[CRACK! CAME A REPORT THAT SOUNDED OVER THE WHOLE FIELD.]

THE
CRIMSON BANNER

A Story of College Baseball

BY

WILLIAM D. MOFFAT

Author of “A Schoolboy’s Honor,” “The County
Pennant,” “Dirkman’s Luck,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED

THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING CO.
CLEVELAND

MADE IN U. S. A.

Copyright, 1907, by

Chatterton-Peck Company

PRESS OF
THE COMMERCIAL BOOKBINDING CO.
CLEVELAND

CONTENTS

THE CRIMSON BANNER

CHAPTER I
A SINGULAR LETTER

One pleasant evening during the first week in April I left my room in Colver Hall, and started across the campus of Belmont College toward the main street of the town. As I approached the gateway at the entrance to the grounds, I noticed several of the boys sitting upon and around the two large cannons that stood on either side of the gateway, mounted upon their old fashioned iron carriages.

These old cannons were landmarks of the college, and dear to the heart of every inmate. Many years before they had been discovered by a rambling party of students in a deserted part of the hilly country about ten miles west of Belmont. It was believed that they had been left there by a section of the army during the war of 1812. However that might be, they were appropriated and dragged home to the college, where they were enthusiastically adopted by the students, and soon became favorite lounging posts. Almost every warm afternoon or evening would find several fellows perched on the old artillery or seated near by, reading, chatting, or singing college songs.

Through the deepening twilight I recognized two of my classmates leaning against one of the cannon.

“Hello, Miller,” I called out, “where is Tony Larcom?”

“Down by the lake, I think,” was the answer. “He was here about twenty minutes ago, and said he was going to the boat house to look after his canoe.”

Retracing my steps, I hurried around old Burke Hall, the main building of the college, and crossed the back quadrangle. Then, leaving the circuitous path to the boat house, I struck out on a straight line down through the underbrush toward the shore of the lake. There I stood a moment, close to the dock, looking out over the water.

The dusk prevented my seeing further than fifty yards ahead, and in that space no sign of Tony’s boat appeared, so, putting my hands to my mouth, I called out at the top of my voice,

“Hello, Tony Larcom!”

The cry rang out over the quiet sheet of water, and echoed back from the rugged sides of Mount Bell, which loomed up in the evening sky beyond the lake.

Receiving no reply, I repeated my call several times with increasing force.

Suddenly a queer chuckling noise sounded almost immediately beside me, and peering through the bushes, I saw the face of Tony Larcom not four feet in front of me. He was seated quietly in his canoe, and with difficulty repressing his laughter.

“Did you speak?” he asked, straightening his face into an expression of gravity, when he found he had been discovered.

“Oh, no,” I answered sarcastically. “I was only breathing hard. What do you mean by sitting there without a word while I was shouting myself hoarse?”

“Why, I didn’t recognize you at first, Harry. You had your mouth open so wide I couldn’t see you at all. What do you want?”

“Do you realize the fact that there is to be a mass meeting of the college in the Latin room at half past seven to consider baseball matters, and that you, as secretary of the association, must be there?”

“I do,” said Tony.

“Then what are you doing down here by the lake? I’ve been looking all over for you, and was afraid you were going to play us your old trick of forgetting all about an important engagement.”

“Oh, no, not this time. I wouldn’t miss the mass meeting for the world. There was plenty of time, and I wanted to see how my canoe had stood the winter, so I came down to try her on the water. She will be all right with a little paint. Give me a hand here and help me get her out.”

Tony paddled along toward the boat house, while I accompanied him, pushing my way through the bushes that grew thickly by the water’s edge.

When we had reached the dock I helped him drag out the canoe and carry it into the boat house.

As he made it fast to the wall, Tony remarked,

“There will be something besides baseball to interest the boys tonight. I have a letter to read.”

“From whom?”

“From Park College.”

“What about?”

“Read it and see,” said Tony, taking a letter from his pocket and handing it to me.

I opened it, and, standing in the light of the single oil lamp fastened against the wall, I read as follows:

To the Students of Belmont College:

On a number of occasions during late years your attention has been called to the claims of Park College to the cannons which stand upon your campus. Enough evidence has been produced to convince an unprejudiced mind of our right of ownership of said cannons, but this evidence has in every case been rejected by you. We, the students of Park College, have at length decided to take a positive stand in the matter, and, accordingly, submit to you this formal demand for the surrender of the cannons to us. Should this be disregarded, we shall take more active steps to secure our rights. We trust this will secure your immediate attention, and await the favor of your reply.

I looked up in amazement. Tony winked.

“How is that for a game of bluff?” he asked.

“What in the world do they mean by ‘active steps’?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Legal proceedings would be simply absurd. My idea is that they think because their college is a trifle larger than ours that they can bully us. They have always wanted the cannons, you know.”

“Yes, but I thought they had given up all claims several years ago when the subject was thoroughly discussed in the college papers. You remember, they claimed that the cannons were in their country, two miles from Berkeley, and so belonged to them. But it was decided then that they belonged to nobody, and as our students had found them, they were ours by right of treasure trove as well as forty years’ possession.”

