Kewpie Proudtree obeyed the shouted invitation to enter Number 16 and
appeared with a countenance as innocent as that of an infant. “Hello,
fellows,” he said cordially, dropping into a chair with indications of
exhaustion. “How do you like it as far as you’ve gone?”
Ned shifted in his seat at the study-table, choking back a groan, and
fixed Kewpie with a baleful look. “Listen, Proudtree,” he said sternly.
“I’ve got a bone to pick with you!”
“With me?” Kewpie stared in amazement. “What have I done?”
“You’ve got me into a fix, that’s what you’ve done! Didn’t you ask
me—us—last night not to let on to Stevenson that we—I—couldn’t play
football? Didn’t you say it would be a favor to you? Didn’t you say it
would be all right and—and everything?”
“Sure! What of it?”
“Why, you crazy galoot, you must have told him that I knew all about the
game! And you knew mighty well I didn’t! Stevenson thinks I’m a wonder,
and I don’t know a touch-down from a—a forward kick!”
“Pass, not kick,” corrected Kewpie, patiently. “Look here, Turner— Say,
are you Ned or Laurie? Blessed if I can tell!”
“Ned,” replied that youth, with much dignity.
“Guess I’ll have to call you Ned, then. Can’t call you both Turner. You
understand. It was like this, Ned. You see, I want to stand in with Joe
Stevenson. It—it’s for the good of the school. If they don’t play me at
center this fall, who are they going to play? Well, Joe thought I—well,
he seemed to think I hadn’t acted just right about keeping my weight
down. He—he was sort of peeved with me. So I wanted to smooth him down
a bit. You understand. That’s why I told him what I did.”
“Well, what _did_ you tell him?”
“Why, I sort of—well, it wasn’t what I _said_ exactly; it was what he
thought I meant!”
“Proudtree, you’re telling a whopper,” said Ned, sternly. “And you told
one to Stevenson, too, or I miss my guess.”
“I only said that you were a swell football-player.”
“For the love of lemons! What do you call that but a whopper?”
Kewpie looked both ashamed and distressed. He swallowed hard and glanced
furtively at Laurie as though hoping for aid. But Laurie looked as
unsympathetic as Ned. Kewpie sighed dolefully. “I—I suppose it was,” he
acknowledged. “I didn’t think about that. I’m sorry, Ned, honest! I
didn’t mean to tell what wasn’t so. I just wanted to get Joe’s mind off
his troubles. You understand.”
“Well, you got me in a mess,” grumbled Ned. “I got by all right to-day,
I suppose, but what’s going to happen to-morrow?”
Kewpie evidently didn’t know, for he stared morosely at the floor for a
long minute. Finally, “I’ll go to Joe and fess up if—if you say so,” he
gulped.
“I think you ought to,” responded Ned.
“Where’s the sense in that?” demanded Laurie. “What good would it do?
Proudtree did fib, but he didn’t mean to. I mean he didn’t do it for
harm. If he goes and tells Stevenson that he fibbed, Stevenson will have
it in for him harder than ever; and he will have it in for you, too,
Ned. Maybe he will think it was a scheme that you and Proudtree hatched
together. That’s a punk idea, I say. Best thing to do is prove that
Proudtree didn’t fib.”
“How?” asked Ned.
“Why, Proudtree—”
“There’s an awful lot of that ‘Proudtree’ stuff,” complained the
visitor. “Would you mind calling me Kewpie?”
“All right. Well, Kewpie told Captain Stevenson that you are a swell
player. Go ahead and be one.”
“Huh, sounds easy the way you say it,” scoffed Ned; “but how can I, when
I don’t know anything about the silly game? I wish to goodness you’d
taken up football instead of me!”
“You got through to-day all right, didn’t you?” asked Laurie. “Well,
keep it up. Keep your eyes open and learn. You can do it. You’re no
fool, even if you haven’t my intellect. Besides, you’re the best little
fakir that ever came over the range.”
“You can’t fake kicking a football,” said Ned, scathingly.
“Look here!” exclaimed Kewpie, his round face illumined by a great idea.
“Tell you what, Ned! I’ll show you how to kick!”
The silence that greeted the offer might have offended a more sensitive
youth, but Kewpie went on with enthusiasm. “Of course, I’m no wonder at
it. I’m a little too short in the leg and, right now, I—I’m a bit
heavy; but I used to kick and I know how it ought to be done. Say we
have a half-hour or so at it every morning for a while?”
“Wouldn’t Stevenson know what was up?” asked Ned, dubiously.
“He needn’t know. We’ll go over to the lot behind the grammar school.
Even if he saw us, he’d think we were having some fun.”
“He must have a strange idea of fun,” sighed Ned. “Still, if you want to
take the trouble—”
“Glad to! Besides, I owe you something for—for getting you in wrong.
And I can put you wise to a lot of little things about handling a ball.
We could do some passing, for instance. Wonder who’s got a ball we could
borrow. I’ll find one somewhere. You understand. Now, what hour have you
got free in the morning?”
A comparison of schedules showed that on two mornings a week the boys
could meet at ten, and on two other mornings at ten-thirty. The
remaining days were not accommodating, however.
“Well, even four times a week will show results,” said Kewpie,
cheerfully. “This is Thursday. We’ll have the first lesson Saturday at
ten.”
“I hope they don’t ask me to do any kicking before then,” said Ned.
