THE NEW TYPEWRITER
Peaches went toward the back of the house, while Barry ascended the
stairs. It was fully five minutes later when the murmur of voices in
the dining-room ceased and Peaches came up. The two boys went into his
darkened room and peered cautiously from the window that overlooked the
road in the direction of town. Once they were certain they discerned
the watching form about thirty yards away, where the gloom was deepest,
but when they looked again it had either disappeared or merged with the
shadows.
After a few moments of further staring into the night they withdrew
and Peaches lighted up, drawing the curtains. Barry approved the
latter act, for he had begun to feel sort of shivery. They talked the
situation over, in voices unconsciously lowered. Peaches said that Davy
wasn’t going to try to get away to-night, that probably it was best not
to.
“If that fellow down there is really watching the house,――and I guess
there’s no doubt about that,――he’s likely to keep on watching most
of the night. He would know that if Davy is here he wouldn’t try to
get off until midnight or later. What I can’t make out is why the cop
doesn’t come in and have a look.”
“Maybe,” suggested Barry, “they aren’t certain. Maybe they’ve just
heard enough to make them suspicious. You have to have a warrant to
search a house, don’t you?”
“I guess you do. Well, I’m going to bed, and you’d better do likewise,
old-timer.”
In the morning Barry’s first act was to hurry across to Peaches’
room and look anxiously from the side window. The street was utterly
deserted, and, in the bright sunlight, it was easy enough to believe in
the innocence of the lurking form of the night before.
The Springfield game was dull and one-sided. Again Barry saw service
in the final episode and was called on for six punts. The Major used
nearly every second- and third-string player before, at last, the
contest ended with the score 33 to 0. Followed much rejoicing until
news came that Hoskins had defeated Peebles, 22 to 3. Recalling that
Peebles had humbled Broadmoor by a score of 21 to 3, the rejoicers
ceased rejoicing and amazedly considered the fact that, if figures
didn’t lie, Hoskins was at that moment exactly thirty-seven points
better than Broadmoor!
Monday saw the beginning of secret practice on the field and the
institution of evening sessions in the gymnasium, and Wednesday
witnessed the hardest practice of the season. Not until the lights had
begun to appear in the windows on the campus were the players released.
Barry was far too tired to hurry through his shower and his dressing,
and the locker-room was almost empty when he left it. To his surprise,
Clyde was waiting outside on the steps, and joined him.
“Some drive,” he said.
Barry agreed and, accommodating his step to Clyde’s, headed toward
Dawson.
“You got quite a send-off in the paper this morning,” said Clyde, after
a pause. “See it?”
Barry hadn’t seen it.
“Well, I saved it for you. It’s in the room. Short Higgins is
corresponding here, and he has half a column of dope. Calls you
‘Broadmoor’s punting ace,’ and if Hoskins believes what he says they’ll
probably lay for you and try to put you out, Barry. It seems to me
Higgins hasn’t done us any favor by boosting you as a kicker. I’d like
to know what the Major thinks of it. What’s the sense of advertising
the fact that we’ve got a punter? Much better keep quiet about it, I
think, and surprise the enemy if we can.”
“I heard,” said Barry, “that the Major always read what the newspaper
correspondents sent out.”
“Well, that’s what I thought. If he read that stuff of Short’s, he must
have been in a hurry. Unless――” Clyde hesitated an instant―― “unless he
wants Hoskins to know! By Jove, Barry! he might! The Major’s awfully
foxy.”
Barry considered that theory while he followed Clyde upstairs in
Dawson, but he failed to see any advantage to be gained by the
publicity. Clyde turned on the lights and produced the city paper of
that date, opened to the sport page. Barry read the article through.
Higgins had gone exhaustively into the capabilities of the Broadmoor
players, discussing them individually at some length. The reference to
himself Barry found almost embarrassingly flattering. He was credited
with having punted fifty-five yards,――which was true to the extent of
one lucky performance in practice,――with being an exceptionally fast
and clever runner, and with being the outstanding discovery of the
football season at Broadmoor.
Also, although the fact was not distinctly stated, the writer managed
to give the impression that the young “punting ace” was being kept
under cover. Barry went through the article a second time. It was just
as he had thought. Higgins had discussed perhaps twenty players, but
only in the case of Barry Locke had he let himself go. Nothing had been
told of the others that would reach the rival camp as fresh news! He
laid the paper down, with a puzzled look at Clyde.
“That reads sort of――sort of funny,” he said.
Clyde nodded.
“It certainly does. I don’t get it, Barry. Either Higgins got that past
without the Major seeing it or the Major tipped Higgins off to write it
that way. And if it was the last, what’s the big idea? Every one says
we’re certain to play a punting game through at least one half, and
if we do he will have to use you. Tip Cartright can’t do it all; and,
anyway, you’re better than he is, now.”