“Yes, but you know how it is in college: a new batch of students comes in and revives old sores. Now they are at it again, and now it is our business to meet them as it was our predecessor’s.”

“Well, we will, and with a vengeance, too, if necessary. Did you show the letter to Edwards?”

Edwards was the managing editor of the college paper, the Belmont Chronicle.

“No; I received it only two hours ago in the late afternoon mail. Come up to Burke Hall, and we will have some fun with it. Watch the sensation when I read it to the boys in the mass meeting.”

Closing the side door of the boat house, Tony padlocked it, and we started back again toward the campus.

“Have you seen Ray Wendell this afternoon?” I asked.

“No; but of course he will be on hand. What would a baseball meeting be without Ray Wendell? By the way, what a scare he gave me last month when he hinted about resigning the captaincy.”

“That was a queer notion. What started it, I wonder?”

“He said he was afraid it would interfere with his studies, especially his preparation for his final examinations.”

“Bosh!”

“Well, you know he is working for one of the honorary orations at commencement, and he said he would have to work hard, for there is to be a good deal of competition this year.”

“Nonsense, Wendell is sure of an oration, and probably the valedictory. There isn’t a smarter man in the Senior class. There is no reason why baseball should interfere at all.”

“Certainly not. If we are to have a winning team this year it will only be with Ray Wendell as captain—and so I told him. I showed him that all the fellows looked to him, and the college reputation rested in his hands. That soon brought him to terms, and he has never mentioned the matter since. I can’t help thinking, however, that there was more back of that freak of his than he said.”

“He knows as well as the rest of us how necessary he is to the nine,” I rejoined.

“And for that very reason I think something must have influenced him. At first I thought perhaps his father had asked him to give up baseball, but then I remembered that Mr. Wendell always seemed to be as proud of Ray’s athletics as he was of his high rank in his class. Still, I don’t care, now that he has let the matter drop.”

“What is that crowd doing outside of Burke Hall?” I asked. “Do you suppose that old Ferguson has forgotten to unlock the Latin room door?”

“Looks like it,” said Tony. “Still he must be there, for the windows are bright. He must be lighting up now.”

The question was promptly settled, for, while we were speaking there was a sudden outburst of cheers, and the crowd surged into the building. The doors had evidently just been opened.

Pandemonium reigned within as we entered. The room was crowded to suffocation with a noisy, jostling mass of students. Every seat was full, and many of the boys were standing along the side walls. The din was almost deafening. Suddenly Tony Larcom’s presence was detected and immediately his name was on every one’s lips.

“There’s Tony. Take the chair, Tony. Pass him up to the platform, fellows.”

He was seized unceremoniously by a dozen pairs of hands, and half dragged, half carried, to the desk. There he stood a moment, laughing and kicking, until he was released, when he sobered down, took out his note book, and seated himself at a small desk in front of the platform, ready for business.

I made my way to the front row where Dick Palmer had reserved a place for me with considerable difficulty, by sitting in one seat and putting his feet in the next one.

At this moment Clinton Edwards, who had been asked by Tony to open the meeting, went upon the platform and summoned the crowd to order by hammering on the desk with a heavy ruler.

As all were intensely interested in the subject for which the meeting was called, the room soon became perfectly still.

CHAPTER II
SHALL WE JOIN THE LEAGUE?

“Gentlemen,” began Clinton Edwards, “as you are all aware, this meeting has been called for the purpose of considering baseball matters. At the close of last year’s season the nine held its customary annual meeting, and the usual elections of secretary and captain were made for the ensuing year. It now remains with you to approve and ratify these elections, and, in that event, the captain, as has been our custom heretofore, becomes also president of the association. The names of these officers were announced in the Chronicle at the time of their election, as you doubtless remember, but I will repeat them. Mr. Larcom was elected secretary——”

The speaker paused a moment, when some one in the back of the room called out, “I forbid the banns!”

The meeting was in an uproar at this. Laughter, stamping of feet, and shouts of “Bully boy!” “Hi, hi for Tony!” threatened to destroy the secretary’s gravity. Rising, note book in hand, he said,

“Mr. Chairman, I rise to a point of information. Do I enter these remarks in the minutes?”

Edwards, ignoring the point, continued:

“The captaincy, which was made vacant by the graduation of Mr. Terry, was filled by the election of Mr. Wendell.”

There was now a long and uproarious burst of applause. Cheer followed cheer as the name was announced.

A more popular man than Ray Wendell rarely passed through Belmont College. Bright and industrious in his studies, active and strong in athletics, generous, good humored, and with agreeable and fascinating manners Ray had been my ideal of a college man since Freshman year.

As he rose modestly from his seat in answer to the repeated cheers, I thought I had never seen him look handsomer. His tall, graceful figure and fine face never appeared to better advantage than at that moment as he blushingly acknowledged the applause that greeted his name.

Several times he attempted to speak, but the continued cheering discouraged his effort. At length silence was obtained, when Ray said smilingly, and quickly turning attention from himself:

“Gentlemen, you forget that you have not yet decided to be represented in the Berkshire League. You have first to vote on the question: do we send out a nine?”

