The Crimson Sweater

"Fine and dandy," answered Harry cheerfully. "You must come and see him; I think he gets rather dull sometimes. I've got some more white mice. That makes sixteen. I wish I knew what to do with them. Dad says I'll have to kill them, but I just couldn't do it."

"Why not turn them loose?" asked Roy.

Harry giggled.

"I tried that and some of them came back and went up to John's room and he found one in his boot in the morning. He was terribly mad about it. John's very short tempered, you know."

"He must be," laughed Roy.

"Yes. And then yesterday he found two in the grain-chest and told Dad. I don't think it was nice of him to tell, do you? And Dad says I'll have to kill them."

"I tell you what," said Roy. "You keep them until warm weather and we'll take them off somewhere and let them loose. I don't believe they'd ever get back again."

"But they might die!"

"I don't believe so. Anyway, they'd have a fighting chance, and if you kill them they won't have. See?"

"John said I ought to buy an owl," said Harry disgustedly, "and feed them to him. As though I would!"

"John's a brute," said Roy. "How about the squabs?"

"Oh, they're coming fast! There are twelve already. I – I wish they wouldn't hatch. I hate to have them killed."

"Mighty fine eating, squabs," said Roy teasingly. Harry shot an indignant glance at him.

"Any person who'd eat a squab," she cried, "deserves to be – to be – "

But Roy didn't learn what such a person deserved, for at that moment Mr. Cobb summoned the teams out again. Roy peeled off his crimson sweater, looked to his skate straps and called to Jack. When the latter had skated up Roy talked to him earnestly for a moment.

"All ready, Porter?" cried Warren.

"About six or eight feet from the corner of the goal," finished Roy. "And bang it in without waiting for anything. Understand?"

Jack nodded and the two skated to their places. Warren and the opposing left-center laid their sticks on either side of the puck and the whistle sounded. There was an instant of shoving and pushing and then the puck shot back to the Hammond side. Over to the boards it went, the Hammond forwards strung out and dug their skates into the ice and the puck came down to the Ferry Hill goal, flying back and forth from one forward to another like a shuttle. Chub checked the Hammond right-center and the two went to the ice together, a confused mass of legs and arms and sticks. Gallup slashed wildly at Schonberg's stick, Hadden crouched between the iron posts and the puck went flying over his shoulder into the snow outside. The whistle piped and the disk was dug out of its refuge and returned to the ice just in front of the Ferry Hill goal. Chub and Gallup fell back to protect Hadden, and Roy and Schonberg faced off. There was a moment of wild hacking of stick against stick, then the puck slid through Roy's skates, and Schonberg, reaching around him, made a quick slash that sent it rolling into the corner of the goal. Hammond, 6; Ferry Hill, 1. Hadden vented his disgust by smashing his stick and had to have a new one. Back to the center of the ice went the puck, while the Hammond supporters cheered and laughed.

Again Hammond get possession of the disk at the face and again the cherry jerseys sped down the rink. Then smash! went Roy into Schonberg and the puck was his and he was dribbling it along the boards. A Hammond forward charged him, but Roy passed the puck inside, passed outside himself and recovered it beyond. From the other side of the rink came Jack's voice.

"All right, Roy!"

Past cover-point went Roy, and then, just as point flew out toward him, he shot the puck at an angle against the boards just back of goal. He went down the next moment before the savage bodychecking of point, but he didn't mind, for the puck, carroming against the barrier, had shot out at the other side of goal where Jack was awaiting it and was now reposing coyly in the farthermost corner of the netting. Ferry Hill went wild with joy. Six to two sounded far more encouraging than had six to one. Hockey sticks waved in air as the players skated back to their places.

"That's the stuff, fellows!" called Roy. "Good shot, Jack! Now let's have another one!"

But there were no more goals for a while, although the game went fast and furious. Gallup received a cut over the left eye that sent him out of the game and Bacon took his place. Then the Hammond left-center was put off for two minutes for tripping and Ferry Hill thought she had found her chance to score again. But Hammond's remaining six played so well that Ferry Hill was held off until the penalized player returned to the game. Along the boards the watchers were kicking their shoes to bring warmth to their feet. The sun had dropped behind the wooded hills across the river and the rink was in shadow.

Presently Ferry Hill had the puck in the middle of the ice and her forwards flew to their places. Down the rink they charged, the disk flying from Kirby to Warren, from Warren to Jack Rogers and ultimately from the latter's stick past goal's knees into the net. Hammond, 6; Ferry Hill, 3.

