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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> <h3>THE RED PAINT</h3> Pursuing those who had given them the shampoo, Joe and his chums found themselves trailing down a side street in the darkness. “I wonder what they’re up to,” ventured Spike. “Oh, some more monkey business,” declared Ricky. “If they try it on any more Freshmen though, we’ll take a hand ourselves; eh?” “Sure,” assented the others. “There they go—around the corner—and on the run!” suddenly exclaimed Slim Jones. “Get a move on!” Our friends broke into a trot—that is, all but Joe. He tried to, but stepping on a stone it rolled over with him, and he felt a severe pain shoot through his ankle. “Sprained, by Jove!” he exclaimed. “I’m glad it isn’t the baseball season, for I’m going to be laid up.” He halted, and in those few seconds his companions, eager in the chase, drew ahead of him[94] in the darkness, and disappeared around another corner. “I can’t catch up to ’em,” decided Joe. “Wonder if I can step on the foot?” He tried his weight on it, and to his delight found that it was not a bad sprain, rather a severe wrench that, while it lamed him, still allowed him to walk. “Guess I’ll go back,” he murmured. “If there’s a row I can’t hold up my end, and there’s no use being a handicap. I’ll go back and turn in. I can explain later.” He turned about, walking slowly, the pain seeming to increase rather than diminish, and he realized that he was in for a bad time. “If I could see a hack I’d hail it,” he thought, but the streets seemed deserted, no public vehicles being in sight. “I’ve got to tramp it out,” Joe went on. “Well, I can take it slow.” His progress brought him to Wall street, and he decided to continue along that to Temple, and thence to the modest side-thoroughfare on which the Red Shack was located. But he was not destined to reach it without further adventures. As he came around a corner he heard the murmur of low voices, and, being cautious by nature, he halted to take an observation. “If it’s my own crowd—all right,” he said.[95] “But if it’s a lot of Sophs., I don’t want to run into ’em.” He listened, and from among those whom he could not see he heard the murmur of voices. “That’s the house over there,” said someone. “Right! Now we’ll see if he’ll double on me just because I wasn’t prepared. I’ll make him walk Spanish!” “Got plenty of the magoozilum?” “Sure. We’ll daub it on thick.” “They can’t be after Freshmen,” mused Joe. “I wonder what’s up?” He looked across the street in the direction where, evidently, the unseen ones were directing their attention. “A lot of the profs. live there,” mused Joe. “I have it! Some one’s going to play a trick on ’em to get even. I’ll just pipe it off!” He had not long to wait. Out of the shadows stole two figures, and, even in the dimness he recognized one of them as Ford Weston. The other he did not know. “Come on!” hoarsely whispered the ’varsity pitcher to his chum. “I’ll spread it on thick and then we’ll cut for it. Separate streets. I’ll see you in the morning, but keep mum, whatever happens.” The two figures ran silently across the street, and paused in front of a detached house. One[96] seemed to be actively engaged at the steps for a few minutes, and then both quickly ran off again, the two separating and diving down side streets. “Huh! Whatever it was didn’t take them long,” thought Joe. “I wonder what it was? Guess I’ll——” But his half-formed resolution to make an investigation was not carried out. He heard shouting down the street, and thinking it might be a crowd of Sophomores, he decided to continue on to his room. “They might start a rough-house with me,” mused Joe, “and then my ankle would be more on the blink than ever. I’ll go home.” He started off, rather excited over the events of the night, and found that even his brief spell of standing still had stiffened him so that he could hardly proceed. “Wow!” he exclaimed, as a particularly sharp twinge shot through him. He had gone about two blocks when he heard someone coming behind him. He turned in apprehension, but saw only a single figure. “Hello! What’s the matter?” asked a young man as he caught up to Joe. “Twisted my ankle.” “So? What’s your name?” “Matson—I’m a Freshman.” “Oh, yes. I think I saw you at Chapel. Kendall’s[97] my name.” Joe recognized it as that of one of the Juniors and a member of the ’varsity nine. “How’d it happen?” “Oh, skylarking. The Sophs. were after us to-night.” “So I heard. You’d better do something for that foot,” he went on, as he noticed Joe’s limp. “I'm going to as soon as I get to my room.” “Say, I tell you what,” went on Kendall. “My joint’s just around the corner, and I’ve got a prime liniment to rub on. Suppose you come in and I’ll give you some.” “Glad to,” agreed Joe. “I don’t believe I’ve got a bit at my shack, and the drug stores are all closed.” “Come along then—here, lean on me,” and Kendall proffered his arm, for which Joe was grateful. “Here we are,” announced Kendall a little later, as they turned into a building where some of the wealthier students had their rooms. “Sorry it’s up a flight.” “Oh, I can make it,” said Joe, keeping back an exclamation of pain that was on his lips. “We’ll just have a look at it,” continued his new friend. “I’ve known a strain like that to last a long while if not treated properly. A little rubbing at the right time does a lot of good.” Joe looked in delight at the room of his newly[98] found friend. It was tastefully, and even richly, furnished, but with a quiet atmosphere differing from the usual college apartment. “You’ve got a nice place here,” he remarked, thinking that, after all, there might be more to Yale life than he had supposed. “Oh, it’ll do. Here’s the stuff. Now off with your shoe and we’ll have a look at that ankle. I’m a sort of doctor—look after the football lads sometimes. Are you trying for the eleven?” “No, baseball is my stunt.” “Yes? So’s mine.” “You catch, don’t you?” asked Joe. “I’ve heard of ‘Shorty’ Kendall.” “That’s me,” came with a laugh. “Oh, that’s not so bad,” he went on as he looked at Joe’s foot. “A little swelled. Here, I’ll give it a rub,” and in spite of Joe’s half-hearted protests he proceeded to massage the ankle until it felt much better. “Try to step on it,” directed Shorty Kendall. Joe did so, and found that he could bear his weight on it with less pain. “I guess you’ll do,” announced the Junior. “Cut along to your room now—or say—hold on, I can fix you up here for the night. I’ve got a couch——” “No, thank you,” expostulated Joe. “The boys would worry if I didn’t come back.” [99] “You could send word——” “No, I’ll trot along. Much obliged.” “Take that liniment with you,” directed Kendall. “Won’t you need it?” “Not until the diamond season opens, and that’s some time off yet. Good night—can you make the stairs?” “Yes—don’t bother to come down,” and Joe limped out. As he reached the first hall he was made aware that someone was coming in the front door. Before he could reach it the portal opened and a student hurried in, making for a room near the main entrance. In the glare of the hall light Joe saw that the youth was Ford Weston. He also saw something else. On Weston’s hand was a red smear—brilliant—scarlet. At first Joe thought it was blood, but a slight odor in the air told him it was paint. An instant later his eyes met those of the rival pitcher—at least Joe hoped to make him a rival—and Weston started. Then he thrust his smeared hand into his pocket, and, without a word, hurried into his room and slammed the door. <hr class="chap" />[100] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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