“We scarcely need put that question,” said a student, as Ray sat down. “It has been only a form in past years, and I move, therefore, Mr. Chairman, that we approve these elections——”

“One moment, Mr. Chairman,” broke in a voice from the back of the room.

“Mr. Pratt has the floor,” said Edwards.

“I have finished,” said Pratt. “My motion is before the meeting.”

It was seconded at once by a dozen voices. Then the speaker at the back of the room rose slowly. It was Len Howard, a Senior, and a prominent lawn tennis player. He looked and acted as if he had a hard and ugly task before him.

“Have I the floor now?” he asked.

“You have,” answered Edwards.

“Then before putting this question I beg to say a few words,” and Howard settled himself more firmly on his feet, while most of us looked at him in surprise.

“I am a warm admirer of baseball, as warm an admirer as there is in college. But I am also a warm admirer of tennis, and it is in behalf of this latter game that I want to speak. I beg to call attention to the respective records of Belmont College in these two sports. Year before last our baseball team amounted to little—stood third in the League, last year we were again third, and this year we have but three players of the old nine left us, and prospects of a still poorer record. Lawn tennis, on the other hand, without any encouragement from the college, has grown steadily in popularity and success, and today it can send crack players to the intercollegiate tournaments which take place in May. Its prospects are bright, and it deserves the college support. Now, Mr. Chairman and gentlemen, should we not cultivate the sport in which we stand the best show of success? Last year the assistance of the college was promised to tennis, but the funds were appropriated by the ball team, or at least the ball team used up all the money the college could contribute, and with the poor results just mentioned. As the college apparently will not extend its support to both, and it comes to a choice between tennis and baseball, I think we ought to give tennis the show it deserves for one year at least. I think we ought to support tennis with our funds, and not join the Berkshire Baseball League this year.”

Ray Wendell sprang up, his face flushed and his eyes flashing.

“Mr. Chairman, if this represents the sentiments of the college toward baseball—if this echoes the feelings of even one tenth of the students, I resign from the nine immediately.”

There was a hush of several seconds’ duration, during which the rest of us sat confounded with amazement at the audacity of Howard. Suddenly the silence was broken.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Tony Larcom, and his chair toppled over backward, precipitating him with a crash upon the floor.

Then arose an uproar on all sides. Fully three dozen fellows were shouting and gesticulating wildly to attract the attention and recognition of the chairman.

Tony, unmindful of his ridiculous position, and intent upon being heard, scrambled to his knees, and, waving his arms beseechingly at the chairman, roared out at the top of his voice:

“Mr. Chairman, have I the floor? Let me have the floor—Mr. Chairman, please let me have the floor for just five minutes.”

Dick Palmer reached forward as well as he could for laughter, and touching Tony said,

“I should think you had got enough of the floor, Tony. You’ve just had a whole back full of it.”

Tony, however, did not hear him, but continued his appeals to the chairman. At length Edwards, who had been standing puzzled in the midst of the confusion, caught Tony’s eye, and brought down his ruler with a bang.

“Mr. Larcom has the floor,” he called out. The rest subsided with some difficulty, and Tony was left master of the field for a time.

He rose hastily and brushed off his clothes. Then, buttoning up his coat, he planted himself in front of his desk and launched out.

“Mr. Chairman and gentlemen: the words we have just heard are a disgrace to any son of Belmont College. What does Mr. Howard mean by calling baseball to account? Have we a record to be ashamed of? True, we have been unfortunate in the last two years—every college has its bad spells—but why doesn’t Mr. Howard go back further? Doesn’t the gentleman remember that Belmont was the first college to win the Crimson Banner when it was made the trophy of the Berkshire League twelve years ago? Doesn’t he remember that Belmont held that banner for five consecutive years, lost it for three years, and then won it for two years more—that the name of the Belmont team has, therefore, seven times out of twelve been inscribed upon that banner in letters of gold? (Cheers.) And why did we lose last year? Not because we had a poor nine, but because it was not well handled. Every honest minded man in this room knows that we would have won the banner had we been headed by the efficient captain who leads us now. (Cheers.) And yet this gentleman wishes us to relinquish the game for a year. Does he realize that we thereby lay ourselves open to being refused admission to the League when we want to get back, and that Park College for one would be only too glad to get a chance to shut us out? Relinquish our nine? Never! I would rather lose my right hand than our nine. The speech we have just listened to is an insult to every patriotic man in college, and a double insult to the members of our old nine, and the able captain whose election we are here to ratify.”

Immediately at the close of Tony’s speech, and while the applause was still sounding, Dick Palmer rose and tried to gain a hearing, but I caught him by the coat.

“Sit down,” I whispered. “Don’t you see Elton is on the floor? He will use Howard up in two minutes.”

My hint was quickly taken by Dick, for Elton was one of the clearest thinkers in college, and had an established reputation as a speaker. He commanded universal respect in mass meetings, and consequently there was an expectant hush as he began to speak.

