CHAPTER XIII

TOM PAYS A CALL

By general consent Wattles was not informed of the incident of the suicidal Ford. It would, as Loring pointed out, only upset him to learn of it. Loring tried very hard to thank Tom for his part in the affair, but Tom refused to be thanked and ridiculed Loring’s efforts. “What’s it all about?” demanded Tom. “What are you trying to do, josh me? Make him be good, Clif, won’t you? I’m sensitive and get hurt feelings awfully easy!”

Tom’s hurt feelings were really in the shoulder which had borne the brunt of “The Wreck’s” charge down the hill, and his left arm wasn’t of any use to him at all the next day, and of very little use on Monday, by which time it looked, according to Billy Desmond’s description, like “one of those Italian sunsets painted by that――what’s his name, now?――Turner!” During practice on Monday Tom lacked so much snap that, to his alarm, Roe was sent to second in his stead when the scrub played the first. Stuart Evans was out that afternoon, although not in togs, and seemed rather pleased when Tom was relegated to the bench. Across the diamond Loring and Wattles were occupying their usual position beyond the first base stand. Loring had bought a score-book and was learning the science of scoring. Cotter, one of the first team managers, had brought him the batting orders and was now leaning over the wheel chair, explaining something. Tom, watching rather moodily, noted that Mr. Cooper was not to be seen and recalled the fact that that gentleman had not been around for three days. Maybe he had taken his departure from Freeburg. Well, Tom couldn’t blame him for that, but, just the same, he’d be sort of sorry if he had. Of course he wasn’t nutty about Mr. Cooper, like Loring, but he did sort of like the old goof. Funny he wouldn’t have come around and said good-by first, though. Well, folks were like that. Friendly enough when it pleased ’em, but――

Tom’s morose meditation was interrupted by Pringle, a not very promising understudy for Slim Scott. Pringle moved up from further along the bench and squeezed down beside Tom. “Say, did you hear about Wattles, Tom?” he asked, grinning.

“Wattles?”

“Yes, Loring Deane’s man there.” Pringle nodded toward the other side of the diamond. “Say, it was funny!”

“It must have been,” said Tom dryly. “Or maybe it’s just the humorous way you tell it.”

“No, listen. Saturday Linton and Cox and I took a walk and went over beyond town where the High School fellows play. Well, there was a game going on and we stopped to watch it. It was just sort of a scrub affair, you know. Some of the fellows who work in the stores. There was the guy who clerks at the Inn and the red-headed chap from the drug store――Burger’s, you know――and a dozen others. I guess High School was playing away somewhere. Anyhow, these guys were having a great time, most of them playing in their shirt-sleeves. I wish you could have seen the fellow who was pitching! Honest, he was a scream. Well, presently Lin says ‘Who’s the tall whatsthis playing out in left? Don’t he look like that Wattles fellow?’ Well, sir, it _was_ Wattles! He――”

“You’re crazy,” said Tom. “_Wattles!_”

“Cross my heart, Tom! Why, we stayed there and watched, I tell you. He had his coat and vest off, and, of course, that trick derby of his, and just at first I wasn’t sure about him. He looks different without the old bean-pot. But it was him――I mean he, all right. He had on a pair of violet suspenders――”

“Not Wattles,” corrected Tom gravely. “Wattles wears braces.”

“Huh? Well, braces then. Ever see him with his vest off? Honest, Tom, his trousers come almost to his shoulders in the back. Funniest looking sight you ever saw! Well, we watched him awhile and it was good as a circus. Every little while some guy would knock a ball his way and Wattles would hold up his hands. Then he’d find out that the ball wasn’t coming where he was, and he’d start to run, still holding his hands out, mind you! Funny? Boy, it was a scream!”

“Did he catch anything?” asked Tom, chuckling.

“Well, yes, he did get one fly, and it wasn’t so rotten, either. But generally he just ran around out there, always yards away from the old pill when it lighted. He was so red in the face he looked like he was going to bust. And he was so blamed solemn all the time! Like he was performing――a――awhatyoucallit――rite!”

“It’s a good story,” said Tom approvingly, “but of course you’re lying, Pringle. Old Wattles would no more slip out of his coat and chase around in his shirt-sleeves than――than――well, he just wouldn’t do it, Pringle. Mind, I don’t say the fellow didn’t look like Wattles. He probably did, although, at that, Wattles has a peculiar and quite uncommon style of beauty――”

“Chase yourself,” advised Pringle disgustedly. “It _was_ Wattles. If you don’t believe me ask the others. There’s Cox right over there. Think I don’t know what I see when I see it? Listen, Tom, honest it was Wattles!”

“Naughty boy,” admonished Tom, smiling. “Mustn’t tell fibs. Papa spank terrifically.”