They discussed the puzzle for several minutes without arriving at a
solution. Then, partly because it was growing late and partly because
he wanted to get away before Hal Stearns came in, Barry pocketed the
paper at Clyde’s invitation and arose. As he did so his eyes lighted on
a small black case on the big table.
“Hello!” he said. “You’ve got one of those, too, haven’t you?”
Clyde nodded, lifting the cover of the small typewriter and idly
jabbing at a key.
“Yes, a fellow named Whitwell is selling them around school and I
thought I’d help him along. Besides, some of the faculty give you
better marks, they say, if you turn in your stuff typewritten. Pretty
good little contraptions, too. Want to try it?”
Barry picked out his name on the keys and Clyde rolled the result into
view. The effort hadn’t been very successful, for Barry had forgotten
in one place to use the shift, and had evidently struck the wrong key
on two occasions. Also, the capital B was not aligned with the other
letters. The result was this:
John Bsrry lockw
“Gee! I’d almost forgotten about the John,” commented Clyde. “Guess
I’ll call you Jack for a change.”
“If you do,” answered Barry, “I’ll call you Fletcher――no, Fletch. That
sounds like a side of bacon. Say, what’s the matter with that B? Looks
as if it felt it was more important than the other letters!”
“Gee! I don’t know! It always does that. Maybe that thingumbob is bent.
I’ll have to get Whitwell to look at it. Well, don’t get a swelled head
over that newspaper stuff, youngster. See you to-morrow.”
Barry didn’t allow the article to increase the size of his cranium, but
he did clip it very carefully and put it away with other and similar
treasures. Also he showed it first to Peaches, and Peaches began
calling him “Ace” and pretending a new and impressive deference. But
even Peaches couldn’t explain why Higgins had been allowed to get that
paragraph past the censor! They were still discussing the matter that
evening in Barry’s room when footsteps came along the hall and Toby, as
ever disdaining to knock, burst enthusiastically in on them, one hand
extended before him and his eyes glowing behind his enormous spectacles.
“Say, fellows, look here, will you? Say, look at this for a beauty! He
was outside the window and didn’t say ‘Boo!’ when I picked him off.
Lookut!”
Toby thrust the prize under Barry’s eyes and Peaches got up to look,
too. It was a medium-sized moth, its upper wings of pale yellow with
black tracery and its lower ones of pinky red――they, too, marked with
black. It certainly was a beautiful thing, and both Barry and Peaches
admired it in a fashion to satisfy its captor. Peaches wanted to know
the name of it, but Toby shook his head.
“Golly! I don’t know,” he answered regretfully. “I’ve never seen one
like it before. I’m going to look it up at the library to-morrow. Ain’t
it a corker?”
“Wonderful, Toby,” assented Peaches. “Is he dead?”
“No, I guess he’s just kind of chilled.” Toby touched the moth gently
and it stirred in lazy protest, stretching its upper wings a little
wider. Then, as if to make the protest more emphatic, it fluttered
out of Toby’s palm and settled on the blue blotting-pad on the desk.
“Don’t touch him!” warned Toby in agonized tones. “You might tear his
wings.” He reached a stealthy finger down and tried to persuade the
moth to crawl upon it, but the invitation was refused. There was a
sudden fluttering of pale yellow-and-red wings and the moth careened
agitatedly about their heads, dipped swiftly, and mysteriously
disappeared.
“Well, where the dickens――!” exclaimed Peaches.
“He went into that drawer!” declared Toby. “There he is! I see him!”
Barry drew the top drawer of the desk farther out and Toby, peering
excitedly in, made a grab among the papers and various articles there,
but missed the moth.
“Better take the drawer out,” suggested Peaches. “Although, for my
part, I hope he gets away from you!”
Barry placed the drawer upon the desk and carefully lifted the contents
out, while Toby stood by waiting to pounce. But the moth wasn’t there.
“He’s in the next one,” said Toby. “He flew out over the back, I guess.
Let me look, Barry, will you? Gee! I don’t want to lose him!”
Barry, who had been seated, arose and Toby took over the search. One
by one, very cautiously, he took out the four drawers and went through
them while the others looked on and offered encouraging advice. Foiled,
Toby squatted, and stared into the dim depths of the cubby that had
held the drawers. “Got a match?” he demanded feverishly.
Instead of a match, Barry offered a pocket torch and Toby got to his
knees and continued the hunt. At that moment the doorbell tinkled and
the boys heard Betty responding to the summons. Toby’s antics had
rather palled by now and both Barry and Peaches lent their attention
to the voices at the front door. For a week a ring at the doorbell
had sent their thoughts to the subject of police. Consequently Toby’s
grunts and remarks, somewhat smothered because he had introduced his
head into the recess, went unheeded.
