The Half-Back: A Story of School, Football, and Golf

"Have you ever heard of Tommy Collingwood?"

"Wasn't he baseball captain a good many years ago?"

"Yes, and used to row in the boat. Well, Tommy was a good deal better at spinning top on Academy steps than doing lessons, and a deal fonder of playing shinney than writing letters. But Tommy's mother always insisted that Tommy should write home once a week, and Tommy's father wrote and explained what would happen to Tommy if he didn't obey his mother; and as Tommy's folks lived just over in Albany it was a small thing for Tommy's father to run over some day with a strap; so Tommy obeyed his parents and every week wrote home. His letters weren't long, nor were they filled with a wealth of detail, but they answered the purpose in lieu of better. Each one ran: 'Hillton Academy, Hillton, N.Y.,' with the date. 'Dear Father and Mother, I am well and studying hard. Your loving son, Thomas Collingwood.'

"Well, when Christmas recess came, Tommy went home. And one day his mother complimented Tommy on the regularity of his correspondence. Tommy looked sheepish. 'To tell the truth, mother, I didn't write one of those letters each week,' explained Tommy. 'But just after school opened I was sick for a week, and didn't have anything to do; so I wrote 'I am well' twelve times, and dated each ahead.'"

Digbee accompanied the other two lads back to the yard, and he and March discussed studies, while West mooned along, whistling half aloud and thrashing the weeds and rocks with his cudgel, for the tramps refused to appear on the scene. He and Digbee went out of their way to see Joel safely to his dormitory, and then Joel accompanied them on their homeward way as far as Academy Building. There good-nights were said, and Joel, feeling but little inclined for sleep, drew his collar up and strolled to the front of the building, where, from the high steps, the river was visible for several miles in either direction. The moon was struggling out from a mass of somber clouds overhead, and the sound of the waters as they swirled around the rocky point was plainly heard.

Joel sat there on the steps, under the shadow of the dark building, thinking of many things, and feeling very happy and peaceful, until a long, shrill sound from the north told of the coming of the 9.48 train; then he made his way back to Masters, up the dim stairs, and into his room, where Dickey Sproule lay huddled in bed reading The Three Guardsmen by the screened light of a guttering candle.

CHAPTER X.

THE BROKEN BELL ROPE

Joel arrived at chapel the following morning just as the doors were being closed. Duffy, the wooden-legged doorkeeper, was not on duty, and the youth upon whom his duties had devolved allowed Joel to pass without giving his name for report as tardy. During prayers there was an evident atmosphere of suppressed excitement among the pupils, but not until chapel was over did Joel discover the cause.

"Were you here when it happened?" asked West.

"When what happened?" responded Joel.

"Haven't you heard? Why, some one cut the bell rope, and when 'Peg-leg' went to ring chapel bell the rope broke up in the tower and came down on his head and laid him out there on the floor, and some of the fellows found him knocked senseless. And they've taken him to the infirmary. You know the rope's as big as your wrist, and it hit him on top of the head. I guess he isn't much hurt, but 'Wheels' is as mad as never was, and whoever did it will have a hard time, I'll bet!"

"Poor old Duffy!" said Joel. "Let's go over and find out if he's much hurt. It was a dirty sort of a joke to play, though I suppose whoever did it didn't think it would hurt any one."

At the infirmary they found Professor Gibbs in the office.

"No, boys, he isn't damaged much. He'll be all right in a few hours. I hope that the ones who did it will be severely punished. It was a most contemptible trick to put up on Duffy."

"I hope so too," answered West indignantly. "You may depend that no upper middle boy did it, sir." The professor smiled.

"I hope you are right, West."

At noon hour Joel was summoned to the principal's office. Professor Wheeler, the secretary, and Professor Durkee were present, and as Joel entered he scented an air of hostility. The secretary closed the door behind him.

"March, I have sent for you to ask whether you can give us any information which will lead to the apprehension of the perpetrators of the trick which has resulted in injury to Mr. Duffy. Can you?"

"No, sir," responded Joel.

"You know absolutely nothing about it?"

"Nothing, sir, except what I have been told."

"By whom?"

"Outfield West, sir, after chapel. We went to the infirmary to inquire about 'Peg'–about Mr. Duffy, sir." The secretary repressed a smile. The principal was observing Joel very closely, and Professor Durkee moved impatiently in his seat.