There were eight minutes more to play. Ferry Hill seemed to have found her pace at last; perhaps the last two goals had encouraged her. At all events she played as she had never played all season. Roy was a streak of greased lightning, Jack was a tornado, Warren and Kirby shot about as though they had wings on their shoes instead of mere steel runners, Chub was a bull-dog and a fierce and speedy one, Bacon seemed to have eyes in the back of his head and Hadden was invulnerable. Ferry Hill was forcing the playing now and for minutes at a time she appeared to have things all her own way. Only the Hammond goal-tend saved the day for the Cherry and Black. Time and again he was the only defense left and time and again he turned seeming success into failure for the swooping enemy. Then came another carrom back of goal, again Jack was on the spot and once more the Ferry Hill sticks danced in air. Hammond, 6; Ferry Hill, 4!

Hammond was beginning to show herself tuckered. Her right-center was plainly played out and gave his place to a new man. Even Schonberg exhibited signs of failing strength and no longer played with the dash and brilliancy with which he had begun the contest. And as the enemy weakened Ferry Hill strengthened. Schonberg went to the ice and his stick flew out of his hand while Roy flew on with the puck slipping along in front of him. Kirby sent cover-point out of the play, the disk slid along the snowy ice to Warren and he lifted it at goal. Goal-tender stopped it with his knee, slashed it aside and crouched at the corner of the net. Roy turned on his heel, found the puck as it flew by and rushed back to goal. The whole Hammond team was about him and sticks banged and whizzed. It was a bedlam of cries and whacks and the grind of steel on ice. Science was forgotten for the moment; Hammond was fighting tooth and nail to drive back the invader. Once the puck was wrested from Ferry Hill and shot back up the ice to the middle of the rink, but Chub was awaiting it and brought it back, speeding along like an express train. He passed to Kirby in time to fool a Hammond forward, dodged, received the puck again and charged down on goal, dispersing the foe by the sheer impetus. Sticks flew about his feet and point threw himself at him. Then came a quick side pass to Roy, the sharp sound of stick against puck and the ring of the iron post as the hard rubber disk struck it and glanced in. Five to six, and Ferry Hill coming all the time! How the brown-decked boys along the sides yelled! Mr. Cobb consulted the time-keeper.

"Two minutes left!" he called.

"Time enough to win in!" shouted Roy.

"Sure!" answered Jack triumphantly. With sticks gyrating they sped back to their positions. But Hammond was in no hurry now and the time-keeper kept his eyes carefully on his stop-watch until finally the whistle shrilled again. Then back to the fray went the brown jerseys and over the ice sped the Ferry Hill skates. A rush down the rink and again the Hammond goal was in danger. A quick swoop of Warren's stick and the puck was winging straight for the goal. But a gloved hand met it and tossed it aside. Roy swung circling back and passed across to Jack. Another shot, this time wide of the net. Schonberg and Jack fought it out in the corner and Jack rapped the disk out to Warren. The Hammond cover-point checked his stick and secured the disk, shooting it down the rink. A Hammond forward got it but was off-side. Warren joined him and they faced near the center. A quick pass to Jack and the forwards turned and dug their blades into the ice. Down they came, charging and passing, past cover-point, past point, and then —

Out shot goal and away to the left rolled the puck. Roy, turning after it, shot a quick glance at the time-keeper. Then he was fighting with a Hammond man for possession of the elusive black disk, their bodies crashing against the boards and their sticks flying hither and thither. But Warren came to the rescue, poked the puck out from under the Hammondite's skate and passed it across to Kirby in front of goal. Another try and another stop by the Cherry's goal-tend. And so it went and so went the precious seconds. And then, suddenly, with the puck within a yard of goal once more and Roy's stick raised for a shot, the whistle rang out!

"Time's up!" announced Mr. Cobb.

Roy turned fiercely.

"It can't be up!" he cried, skating toward the referee.

"It is, though," was the answer.

"That's perfect nonsense!" said Roy hotly. "You said there was two minutes left just a minute ago!"

"That'll do, Porter," said Mr. Cobb coldly.

Roy dropped his eyes, swallowed something hard in his throat and examined a cut on his hand. Then,

"Beg pardon, sir," he said. "This way, fellows! A cheer for Hammond – and make it good!"

Well, it wasn't very good. But then you can scarcely blame them when another second would perhaps have tied the score. But they cheered, and Hammond answered it; and the hockey season had ended with a defeat for Ferry Hill. Schonberg skated over to Roy and held out his hand.

