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Frank Merriwell at Yale; Or, Freshman Against Freshman

<h2> CHAPTER XXX. </h2> <h3> RATTLETON IS EXCITED. </h3>  "It wasn't Merriwell's fault that the freshies didn't win," said Bob Collingwood to Paul Pierson as they were riding back to New Haven on the train that night. "Not a bit of it," agreed Pierson. "I was expecting a great deal of Merriwell, but I believe he is a better man than I thought he could be." "Then you have arrived at the conclusion that he is fast enough for the regular team?" "I rather think he is." "Will you give him a trial?" "We may. It is a bad thing for any freshman to get an exalted opinion of himself and his abilities, for it is likely to spoil him. I don't want to spoil Merriwell—" "Look here," interrupted Collingwood, impulsively. "I am inclined to doubt if it is an easy thing to spoil that fellow. He hasn't put on airs since coming to Yale, has he?" "No." "Instead of that, he has lived rather simply—far more so than most fellows would if they could afford anything better. He has made friends with everybody who appeared to be white, no matter whether their parents possessed boodle or were poor." "That is one secret of Merriwell's popularity. He hasn't shown signs of thinking himself too good to be living." "Yet I have it straight that he has a fortune in his own right, and he may live as swell as he likes while he is here. What do you think of that?" "It may be true," admitted Pierson. "He is an original sort of chap—" "But they say there isn't anything small or mean about him," put in Collingwood, swiftly. "He isn't living cheap for economy's sake. You know he doesn't drink." "Yes. I have made inquiries about his habits." "Still they say he opens wine for his friends now and then, drinking ginger ale, or something of that sort, while they are surrounding fizz, for which he settles. And he is liberal in other ways." "He is an enigma in some ways." "I have heard a wild sort of story about him, but I don't take much stock in it. It is the invention of some fertile brain." "What is it?" "Oh, a lot of trash about his having traveled all over the world, been captured by pirates and cannibals, fought gorillas and tigers, shot elephants and so forth. Of course that's all rot." "Of course. What does he say about it?" "Oh, he simply laughs at the stories. If a fellow asks him point-blank if they are true he tells him not to let anybody string him. He seems to regard the whole business as a weak sort of joke that some fellow is trying to work." "Without doubt that's what it is, for he's too young to have had such adventures. Besides that, there's no fellow modest enough to deny it if he had had them." "Of course there isn't." In this way that point was settled in their minds, for the time, at least. There was no band to welcome 'Umpty-eight back to New Haven. No crowd of cheering freshmen was at the station, and those who had gone on to Cambridge to play and to see the game got off quietly—very quietly—and hurried to their rooms. Merriwell was in his room ahead of Rattleton. Harry finally appeared, wearing a sad and doleful countenance. "What's the matter, old man?" asked Frank as Harry came in and flung his hat on the floor, after which he dropped upon a chair. "You do not seem to feel well." "I should think you would eel felegant—I mean feel elegant!" snapped Harry, glaring at Frank. "Oh, what's the use to be all broken up over a little thing?" "Wow! Little thing!" whooped Harry. "I'd like to know what you call a little thing—I would, by jee!" "You are excited, my boy. Calm down somewhat." "Oh, I am calm!" shouted Harry as he jumped up and kicked the chair flying into a corner. "I am perfectly calm!" he roared, tearing up and down the room. "I never was calmer in all my life!" "You look it!" came in an amused manner from Frank's lips. "You are so very calm that it is absolutely soothing and restful to the nerves to observe you!" Harry stopped short before Frank, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, thrust his head forward, and glared fiercely into Merriwell's face. "There are times when it positively is a crime not to swear," he hoarsely said. "It seems to me that this is one of the times. If you will cuss a little it will relieve my feelings immensely." "Why don't you swear?" laughed Frank. "Why don't I? Poly hoker—no, holy poker! I have been swearing all the way from Cambridge to New Haven, and I have completely run out of profanity." "Well, I think you have done enough for both of us." "Oh, indeed! Well, that is hard of me! I came in here expecting to find you breaking the furniture, and you are as calm and serene as a summer's morning. I tell you, Frank, it is an