“Not likely. You’ll get about the same stuff to-morrow as you had
to-day. You’ll get by, take my word for it. That’s settled, then.”
Kewpie referred to an ornate gold wrist-watch. “It’s after eight. You’re
going over to Johnny’s, aren’t you!”
“Johnny’s?” repeated Laurie. “Oh, Doctor Hillman’s! I suppose so. What’s
it like?”
“Oh, it isn’t bad. The eats are pretty fair. Anyway, he sort of likes
the fellows to go, and he’s a good sort. You’ll be introduced to the
faculty and their wives, if they have any, and meet a lot of fellows
whose names you’ll forget the next minute. Take my advice and sort of
work in toward the dining-room. Last year, the harlequin ice-cream gave
out before I could get to the table.” Kewpie sighed. “Tabby has bully
cake, too, and I’m off of cake. Isn’t that rotten luck?”
“Awful!” laughed Ned. “You going over now?”
“Yes. Come on and I’ll introduce you to some of the fellows you ought to
know. I’ll wash my dirty paws and meet you in two minutes.”
The principal’s reception proved rather enjoyable. The “eats” were
excellent and, under Kewpie’s guidance, the twins reached the long table
in the dining-room well in advance of the crowd. As Laurie remarked
afterward, it was worth the amount of trouble involved just to watch
Kewpie’s mouth water as he gazed soulfully at the chocolate layer-cake.
To his credit be it narrated that he manfully resisted it. Besides
consuming much delectable food, the twins were impressively introduced
by their guide to a number of their fellow-students, the introduction
being prefaced in each case by a sort of biographical note, as: “There’s
Dan Whipple. The tall fellow with the trick collar, talking to Mrs.
Wells. Rows stroke on the crew. Senior class president. Honor man last
year. President of Attic, too. Good chap to know. Come on.” In such
manner they met at least a half-dozen school notables, most of whom were
extremely affable to the new boys. Sometimes, to be sure, the twins had
a suspicion that Kewpie was pretending a closer intimacy with a notable
than in fact existed, but he always “got away with it.”
The only fly in the ointment of the evening’s enjoyment occurred when
Kewpie mischievously introduced them to Mrs. Pennington, the wife of the
Greek and Latin instructor, and sneaked away. Mrs. Pennington was tall
and extremely thin, and viewed the world through a pair of
tortoise-shell spectacles. She had a high voice and what Ned termed a
“very Lake Superior” manner, and, since she confined her conversation to
the benefits to be derived from an earnest study of the Latin poets,
philosophers, and historians, the twins were not happy. Fortunately,
very little was demanded from them conversationally, Mrs. Pennington
being quite competent to do all the talking. But, unfortunately, she
gave them no chance to get away. Ned descried Kewpie grinning
heartlessly from the doorway and rewarded him with a terrific and
threatening scowl. Kewpie, however, waved blandly and faded into the
night. Release came to them at last and they scurried away, neglecting,
in their hurried departure, to say good night either to the doctor or
Miss Tabitha, a breach of etiquette which probably passed unnoted by the
hosts. Back in East Hall, the twins hammered loudly at Number 15, but
Kewpie was either absent or discreet. At any rate, there was no
response, and revenge had to be postponed.
To Laurie’s surprise, a notice on the bulletin-board in the corridor of
School Hall the following morning announced that autumn baseball
practice would begin that afternoon. He had supposed that his hour to
offer himself on the altar of school patriotism would not arrive until
the next spring; and later, when he strode down Walnut Street with Ned,
in search of football togs for the latter, he broached the subject
diplomatically.
“Funny idea to have baseball practice this time of year, I think,” he
remarked carelessly. “Not much good in it. A fellow would forget
anything he learned by next April.”
“Didn’t know they did,” replied Ned, uninterestedly. “Who told you
that?”
“Oh, there was a notice on the board in School Hall. Don’t believe many
fellows go out in the fall.”
“Thought baseball was a spring and summer game. Still, I dare say you
can play it just as well now. Seems to me I’ve heard of having spring
football practice, haven’t you?”
“I dare say. Crazy scheme, though, playing games out of season.”
“Ye-es.” Ned went on thoughtfully a moment Then he shot a suspicious
glance at his brother. “You going out?” he demanded.
“N-no, I don’t think so,” answered Laurie, lightly. “There’s that
building we had the bet on the other day. We never did find out—”
“Never you mind about that building,” interrupted Ned, severely. “I’m on
to you, partner. You’re trying to renege on baseball. Well, it doesn’t
go! You’re a baseball hero and you’ve got to get busy!”
“Aw, Ned, have a heart! There’s plenty of time—”
“No, sir, by jiminy! You got me slaving for the dear old school, now you
do your bit!”
“Yes, but it isn’t fair to start the baseball season in September. You
know it isn’t.”
“Cut out the alibis! You can get some baseball togs right now. Good
thing you spoke of it. What’ll you need?”
“All I need is kindness,” wailed Laurie. “Ned, I don’t want to be a
hero! I don’t want to save the dear old school from defeat in the ninth
inning! I—I—”
“You’re going to do as you agreed to,” answered Ned, grimly. “Remember
that the honor of the Turners is at stake!”
Laurie sighed deeply. Then, “You speak of honor! Say no more. I yield,”
he declaimed dramatically.
“You bet you do,” answered Ned, unhesitatingly. “You for the baseball
field!”