"You had us on the run, Porter," he said. "If we'd played five minutes longer you'd have won. You've got a slick team, all right! How about next year? You're going to keep the team up, aren't you?"

"Sure," answered Roy. "And we're going to lick the stuffing out of you!"

The rival captain laughed good-naturedly.

"That's right. We've had a dandy time playing you chaps and we'll be ready again next year. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," answered Roy as graciously as he could. "Glad you fellows came over."

He turned and found Jack beside him.

"Say, Jack," he asked, "what's the longest period of time you can think of?"

"I don't know," answered Jack soberly. "What's the answer?"

"One year," was the glum reply.

CHAPTER XVIII

ON FOX ISLAND

Spring came suddenly that year. They woke up one morning to find the river flowing warmly blue and free of ice, the walks running with crystal water and the bricks steaming in the fervid sunshine. Winter had disappeared over night and Spring had come to its own again. With the awakening of the new season came the awakening of new interests. The crew candidates, who for weeks past had been toiling ingloriously at the rowing machines in the basement of the gymnasium, went trooping down the path to the river and launched their shells. The baseball candidates who had been throwing and batting in the cage and sliding to bases over the hard floor trotted out to the field in search of a dry spot whereon to hold their first outdoor practice. With the former went Horace Burlen, free at last, in spite of his enemies' croakings, of all conditions, and Hadden and Gallup and Whitcomb and Otto Ferris and others. With the baseball candidates went Chub, Roy, Bacon, Kirby, Post and many more. And – oh, yes – Sid Welch! Sid had entertained hopes of making the second crew, but such hopes had been sadly shattered. And as Sid had to be trying for something to be content he naturally went in for the only first-class sport left.

"I think," he confided to Chub, "I think I'd like to play shortstop."

"Just as you say, Sid," Chub answered gravely. "All you'll have to do will be to beat Bacon out for the position. You're sure you wouldn't rather pitch? Post and Kirby, you know, aren't so much of a muchness but what you could beat 'em with a little practice."

"Well, anyhow, I don't see why I couldn't be a fielder," answered Sid good-naturedly. "You'll give me a show, won't you, Chub?"

"Course I will, Sid," answered Chub heartily. "You come along out and we'll see what you can do. First of all, though, we'll take a little of that fat off you."

"I've been trying to get rid of it," Sid replied earnestly and sadly, "but it doesn't seem to do any good. I haven't eaten any bread or potato or puddin' for days and days!"

"Never mind the bread and potato, Sid," said Chub with a laugh. "I know a better way."

"What?" asked the other interestedly.

"Chasing flies, my boy!" was the answer.

March was kind to them. It gave them a clear two weeks of fair weather at the end. To be sure, the wind howled dismally sometimes and it was often cold enough to make fingers stiff, but it allowed them to stay out of doors and that was the main thing. April, however, started in meanly. Ten days of drizzle and wet fields affected even Chub's temper. But everything, even a spell of rainy weather, must come to an end some time, and the second week of April brought back sunny skies and mild days. And after that affairs went briskly on the diamond.

Roy had kept his promise to his chum, a promise made on the occasion of their first meeting and re-made several times since. For Chub had got it into his head that Roy had the making of a baseball player and never allowed him to forget for a moment all winter long that he had agreed to try for the team.

"You ought to make a good baseman," Chub said once, looking over his friend with the eye of a connoisseur. "Maybe third – or even first. You've got height and a good long reach; and you're quick and heady. Patten's the only fellow I know of who's after first base. He was substitute last year. He's not bad, but he's not an expert by a long shot. Just you come out, old man, and see what you can do."

And Roy promised for the twentieth time.

Training table was started the middle of April, with Mr. Cobb in command. By that time the candidates had been weeded out until there were but fourteen left. The "culls," as Chub called them, went toward the making up of the second team. There was practice every afternoon save Sunday, usually ending with a short game with the second nine, the latter strengthened by the presence of Mr. Cobb, who played first base or pitched as occasion required. Roy bought a rule-book early in the season and studied it diligently, following it up later with an invaluable blue-covered pamphlet which told him exactly how to play every position on the team. In the end, however, he discovered that the best way to learn baseball is to play it.