awful shock! And you are the one who should do the most swearing. I can't understand you, hanged if I can!" "Well, you know there is an old saw that says it is useless to cry over spilled milk—" "Confound your old saws! Crying and swearing are two different things. Don't you ever cuss, Frank?" "Never." "Well, I'd like to know how you can help it on an occasion like this! That is what gets me." "Never having acquired the habit, it is very easy to get along without swearing, which is, beyond a doubt, the most foolish habit a man can get into." Rattleton held up both hands, with a look of absolute horror on his face. "Don't—don't preach now!" he protested. "I think the habit of swearing is a blessing sometimes—an absolute blessing. A man can relieve his feelings that way when he can't any other." "You don't seem to have succeeded in relieving your feelings much." "I don't? Well, you should have seen me when I got aboard the train! I was at high pressure, and there was absolute danger of an explosion. I just had to open the safety valve and blow off. And I find you as calm as a clock! Oh, Frank, it is too much—too much!" and Harry pretended to weep. "Go it, old man," he smiled. "You will feel better pretty soon." "I don't know whether I will or not!" snapped Harry. "It was a sheastly bame—I mean a beastly shame! That game was ours!" "Not quite. It came very near being ours." "It was! Why, you actually had it pulled out! You held those fellows down and never gave them a single safe hit! That was wonderful work!" "Oh, I don't know. They are not such great batters." "Gordon found them pretty fast. I tell you some of those fellows are batters—good ones, too." "Well, they didn't happen to get onto my delivery." "Happen! happen! happen! There was no happen about it. They couldn't get onto you. You had them at your mercy. It was wonderful pitching, and I can lick the gun of a son—er—son of a gun that says it wasn't!" "I had a chance to size every man up while Gordon was pitching, and that gave me the advantage." "That makes me tired! Of course you had time to size them up; but you couldn't have kept them without a hit if you hadn't been a dandy pitcher. Your modesty is simply sickening sometimes!" Then Harry pranced up and down the room like am infuriated tiger, almost gnashing his teeth and foaming at the mouth. "If I didn't think I could pitch some I wouldn't try it." said Frank, quietly. "But I am not fool enough to think I am the only one. There are others." "Well, they are not freshmen, and I'll tell you that." "I don't know about that." "I do." "All right. Have it as you like it." "And you batted like a fiend. Twice at bat and two hits—a two-bagger and a three-bagger." "A single and a three-bagger, if you please." "Well, what's the matter with that? Whee jiz—mean jee whiz! Could anybody ask for anything more? You got the three-bagger just when it was needed most, and you would have saved the game if you had come to the bat in the last inning." "You think so, but it is all guesswork. I might have struck out." "You might, but you wouldn't. Oh, merry thunder! To think that a little single would have tied that game, and we couldn't get it! It actually makes me ill at the pit of my stomach!" The expression on Harry's face seemed to indicate that he told the truth, for he certainly looked ill. "Don't take it to heart so, my boy," said Frank. "The poor chaps earned that game, and they ought to have it. We'll win the last one of the series, and that's all we want. Do you want to bury poor old Harvard?" "You can't bury her so deep that she won't crawl out, and you know that. Those fellows are decidedly soon up at Cambridge, and Yale does well to get all she can from them. You can't tell what will happen next game. They have seen you, and they may have a surprise to spring on us. If we pulled this game off the whole thing would be settled now." "Don't think for a moment that I underestimate Harvard. She is Yale's greatest rival and is bound to do us when she can. "We made a good bid for the game to-day, but it wasn't our luck to win, and so we may as well swallow our medicine and keep still." "It wasn't a case of luck at all," spluttered Harry. "It was sheer bull-headedness, that's what it was! If Put had put you in long before he did the game might have been saved." "He didn't like to pull Gordon out, you see." "Well, if he's running this team on sentiment, the sooner he quits the better it will be for the team." Frank said nothing, but he could not help feeling that Harry was right. Managing a ball team is purely a matter of business, and if a manager is afraid to hurt anybody's feelings he is a poor man for the position. "Why didn't he put you in in the first place?" asked