"I can not suppose," continued the principal, "that the thing was done simply as a school joke. The boy who cut the rope must have known when he did so that the result would be harmful to whoever rang the chapel bell this morning. I wish it understood that I have no intention of dealing leniently with the culprit, but, at the same time, a confession, if made now, will have the effect of mitigating his punishment." He paused. Joel turned an astonished look from him to Professor Durkee, who, meeting it, frowned and turned impatiently away. "You have nothing more to tell me, March?"

"Why, no, sir," answered Joel in a troubled voice. "I don't understand. Am I suspected–of–of this–thing, sir?"

"Dear me, sir," exclaimed Professor Durkee, explosively, turning to the principal, "it's quite evident that–"

"One moment, please," answered the latter firmly. The other subsided.–"You had town leave last night, March?"

"Yes, sir."

"You went with Outfield West?"

"Yes, sir."

"What time did you return to your room?"

"At about a quarter to ten, sir."

"You are certain as to the time?"

"I only know that I heard the down train whistle as I left Academy Building. I went right to my room, sir."

"Was the door of Academy Building unlocked last night?"

"I don't know. I didn't try it, sir."

"What time did you leave Mr. Remsen's house?"

"A few minutes after nine."

"You came right back here?"

"Yes, sir. We came as far as Academy Building, and West and Digbee went home. I sat on the front steps here until I heard the whistle blow. Then I went to my room."

"Why did you sit on the steps, March?"

"I wasn't sleepy; and the moon was coming out–and–I wanted to think."

"Do you hear from home very often?"

"Once or twice a week, sir."

"When did you get a letter last, and from whom was it?"

"From my mother, about three days ago."

"Have you that letter?"

"Yes, sir. It is in my room."

"You sometimes carry your letters in your pocket?"

"Why, yes, but not often. If I receive them on the way out of the building I put them in my pocket, and then put them away when I get back."

"Where do you keep them?"

"In my bureau drawer."

"It is kept locked?"

"No, sir. I never lock it."

"Do you remember what was in that last letter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was any one mentioned in it?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Remsen was mentioned. And Outfield West, and my brother, and father."

"Is this your letter?" Professor Wheeler extended it across the desk, and Joel took it wonderingly.

"Why, yes, sir. But where–I don't understand–!" Again he looked toward Professor Durkee in bewilderment.

"Nor do I," answered that gentleman dryly.

"March," continued the principal, as he took the letter again, "this was found this morning, after the accident, on the floor of the bell tower. Do you know how it came there?" Joel's cheeks reddened and then grew white as the full meaning of the words reached him. His voice suddenly grew husky.

"No, sir, I do not." The words were spoken very stoutly and rang with sincerity. A silence fell on the room. Professor Wheeler glanced inquiringly at Professor Durkee, and the latter made a grimace of impatience that snarled his homely face into a mass of wrinkles.

"Look here, boy," he snapped, "who do you think dropped that letter there?"

"I can't think, sir. I can't understand it at all. I've never been in the tower since I've been in school."

"Do you know of any one who might like to get you into trouble in such a way as this?"

"No, sir," answered Joel promptly. Then a sudden recollection of Bartlett Cloud came to him, and he hesitated. Professor Durkee observed it.

"Well?" he said sharply.

"I know of no one, sir."

"Humph!" grunted the professor, "you do, but you won't say."

"If you suspect any one it will be best to tell us, March," said Professor Wheeler, more kindly. "You must see that the evidence is much against you, and, while I myself can not believe that you are guilty, I shall be obliged to consider you so until proof of your innocence is forthcoming. Have you any enemy in school?"

"I think not, sir."

The door opened and Remsen appeared.

"Good-morning," he said. "You wished to see me, professor?"

"Yes, in a moment. Sit down, please, Remsen." Remsen nodded to Joel and the secretary, shook hands with Professor Durkee, and took a chair. The principal turned again to Joel.

"You wish me to understand, then, that you have no explanation to offer as to how the letter came to be in the bell tower? Recollect that shielding a friend or any other pupil will do neither you nor him any service."

Joel was hesitating. Was it right to throw suspicion on Bartlett Cloud by mentioning the small occurrence on the football field so long before? It was inconceivable that Cloud would go to such a length in mere spite. And yet–Remsen interrupted his thoughts.

