CHAPTER XXXIX

THE MEETING IN THE GRANDSTAND

Three games had been insufficient to take the edge from the enthusiasm of the fans, intoxicated with the wine of spring and bubbling with the joy of looking down once more upon that diamond after their long winter deprivation.

Moreover, in point of strength there was no comparison between the Blue Stockings and the Terriers. To be sure, the latter had made a hot start this year, but the former were old rivals of the Hornets, who, year after year, had pushed them close in that desperate fight for the pennant, and last season had beaten them out by a hair. Consequently this first struggle between them drew almost as many spectators as the game which had opened the season a week before.

The day was perfect. A sweep of blue sky, clear save for a few wispy clouds, was overhead. A trifling little breeze lurked here and there at sharp turns or corners, but it blew from the south, and held no chill undercurrent which was not offset by the warm, grateful sunshine.

The fans rejoiced as they sped toward the grounds by every possible car line and conveyance. Those of them who had witnessed the opening game told one another how much better this one was likely to be.

Long before one o’clock great throngs had assembled at the gates, and when those gates were finally opened there was a wild rush past ticket-takers into the clattering emptiness of the vast stands. Down over the tiers of seats they stumbled, struggling for the desirable front rows. Hats were smashed here and there, and there were occasional wordy altercations; but, as a rule, laughter and joshing and good-natured horseplay prevailed.

By two o’clock, the bleachers were crowded, and the more expensive seats were filling fast. Half an hour later it looked as if every place, save in the reserved sections, was occupied; and still the crowd streamed in like a swollen river.

Tramp, tramp, tramp! Regular, rhythmic, the sound of their marching was like the thunder of a great army. Ogden Wilmerding, hurrying toward a coveted place in the lower stand, felt the thrill which that sound brings to the heart of every fan who has hibernated reluctantly for six long months.

“Nothing like it,” he chuckled as he was swept along. “This looks a lot like opening day,” he went on, peering over the top of the last row of seats. “I’m not so sorry as I was over getting back too late for that.”

He soon saw that it would be impossible to get the seat he wanted. The section directly behind the plate was filled in solid. For a moment he stood there peering down at the reporters’ bench in a vain hope that some one he knew――Jack Stillman, perhaps――might find room for him there. He saw places enough; but neither Stillman nor any other of his newspaper friends had yet appeared.

“Hang it all!” he muttered. “Why didn’t I start half an hour earlier, or wire from Boston for a box?”

“Because you’re the same lazy old slob you were three years ago,” chuckled a voice in his ear.

Wilmerding whirled, his eyes popping, stared for a second in speechless amazement at the young man against whose shoulder he had been almost leaning. Then he fell upon him with a roar of delight.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he gurgled. “Snow, you old cut-up, where in time have you been? I thought you’d croaked years ago. Shove along and give me a chance. You’re spread over two seats, easy.”

Snowden Pell obeyed laughingly. The man beside him, taking in the situation with a good-natured grin, likewise moved, and Wilmerding was accommodated with a seat.

“It takes a lot to put me out of business,” Pell chuckled when his friend had settled beside him. “I’m very far from being a dead one, as they’ll tell you out in Seattle.”

“But why didn’t you write and let somebody know how you were getting on? Last I heard, your father failed, or something, and you slipped out of Princeton right in the middle of the spring term without saying a word to anybody. To this day I never knew how much of the tale was truth and how much fiction.”

“It was pretty much all truth,” Pell returned quickly. “My governor’s partner got playing the Wall Street game, and smashed the business to bits. There wasn’t enough left even for me to keep on and finish the term, and when I found out how bad things were I just faded quietly away. I didn’t want any of the boys to be sorry for me, or to think that I was an object of charity, the way――”

“Rot!” broke in the stout chap emphatically. “You make me sick! At least, you might have said a word to your old friends. Look over in the bleachers. They’re firing one of those sandwich-chewing-gum-cigar baskets at each other. Next thing you know they’ll be tossing some kid around.”

For a moment they watched the wicker basket rise and fall as the bleacherites employed their time in playing a sort of handball with it. Here and there in a distant part of the stand men were throwing paper at one another, sporting with the inevitable straw hat which some one always seems to bring along for the purpose, and otherwise enjoying themselves.

