The interview between Eddy and the Principal was very unsatisfactory. Early in the course of it the boy lapsed into tears, and his answers were interjected between sobs that shook his own frail body and wrung the master’s heart. He did his best for Mr. Moore; he was not well and had not been for weeks. No, he hadn’t anything on his mind. He shouldn’t be sorry if he were sent home; he didn’t care for the school or the boys in it, except one.
“Bosworth?” suggested Mr. Graham, gently.
“No, sir,” replied the boy, emphatically, an expression of repugnance flitting over his face. “I mean Phil Poole. He’s the only one who has ever been kind to me.”
With this leading to follow, the Principal relaxed the sternness of his method, and pleaded with the boy to open his heart frankly, with full confidence that he would be treated kindly and fairly. More tears, more violent sobs, more convulsive protestations of innocence. Either Eddy would tell nothing, or he had nothing to tell.
The next morning, in chapel, Mr. Graham expressed the indignation he felt that sneak thievery in the dormitories should continue, and reminded the boys that they shared with him the responsibility for the conduct of the school. The admonition was hardly necessary, for the students were already thoroughly aroused. They discussed the cases from every side, and uttered vague and terrible threats as to what would be done with the malefactor if they once got him in their hands. The discussion yielded no result except to bring the names of a dozen innocent lads into temporary disrepute; and threats, as Varrell disconsolately remarked to Melvin, are of no use when addressed to no one in particular.
“Hillbury day” came. For the last fortnight the nine had been playing a steady game, which, if not brilliant, was at least thoroughly good; and the school, having shaken itself clear of the wavering mood in which hope and fear seesaw up and down with every fresh rumor from the rival diamond, had settled finally into a cautiously sanguine frame of mind. There were still some who spoke with disapproval of the favoritism which displaced a veteran and put a young boy like Poole into an important field; but among this small number the generally rampant patriotism proved too strong for personal prejudice. Even Marks, whose baseball lingo would have discouraged a sporting editor, and who asserted that the “kid would queer the gang”—even silly, slangy, sporting Marks only half believed what he said, and was really quite willing that the fielder should distinguish himself, if this was necessary to the success of the team.
The crowd poured into the campus that afternoon as if there were no end to it. Word had gone forth that the nine had a “show to win,” and the younger graduates thronged the regular trains. As Dick, clutching proudly his cheerleader’s baton, walked along the line of seats to the centre section, where the cheering force was clustered, he caught glimpses of familiar faces of old boys smiling down at him from among the rows of straw hats and gay parasols. He recognized Varrell perched on the topmost bench, and shook his baton at him in a vain effort to attract his notice. But Varrell’s attention was elsewhere, and Dick got no return for his demonstration except a scowl from Bosworth, who occupied a seat halfway up, at the edge of the entrance passage. Presently the nines appeared, and in the din of yells and the confusion of waving banners, Dick’s whole attention was devoted to following Planter’s leadership and keeping his own side of the section in proper time.
While the Hillbury nine was taking its practice, Melvin slipped over to the players’ bench for a last word with Tompkins and Poole, and was delighted to find them both cool and determined.
“How I’m feeling? Bully!” replied Tompkins. “If only I knew how to pitch, I could do wonders to-day.”
“Give us your best, that’s good enough for us,” returned the senior, clapping him on the shoulder.