"What'd you give us the slip for?"

"Come on; give an account of yourself."

These were only a few of the greetings that welcomed him as he entered his apartment to find there, snugly ensconced on the beds, chair, sofa and table, his own room-mate and the other friends who had gone out that wild night.

"What's the matter?" demanded Spike, in some alarm, as he saw his friend limping.

"Oh, nothing much. Twisted ankle. I'll be all right in the morning. How did you fellows make out?"

"Nothing doing," said Ricky. "The b.o.o.bs that shampooed us split after we got on their trail, and we lost 'em. Did you see anything of 'em?"

"Not much," said Joe, truthfully enough.

"Then where did you go?"

He explained how he had twisted on his ankle, and turned back, and how, in coming home, he had met Kendall. He said nothing of watching Weston and another chap do something to the stoop of the unknown professor's house.

"Mighty white of Kendall," was Spike's opinion, and it was voiced by all.

"Oh, what a night!" exclaimed Slim Jones. "Home was never like this!"

"Well, you fellows can sit up the rest of the night if you want to,"

said Joe, after a pause; "but I'm going to put my foot to bed."

"I guess that's the best place for all of us," agreed Ricky. "Come on, fellows; I have got some hard practice to-morrow. I may be called to the 'varsity."

"Like pie!" jeered Slim Jones.

"Oh, ho! Don't you worry," taunted Ricky. "I'll make it."

There was a sensation the next morning. It seemed that a well-known and very literary professor, returning from a lecture from out of town, before a very learned society, had slipped and fallen on his own front porch, going down in some greasy red paint that had been smeared over the steps.

The professor had sprained a wrist, and his clothing had been soiled, but this was not the worst of it. He had taken with him, on his lecture, some exceedingly rare and valuable Babylonian ma.n.u.scripts to enhance his talk, and, in his fall these parchments had scattered from his portfolio, and several of them had been projected into the red paint, being ruined thereby. And, as the ma.n.u.scripts had been taken from the Yale library, the loss was all the more keen.

"I say, Joe, did you hear the news?" gasped Ricky, as he rushed into his friend's room, just before the chapel call.

"No. Is there a row over the shampooing?"

"Shampooing nothing! It's red paint, and some of those musty ma.n.u.scripts that a prof. had," and he poured out the tale.

"Red paint?" murmured Joe.

"Yes. There's a fierce row over it, and the Dean has taken it up. If the fellows are found out they'll be expelled sure. Oh, but it was a night!

But the red paint was the limit."

Joe did not answer, but in a flash there came to him the scene where Weston had entered his room, thrusting his hand into his pocket--a hand smeared with red.

"Fierce row," went on Ricky, who was a natural reporter, always hearing sensations almost as soon as they happened. "The prof. went sprawling on his steps, not knowing the goo was there and the papers---- Oh me! Oh my! I wonder who did it?"

"Hard to tell I guess," answered Joe, "with the bunch that was out last night."

"That's so. I'm glad it wasn't any of our fellows. We all stuck together--that is all but you----" and, as if struck by a sudden thought, he gazed anxiously at Joe.

"Oh, I can prove an _alibi_ all right," laughed the pitcher. "Don't worry."

"Glad of it. Well, let's hike. There goes the bell."

There was indeed a "fierce row," over the spoiling of the rare ma.n.u.scripts, 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 pa.s.sed on.

And Joe Matson still maintained his silence.

The Fall pa.s.sed. 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."

"Baseball!" chuckled Mr. Matson, as he looked out of the window at the wintry New England landscape. "This is sleigh-riding weather--not baseball."

"Oh, I do wish Joe would give up his foolish idea," sighed Mrs. Matson.

"He can never make anything of himself at baseball. A minister now, preaching to a large congregation----"

"I guess, mother, if you'd ever been to a big ball game, and seen thousands of fans leaning over their seats while the pitcher got ready to deliver a ball at a critical point in the contest, you'd think he had some congregation himself," said Mr. Matson, with another chuckle.

"Oh, well, what's the use talking to you?" demanded his wife; and there the subject was dropped.

Joe went back to Yale. He was doing fairly well in his lessons, but not at all brilliantly. Study came hard to him. He was longing for the Spring days and the green gra.s.s of the diamond.

Gradually the talk turned from debating clubs, from glees and concerts, to baseball. The weather raged and stormed, but there began to be the hint of mildness in the wintry winds.

In various rooms lads began rummaging through trunks and valises, getting out old gloves that needed mending. The cage in the gymnasium was wheeled out and some repairs made to it.

"By Jove!" cried Joe one day, "I--I begin to feel as if I had the spring fever."

"Baseball fever you mean," corrected Spike.

"It's the same thing, old man."