"Professor, if you will dismiss March for a while, perhaps I can throw some light on the matter. Let him return in half an hour or so." Professor Wheeler nodded.

"Come back at one o'clock, March," he said.

Outside Joel hesitated where to go. He must tell some one his trouble, and there was only one who would really care. He turned toward Hampton House, then remembered that it was dinner hour and that Outfield would be at table. He had forgotten his own dinner until that moment. In the dining hall West was still lingering over his dessert. Joel took his seat at the training table, explaining his absence by saying that he had been called to the office, and hurried through a dinner of beef and rice and milk. When West arose Joel overtook him at the door. And as the friends took their way toward Joel's room, he told everything to West in words that tumbled over each other.

Outfield West heard him in silence after one exclamation of surprise, and when Joel had finished, cried:

"Why didn't you tell about Cloud? Don't you see that this is his doing? That he is getting even with you for his losing the football team?"

"I thought of that, Out, but it seemed too silly to suppose that he would do such a thing just for–for that, you know."

"Well, you may be certain that he did do it; or, at least, if he didn't cut the rope himself, found some one to do it for him. It's just the kind of a revenge that a fellow of his meanness would think of. He won't stand up and fight like a man. Here, let's go and find him!"

"No, wait. I'll tell Professor Wheeler about him when I go back; then if he thinks–If he did do it, Out, I'll lick him good for it!"

"Hooray! And when you get through I'll take a hand, too. But what do you suppose Remsen was going to tell?"

Joel shook his head. They found Sproule in the room, and to him West spoke as follows:

"Hello, Dickey! You're not studying? It's not good for you; these sudden changes should be avoided." Sproule laughed, but looked annoyed at the banter. "Joel and I have come up for a chat, Dickey," continued West. "Now, you take your Robinson Crusoe and read somewhere else for a while, like a nice boy."

Sproule grew red-faced, and turned to West angrily.

"Don't you see I'm studying? If you and March want to talk, why, either go somewhere else, or talk here."

"But our talk is private, Dickey, and not intended for little boys' ears. You know the saying about little pitchers, Dickey?"

"Well, I'm not going out, so you can talk or not as you like."

"Oh, yes, you are going out, Dickey. Politeness requires it, and I shall see that you maintain that delightful courteousness for which you are noted. Now, Dickey!" West indicated the door with a nod and a smile. Sproule bent his head over his book and growled a response that sounded anything but polite. Then West, still smiling, seized the unobliging youth by the shoulders, pinioning his arms to his sides, and pushed him away from the table and toward the door. Joel rescued the lamp at a critical moment, the chairs went over on to the floor, and a minute later Sproule was on the farther side of the bolted door, and West was adjusting his rumpled attire.

"I'll report you for this, Outfield West!" howled Sproule through the door, in a passion of resentment.

"Report away," answered West mockingly.

"And if I miss my Latin I'll tell why, too!"

"Well, you'll miss it all right enough, unless you've changed mightily. But, here, I'll shy your book through the transom."

This was done, and the sound of ascending feet on the stairway reaching Sproule's ears at that moment, he grabbed his book and took himself off, muttering vengeance.

"Have you looked?" asked West.

"Yes; it's not there. But there are no others missing. Who could have taken it?"

"Any one, my boy; Bartlett Cloud, for preference. Your door is unlocked, he comes in when he knows you are out, looks on the table, sees nothing there that will serve, goes to the bureau, opens the top drawer, and finds a pile of letters. He takes the first one, which is, of course, the last received, and sneaks out. Then he climbs into the bell tower at night, cuts the rope through all but one small strand, and puts your letter on the floor where it will be found in the morning. Isn't that plain enough?" Joel nodded forlornly. "But cheer up, Joel. Your Uncle Out will see your innocence established, firmly and beyond all question. And now come on. It's one o'clock, and you've got to go back to the office, while I've got a class. Come over to my room at four, Joel, and tell me what happens."

Remsen and the secretary were no longer in the office when Joel returned. Professor Durkee was standing with his hat in his hand, apparently about to leave.

"March," began the principal, "Mr. Remsen tells us that you were struck at by Bartlett Cloud on the football field one day at practice. Is that so?" Joel replied affirmatively.

"Does he speak to you, or you to him?"

"No, sir; but then I've never been acquainted with him."

"Do you believe that he could have stolen that letter from your room?"

