"Punk!" was the opinion of Slim Jones, who had entered in time to hear the verse. "Disinfect it, Ricky."

"Aw, you fellows are jealous because you can't sling the muse around when you want to. Guess I'll try a second spasm."

"Not in here," declared Spike, quickly. "This is a decent, law-abiding place, and, so far, has a good reputation. I'm not going to have the Dean raiding it just because you think you're a poet. That stuff would give our English Lit. prof. a chill. Can it, Ricky, can it."

"You're jealous, that's all," and despite the protest Ricky proceeded to grind out a second verse, that he insisted on reading to his audience, which, by this time had increased to half a dozen lads from neighboring rooms. There was quite a jolly little party, and Ricky demanded that they sing his new song, which they finally did, with more or less success.

The strains wafted out of doors and pa.s.sing students were attracted by the sound until the place was swarming with congenial spirits, and nothing was talked of but the coming game with Harvard.

"It's queer though, about that red paint," said Spike, later that night, when he and Joe were alone.

"It sure is," agreed the pitcher.

"Maybe Hoppy sent someone around to do a bit of daubing, and the chap got in here by mistake," suggested his chum. But inquiry developed that this was not so, and the mystery remained unsolved for a time.

But after he got in bed, Joe did some hard thinking. He recalled the red paint episode of the spoiled ma.n.u.script, and wondered, without believing, if Weston could have come to his room.

"He might have," reflected Joe, "and he might have had a hardened spot of red paint on his clothes from daubing it on the steps that time. If the hardened upper crust rubbed off, it would leave a fresh spot that might have gotten on my coat. And yet what would he be doing in my closet, let alone in the room here? No, it can't be that. Unless he sneaked in here--knowing Spike and I would be away--looking for something to use against me.

"He doesn't want me to pitch, that's a fact, and if he could find something against me he'd use it. But he can't. I'm glad I'm not a candidate for any of their queer secret societies here, or I'd be worrying about them not asking me to join. I'm going to keep out of it.

But that red spot is sure queer."

All Yale was on edge on the day before the Harvard game, which was to take place on the Cambridge diamond. The team and the subst.i.tutes were trained to the minute, and all ready to make the trip, together with nearly a thousand "rooters" who were going along to lend moral support.

Particular pains had been taken with the pitching staff, and Joe, Weston, McAnish and Avondale had been worked to the limit. They had been coached as they never had been before, for Yale wanted to win this game.

As yet it was not known who would pitch. At least the 'varsity candidates did not know, and Joe was hoping for at least half a game. He was modest, for Weston arrogantly declared that he would last the nine innings. His friends said little, but he had a certain power in college not to be overlooked.

The stadium was thronged with spectators as the teams trotted out for a little warming-up practice. In the cheering stands for the wearers of the blue the locomotive cry, the Boola song, a new one--"Bulldog Grit!"--and Ricky's effusion were gone over again. "Hit the Line!" came as a retort, and the cheerers tried to outdo each other.

"Do you think you'll pitch, Joe?" asked Spike, in a low tone, as he and his chum practised off to one side.

"I don't know. There are all sorts of rumors going about. I'd like to--I guess you know how much--just as you would like to catch--but we can't always have what we want. The coaches are having a talk now. Weston seems pretty confident."

"Yes, the cad! I wish he'd play fair."

"Oh, well," said Joe, with an air of resignation, "I suppose he can't help it. I guess I shouldn't like it if I'd pitched for a year, and then found a new man trying for my place."

"But if the new man was better than you, and it meant the winning of the game?" asked Spike, as he took a vicious ball that Joe slugged to him.

"Oh, well, of course in theory the best man ought to play--that's not saying I'm the best man by a long shot!" Joe hastened to add; "but even in theory it's hard to see another man take your place."

"Something's doing," said Spike suddenly. "The conference has broken up."

Joe looked nervously to where the coaches and captain had been talking.

Tom Hatfield was b.u.t.toning on his shortstop glove, and then taking it off again as though under a strain.

He walked over to the umpire, and Weston, seeing him, made a joking remark to a companion. He started for the players' bench, for Harvard was to bat last, and Yale would come up first for the stick-work.

"It looks like him," remarked Spike in a low voice.

"Well, I'll be ready when they call me," said Joe, with a good nature he did not feel.

The umpire raised his megaphone. There was a hush, and then came the hollow tones:

"Batteries for to-day. Harvard: Elkert and Snyder--Yale: Matson and Kendall."

"By Halifax!" cried Spike, clapping Joe on the back with such force that he nearly knocked over his chum. "You pitch, old man!"

CHAPTER XXIV

HARD LUCK

Shouts and yells greeted the announcement of the umpire--cheers from the admirers of the respective batteries.

"Yah!" voiced the wearers of the crimson. "That's our one best bower! Oh you Elkert! Tear 'em apart, Snyder!"

Back came the challenge from the sons of Yale.

"You're our meat, Harvard! Keep your eye on the ball--that's all you'll be able to do. Fool 'em, Matson. 'Rah for Baseball Joe!"

Our hero was becoming quite a favorite with his cla.s.smates, many of whom now knew of his one ambition. But Kendall had his admirers too.

"He eats 'em alive--Shorty Kendall does!" came the cry. "Look out for our bear-cats, Harvard!"

Once more came a riot of cheers and songs, each college group striving its best to outdo the other, giving its favorite cries or songs.

"Come, get together, you two, and make sure you don't have any mix-up on signals," exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook to Joe and the catcher. "We want to win this game. And, Joe, don't forget what I told you about getting in on all the plays you can. We'll need every man if we take this game.

Harvard has several good twirlers, and she's been playing like a house afire. Watch yourselves."

"Then I'm really going to pitch?" asked Joe. It was almost the only thing he had said since hearing the announcement, after Spike had clapped him on the back with such force.

"Pitch! Of course you're going to pitch," declared the head coach. "And I want you to pitch your head off. But save your arm, for there are going to be more games than this. But, mind!" and he spoke with earnestness. "You've got to make good!"

"I will!" exclaimed Joe, and he meant it.

"Come over here," suggested Shorty. "Plug in a few and we'll see if you're as good as you were yesterday," for Joe and he had had considerable practice, as, in fact, had all the pitchers, including Weston. As for that lad, when he heard the announcement a scowl shot across his face, and he uttered an exclamation.

"What's the matter?" asked De Vere, who had become rather intimate with Ford of late.

"Matter! Isn't there enough when that--when he pitches?" and he nodded his head toward Joe.

"Why; do you think they'll get his goat, or that he'll blow, and throw the game?"

"He might," sneered Weston, "but I have a right to be on the mound to-day. I was half promised that I could pitch, and now, at the last minute, they put him in. I'm not going to stand for it!"