“Mr. Chairman, under some circumstances such a speech as Mr. Howard’s might pass unnoticed. It certainly can have no weight with us now, nor in any way affect the motion. But it affords an opportunity of saying a few words concerning the relative positions of baseball and lawn tennis in the college.

“There is no college tennis association like our baseball association. The baseball grounds and appurtenances belong to us, have been purchased by money contributed by us, and are conducted by officers elected by us. It is a child of the college—the pet child—and its record in the past shows how well it has repaid our interest in it. Tennis, on the other hand, is of individual interest in the college, and the tennis courts here are the private property of the clubs that play upon them. Some of these clubs exclude all from playing on their courts except their own members. I don’t criticise this. The courts are private property, but for this very reason the college cannot be expected to support tennis. What Mr. Howard says about the funds last year is not true. The truth is that the question was raised about a college appropriation of money to tennis, and most of the tennis clubs rejected the idea, preferring to pay their own expenses and run their own courts. Only one or two clubs wanted college assistance and support, and Mr. Howard is a member of one of these clubs.

“Again when our ball nine is successful, the Crimson Banner, the trophy of victory, comes to the college, and every student feels a share of the glory. Victory in tennis is of individual interest, and appeals chiefly to individual vanity. It means a silver cup for a man, or perhaps two men. The college gains little glory by it except in the most individual way. Now, it is well known that the gentleman who made this speech, is a strong tennis player. If then he wishes the college at large to back him in competing for a prize in the coming tournament, instead of his own club, as has been the custom in the past, well and good. We can consider the matter, though it would not be in order at a baseball meeting. But if he proposes that we shall relinquish our ball nine in order to devote our money to the purpose of assisting him to secure a prize cup, then I feel compelled to say that I for one can find a better way of spending my cash.”

As Elton finished, Howard made several movements as if he would rise to speak, but several of his companions were urging him to keep still, and at length, influenced by their advice, he sank back and remained quiet.

Then rose on all sides the cry of “Question! Question!”

Edwards responded:

“Gentlemen, the question is called for, and will be put. All in favor of Mr. Pratt’s motion that will approve and ratify these elections say aye.”

There was a loud roar of assent.

“All opposed, by the contrary sign.”

There was no sound. Howard sat sullen and silent, gazing at the floor.

“The motion is carried, and Mr. Wendell is therefore elected president of the Association.”

Edwards laid down the ruler, and surrendering the chair, descended from the platform.

CHAPTER III
THE NEW PRESIDENT

Ray Wendell received an ovation as he took the chair. Prolonged cheering greeted him, accompanied by cries of “Speech! Speech!” When the noise had subsided, Ray began:

“Gentlemen, I have no speech, nor, unless I am much mistaken, do you want one. I thank you most sincerely for your kindness, and promise you in behalf of the nine that we will strive very hard to deserve your interest. This is speech enough, I am sure.

“Of course you want to know what I think of our prospects in baseball this year, and accordingly I say here to-night what I have said to many of you personally—that I consider our chances very good. It is true that we have only three of our old nine left, but the material which we have to choose from in the class nines is good this year, and we ought to have a fine team.

“Now as to the condition of the treasury—I have been informed by the secretary that the funds of the Association are almost exhausted. Will Mr. Larcom report on this? What is the exact balance in the treasury?”

Tony turned over the pages of his note book and figured busily for several seconds.

“There is a cash balance of $39.50,” he finally called out.

“You can see from this,” continued Ray, “that the usual contribution list will have to be started. You will all hear later from Mr. Larcom concerning this, and I hope we can look for as generous support as in previous years, for the nine needs an almost complete new outfit, and a number of repairs will have to be made at the ball grounds, to say nothing of the pay of the janitor and assistants at the club house, and the expenses of our baseball tour.”

At this moment Alfred Carter, the leader of the College Glee Club, took the floor and said:

“Mr. President, I want to offer the services of the Glee Club for the benefit of the team. I have made arrangements to give a concert just before the Easter vacation—that is, in about ten days, the proceeds of which are to go to the baseball association. The concert will be given in the large examination hall up stairs, and,” he added, with a smile, “all members of the college are cordially invited to attend—price 50 cents per head.”

Carter sat down amidst a great stamping and clapping of hands.

Ray answered immediately:

“This is a most unexpected favor, Mr. Carter, and I thank you sincerely in behalf of the Association for this benefit, which, I am sure, will go a great way towards supplying the deficiency in our treasury. Is there any further business before the meeting?”

“Mr. President,” asked Elton, “when does the convention meet this year?”

“I am forced to say that I do not know as yet. For some reason no word has reached me from the secretary of the League, Mr. Slade of Halford College, although it is much later than the usual date for sending such notifications. Has Mr. Larcom received any word today?”

“No, sir,” answered Tony.

“I shall probably hear tomorrow, and it is more than likely that the convention will be held on some day in the early part of next week. As soon as definite notice reaches us, your representative will go on to Berkeley, and a full account of the business of that meeting will be reported in the Chronicle. This is as complete information as I am able to give on the subject this evening. Is there any other business? If not, the——”

“Mr. President,” interrupted Tony, “may I have one moment? I have no baseball business to bring before the meeting, but I have received today a letter which is addressed to the ‘students of Belmont College,’ so I presume that this is the time and place to read it. Am I in order?”

