“No, I’ll trot along. Much obliged.”
“Take that liniment with you,” directed Kendall.
“Won’t you need it?”
“Not until the diamond season opens, and that’s some time off yet. Good night—can you make the stairs?”
“Yes—don’t bother to come down,” and Joe limped out.
As he reached the first hall he was made aware that someone was coming in the front door. Before he could reach it the portal opened and a student hurried in, making for a room near the main entrance. In the glare of the hall light Joe saw that the youth was Ford Weston.
He also saw something else. On Weston’s hand was a red smear—brilliant—scarlet. At first Joe thought it was blood, but a slight odor in the air told him it was paint.
An instant later his eyes met those of the rival pitcher—at least Joe hoped to make him a rival—and Weston started. Then he thrust his smeared hand into his pocket, and, without a word, hurried into his room and slammed the door.