and Holt shook hands across the net and Clint, hobbling up, tossed
Amy the towel. "Got a conundrum for you, Amy," he said. "Want to
hear it?"
"Shoot!" replied Amy, from behind the towel.
"Why are you like a great English poet?"
"Give it up. Why, Mr. Johnsing, am I like a great English poet?"
"Because," replied Clint, edging away, "you surely can play tennis,
son!"
"Play ten--Oh! Help! Officer, arrest this man!"
"Huh," said Clint, "that's a better joke than you ever sprung. Where are
you going?"
"To get that nice pewter mug over there and then to the gym for a
shower. Come along and then I'll go over with you and watch that
wonderful team of yours bite holes in the turf."
Some of the fellows who remained demanded a speech when Amy accepted the
trophy from Westcott.
"Fellow-citizens," responded Amy, "I can only say that this is the
proudest moment of my young and blameless life. Thank you, one and all.
Where's the flannel stocking that goes with this, Harry?"
The bag couldn't be found, however, and Amy bore away his prize without
it. They paused at a neighbouring court to watch for a moment a
white-clad quartette of boys who were battling for the doubles
championship. "Semi-final round," explained Amy. "The winners meet
Scannel and Boynton tomorrow. It'll be a good match. What's the
score, Hal?"
[Illustration: "Funny you didn't make a success of it!" chuckled Clint]
"Brooks and Chase have won one set and they're three--love on this,
Amy," replied the boy addressed.
"Thought so," said Amy. "I picked them to meet Scannel and Boynton. And
I'll bet they beat 'em, too."
"Why didn't you enter the doubles?" asked Clint.
"Oh, I had enough to do looking after the thing," replied Amy, "and
getting through the singles."
Clint smiled. "I reckon the real reason was that you didn't want to hog
the show and take both prizes, eh?"
"No fear of that, I guess," answered the other evasively. "Aren't you
coming over to the gym with me?"
"I'll wait for you over yonder," said Clint. "Conklin says I mustn't use
this leg very much. Hurry up and come back. I'll be on the stand
over there."
The second was still practising when Clint reached the seats, some of
them tackling the dummy in the corner of the field and others, backs
and ends these, catching punts. Over on their own gridiron the 'varsity
was hard at it, the two squads trotting and charging about under the
shrill commands of Marvin and Carmine. Presently the rattle and bump of
the dummy ceased and the tackling squad returned to the gridiron and
"Boots" cleared the field for signal work. The backs and ends came
panting to the bench, and Captain Turner, spying Clint in solitary
grandeur, walked over to the foot of the stand.
"How's the knee, Thayer?" he asked anxiously.
"Much better, thanks," replied Clint, more optimistically than
truthfully. Turner nodded.
"That's good," he said approvingly. "Go easy with it, old man, and don't
take chances. Conklin says it's only a bruise, but knees are funny
things. You don't want to get water on it. We need you too much, Thayer.
Come on down to the bench."
"Thanks, but I'm waiting for Byrd. Did Conklin say how long I'd be out?"
"No, but you needn't worry, I guess. A couple of days more will put you
all right." Turner nodded and hurried back to where "Boots" was making
the line-up. When the squad took the field Clint saw that Cupples had
taken his place at right tackle and that Robbins was at left. This, he
reflected with some satisfaction, was doubtless because Robbins was not
quite so good as he, Clint, and the left of the 'varsity line was the
strongest. Hinton's piping voice sang the signals and the squad,
followed by the substitutes, began its journeys up and down the
gridiron. Amy joined Clint presently, still lugging his pewter trophy,
and the two boys leaned back against the seat behind them and looked on.
Clint, when the squad was near enough for him to hear the signal,
translated for Amy's benefit, as: "Right half outside of left guard.
Watch it!" or "Here's a forward to Turner, Amy. There he goes! Missed
it, though. That was a punk throw of Martin's."
"It's all well enough for you fellows to pretend that you know what's
going to happen when the quarter-back shouts a lot of numbers to you,"
observed Amy, hugging his knees and exposing a startling view of
crushed-raspberry socks, "but I'm too old a bird--no pun intended this
time--to be caught. Besides, I played once for a couple of weeks, and I
know that signals didn't mean anything to me."