Ray nodded.

“It is from Park College,” added Tony, taking from his pocket the letter which I had read down at the boat house.

I watched the faces about me with interest, and I shall never forget the rapid changes of expression that passed over them—first curiosity, then eager attention, astonishment, anger, and finally scornful amusement, as the challenging letter was finished.

When Tony sat down, there was a chorus of howls, accompanied by various exclamations such as “What cheek! Want our cannons, do they? What are they going to do about it? Tell them to come and get them! Maybe they’d better ask for the whole town!——”

Ray hammered on the desk.

“You have heard the letter, gentlemen. What shall we do with it?”

A sharp discussion followed. Some were in favor of answering it with a heated reply, challenging Park College to do their worst, whatever that might be, but the majority were of the conviction that any notice of the letter at all would be unwise.

“Mr. President,” exclaimed one of the latter, “I move we lay it on the table—permanently.”

“I have an amendment to offer,” said Elton. “I move we lay it under the table. There is a waste basket there.”

“These motions are out of order. They have not been seconded,” said Ray.

“Then I don’t make any motion,” said Elton, rising again. “I merely suggest that the best way to treat such a letter as this is to ignore it utterly.”

All were coming around to this view of the matter, so that when Ray asked again, “Gentlemen, what action shall we take in reference to this letter?” no one spoke.

Ray looked about for several seconds. “There being no motion, the matter is dropped,” he said. “If there is no further business the meeting is adjourned.”

Immediately there was a roar of mingled conversation, whistling, and shuffling of feet as the meeting broke up, and the crowd pressed out through the large double doors.

When the room was nearly empty, and just as I was passing out, Ray Wendell, who was still standing at the platform, and talking with Tony Larcom, called out,

“Hullo, Elder, wait a minute.”

I turned around, and, as I walked back, Ray said,

“We were just speaking about you, Harry. You know each college sends three delegates to the convention—the president and secretary of the Association, and a member of the nine. I have selected you to go with Tony Larcom and myself. What do you say?”

“Only too glad,” I answered; “but how about Dick Palmer? I don’t want to crowd him out if he wants to go. You know, he has been a member of the nine as long as I have.”

“Oh, that is all right. You have the advantage because you were a regular member of the nine from the start, while Dick was only substitute year before last. I have spoken to him, and he acknowledges that you have the choice by all odds.”

“All right,” I said, “I can go next week.”

“I don’t know yet for sure when it will be, as I said in the meeting. It is curious I haven’t received a word. I ought to have heard long ago. If I don’t get a letter tomorrow morning I will telegraph to Slade.”

“Well, a few hours’ warning is enough for me,” I answered. “Good meeting tonight, wasn’t it? Lots of excitement and enthusiasm.”

“Yes,” said Tony, “and what puzzled me more than anything else was Len Howard. No wonder I fell flat. I was simply paralyzed. He must have been crazy to make such a proposition.”

“Perhaps,” said I, looking at Ray, “he was trying to work off a grudge he has had against you ever since you went out one Saturday afternoon last month and beat him in tennis on his own court.”

“Oh, I don’t think there was anything personal in it. I don’t think Howard nurses any grudge against me.”

“Well, don’t bank on that, Ray,” said Tony. “I happen to know that he had a lot of money upon that tennis game, and it ground him terribly to be beaten.”

“Is that so?” rejoined Ray, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “I never suspected there was anything back of it when he asked me to play with him that afternoon. Now, I remember he did seem to take his defeat pretty badly. Still, it was his business. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Howard is very conceited about his tennis playing, so you injured him at his most sensitive point.”

“Well, I’m sorry and yet, I don’t believe he bears a grudge against me.”

“He may have more reason now, after his humiliation this evening.”

“Well, let him, then,” said Ray. “He brought it on himself. If he was foolish enough to bet, he must suffer the consequences, and if he will make foolish speeches, as he did tonight, he must stand the result of that, too. He can’t blame me. I haven’t time to bother with him—which reminds me that I have to prepare for a recitation in astronomy tomorrow, and I must get about it at once or I won’t be in bed before midnight.”

He looked at his watch as we walked out of the room.

“Phew!” he exclaimed. “It is half past nine—I’m off—you will hear from me later—good night.”

And Ray walked hastily away toward Warburton Hall, the handsome new dormitory in which his apartments were located.

As I parted company from Tony Larcom, my first intention was to go immediately to my room, but the air being balmy and inviting, I walked leisurely down the wide pathway toward the gate. Once there, I seated myself by one of the old cannons, and gave myself up to the pleasant influences of the quiet night.

I was thinking over the incidents of the meeting, its interesting results, and how they would affect our baseball prospects. Then I fell to contrasting the noise and excitement of an hour before with the silence that now reigned over the peaceful campus. A sense of drowsiness came over me as I pursued these contemplations, a drowsiness that gradually increased until my head sank down, and at last, stretching myself out at full length, I fell asleep.