Harry. "I don't know. I suppose he had reasons." "Oh, yes, he had reasons! And I rather think I know what they were. I am sure I do." "What were they?" "Didn't you expect to pitch the game from the start to-day?" "Yes, I did." "I thought so." Harry nodded, as if fully satisfied that he understood the whole matter. "Well," said Frank, a bit sharply, "you have not explained yourself. I am curious to know why I was not put into the box at the start." "Well, I am glad to see you show some emotion, if it is nothing more than curiosity. I had begun to think you would not show as much as that." "Naturally I am curious." "Do you know that Paul Pierson, manager of the 'Varsity team, went on to see this game?" "Yes." "Why do you suppose he did so?" "Oh, he is acquainted with several Harvard fellows, and I presume he went to see them as much as to see the game." "He wasn't with any Harvard fellows at the game." "Well, what are you trying to get at?" "Don't be in a hurry," said Harry, who was now speaking with unusual calmness. "You regard Old Put as your friend?" "I always have." "But you think he didn't use you just right to-day?" "I will confess that I don't like to be used to fall back on with the hope that I may pull out a game somebody else has lost." Harry nodded his satisfaction. "I knew you would feel that way, unless you had suddenly grown foolish. It's natural and it's right. There is no reason why you shouldn't be the regular pitcher for our team, but still Gordon is regarded as the pitcher, while you are the change pitcher. Frank, there is a nigger in the woodpile." "You will have to make yourself clearer than that." "Putnam knew that Pierson was going to be present at the game." "Well?" "Pierson didn't go on to see any Harvard friends. He couldn't afford the time just at this season with all he has on his hands." "Go on." "Putnam knew Pierson was not there to see any Harvard men." "Oh, take your time." Harry grinned. He was speaking with such deliberation that he did not once twist his words or expressions about, as he often did when excited and in a hurry. "That's why you wasn't put in at the start-off," he declared. "What is why? You will have to make the whole matter plainer than you have so far. It is hazy." "Putnam did not want Pierson to see you pitch." "He didn't? Why not?" "Because Pierson was there for that very purpose." "Get out!" "I know what I am talking about. You have kept still about it, but Pierson himself has let the cat out of the bag." "What cat?" "He has told—confidentially, you know—that he has thoughts of giving you a trial on the regular team. The parties he told repeated it—confidentially, you know—to others. It finally came to my ears. Old Put heard of it. Now, while Old Put seems to be your friend, he doesn't want to lose you, and he had taken every precaution to keep you in the background. He has made Gordon more prominent, and he has not let you do much pitching for Pierson to see. He permitted you to go in to-day because he was afraid Gordon would go all to pieces, and he knew what a howl would go up if he didn't do something." Frank walked up and down the room. He did not permit himself to show any great amount of excitement, but there was a dark look on his handsome face that told he was aroused. Harry saw that his roommate was stirred up at last. "As I have said," observed Frank, halting and speaking grimly. "I have regarded Burnham Putnam as my friend; but if he has done as you claim for the reasons you give he has not shown himself to be very friendly. There is likely to be an understanding between us." Rattleton nodded. "That's right," he said. "He may deny it, but I know I am not off my trolley. He didn't want Piersan to see you work because he was afraid you would show up so well that Pierson would nail you for the regular team." "And you think that is why I have been kept in the background so much since the season opened?" "I am dead sure of it." "Putnam must have a grudge against me." "No, Frank; but he has displayed selfishness in the matter. I believe he has considered you a better man than Gordon all along, and he wanted you on the team to use in case he got into a tight corner. That's why he didn't want Pierson to see you work. He didn't want to lose you. But he was forced to use you to-day, and you must have satisfied Pierson that you know your business." "Well, Harry, you have thrown light on dark places. To-morrow I will have a little talk with Put about this matter." "That's right," grinned Harry; "and Pierson is liable to have a little talk with you. You'll be on the regular team inside of a week."       <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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