Chub started him at left-field and kept him there until he had learned to judge a ball, catch it and field it home. It was hard work, but Roy liked it. Sometimes, however, he doubted whether he would ever vindicate Chub's belief in him. There seemed an awful lot to learn and he envied the ready thought displayed by the fellows who had been playing the game for several years. I think that Chub would have strained a point to keep Roy with him as long as it did not endanger the success of the team, for by this time the two were well-nigh inseparable. But it very soon became evident that no favoritism was necessary; Roy deserved a place on the nine by virtue of his ability. By the middle of April he was having a try at first and two weeks later he had succeeded to the position vice Patten removed to the outfield.

It didn't take him long to accustom himself to the place and its requirements. As Chub had said, he had height and reach, was quick and steady and clear-headed. Of course there was talk; disgruntled fellows who had failed at making the team sneered at Chub's favoritism, and Horace found time from his rowing duties to try and stir up discord amongst the baseball men. But Patten, who had more cause than anyone else to feel dissatisfied, had nothing to say. He had sense enough to realize that Chub had given the position to the best man, and enough of the right sort of spirit to be satisfied, so long as it was for the good of the team and the school. Patten went out to right-field, stifled his disappointment and "played ball."

Chub must have been right. Unless he "has it in him" no boy can learn to play baseball well in three months, as Roy did. Perhaps, though, Mr. Cobb's coaching deserves more credit than I am giving it. He certainly worked hard with Roy. And so did Chub. And the other members of the nine, amongst whom Roy was highly popular, helped, perhaps unconsciously, to give him self-confidence in the early days of his novitiate. So, it seems, the Fates worked together to fashion him into a baseball player much to the regret of Mr. Buckman who had entertained hopes of securing him for the second four. But although Roy liked the water well enough and was never more contented than when out with Chub in the crimson canoe, he was more at home on the turf. Perhaps the first or second four lost a good oar when Roy chose baseball instead of rowing; be that as it may, it is certain the nine found a good first baseman.

April recess began on the twenty-second and lasted nine days, from Friday afternoon to the second Monday morning, although, as the fellows were required to be back at School by Sunday noon, eight days come nearer to the mark than nine. Crew and baseball candidates were supposed to remain at Ferry Hill during this recess and most of them did so. Roy was undecided whether to stay or go home. Chub begged him to remain, putting it to him first on the score of duty to the nine and then citing the camping-out on Fox Island as an inducement. Roy's mother decided the matter for him eventually by writing that she was going South for six weeks. She suggested that Roy join her at a South Carolina winter resort, but Roy had no desire for a week of hotel existence and so threw in his lot with Chub, Gallup, Bacon, Post, Kirby and the others. Jack Rogers went home and so did Sid, who had been working hard on the second nine and showing quite a little promise. Doctor and Mrs. Emery took a week's vacation, but Harry was left behind – greatly to her delight – because her holidays did not come until later. Mr. Cobb, too, disappeared from the scene and the charge of the school was left in Mr. Buckman's hands.

Saturday was the first day of the recess and Roy and Chub spent the morning on the river. They paddled down stream for a mile or more in the canoe and fished, but with scant success. In the afternoon came baseball practice which ended with a six-inning game with a Silver Cove team. Sunday was rather dull for it rained torrents. Chub, Roy, Gallup and Post donned rubber coats or old sweaters in the afternoon and took a long tramp inland. But Monday morning dawned bright and fresh and as soon as breakfast was over the fellows, under Mr. Buckman's direction, began the overhauling of the camping outfit. The four big tents were pulled from their quarters in the boat house, spread out on the landing and gone over for holes or weak places. Then lost pegs were replaced, new guy-ropes supplied and a broken ridge-pole was mended. Dinner was rather a hurried meal that day, for every fellow – and there were twenty-odd left at school – was eager to get into camp. At three o'clock the tents and outfits were loaded into row boats and transferred to the island. All afternoon boats went back and forth on errands; baking powder had been forgotten, Gallup wanted his camera, someone had left one of the hatchets on the landing, cook had neglected to grind the coffee before packing it, four more blankets were needed, Mr. Buckman wanted a roll of adhesive plaster and a bottle of arnica. Meanwhile the tents were erected, the old cook-stove was set up and fuel gathered. At five o'clock, Kirby, under Mr. Buckman's tuition, began the preparation of the first meal. Roy and Chub and half a dozen others built the camp fire in the open space between the tents, piling up the brush and slanting the dead limbs above it until the whole looked like an Indian wigwam. Then came supper; bacon, potatoes, tea, milk and "spider cake," the latter an indigestible but delightful concoction of thin flour batter poured into the frying pan and cooked until nice and soggy.