How long I lay so I do not know, but I was suddenly aroused by the sound of low voices close beside me. I lay still indifferently, thinking that it must be a couple of students enjoying the night air like myself. The low whisper and the general tinge of mystery with which they moved about, however, aroused my suspicions. Thinking some mischief was brewing, and that it would be fun to startle them, I roused up and exclaimed,

“Hello! who’s there?”

The results far surpassed my expectations. There was a quick exclamation of alarm, a sharp scuffling of feet, a black shadow shot past me, and then I felt a terrible, crushing blow on the side of my head, which rolled me over and over into the pathway, where I lay stunned and bewildered.

CHAPTER IV
LEN HOWARD AGAIN

For several moments I lay still, struggling to collect my thoughts. Then, pressing my hand to my head to relieve the numb, sickening sensation produced by the blow, I sat up and stared about me in the darkness.

The next instant a dark figure not ten feet before me scrambled up from the grass and dashed out of the gate. I was too much shaken up to think of pursuit, so I sat still, listening attentively to the rapidly receding footsteps.

From the sound of these I felt confident that there were but two persons; and they were certainly badly frightened, for they lost no time in covering ground, and were in a few seconds far down the road, out of earshot.

“Now what on earth could those fellows have been up to?” I wondered, as I sat silently awaiting developments.

As nothing further occurred, I concluded that the mischief must have been summarily postponed on account of my appearance.

Whoever the mischief makers were, and whatever their plans may have been, they could not have regretted my presence on the scene more than I did myself. My head was aching and throbbing, while the stinging sensation at the one side of my forehead, and a little stream of blood, which I could feel trickling down my cheek, showed me how severe the blow had been.

As I rose to my feet I groped about in the dark until I found my hat, which had rolled several feet away from me; and then, brushing off the dust, I stepped over to the spot where I had been sleeping, and examined the grass carefully to see if the mysterious visitors had left any traces behind them.

No results rewarded my search; so, as I was more interested in my own condition than in their plans, I decided to let the matter drop.

“We are quits,” I said to myself, as I walked away toward Colver Hall. “I gave you a bad scare, and you gave me a bad scar, though, after all, I think you have the best of the bargain. One thing is certain: the next time I fall in with any fellows bent on mischief, I’ll leave them to the tender mercies of proctor Murray. The rôle of night watchman doesn’t suit me at all.”

On reaching my room I lit the gas, and examined my face in the mirror which stood over the mantelpiece. The skin had been broken, but the cut was not deep, nor the wound so bad by any means as it might have been, considering the force of the blow. On washing away the blood, I found my forehead somewhat swollen and purple, but in other respects fairly presentable, so I felt there was cause for congratulating myself on escaping so luckily.

It seemed quite evident to me that the injury I had sustained had been purely accidental. It was more than probable that the two students, whoever they were, had been planning some escapade, and, when I suddenly rose and interrupted them, they had become startled, and had dashed off without waiting to learn who it was. Not seeing me in the dark, the last of the two had run straight over me, kicking me in the head. The appearance of the wound, the manner in which I had received the blow, and the effect it had in tripping up the runner and sprawling him out on the grass—all confirmed me in this solution of the matter.

“It will probably be explained to-morrow,” I thought; “for when I am seen at morning prayers with a black and blue forehead, the fellow who kicked me will no doubt recognize the mark and let me into the secret. I suppose they were Freshmen, and up to some of their tricks.”

I slept soundly all night in spite of my wound, and was awakened on the following morning by the sound of the college bell ringing for prayers.

Without losing a moment’s time I sprang out of bed and scrambled into my clothes as best I could in the few minutes I had to spare.

The night’s rest had refreshed me completely, and had relieved my head of all sense of pain, although the purple bruise had deepened in color, and the swelling had scarcely diminished.

As I hurried down stairs and across the campus, the last taps of the college bell were sounding, so that I reached the chapel just as the doors were being closed. A small crowd of tardy students were pressing in, and they kept the main door open just long enough to prevent my being shut out. I was the last one in, and all alone I walked down the aisle to my seat, the object of the curious gaze of over one hundred and fifty pairs of eyes. This I was well accustomed to, for I prided myself on the exactness with which I could calculate the time needed to reach morning prayers, and I was usually one of the very last to enter.

But this morning my appearance must have been interesting, and it certainly aroused attention. A snicker ran along the lines of students as I passed the various pews, and several of those nearest the aisle plucked at my coat and gave vent to such whispered exclamations as “Oh, what an eye!” “Who built that lump on your forehead, Harry?” and so on.

As I took my seat Rod Emmons, who sat next to me, said,

“That’s a bad bruise, Harry. How did you get it?”

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“What an answer!” he exclaimed.

I laughed.

“I mean it all the same,” I said. “I got that bruise in the dark last night, and I am looking this morning for the fellow that hit me.”

Further conversation was interrupted by Professor Fuller, who came forward to the pulpit at this moment, and began prayers.

At the close, when the students were streaming out, some to breakfast and others to recitations, I received inquiries and expressions of sympathy from all sides; but though I made no secret of my mishap, no one seemed to know more of the affair than myself. As the morning progressed without my obtaining any new light on the subject, I concluded that the students whom I had interrupted the night before must have had a special reason for keeping silent.