Presently Wilmerding turned again to his friend.

“Well, where’d you go?” he asked. “What you been doing ever since?”

“I had a job offered me in Seattle, which I snapped up. It was a good opening for me, and I’m certainly glad I got with that particular concern, even if I had to borrow money to get out there. I had the first letter from them the very day I left Princeton; and, by Jove, Oggie!”――he threw back his head and laughed at the sudden recollection――“you came mighty near being the goat.”

“What do you mean?” the stout fellow inquired tartly. “You didn’t touch me, that I remember. Of course, I’d have turned you down”――his tone was one of heavy sarcasm――“but at least I’d liked to have had the chance.”

“You were the first person I thought of when I realized I’d have to sting somebody,” Pell laughed. “Trouble was, I couldn’t locate you. Went to your room, and stayed a deuce of a while in hopes you’d come in. Then, when I couldn’t wait any longer, I hunted up Victor Wood, and he did the business.”

He hesitated an instant, and then went on swiftly, a note of sudden curiosity in his voice:

“That reminds me of something I’ve always wanted to ask you. What sort of a game did you and Bert Elgin have together about that time?”

Wilmerding stared. “Game?” he repeated blankly. “Bert Elgin? I don’t get you, Snow. Elucidate.”

“Well, I thought it was a joke of some kind,” Pell returned. “Only it seemed funny that all of a sudden you should be as chummy as that with Elgin. While I was waiting for you, I strolled into your bedroom to brush my hair. I was standing before the bureau when I heard the outside door open. Thought it was you, of course, until some one called out your name. I didn’t feel in the mood for gassing with any one else, so I said nothing and slipped back to one side of the door.

“To make a long story short, I heard the fellow moving around the sitting room, and pretty soon I happened to catch sight of him in the dressing-table mirror. It was Bert Elgin, and he was heading for the bookshelves in the corner.”

Wilmerding gave a slight start, the color flaming into his face.

“Go on,” he urged, as his friend, glancing at him, paused in his narration. “What――happened?”

“He took something out of his pocket and dropped it behind the books,” Pell continued. “I didn’t see what it was; but as it fell there was a clink that sounded like metal――a chain or―――― Great Scott! What is it, Oggie? What’s the matter with you?”

The color had vanished from Wilmerding’s face, and he was staring at his companion with a strained, incredulous expression in his eyes which testified to the emotion he was undergoing.

“What――books――were they?” he gasped at length, in a hoarse voice.

“The books he put the stuff behind, you mean?” queried Pell. “I don’t remember, but I think it was the second shelf from the top. I know they were over on the extreme right-hand end of the case.”

Wilmerding drew his breath with a whistling sound. For an instant he sat silent. Then he moved his hand unconsciously, and caught Pell’s arm in a grip which made the man wince.

“What day was that, Snow?” he breathed.

“The twenty-sixth of May,” was the quick response. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that date. It was about three in the afternoon. But what in thunder was it all about, Oggie? I never supposed it was anything but a joke. Can’t you put a fellow wise?”

The big man at his side did not answer. He was staring out across the diamond toward the bleachers, black with their crowds of restless fans. He saw nothing, heard nothing. He could not speak for the joy which filled his soul as a realization of the truth came to him at last.

He was not a thief!

For years he had been so absolutely convinced that it was he who had――unconsciously, perhaps, but still none the less certainly――stolen those things from Bob Ferris’ rooms, that Pell’s story struck him as almost incredible.

There could be no mistake, however. The details fitted too perfectly to admit of a coincidence. Lefty had been right, it was Elgin who was the thief, not he. And Elgin it was who had done a thing which would have been impossible in Wilmerding, waking or sleeping; he had deliberately stolen, and as deliberately planned to throw the blame upon an innocent man.

Sudden, furious anger flamed up within the Princeton man. He felt as if he must search out that contemptible coward and give him a little of what was coming to him. He half rose from the bench, his face livid; and then he realized that all around him a wild uproar had arisen. Men yelled and cheered themselves purple; they stamped and shouted and waved their hats.

Pell’s hand caught Wilmerding by the arm and dragged him down, but not before the angry man had caught a glimpse of the line of athletes in their immaculate uniforms, leaving the shadow of the distant bleachers and trotting briskly into the brilliant April sunshine on the field.