"Funny you didn't make a success of it!" chuckled Clint.
"The quarter-back just bawls out whatever comes into his head and then
he tosses the ball to whichever chap looks as if he was wide enough
awake to catch it and that chap makes a break at the line wherever he
happens to think he can get through," continued Amy convincedly. "All
this stuff about signals is rot. Now we'll see. Where's this
play going?"
Clint listened to the signal. "Full-back straight ahead through centre,"
he said.
"What did I tell you?" Amy turned in triumph. Clint laughed.
"Otis got the signal wrong," he explained, "and crossed in front of
Martin."
"Oh, certainly! Yes, indeed!" agreed Amy with deep sarcasm. "Honest,
Clint, I think you really believe that stuff!"
"I have to," grunted Clint. "Here it goes right this time."
The signal was repeated and Martin dashed forward, took the pigskin at a
hand-pass and went through the centre. Amy grunted. "You just happened
to guess it," he said. "Where are they going?"
"Over to scrimmage with the 'varsity. Come along."
"Would you?" asked Amy doubtfully. "Somehow I hate to see the 'varsity
trampled on and defeated, Clint. Would you mind asking 'Boots' to be
merciful today! Tell him you've got a friend with you who's soft-hearted
and hates the sight of blood."
Amy made himself particularly objectionable during the ensuing
half-hour. The 'varsity was in fine fettle today and ripped the second
team wide open for three scores in the two periods played. Amy pretended
to think that every 'varsity success was a second team victory.
"There, that 'varsity fellow has taken the ball across the line, Clint!
Isn't that great? How much does that count for the second? Six, doesn't
it? My, but your team is certainly playing wonderful football, chum.
What I don't understand, though, is the--the appearance of satisfaction
displayed by the 'varsity, Clint. Why is that? Carmine is patting
Kendall on the back just as if he had done something fine! I suppose,
though, that they're so used to being defeated that they can pretend
they're pleased! Let me see, that makes the score 13 to for the
second, eh?"
"Oh, dry up!" laughed Clint. "The 'varsity's having one of its good
days, that's all, and we're playing pretty rotten. We have to let them
win once in a while. If we didn't they might not play with us. There
goes St. Clair in for Still."
"I hear that Still is fairly punk this Fall," said Amy. "Too bad, too,
for he was a dandy man last year. He had some sort of sickness in the
Summer, Freer tells me. Still never said anything about it for fear he'd
lose his place."
"That so? I'm sorry for Still, for he's a nice chap, but that St. Clair
is surely a wonder, Amy. He hasn't any weight to speak of, but he's the
fastest backfield man they've got, with the exception of Marvin, maybe."
"Well, I don't know much about the game," said Amy, "but it seems to me
that Carmine is a better quarter than Marvin. He seems to have more
ginger, don't you think?"
"Perhaps, but Marvin's a steadier fellow. More dependable. Handles punts
a heap better. Knows a lot more football than Carmine. I like the way
Carmine hustles his team, though. I reckon Marvin will have to get a
hump on him or he'll be losing his job."
"Which is the fellow who has your place, Clint?"
"The tall fellow on this end; just pulling his head-guard down; see
him?"
"Yes. How is he doing?"
"Mighty well, I'd say," responded Clint ruefully. "He's playing better
than I've ever seen him play all Fall. There he goes now! Let's see if
he gets under the ball."
Martin had punted, a long, high corkscrew that "hung" well and then came
down with a rush toward the waiting arms of Kendall. Captain Turner had
got away with Robbins at his heels, but Lee, the other end, had been
sent sprawling by Edwards, of the 'varsity, and Cupples, playing right
tackle, was far behind the kick. Carmine dived at Turner as the ball
settled into Kendall's arms, and brought him down, and Robbins threw
himself at the runner. But Kendall leaped aside, spinning on a heel, and
Robbins missed him badly. It was a second team forward who finally
stopped Kendall after the latter had raced across four white lines. Amy
observed Clint severely.
"Why that unholy smirk on your face?" he asked.
"I wasn't," denied Clint.
"You was! It pleased you to see Robbins miss the tackle, and you needn't
deny it. I'm surprised at you, Clint! Surprised and pained. You should
feel sorry for the poor dub, don't you know that?"
