"Yes," a.s.sented Joe gloomily.

"Oh, you get out!" cried Spike. "I'm not going to stand for this. You've got to keep in form. There's no telling when this thing will all come out right, and you want to be in condition to pitch. You and I will keep up practice. The Dean can't stop you from that."

Nor did he try, and, though Joe was hard to move at first, he soon consented to indulge in pitching practice with his chum. And then life at Yale went on much as before, though Joe's heart was bitter. He seldom saw Weston, who was again first choice for 'varsity pitcher.

Weston did fairly well, too, though some games Yale should have won she lost. But it was to Princeton that all eyes turned, looking for the college championship. Could Yale win the next contest?

The answer was not long delayed. Two weeks later the bulldog invaded the tiger's lair and was eaten up--to the end of his stubby tail. Yale received the worst beating in her history.

"And it's up to Weston!" declared Spike savagely, when he came back from Princeton. "He was absolutely rotten. Went up in the air first shot, and they got seven runs the first inning. Then it was all over but the shouting, for Avondale and McAnish couldn't fill in the gap. Oh, Joe, if you could only pitch!"

"But I can't."

"You've just got to! Yale has a chance yet. It's a tie now for the championship. The deciding game will be played on the New York Polo Grounds in two weeks. You've got to pitch!"

"I don't see how I can."

"Well, I'm going to!" and Spike strode from the room, his face ablaze with anger and firm with determination.

It seems that one of the janitors about the college had a son who was an epileptic. The lad was not badly afflicted and was able, most of the time, to help his father, sometimes doing the cleaning at one of the student clubs.

It was to this club that Spike went when he burst out of his room, intent on finding, in some fashion, a way of vindicating Joe, for he was firm in his belief that Joe was innocent in spite of the silence.

There had been rain the night before, and on a billboard adjoining the club room some of the gaudy red and yellow posters, announcing the final Yale-Princeton game, had been torn off.

Hardly knowing what he was doing, Spike picked up part of a sheet, colored a vivid red. At that moment, from the side entrance, Charlie, the janitor's son, came out, and Spike, who had often given him odd tasks to do, and who felt sorry for the afflicted one, playfully thrust the red paper at him, saying:

"Here, Charlie, take it home, and let your little sister cut out some paper dolls."

He slapped the paper on the lad's hand, and being damp and pasty it stuck there, like a splotch of blood.

Charlie shrank back, cowering and frightened, whimpering like a child, and mumbling:

"Don't! Oh, don't Mr. Poole. Don't put that on me. I--I can't bear it.

It's been haunting me. I'll tell all I know. The red paint--I put it there. But he--he made me. Some of it got on my hand, and I wiped it off on his coat. Oh, the blood color! Take it away. I--I can't stand it!"

"What's that?" fairly yelled Spike. "Red paint? Here, tell me all you know! Jove, I begin to see things now!"

"Take it off! Take it off!" begged Charlie, and he trembled so that Spike feared he would have a seizure.

"There--there--it's all right," he said soothingly. "I'll take it off,"

and he removed the offending paper. "Now you come with me, and tell me all about it," he went on quietly. And Charlie obeyed, like a child.

A little later Spike was closeted with the Dean, taking Charlie with him, and when they came out Joe's room-mate said:

"Then the ban is removed, sir?"

"Certainly, Poole," replied the Dean, "and I will make a public explanation in the morning. I am very sorry this occurred, and I deeply regret it. But circ.u.mstances pointed to him, and I felt I had to act.

Never again, though, shall I place any faith in an anonymous letter.

Yes, everything will be all right. If Matson had only spoken, though!"

"It's just like him not to," said Spike.

CHAPTER XXIX

BUCKING THE TIGER

"Hurray! Matson is going to pitch for us!"

"Get out! He's barred!"

"Not now. It's all off. He'll pitch against Princeton!"

"Where'd you hear it?"

"What's the matter with Weston?"

"Oh, he's gone--vamoosed--flew the coop. Couldn't stand the disgrace.

It'll all be out in the morning."

Student meeting student on the campus, in dormitories, in the commons, at Glory's--anywhere in fact, pa.s.sed these, and similar remarks.

"And to think you knew, all the while, that Weston put that red paint on the steps, and you wouldn't squeal!" cried Spike, clapping his chum on the shoulder.

"Would you?" asked Joe quietly.

"Well--er--now you have got me, old man! But it's all right. Come on out and celebrate."

And they celebrated as they never had before. Joe was given an ovation when he entered Glory's, and every member of the nine--subst.i.tutes and all--were there to do him honor. That is, all but Weston and De Vere.

They had quietly taken themselves from Yale.

The explanation was simple. Weston had, as my readers know already, put the red paint on the professor's steps. He was not discovered, for Joe kept quiet. Then, when our hero was preferred as pitcher, in the bitterness of his heart, Weston planned to throw suspicion on him. He sent the first anonymous letter, though Avondale knew nothing of it.

Then Weston took De Vere into his confidence and the two evolved the scheme of smuggling the pot of red paint, that Weston had used, into Joe's closet. The epileptic lad, Charlie, was the innocent medium, and once the paint was hidden Weston sent the second anonymous letter to the Dean, telling about it.

What happened is well known. Joe was accused, and would not inform on another to save himself. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to do--certainly he owed it to himself to have the right to vindication. I am not defending him, I am only telling of what happened.

Then came the dramatic episode, when Spike unwittingly brought out the truth from Charlie. It seems that the boy's conscience had been troubling him, for though Weston pretended it was only an innocent joke he was playing on Joe, the lad suspected something.

And so the full explanation was made to the Dean, and the latter, publicly, at chapel the next morning, begged Joe's pardon, and restored him to his full rights. As for Weston and De Vere, they were not in evidence. They had left Yale.

"Sharp practice from now on," ordered Mr. Hasbrook, when the excitement had quieted down somewhat. "We'll have to replace De Vere at right field, but otherwise the team will be the same as before. Matson, you'll pitch, of course."

"And he'll win for us, too!" cried Spike.

"I'm sure I hope so," went on the head coach. "Spike, if it wasn't so late in the season I'd let you catch. You deserve something for your share in this."