"I know that he could have done so, sir, but I don't like to think–"

"That he did? Well, possibly he did and possibly he didn't. I shall endeavor to find out. Meanwhile I must ask you to let this go no further. You will go on as though this conversation had never occurred. If I find that you are unjustly suspected I will summon you and ask your pardon, and the guilty one will be punished. Professor Durkee here has pointed out to me that such conduct is totally foreign to his conception of your character, and has reminded me that your standing in class has been of the best since the beginning of the term. I agree with him in all this, but duty in the affair is very plain and I have been performing it, unpleasant as it is. You may go now, March; and kindly remember that this affair must be kept quiet,"

Joel turned with a surprised but grateful look toward Professor Durkee, but was met with a wrathful scowl. Joel hurried to his recitation, and later, before West's fireplace, the friends discussed the unfortunate affair in all its phases, and resolved, with vehemence, to know the truth sooner or later.

But Joel's cup was not yet filled. When he returned to the dormitory after supper, he found two missives awaiting him. The first was from Wesley Blair:

"DEAR MARCH" (it read): "Please show up in the morning at Burke's for breakfast with the first eleven. You are to take the place of Post at L.H.B. It will be necessary for you to report at the gym at eleven each day for noon signals; please arrange your recitations to this end. I am writing this because I couldn't see you this afternoon; hope you are all right. Yours,

"WESLEY BLAIR."

Joel read this with a loudly beating heart and flushing cheeks. It was as unexpected as it was welcome, that news; he had hoped for an occasional chance to substitute Post or Blair or Clausen on the first team in some minor game, but to be taken on as a member was more than he had even thought of since he had found how very far from perfect was his playing. He seized his cap with the intention of racing across to Hampton and informing West of his luck; then he remembered the other note. It was from the office, and it was with a sinking heart that he tore it open and read:

"You are placed upon probation until further notice from the Faculty. The rules and regulations require that pupils on probation abstain from all sports and keep their rooms in the evenings except upon permission from the Principal. Respectfully,

"CURTIS GORDON, Secretary."

CHAPTER XI.

TWO HEROES

One afternoon a week later Outfield West and Joel March were seated on the ledge where, nearly two months before, they had begun their friendship. The sun beat warmly down and the hill at their backs kept off the east wind. Below them the river was brightly blue, and a skiff dipping its way up stream caught the sunlight on sail and hull until, as it danced from sight around the headland, it looked like a white gull hovering over the water. Above, on the campus, the football field was noisy with voices and the pipe of the referee's whistle; and farther up the river at the boathouse moving figures showed that some of the boys were about to take advantage of the pleasant afternoon.

"Some one's going rowing," observed Outfield. "Can you row, Joel?"

"I guess so; I never tried." West laughed.

"Then I guess you can't. I've tried. It's like trying to write with both hands. While you're looking after one the other has fits and runs all over the paper. If you pull with the left oar the right oar goes up in the air or tries to throw you out of the boat by getting caught in the water. Paddling suits me better. Say, you'll see a bully race next spring when we meet Eustace. Last spring they walked away from us. But the crew is to have a new boat next year. Look! those two fellows row well, don't they? Remsen says a chap can never learn to row unless he has been born near the water. That lets me out. In Iowa we haven't any water nearer than the Mississippi–except the Red Cedar, and that doesn't count. By the way, Joel, what did Remsen say to you last night about playing again?"

"He said to keep in condition, so that in case I got off probation I could go right back to work. He says he'll do all he can to help me, and I know he will. But it won't do any good. 'Wheels' won't let me play until he's found out who did that trick. It's bad enough, Out, to be blamed for the thing when I didn't do it, but to lose the football team like this is a hundred times worse. I almost wish I had cut that old rope!" continued Joel savagely; "then I'd at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I was only getting what I deserved." West looked properly sympathetic.

"It's a beastly shame, that's what I think. What's the good of 'believing you innocent,' as 'Wheels' says, if he goes ahead and punishes you for the affair? What? Why, there isn't any, of course! If it was me I'd cut the pesky rope every chance I got until they let up on me!" Joel smiled despite his ill humor.

"And I've lost half my interest in lessons, Out. I try not to, but I can't help it. I guess my chance at the scholarship is gone higher than a kite."

"Oh, hang the scholarship!" exclaimed West. "But there's the St. Eustace game in three weeks. If you don't play in that, Joel, I'll go to 'Wheels' and tell him what I think about it!"