"Yes, I know it," replied Clint.
"Well, are you?"
"I am not!"
"Neither am I," said Amy, with a chuckle. "I hope he misses 'em all and
bites his tongue!"
A few minutes later the second again covered itself with glory,
according to Amy, when Harris of the 'varsity skirted its left end and
romped across the goal line for a third touchdown. Amy applauded with
glee and thumped Clint on the shoulder. "Bully for our side, Clint!" he
gloated. "We've gone and made the 'varsity score another touchdown for
us! Oh, but we're the snappy little heroes, what? Let's see if Jack can
kick a goal and give us another point. Now then! There we go! Did he or
didn't he?"
"He did," replied Clint gloomily.
"Fine! That puts the second 20 to 0, eh? Say, you've got a team there to
be proud of, old top! Never again will I cast aspersions on it,
or--What's up? Why the--the exodus?"
"They're through. Come on home."
"Couldn't stand the punishment any longer, eh?" asked Amy cheerfully.
"Ah, poor, disgraced, downtrodden 'varsity! My heart bleeds for them,
Clint! I could sit me down and weep--"
"You'll weep all right if you don't shut up!" declared Clint savagely.
"And don't walk so fast. I've got a bum knee."
Halfway to Torrence Amy stopped suddenly and clasped a hand to his
forehead. "Woe is me!" he declaimed.
"What is it?" asked Clint impatiently.
"I've left my pretty little trophy behind. I'll have to beat it back,
Clint, and rescue it. Can't you picture the poor little thing sitting
there all alone in pathetic solitude, forlorn and deserted?"
"I'll bet no one would steal it," said Clint unkindly.
"Perhaps not, perhaps not, but suppose it rained, Clint, and it's little
insides got full of water! I mustn't risk it. Farewell!"
Amy didn't get back to the room until half an hour later, but he had his
precious tennis trophy, and explained as he placed it on top his
chiffonier and stood off to view the effect, that he had stopped at the
courts to learn the results and afterwards at Main Hall to get mail.
"Brooks and Chase won two straight," he said, "just as I expected they
would. What did I do with that score-sheet, by the way? Oh, here it is."
He drew it from an inner pocket of his jacket, and with it a blue
envelope which fell to the floor. He picked it up, with a chuckle. "Look
at this, Clint. I found it in the mail and nearly had heart disease. Too
well do I know those blue envelopes and Josh's copper-plate writing!
Catch it. I tried to think of something I'd done, and couldn't, and then
I opened it and found that thing!"
Clint drew a sheet of paper from the blue envelope. On it was pasted a
short newspaper clipping and above the clipping was written in the
principal's minute writing: "Thought you'd like to see this. J.L.F."
Clint read the clipping:
"Wharton, Oct. 24--The Stamford police yesterday took into
custody James Phee and William Curtin, charged with numerous
burglaries throughout the state within the past month, among
them that of Black and Wiggin's jewelry store in this city a
fortnight ago. The suspected men were trying to dispose of a
small roadster automobile when arrested and their willingness
to part with it at a ridiculously low figure placed them
under suspicion. This car is presumably the one with which
they operated and successfully escaped arrest for so long.
The Stamford police are trying to find the real owner of the
car. It is believed that the two men got away with at least
four thousand dollars' worth of goods of various kinds during
their recent campaign, of which none has been recovered
except that stolen from Black and Wiggin. In that case almost
a thousand dollars' worth of jewelry which the burglars
secured by blowing the safe was discovered the following day
buried in the ground on property belonging to Thomas
Fairleigh about four miles from town, a piece of detective
work reflecting great credit on Chief Carey."
"I notice," commented Clint with a smile, "that no credit is given to
Amory Byrd and Clinton Thayer for their share in the discovery."
"I should say not! Maybe it's just as well, though. Newspaper notoriety
is most unpleasant, Clint. Besides, we didn't do so badly!" Amy pulled
out his gold watch and frowned at it intently. "It's an awful exact sort
of a thing, though. It hasn't lost or gained a second in two weeks. I'm
not sure that I approve of a watch with so little--er--sense
of humour!"