"Not much!" exclaimed Weston, with some pa.s.sion. "This won't last. He'll be back pitching again, and do me out of it. What I'm going to do won't hurt him much, and it will give me a chance. I'm ent.i.tled to it."

"I guess you are, old man."

The Yale team went back jubilant, and there was a great celebration in New Haven when the ball nine arrived. Fires were made, and the campus as well as the streets about the college were thronged with students. There were marches, and songs, and Joe Matson's name was cheered again and again.

Meanwhile our hero was not having a very delightful time. Not only was he in pain, but he worried lest the injury to his arm prove permanent.

"If I shouldn't be able to pitch again!" he exclaimed to Spike, in their room.

"Forget it!" advised the other. "You'll be at it again in a little while. Just take it easy."

And Joe tried to, but it was hard work. It was galling to go to practice and watch others play the game while he sat and looked on--especially when Weston was pitching. But there was no help for it.

And then, like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, it came.

The week had pa.s.sed and Joe, who had done some light practice, was sent in to pitch a couple of innings against the scrub. Weston was pulled out, and he went to the bench with a scowl.

"I'll get him yet," he muttered to De Vere. "He's put me out of it again."

"I'd go slow," was the advice.

"It's been slow enough as it is," growled the other.

The day for the first Princeton game was at hand. It was to be played at Yale, and everyone was on edge for the contest. Joe was practically slated to pitch, and he felt his responsibility. His arm was in good shape again.

The night before the game the Dean sent for Joe to come to his office.

"What's up now?" demanded Spike, as his friend received the summons.

"Have you won a scholarship, or is the Dean going to beg of you not to throw the game?"

"Both, I guess," answered Joe with a laugh. In his heart he wondered what the summons meant. He was soon to learn.

"I have sent for you, Mr. Matson," said the Dean gravely, "to enable you to make some answer to a serious accusation that has been brought against you."

"What is it?" faltered the pitcher.

"Do you remember, some time ago," the Dean went on, "that some red paint was put on the steps of the house of one of the professors? The gentleman slipped, fell in the paint, and a very rare ma.n.u.script was ruined. Do you remember?"

"Yes," answered Joe quietly, wondering if he was to be asked to tell what he knew.

"Well," went on the Dean, "have you anything to confess?"

"Who, me? Confess? Why, no, sir," answered Joe. "I don't know what you mean."

"Then I must tell you. You have been accused of putting the red paint on the steps, and, unless you prove yourself innocent you can take no further part in athletics, and you may be suspended."

CHAPTER XXVIII

VINDICATION

Joe fairly staggered back, so startled was he by the words of the Dean--and, not only the words, but the manner--for the Dean was solemn, and there was a vindictiveness about him that Joe had never seen before.

"Why--why, what do you mean?" gasped Joe. "I never put the red paint on the steps!"

"No?" queried the Dean coldly. "Then perhaps you can explain how this pot of red paint came to be hidden in your closet."

"My closet!" cried Joe, and at once a memory of the crimson stain on his coat came to him. "I never----"

"Wait," went on the Dean coldly. "I will explain. It is not altogether circ.u.mstantial evidence on which I am accusing you. The information came to me--anonymously I regret to say--that you had some red paint in your closet. The spoiling of the valuable ma.n.u.scripts was such an offence that I decided to forego, for once, my objection to acting on anonymous information. I did ignore one letter that accused you----"

"Accused me!" burst out Joe, remembering the incident in chapel.

"Yes. But wait, I am not finished. I had your room examined in your absence, and we found--this." He held up a pot of red paint.

"I had the paint on the steps a.n.a.lyzed," went on the Dean. "It is of exactly the same chemical mixture as this. Moreover we found where this paint was purchased, and the dealer says he sold it to a student, but he will not run the risk of identifying him. But I deem this evidence enough to bar you from athletics, though I will not expel or punish you."

Barred from athletics! To Joe, with the baseball season approaching the championship crisis, that was worse than being expelled.

"I--I never did it!" he cried.

"Do you know who did, if you did not?" asked the Dean.

Like a flash it came to Joe. He could not tell. He could not utter his suspicions, though he was sure in his own heart that Weston was the guilty one--the twice guilty one, for Joe was sure his enemy had put the paint in the closet to direct suspicion to him.

"Well?" asked the Dean, coldly.

"I--I have nothing to say," faltered Joe.

"Very well. You may go. I shall not make this matter public, except to issue the order barring you from athletics."

Without a word Joe left. Inside of an hour it was noised all over the college that he could not pitch against Princeton, and great was the regret, mingled with anxiety.

"What in thunder is up?" asked Captain Hatfield, as he sought out Joe.

"Nothing."

"Oh, come off! Can't you tell?"

"No," answered Joe, and that was all he would say.

Joe did not go to the Yale-Princeton game. Yale won. Won easily, though had Weston, who pitched, not been ably supported the story might have been a different one.

"One scalp for us," announced Spike.