“Not now. It’s all off. He’ll pitch against Princeton!”
“Where’d you hear it?”
“What’s the matter with Weston?”
“Oh, he’s gone—vamoosed—flew the coop. Couldn’t stand the disgrace. It’ll all be out in the morning.”
Student meeting student on the campus, in dormitories, in the commons, at Glory’s—anywhere in fact, passed these, and similar remarks.
“And to think you knew, all the while, that Weston put that red paint on the steps, and you wouldn’t squeal!” cried Spike, clapping his chum on the shoulder.
“Would you?” asked Joe quietly.
“Well—er—now you have got me, old man! But it’s all right. Come on out and celebrate.”
And they celebrated as they never had before. Joe was given an ovation when he entered Glory’s, and every member of the nine—substitutes and all—were there to do him honor. That is, all but Weston and De Vere. They had quietly taken themselves from Yale.
The explanation was simple. Weston had, as my readers know already, put the red paint on the professor’s steps. He was not discovered, for Joe kept quiet. Then, when our hero was preferred as pitcher, in the bitterness of his heart, Weston planned to throw suspicion on him. He sent the first anonymous letter, though Avondale knew nothing of it. Then Weston took De Vere into his confidence and the two evolved the scheme of smuggling the pot of red paint, that Weston had used, into Joe’s closet. The epileptic lad, Charlie, was the innocent medium, and once the paint was hidden Weston sent the second anonymous letter to the Dean, telling about it.