“And besides,” I thought, “perhaps after all they were not students at all, but town fellows trespassing on the campus, and frightened off by my voice, thinking I was the proctor.”

In the belief that the matter would solve itself, if a solution was forthcoming, I decided to let it drop, and accordingly gave up inquiring about it.

During the recitation hour between four and five o’clock that afternoon, as I was speculating on the chances of my being called upon next to recite, some one nudged me, and a small, folded piece of paper was slipped into my hand. This, on opening, I discovered to be a note, which read as follows:

Dear Harry:

Meet me at the north entrance to Warburton Hall at five o’clock sharp. Don’t fail, for I have something of importance to tell you. Pass this word on to Tony Larcom. He must be there, too.

Yours in haste,

Ray Wendell.

Tony was reciting at the time, and making a fine botch of it, too, to the general amusement of the class. The meeting of the evening before had evidently interfered seriously with his preparation, for though he was making a brave fight, Professor Fuller caught him on a knotty question before which Tony’s wits availed him nothing. So down he sat, as smiling and unabashed as if he had scored a brilliant success. Then I handed Ray Wendell’s note to my neighbor, and saw it pass rapidly along the line. Tony read it, looked toward me, and nodded his head.

Immediately after the recitation he joined us, and together we hurried over toward Warburton Hall. Ray Wendell was standing at the north entrance, evidently awaiting us.

As we came up, Ray said,

“I’m glad you are prompt, for we’ve no time to lose.”

At this moment Len Howard came down the stairs, tennis racket in hand, and was about to pass us when he saw Ray.

“Hullo, Wendell,” he said; “when can you play tennis with me again?”

“I don’t know,” answered Ray. “Baseball will take all my time now, I think.”

“Then why not play me before the baseball season sets in? Couldn’t we have a few sets to-morrow?”

“I shall be away to-morrow,” said Ray.

“Then some time next week. How about Monday noon?”

“I can’t say; I may be too busy.”

“See here, Wendell, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll play you for fifty dollars a side, and put up the money at once. Now, there’s a chance for you.”

“I don’t play for money,” answered Ray coldly, “and, to be perfectly frank, Howard, I don’t care particularly to play at all. I understand that you had money up on that last series of games, and——”

“Well, and what if I did?” broke in Howard. “Is it any of your business?”

“It is none of my business whether you bet or not, but it is some of my business whom I play tennis with, and I say again, I don’t care to play.”

“Oh, pshaw, you are afraid to play me,” said Howard.

“If I wasn’t afraid to play you before, when I thought you were the better player, why should I be afraid now, when I know I can beat you?” rejoined Ray, with a slightly sarcastic accent.

“You can’t beat me—it was all luck—you couldn’t beat me again to save your life!” burst out Howard excitedly. “I tell you I’ll bet you anything that——”

“And I tell you that I won’t bet anything, and that baseball is all I have time for at present.” Here Ray turned away.

Howard stood irresolute for a moment, as if about to say something more; then wheeling sharply on his heel, he exclaimed with a sneer, “Oh, you’re a coward!” and walked off.

Ray’s face flushed a moment as he looked after him. Then he bit his lip, and, turning to Tony, said,

“I think, perhaps, you were right about him, after all. He certainly seems to be nursing a grudge against me for some reason. Perhaps I had better play him again, and let him beat me badly. It might do him good. Anything to please him, of course.”

“Well, it wouldn’t help him much,” returned Tony, “unless you let him win back the money he lost on the last games with you.”

Ray made no answer to this, but caught up his notebooks, which had been resting on a box behind the door.

“Come up to my room,” he said, “I’ve a telegram from Slade to show you,” and he led the way up stairs.

CHAPTER V
UNEXPECTED NEWS

Ray’s rooms were the handsomest in college, and fully repaid in beauty and comfort the painstaking care with which he had fitted them up. Ray’s father was a well to do merchant in Albany, and, knowing his son’s good sense and steady habits, had never hesitated to supply him liberally with money. Ray was thus able to fully gratify his love of comfortable and tasteful surroundings, and had furnished his apartments in a most attractive manner.

The floors, which were hard wood, were oiled, and covered with rare and expensive rugs, the windows were framed by portières of rich and heavy tapestry, while the walls were hung with handsome pictures, and the many little articles of bric à brac and mementos of college life dear to every student’s heart.

His rooms were a source of great pride to Ray, and a pleasurable treat to all of his college mates who were in the habit of frequenting them. They had become very familiar to me and were associated with some of the most agreeable recollections of my college life, for Ray Wendell, although a member of the class ahead of me, was one of the oldest and best friends I had in Belmont. Our acquaintance had been formed upon the baseball field in my Freshman year, at the time when I was first chosen member of the nine, and this acquaintance had ripened into a genuine and lasting friendship, which only grew firmer as time went by, and which was strengthened on my part by a warm and enthusiastic appreciation of Ray’s many superior qualities of head and heart. This feeling I shared with all who knew Ray Wendell well, and especially with Tony Larcom, who would have followed him through fire, if necessary.

