And then the teacher made a serious attempt to bring home to the misguided boy the wrongfulness and folly of his course, but Dunn heard nothing but the fact that for him there was to be no baseball. His answers were given in stolid monosyllables; he went forth suffocating with rage.
No one knew better than Dunn that his school life had been a failure, but his point of view was very different from that of his teachers. Dunn’s scholastic ideal was formed somewhat on the lines of Kipling’s Stalky. To dodge one’s work, outwit one’s teachers, and triumph at examination by luck and cleverness represented to Dunn the only truly desirable way of conquering school drudgery. The real thing was to be popular, to be in the important set, to play on the teams, and be talked about. When Stalkyism, as exemplified in Dunn’s recitation career, proved a flat failure, and the expected popularity turned out to be only a kind of contemptuous freedom to disregard him, he had consoled himself with assurances of a different experience on the baseball field, where he should shine with no uncertain light. Now with a single word Mr. Westcott had robbed him of his opportunity. He felt like a soldier who at the critical moment of defence finds that his cartridges have been stolen and that he is at the mercy of the enemy.
Stover listened to his tale, deeply disgusted. Braggarts are usually liars or victims of delusion, but occasionally one is found to make good some of his boasts. Stover had investigated Dunn’s baseball career and believed in him.
“It’s a low-down trick!” he burst forth. “That’s the way they do here. If they find a fellow who can play something, they scare up some excuse to rule him out. Anything to discourage athletics!”
“I suppose it’s no good to kick,” said Dunn, despairingly.
“I’ll tell you what to do. Go to the old man and play the penitent. Tell him that you’ve done wrong, and that you’re going to study hard from now on. If you can put it up to him strong enough, he’ll fall on your neck and forgive you. You’ll have to make a good bluff at work for the next two or three weeks until you get your reputation up, but it won’t hurt you any to do that. Some of the fellows out there at Adams’s will give you a lift. There’s Hardie, now; he’s a good-natured fellow and a pretty good scholar; he’d help you out if he knew what you’re up against.”
“I guess not,” said Dunn, hopeless. “He’s always been down on me.”
“I don’t believe it. He got you that invitation last fall for the dancing school. I don’t see why he shouldn’t help you now.”
“It wasn’t Hardie. Ben Tracy got it,” corrected Dunn, quickly.
“Ben Tracy nothing! It was Hardie. I heard Sumner talking about it at the time. It was Hardie that did it. He isn’t so conceited as some of that crowd. If you go at him right, he’ll help you. Now do as I say, and see what comes of it.”