Batting to Win Part 12

"I haven't any right to control your actions," said Miss Harrison. "I don't know who sent me this clipping--nor why--I wish I had never seen it," and her eyes filled with tears. "Yet when I ask you if you were there, it seems as if you could say yes or no."

"That's it! I can't!" cried poor Sid. "I--I wasn't arrested. I was there--yes, in--in Dartwell that night--but I can't explain--it's a secret--it--Oh, won't you believe me?"

Miss Harrison turned and looked full at him. The others were watching the little tragedy that was being enacted before them.

"Won't you believe me--I'll--I'll explain--some time," faltered Sid desperately.

"I'm sorry, but unless you care to tell me everything, and explain why you were in a gambling house I can't accept your excuses," she said coldly. "I cannot retain the friends.h.i.+p of a person who goes to gambling places. I must ask you to excuse me," and holding her head high, though there were tears in her blue eyes, and a sob in her trembling voice, she turned and left the room.

Ruth and Madge looked at each other.

"Come on," said Phil to Tom huskily, and they filed out. Sid remained long enough to pick up the envelope that had contained the accusing clipping, and then he followed. None of the three chums spoke until they were out on the campus. Then Phil turned to Sid and demanded:

"What in blazes is the matter? If that didn't mean you, and you weren't there, why didn't you say so?"

"I--I can't," was the answer. "Oh, fellows, don't go back on me now.

I'll explain--some time."

"Of course we won't go back on you," declared Tom. "Even if you were playing the ponies or shuffling a deck of cards, it doesn't matter to us. It's your money to lose, if you want to, only I didn't think you cared for such things."

"I--I don't!" blurted out Sid.

"Then why don't you----"

"But I can't explain! Don't desert me now!"

"We're not going to," spoke Phil more gently, "only it hurts with a girl like Miss Harrison to have a thing like this come out. She's done with you."

"Do you think so?" asked Sid miserably.

"Sure," agreed Tom, "but don't worry over that. You've got to bat for us to win, as you did to-day," for he feared Sid would go to pieces, such was the wild look on his face.

CHAPTER VII

GETTING BACK AT "PITCHFORK"

The three chums were not very jolly as they began their return to Randall college, whither the baseball team had preceded them some time before. Sid, Phil and Tom had sent their suits back with some of their friends while they attended the little tea given by Ruth Clinton--the tea which had had such an unfortunate ending.

Tom and Phil conversed in low tones about the team and the showing made that day in the first formal game of the season, but as for Sid, he kept to himself in one corner of the electric car, and there was a moody look on his face.

"He's taking it hard," observed Phil in a low voice.

Tom shook his head. "I can't understand it," he said.

Sid stalked into the room ahead of his chums and threw himself down on the old sofa, which creaked and groaned with his weight.

"Easy, old man," called Phil good naturedly. "We've had that in the family for three terms, now, and it's a regular heirloom. Don't smash it for us. Remember what a time we had last term, patching it up, and moving it here from our old room?"

"Yes, and how Langridge was upset trying to get down stairs past us,"

added Tom. "Have a little regard for the sofa, Sid."

"Oh, hang the sofa!" burst out the lad, and then Tom and Phil knew it was useless to talk to him. Phil crossed the room softly and sat cautiously down in the old armchair. Tom looked at the alarm clock, and exclaimed:

"Jove! If it hasn't stopped! Must be something wrong," and he hurriedly wound it, and then started it by the gentle process of pounding it on the edge of the table. Soon the fussy clicking was again heard. "It's all right," went on the pitcher, in relieved tones. "Gave me heart disease at first. The clock is as much of a relic as the chair and sofa.

But I've got to mend my glove again. It's ripped in the same place.

Rotten athletic goods they're selling nowadays."

There came a knock on the door, and Wallops, the messenger, who stood revealed as the portal was opened, announced:

"Mr. Zane would like to see you, Mr. Henderson."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "MR. ZANE WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU, MR. HENDERSON."]

"Me?" inquired Sid.

"Yep," was the sententious answer.

Saying nothing further, the second baseman got up, and, as the messenger went down the hall, he followed slowly.

"He's in for it, I'm afraid," remarked Tom dubiously.

"Looks so," agreed Phil. "It's about that item in the paper, of course.

Too bad it leaked out."

But what took place at the interview with the proctor, Sid's chums did not learn until long afterward. All that became known was that Dr.

Churchill was summoned, and that Sid was in the proctor's study a long time. He returned to his room a trifle pale, and with unnaturally bright eyes. Throwing himself on the creaking sofa he stared at the ceiling moodily, while Phil and Tom maintained a discrete silence.

"Why don't some of you fellows say something?" burst out Sid finally.

"Think this is a funeral?"

"We didn't think you wanted to have a talk-fest," observed Tom.

"What in blazes am I to do?" asked Sid desperately.

"What about?" inquired Phil.

"You know--Miss Harrison. I don't want to have her think I'm a gambler.

I'm not--I----"

"Then why don't you tell her why you were in Dartwell the night of the raid?" suggested the captain.

"I--I can't," burst out Sid. "It's impossible!"

Tom shrugged his shoulders.