As we entered his large front room and seated ourselves, Ray took up a telegram, which lay upon his desk, and handed it to Tony.

“There, what do you think of that?” he asked.

Tony read aloud:

The baseball convention will take place at the Wyman Hotel, Berkeley, at 10:30 A.M. to-morrow.

W. H. Slade.

There was silence for a moment as Tony looked up in astonishment. Then his mouth opened.

“Gee whizz!” he exclaimed solemnly.

“No wonder you are surprised,” remarked Ray. “You may imagine what I thought when I first opened it.”

“Why, that is the most extraordinary and unexpected summons I ever heard of,” I exclaimed. “Is that the first notification you have had?”

“I knew nothing of the date of the meeting till I received this telegram. It was fortunate that I telegraphed Slade early this morning, for we might have missed the whole convention.”

“What a stupid, blundering oversight!” cried Tony. “Just imagine a convention without any representatives from Belmont!”

“Well,” responded Ray, “it would have been more serious for us than the convention, for the other three colleges would have constituted a quorum, and they could have voted away our rights without our knowing anything about it. I fancy the Park College men would have been glad enough of a chance like that to secure an advantage over us.”

“It was a contemptible trick, I believe,” burst out Tony, tossing the telegram upon the desk.

I was inclined to be more reasonable.

“I can’t see the trick,” I said. “Slade is known to be a very careful fellow. Had he been a Park College man, I might have suspected him of underhand work, but the Halford men have always been friends.”

“I don’t know what to think of it,” remarked Ray thoughtfully, “but you may be sure I will sift the matter to the bottom, and if there has been any crooked work we’ll make things hum at that convention. If it was merely negligence on Slade’s part, it is too important to be overlooked. He would deserve an early dismissal from his office for such carelessness. Were we to miss the meeting, the damage to our interests might be very great—but come, we can talk about that on the train. Our business now is to get ready as fast as possible. You, Harry,” he continued, turning to me, “said you needed only a few hours’ warning, and it turns out that is about all you’ll get. Can you be ready for the 7:15 train?”

“Easily,” I responded. “I have only to pack a small valise, and get my dinner.”

“And how about you?” to Tony.

“I’ll be at the station without fail,” was the reply.

“All right, then. Don’t forget to draw the necessary money for expenses.”

“Why, I can’t do that. You know, the bank closes at three o’clock,” answered Tony.

“To be sure, I had forgotten that,” said Ray. “Well, then we will have to stand our own expenses, and charge it up to the baseball association. Remember to report your absence to Mr. Dikes. I have already done so, and you had better go at once, for the college offices close at six.”

I went immediately to the college offices, which were on the first floor of Burke Hall, at the left hand side of the main entrance, and just opposite the large Latin room in which our meeting had been held the night before.

Mr. Dikes was the registrar of the college, and, according to the rules, students were obliged to report to him before leaving town, in order that he might keep a record of their whereabouts. Mr. Dikes was a meek little man, but his office invested him with considerable dignity and importance. His very name smacked of annual reports on behavior and grade, or summons before the faculty and other formal notifications that carried fear and consternation to the guilty student’s heart. But, although his duties rendered him an object of profound respect and even awe, we liked Mr. Dikes none the less, for he was always kind, gentle, and considerate, and never failed to put in a good word for a student in trouble.

He was bending over a large ledger in which an account of absentees was kept, when I entered the office.

“I am going away, Mr. Dikes,” I said.

“Why, vacation will soon be here,” he answered, looking up with a smile.

“Oh, I mean merely for a day. I am going on the 7:15 train, and will return tomorrow evening.”

“Where do you go?” asked Mr. Dikes, getting down from his high stool.

“To Berkeley.”

He smiled again.

“You are going to the convention, I suppose. Mr. Wendell reported this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir,” I responded, “and you will get a report from Tony Larcom, too, in a short time. He goes with us.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Dikes, making a memorandum. “Make sure we are given fair play at the convention.”

After a few more words, I hurried to my room and packed my valise. Then I went to my eating club, which was situated some distance from the main street. Tony Larcom, who was a member of the same club, was there before me; and, as I entered, I found him wrestling with an exceptionally refractory duck.

“If you expect to get the meat off that bird you’ll never catch the 7:15 train,” said I, after watching his efforts for a few moments.

“I don’t care for the meat; I’m doing this for exercise,” he answered sarcastically. “Harry, just think what a baseballist that duck would have made, with its web feet to catch the balls, and all that muscle to throw with——”

“Oh, stop your nonsense, and hurry up with your dinner,” I answered. “We have only twenty minutes to spare.”

Tony accordingly set to work in real earnest, and we soon finished our meal, and were on our way to the station.

Ray was already there when we arrived, and had purchased tickets for the party. He was conversing earnestly with Edwards, who had come down to see us off, and the latter was listening with surprise to Ray’s story about the telegram.

“I wish I could go over with you,” said Edwards. “I would like to see the fun. Give me all the facts when you come back, and if there has been any trickery or negligence on the part of the officers of the League, I will run off two or three columns in the next issue of the Chronicle that will make their hair curl up in knots.”