“Aw, you make me sick,” said Pringle, getting up in disgust. “I don’t care whether you believe it or not, you old piece of cheese!”

Tom smiled at the other’s retreating form and then looked across the diamond to where Wattles, the very picture of dignity, sat beside Loring with a hand laid precisely on each knee and his back as straight as a ramrod. “Oh, Wattles, how could you!” murmured Tom delightedly. “If I’d only been there to cheer you on!”

Of course Tom confided the news to Clif as soon as the game was over, and after supper they hurried to Loring’s room to share the glad tidings. Fortunately Wattles had gone off with Loring’s supper tray, and, watching the door apprehensively, Tom related the yarn told by Pringle. Loring’s eyes grew round and a wide smile spread over his face as he listened. And finally: “It’s absolutely right!” he declared ecstatically.

“You mean you knew about it?” demanded Tom disappointedly.

“No, but when Wattles came back Saturday afternoon, about an hour after I did, he looked mighty funny. He looked――well, I don’t know just how he looked, Tom, but sort of like the cat after he’d eaten the canary. He had a lot of red in his cheeks and a kind of――of unholy gleam in his eyes, and he was flustered. Got in his own way and fell over things and was all fussed up about something. And every now and then I’d see him doing this to one of his fingers; sort of working it around and pulling at it, you know. I didn’t think much about it, but I did ask him if he’d hurt his hand, and he acted sort of confused and said: ‘No, sir’ first and then ‘Yes, sir,’ and finally said that he’d struck it against something and kind of numbed it. But he didn’t supply any particulars. Of course what did happen is that he hurt that finger trying to catch a ball! What do you know about Wattles falling for the national pastime, fellows?”

“Shows he’s human,” said Clif. “I’d like to have seen him, though.”

“I’d give a lot to see him,” sighed Tom. “I guess what started him was catching that foul the other day. That and reading those ‘How to Play Baseball’ books you’ve had around here.”

“That was just it,” mused Loring, his eyes dancing. “Listen, Tom, do you know what I think? Well, I think that Wattles has made up his mind to be a Big League player! Honest I do. The other evening while he was giving me my rub he said, ‘Mr. Loring, is it a fact that professional baseball players receive immense salaries?’ I told him it was and asked what he had on his mind, and it seemed that he’d been reading one of those books over there and had come across something about one player getting twenty thousand dollars a year, or some such figure. After that he asked if baseball was something one had to learn in one’s youth, and I told him it certainly was. He was very subdued after that. I suspect I discouraged him. But maybe he’s got over it now and is starting on his career!”

“Well,” laughed Clif, “what I want to know is do we dare josh him. Fact is, Loring, I find our friend Wattles a bit aweing, and I don’t suppose I’d have the courage to――”

“For the love of limes,” protested Tom, “don’t spoil it by letting him know we’re on! If we make fun of him he’s sure to quit. Keep mum, I say, and some day we’ll have a chance of seeing him in action. After that I shan’t care what Fate hands me, fellows. I shall have had my Great Moment.”

“I guess Tom’s right,” said Loring to Clif. “I dare say Wattles is getting quite a kick out of it, and it would be a low-down trick to spoil his fun. He’s a good sort, old Wattles.”

“None better,” agreed Tom feelingly. “Gentlemen, a toast! I give you Wattles and His Majesty the King!”

Loring laughed, but he said: “Wattles wouldn’t appreciate that joke, Tom. He wants you to thoroughly understand that he’s an American. He’s the only one I ever heard of who can recite the Declaration of Independence and make you weep!”

They discussed Mr. Cooper’s absence presently, Tom pessimistically offering his theory to the effect that the entertaining gentleman had gone his way. “He never did say why he was here or how long he meant to stay,” said Tom. “I guess he got bored and beat it back to civilization――or Timbuctoo.”

“He wouldn’t go without saying good-by to us,” declared Loring firmly. “Probably he’s just off for a few days. He’s bound to show up again.”

“Well, if he doesn’t, what of it?” asked Tom. “He’s all right, but we’d manage somehow without him, I guess.”

“He may be sick or something,” suggested Clif. “How would it do to ’phone over to the Inn and find out if he’s still there?”

“Oh, forget it,” said Tom. “You fellows take on about that guy as if he was a long-lost uncle or something. What’s the idea? Heck, you don’t even know who he is. For all you know he may be a bootlegger or a――a confidence man!”

“Oh, come on down, Tom! You know you like him just as well as Loring and I do. If he’s a confidence man you’re Babe Ruth!”

“Is that _so_? Well, let me tell you that I may not be batting as well as Babe Ruth does just now, but I’m right after that guy. Yes, sir! And the last picture I saw of him showed him looking mighty worried, too!”

The subject of Mr. Cooper was not revived that evening, and the plan of telephoning to the Inn was not pursued. But the next morning Tom made a visit to the Inn.

