“It’s been slow enough as it is,” growled the other.
The day for the first Princeton game was at hand. It was to be played at Yale, and everyone was on edge for the contest. Joe was practically slated to pitch, and he felt his responsibility. His arm was in good shape again.
The night before the game the Dean sent for Joe to come to his office.
“What’s up now?” demanded Spike, as his friend received the summons. “Have you won a scholarship, or is the Dean going to beg of you not to throw the game?”
“Both, I guess,” answered Joe with a laugh. In his heart he wondered what the summons meant. He was soon to learn.
“I have sent for you, Mr. Matson,” said the Dean gravely, “to enable you to make some answer to a serious accusation that has been brought against you.”
“What is it?” faltered the pitcher.
“Do you remember, some time ago,” the Dean went on, “that some red paint was put on the steps of the house of one of the professors? The gentleman slipped, fell in the paint, and a very rare manuscript was ruined. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” answered Joe quietly, wondering if he was to be asked to tell what he knew.
“Well,” went on the Dean, “have you anything to confess?”