“Gee! he ain’t here!” said Toby, mournfully. “Not unless he――Ugh!
Gosh!――Maybe there’s a crack―― Say, here’s something stuck up here in
a splinter, Barry.” Receiving no response, Toby dropped the something
behind him into the nearer drawer and went on with his muttering: “Gee!
I’ll bet I’ve lost him!” There was a loud sneeze, followed by a sharp
_bang_ as Toby’s head came in contact with a crossbar. “Ow!” cried the
explorer in an agonized voice. “Say, there’s more dust in here――”
“Shut up, Toby!” warned Peaches, peremptorily. There were firm
footsteps in the hall and then Betty knocked and said, “Barry, Major
Loring is here!”
After a minute Peaches dragged Toby with him out of the room, Toby
going most unwillingly and with many backward glances.
“Say, Barry, if you find him don’t try to get him, will you? Let me
know, will you? I want――”
“Shut up, and say good night!” hissed Peaches.
“Yeah,” responded Toby confusedly. “Good night.”
Then the door closed and the Major, slightly amused, turned his gaze to
Barry. The latter, still too surprised by the visit to be at ease, gave
a halting explanation of the disordered appearance of the room. Major
Loring listened smilingly but absently, his gaze traversing the barely
furnished quarters. When Barry had ended, the Major said:
“I see you don’t use a typewriter, Locke.”
“Sir? A typewriter? No, sir, I don’t.”
“A good many of the fellows do,” said the coach. “It seems to be coming
to be the style to have them. I suppose you can write on them.”
Barry shook his head apologetically.
“No, sir, I can’t. I’ve never owned one.”
“Still,” persisted the visitor, “I suppose Jones has one you could use
if you wanted to. Or this Nott boy.”
“Toby has one. He bought it a little while ago from some fellow who’s
selling them here in school.”
“Ever tried it?” asked the Major.
Puzzled, Barry again shook his head.
“No, sir.” Then, with a weak smile: “I don’t believe he’d let me,” he
added.
“Still, it wouldn’t be difficult to do a little writing on it if he
happened to be out, I suppose?” the Major persisted.
“I――I suppose not,” answered Barry, slowly; “only, he almost never is
out.”
“I see. Well, to come down to cases, Locke, here’s what brought me
around to see you.” The Major took an envelop from a pocket and drew
forth two folded sheets of paper. “I’m very glad to hear you say that
you don’t use a typewriter, for this letter is typewritten. Know what
it is?”
“No, sir.” Barry stared, his eyes rather round by now.
“I didn’t think you did. You mustn’t mind my asking, though; nor about
the typewriter, either. I was merely trying to――well, strengthen my own
conviction. Here, just read this.”
Barry took the missive and perused it with frowning brow. It was neatly
written on a single sheet of school paper with a typewriter such as
Toby owned and with a black ribbon. It ran as follows:
MR. GEORGE PRINCE,
HOSKINS ACADEMY,
FAIRMOUNT, CONN.
DEAR SIR:
If you want some inside dope on Broadmoor football I am in
position to supply it. I can tell you signals to be used
against your team and explain several new plays that our coach
is teaching. This is strictly confidential, so if you are not
interested kindly destroy this letter and say nothing about it.
I am not looking for money or other reward, but just to get
square with persons who have treated me mean. Address X. Y. Z.,
104 Bridge St., Wessex, Conn.
CONFIDENTIAL.
Barry’s mind was in strange confusion as he ended.
“Why――why,” he stammered in amazement, “that’s this house!”
The Major nodded.
“Yes. That’s why I’m here. You see, Locke, you’re the only one here
that could possibly supply that sort of information. Hold on! Let me
finish, please. You haven’t been under serious suspicion, my boy.
Of course for a moment I was forced to consider you, but only for a
moment. I showed the letter to Captain Buckley and he simply echoed my
own opinion. ‘It’s a silly hoax,’ he said. ‘Locke wouldn’t have any
purpose in doing a thing like that, and he isn’t the sort to do it,
anyway.’ So I just dropped in to talk it over with you. Whether it is
a hoax or not――and surely it must be――it’s unpleasant, and I’d like to
find who wrote that letter. Do you happen to know?”
Barry was staring again at the sheet in his hand, noting now something
that had at first escaped him. At four places in the course of the
writing a letter stood slightly above the level of the line, and that
letter was always a B. He shook his head, glad that the coach had
formed his question as he had.
“No, sir, I don’t,” he answered gravely.
“You had no hand in it? I mean, you knew nothing of it? Some one might
have written it as a joke, of course, and I wondered if you mightn’t
have had an inkling, Locke.”
“No, sir, I know nothing about it. You spoke of Toby Nott’s typewriter.