"It's awfully rough on a fellow, Out, but Professor Wheeler is only doing what is right, I suppose. He can't let the thing go unnoticed, you see, and as long as I can't prove my innocence I guess he's right to hold me to blame for it."

"Tommyrot!" answered West explosively. "The faculty's just trying to have us beaten! Why–Say, don't tell a soul, Joel, but Blair's worried half crazy. They had him up yesterday, and 'Wheels' told him that if he didn't get better marks from now on he couldn't play. What do you think of that? They're not decent about it. They're trying to put us all on probation. Why, how do I know but what they'll put me on?"

Outfield hit his shoe violently with the driver he held until it hurt him. For although Joel was debarred from playing golf there was nothing to keep him from watching West play, and this afternoon the two had been half over the course together, West explaining the game, and Joel listening intently, and all the while longing to take a club in hand and have a whack at the ball himself.

"That's bad," answered Joel thoughtfully. "It would be all up with us if Blair shouldn't play."

"And that's just what's going to happen if 'Wheels' keeps up his present game," responded Outfield. "Who are those chaps in that shell, Joel? One looks like Cloud, the fellow in front." Joel watched the approaching craft for a moment.

"It is Cloud," he answered. "And that looks like Clausen with him. Why isn't he practicing, I wonder?"

"Haven't you heard? He was dropped from the team yesterday. Wills has his place. Post says, by the way, that he's sorry you're in such a fix, but he's mighty glad to get back on the first. He's an awfully decent chap, is Post. Did you see that thing he has in this month's Hilltonian about Cooke? Says the Fac's going to establish a class in bakery and put Cooke in as teacher because he's such a fine loafer! Say, what's the matter down there?"

The shell containing Cloud and Clausen had reached a point almost opposite to where West and Joel were perched, and as the latter looked toward it at West's exclamation he saw Cloud throw aside his oars and stand upright in the boat. Clausen had turned and was looking at his friend, but still held his oars.

"By Jove, Joel, she's sinking!" cried Outfield. "Look! Why doesn't Clausen get out? There goes Cloud over. I wonder if Clausen can swim? swim? Come on!"

And half tumbling, half climbing, West sped down the bank on to the tiny strip of rocks and gravel that lay along the water. Joel followed. Cloud now was in the water at a little distance from the shell, which had settled to the gunwales. Clausen, plainly in a state of terror, was kneeling in the sinking boat and crying to the other lad for help. The next moment he was in the water, and his shouts reached the two lads on the beach. Cloud swam toward him, but before he could reach him Clausen had gone from sight.

"What shall we do?" cried West. "He's drowning! Can you swim?" For Joel had already divested himself of his coat and vest, and was cutting the lacings of his shoes. West hesitated an instant only, then followed suit.

"Yes." Off went the last shoe, and Joel ran into the water. West, pale of face, but with a determined look in his blue eyes, followed a moment later, a yard or two behind, and the two set out with desperate strokes to reach the scene of the disaster. As he had taken the water Joel had cast a hurried glance toward the spot where Clausen had sunk, and had seen nothing of that youth; only Cloud was in sight, and he seemed to be swimming hurriedly toward shore.

Joel went at the task hand over hand and heard behind him West, laboring greatly at his swimming. Presently Joel heard his name cried in an exhausted voice.

"I–can't make–it–Joel!" shouted West. "I'll–have to–turn–back."

"All right," Joel called. "Go up to the field and send some one for help." Then he turned his attention again to his strokes, and raising his head once, saw an open river before him with nothing in sight between him and the opposite bank save, farther down stream, a floating oar. He had made some allowance for the current, and when in another moment he had reached what seemed to him to be near the scene of the catastrophe, yet a little farther down stream, he trod water and looked about. Under the bluff to the right Cloud was crawling from the river. West was gone from sight. About him ran the stream, and save for its noise no sound came to him, and nothing rewarded his eager, searching gaze save a branch that floated slowly by. With despair at his heart, he threw up his arms and sank with wide-open eyes, peering about him in the hazy depths. Above him the surface water bubbled and eddied; below him was darkness; around him was only green twilight. For a moment he tarried there, and then arose to the surface and dashed the water from his eyes and face. And suddenly, some thirty feet away, an arm clad in a white sweater sleeve came slowly into sight.