He didn’t start out for the Inn; or at least that is what he told himself. Having an hour between classes, he decided to take a walk; and what could be more natural than turning his steps toward the village rather than toward the country? It was a partly cloudy morning, warm and damp; there had been several days of just such weather. Spring was in full command now and trees were leaved and meadows were green. Tom didn’t walk very fast. It was the time of year, and the sort of day in that time of year, when a fellow doesn’t hurry unless he has to. And Tom didn’t have to. He was just out to get the air. He might go all the way to the village or he might not. Perhaps he’d only go as far as the Inn before turning back.

When he had reached the Inn he told himself that, since he still had forty-odd minutes to waste, just to prove to the others that he was right about Mr. Cooper he would stop in and inquire at the desk. Of course, way down deep somewhere Tom knew perfectly well that ever since he had got out of bed that morning he had intended to go to the Inn and discover what had become of Mr. Cooper, but it pleased him to pretend that the call was unpremeditated.

“Mr. Cooper?” asked the clerk. “Yes, sir, I think you’ll find him in his room, Number 4. Do you know where it is?”

“I can find it, I guess.” Tom turned toward the stairway and ascended. The Inn held only half a dozen sleeping rooms and so Number 4 was not far to seek. Outside the closed door, however, Tom hesitated. The fact that Mr. Cooper was still in town and hadn’t been around to see them for several days might very easily mean that he had tired of their society, and in that case――

But having come thus far, Tom decided to go through with the business, and knocked. There was an instant response and he went in. Mr. Cooper, wearing a rather dingy dressing robe, was sitting by an open window, and had evidently been reading. At sight of the visitor, however, he dropped his book and got to his feet; not, it seemed, without an effort. “Tom!” he exclaimed with such evident pleasure that the boy’s suspicions fled on the instant. He came forward limpingly to rest his one hand on the table and extend the other to the visitor. “Why,―― By jove, this is awfully decent of you!” The pleasure expressed by voice, look and hearty handclasp left Tom tongue-tied, vaguely embarrassed; and the feeling of embarrassment was not decreased by the sudden knowledge that he was sharing the other’s delight to a surprising extent. Mr. Cooper pulled a chair forward and went back to his own seat.

“Well, how are you?” he asked. “I haven’t seen any of you for a long while. By the way, I hope you didn’t mind my calling you Tom. Surprise rather got the better of formality.”

Tom smiled and shook his head. “It’s all right with me, sir. I’m fine. We all are, only we were wondering last night why――that is what had become of you. You haven’t been ill, sir?”

“Oh, no, it’s just this leg. It has a mean way of getting stiff in damp weather. It’s better to-day, though, and I was expecting to get around to watch practice this afternoon.”

“Rheumatism, sir?” asked Tom.

“I fancy so. Something of the sort. I got a piece of shrapnel in it about seven years ago, and it’s been cranky ever since. Well, how is the Triumvirate getting along? And how are you――er――hitting them?”

Tom answered both questions fully, dwelling at some length on his batting. “I followed your advice, Mr. Cooper,” he explained. “You know, you said I wasn’t to think about what I was going to do, but just go ahead and do it. Well, that’s what I did. I really think I’ve got the knack of it now, and I’m sure hitting them, sir! You’ll see this afternoon.”

The visit lasted only a little more than half an hour, but in that time Tom managed to do most of the talking, encouraged by his host, and to confide a good deal of his private history. For instance, Mr. Cooper learned that Tom’s mother was dead and that a certain Mr. Winslow was his guardian; that Mr. Winslow was a “pill” in Tom’s estimation and that as soon as the latter had finished school he was going to get away; probably enter the Navy, although he might be an explorer instead. “You see,” said Tom, “I like to move around and see places. I mean I _would_ like to. I never have much, not since I can remember. It must be great to travel around like you do, sir. Gosh, I’d like that! India and China and Africa and everywhere!” Doubtless Mr. Cooper inferred that Tom’s father, too, was dead. At least, Tom made no mention of him. Returning to school, Tom’s pace was accelerated by two things: a certain excitement generated by the recent conversation and the fact that his next recitation was due in four minutes. Rather oddly, it didn’t occur to him that he had been unusually confiding in telling to an acquaintance of a few weeks things he had not revealed to Clif until he had known that youth six months. It had seemed, somehow, very easy, very natural to talk to Mr. Cooper.

He didn’t speak to Clif or Loring of his call at the Inn, but Mr. Cooper alluded to it that evening when, bearing somewhat heavily on his cane, he paid his after supper visit to East Hall, and Tom was made to feel the weight of his friends’ displeasure. But he didn’t seem to mind it. He was in very good spirits to-night.

Perhaps he had a right to be. For one thing, he had been promoted to the first team.