CHAPTER IX
DAVID’S ENLIGHTENMENT
After closing Wallace’s desk upon his secret David walked slowly over to the dormitory. He felt bewildered and uncertain. Something that had been precious to him, something to which he had clung, had suddenly and utterly been shattered. To get the better of a master in any way that you could was, he knew, the code of many fellows, and in ordinary circumstances, where the master had what the boys termed “a sporting chance,” a resort to subterfuges and deceptions did not necessarily imply depravity. But to take advantage of a blind man—that was base.
David arrived at his room five minutes before the hour for luncheon. Happy excitement over the contest of the afternoon in which he was to play a part had faded; in its place there seemed only a dull ache of disappointment and loss. There came to him memories of Wallace’s generous friendship—of the day when he had supported him in his fight with Henshaw, of the time when he had given him his running shoes, of the little acts of kindness; and he wondered now why it was that he could not overlook the discovery that he had just made and feel toward Wallace as he had always done.
The dinner bell rang; descending the stairs, David encountered Wallace at the bottom. Wallace was radiant, slapped him on the shoulders and cried: “I’ll get your goat this afternoon, Dave. How are you feeling? Fine?”
“Not especially,” David answered; indeed, he felt himself shrinking under his friend’s touch. He knew now that he could not assume the old exuberant geniality and that until he had given Wallace an opportunity to explain he could not keep up even the pretense of warm friendship.
Wallace did not notice his coolness; he saw another friend and made for him. At the luncheon table Henshaw and Monroe and others expressed their satisfaction that Wallace was saved to the Pythian team and, more important still, to the school team. David wondered whether they thought he was jealous or envious or unsportsmanlike because he did not join in the remarks. He supposed they did think so, but that could add little to his unhappiness.
As a matter of fact, once out on the field he was able to forget his depressing preoccupations; the lively work of the preliminary practice restored his zest for the game. And when it began he was as keen to do his best, as eager to win, as any one on the Corinthian nine. But victory did not perch on the Corinthian banner, in spite of the loyal support of the “rooters” along the third-base line, in spite of the desperate efforts of catcher and captain and whole infield to steady a wavering pitcher, in spite of a ninth-inning rally, when a shower of hits by seemingly inspired batters brought in three runs that were within one of tying the score. The Pythians triumphed, eight runs to seven, and unquestionably the chief honors belonged to Wallace. His home run, a smashing hit to left center in the third inning, brought in two others; and his double in the seventh sent what proved to be the winning tally across the plate. Moreover, it was his leaping one-hand catch of a hot liner from Treadway’s bat that closed the game when the Corinthians were most threatening.
David, crouched forward on the players’ bench in nervous intentness when that incident happened, felt a pang of disappointment, then a throb of admiration for the brilliant catch and of gladness for him who had made it, and then the chill of despondency; there could be no real heartiness in any congratulations that he might offer to his old friend. The Pythian crowd was rallying round Wallace; in another moment he was hoisted on their shoulders and was being borne exuberantly toward the athletic house, while spectators and players streamed in his wake. David, walking slowly, overtook Mr. Dean, who arm in arm with Mr. Randolph was leaving the field.