There was indeed a “fierce row,” over the spoiling of the rare manuscripts, and the Dean himself appealed to the honor of the students to tell, if they knew, who the guilty one was.
But Joe Matson kept silent.
There was an investigation, of course, but it was futile, for nothing of moment was disclosed.
It was several days later when Joe, strolling across the college campus after a lecture, came face to face with Weston. For a moment they stood staring at one another.
The hot blood welled up into the cheeks of the ’varsity pitcher, and he seemed to be trying to hide his hand—the hand that had held the red smear. Then, without a word, he passed on.
And Joe Matson still maintained his silence.
The Fall passed. The Yale eleven swept on to a glorious championship. The Christmas vacation came and went and Joe spent happy days at home. He was beginning to be more and more a Yale man and yet—there was something constrained in him. His parents noticed it.
“I—I don’t think Joe is very happy,” ventured Clara, after he had gone back to college.
“Happy—why not?” challenged her mother.
“Oh, I don’t know. He hasn’t said much about baseball.”