After supper the camp-fire was lighted, the fellows spread themselves out on the ground about it and the camp went into executive session. Chub was elected Little Chief – Mr. Buckman was Big Chief – and Roy became Medicine Man. Then four Chiefs of Tribe were elected and the honors fell to Roy, Horace Burlen, Kirby and Pryor. These, in turn, selected their warriors and were assigned to tents – or tepees, as they preferred to call them. Roy chose Chub, Gallup, Bacon and Post; Burlen selected Ferris, Hadden, Whitcomb and Walker; Kirby and Pryor made up their households of what material was left, each having five instead of six companions as there were twenty-two boys in the party. Mr. Buckman cast his lot with Burlen's Utes. Roy's tribe was christened Seminole, Kirby's Ojibway and Pryor ruled despotically over the Navajos. Mr. Buckman explained the camp rules. There weren't many of them, but they were strict. The Chiefs of Tribes could grant permission to leave the island but were required to report the names of those leaving to the Big Chief. Every tribe must delegate one of its warriors each day to be fisherman; fishermen must fish not less than two hours and turn their catch over to the Little Chief. Every warrior or Chief must strip his bed before breakfast and hang his blankets in the sun. Each tribe must select a member to be cook and take his turn at preparing the meals; also an assistant whose duty it was to help and wash up the utensils. Prompt attendance at meals was imperative. Offenses would be judged by a council composed of the Big and Little Chiefs, the Medicine Man and the four Tribal Chiefs and punishment would be meted out by them. In the absence of the Big Chief the Little Chief took command; in the absence of both authority was vested in the Medicine Man.

At nine o'clock the fellows sought their quarters and made their beds, for which purpose plenty of pine and hemlock boughs had been cut and piled in the clearing. Each tent was supplied with a lantern which swung from the ridge-pole. A rustic bench held a half-dozen tin wash-basins and a looking-glass was hung from a tree nearby. By half-past nine preparations for the night were complete and the boys gathered again about the dying fire and, kneeling, recited the Lord's Prayer. Then good-nights were said and the Tribes separated. For some time the sound of laughter was heard. Then quiet fell over Fox Island and a big moon, coming up over the tree tops, threw the four tents into dazzling whiteness and paled the glow of the dying embers where the camp fire had been.

CHAPTER XIX

A NIGHT ALARM

Fox Island lay about two hundred yards off shore and perhaps thrice that distance up-stream from the landing. It contained between an acre and a half and two acres, was beautifully wooded, stood well above flood tide and was surrounded on two sides by beaches of clean white sand. Doctor Emery had purchased the island some years before, primarily to keep away undesirable neighbors, and had soon discovered that it was a distinct addition to the school's attractions. The spring camping-out soon became one of the most popular features of the year.

The next morning Chub and Bacon did the honors of the island, conducting Roy from end to end and pointing out the historical spots. He saw Victory Cove, so named because it was the scene of the first struggle between Hammond and Ferry Hill for the possession of the latter's boats, a struggle in which the campers came out victorious. ("The next year," explained Chub, "they got the best of us and swiped four boats and we had to go over and get them back. But that didn't change the name of the cove.") He saw Outer Beach, Gull Point, Hood's Hill, named in honor of a former school leader and Little Chief, The Grapes, a bunch of eight small rocks just off the westerly corner, Treasure Island and Far Island, two low, bush-covered islets of rock and sand lying up-stream from the farther end of the island and divided from it by a few feet of water through which it was possible to wade when the river is not very high, Round Harbor, Turtle Point, Turtle Cove, Round Head, Inner Beach, Mount Emery, a very tiny mountain indeed, and School Point. That completed the circuit of the island. But it took them well over an hour because they took it very slowly and neglected nothing. They took off shoes and stockings and waded to Treasure and Far Islands, they scrambled up Mount Emery, hunted for turtles in Turtle Cove – without even seeing one – and tried broad-jumping on the Inner Beach. It was ten o'clock when they got back to camp and found most of the fellows preparing for a bath. They followed suit and presently were splashing and diving in the water off Inner Beach. It was pretty cold at first, but they soon got used to it. Afterwards they laid in the sun on the white sand until Thurlow thumped on a dish pan with a big spoon and summoned them to dinner. Bathing suits were kept on until it was time to return to the main land for afternoon practice. The island was practically deserted then, for but few of the campers were neither baseball nor crew men.