I was in his room a few days ago and he was using it and I noticed that
his ribbon was purple. He may have a black ribbon, of course, but we
could find out, sir.”
“Let’s not bother,” was the reply. “I’ve already accepted your word,
Locke. Now, one more thing. Suppose this was not intended as a hoax,
to get a laugh on the Hoskins people. In that case it would look like
an attempt to get you in wrong, wouldn’t it?”
“Why――yes, sir; I suppose it would,” answered Barry, unwillingly, “but
I don’t see――I don’t know――”
“That’s what I’m getting at. There’s no one you know of who might have
taken this means of evening up a score, Locke?”
“I――I just can’t imagine any fellow doing anything like that, sir, no
matter what――no matter how sore he might be!”
“Hm! that hardly answers my question, Locke. I’ll put it this way:
Since you’ve seen that letter, has it occurred to you that it might be
written by any one you know?”
Barry’s gaze dropped.
“I’d hate to suspect any fellow――” he began.
“Locke!” Major Loring’s voice had a ring that almost made Barry jump.
“Answer my question!”
Barry met the Major’s stern gaze steadily for a moment. Then he shook
his head.
“That isn’t fair, sir,” he said.
“It is fair!” answered the coach, firmly. “If this letter was not
written as a joke, it was written to compromise you. You are a member
of the team. Consequently the fellow who did that, deliberately
set out to cause trouble to the team, to interfere――maliciously
interfere――with my efforts. Why, just think a moment, Locke! Suppose
I took that letter to Doctor Clode. What would be the result? Some
one would get fired out of here mighty quick, and you know it. And he
deserves to be. Whether that was a joke or a piece of spite work, it’s
despicable. Fortunately, Prince thought it a hoax, but even so he must
think we have a strange sense of humor here at Broadmoor. Perhaps you’d
better read his letter, too.”
Barry accepted it in silence and read:
HOSKINS ACADEMY ATHLETIC BOARD
FAIRMOUNT, CONN.
_Tuesday._
MR. HARRIS LORING,
BROADMOOR SCHOOL,
WESSEX, CONN.
DEAR MR. LORING:
The inclosure reached me this morning and I’m forwarding it for
your interest. If you can discover the humorous youth who wrote
it you might tell him that we aren’t in the market for his
funny quips. Also, if you do get him, give him a couple for me!
Cordially,
GEO. A. PRINCE.
Barry handed the two letters back and the Major frowningly returned
them to the envelop and the envelop to his pocket. Then, more gently,
he said:
“You see, Locke, this doesn’t concern you alone. I’m convinced now that
the fellow who perpetrated this silly business meant to cause trouble.
Well, he deserves a lesson and I mean to see that he has it. I don’t
want to take this to the faculty, and I don’t propose to, but I do
propose to find this idiot and read the riot act to him if no more. So,
come clean, Locke, and let’s get it cleared up. Now then, do you or
don’t you suspect any one?”
After a long moment of silence Barry nodded his head:
“I do suspect some one, Major, but it’s only suspicion and I have no
right to say any more than that.”
“If your suspicion is wrongly placed, that fact will be proved, my boy.
But I think you know that it isn’t. Whom have you in mind?”
“I’d rather not say, sir.”
“You must!” The Major’s tone was sharp, but Barry only shook his head.
“No, sir,” he answered firmly. Their eyes clashed for a moment. Then:
“You are making a mistake,” said the coach, grimly. “As long as you
are on the team, Locke, I’m your superior officer, and I won’t stand
insubordination. Now think that over a minute.”
“This matter isn’t――isn’t――it doesn’t concern me as a football player,
sir.”
“It concerns the team. That’s sufficient. I want an answer, Locke.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
There was a long silence. Barry, feeling very hopeless, stared at his
tightly clasped hands. Then he heard the Major arising and glanced up.
The Major’s countenance was very cold, very grim.
“You had better sleep on this, Locke,” he said as he moved toward
the door. “Until you can see clearly and decide to speak out, as you
should, your services won’t be required with the team. I’m sorry, my
boy.”
“I’m sorry, too, sir,” answered Barry, faintly.
Major Loring opened the door and went out. Barry listened to the sound
of his footsteps in the hall, on the stairs, and finally on the porch.
Then came the complaining creak of the gate.
“Some one,” thought Barry, “ought to grease it.”
For some minutes he stood where the Major had left him. Then something
light against a window-pane drew him across the room. It was Toby’s
moth, motionless, its lovely wings half spread. Barry placed a finger
before it and stirred it gently and the moth slowly climbed aboard.
With the other hand he opened the window at the bottom. Outside,
however, the moth showed no desire to accept his freedom and Barry had
to toss it into the dark.
“Sort of a mean trick on Toby,” he reflected as he closed the window
again. Then there was a knock at the door and Peaches sauntered in.