CHAPTER XV

WATTLES IS CARELESS

The Broadmoor game brought the first week of June to an end. Extremely warm weather held New England, and warm weather, as usual, produced a let-up of scholastic ambition in many cases. Tom, for one, found studying more difficult than ever, and for the third time that year received a grave warning from Mr. Wyatt, the English teacher. Remembering only too well what had occurred on one previous occasion, Tom braced up for several days and, with many protests and groans, labored back into Alick’s good graces. But it required the assistance and encouragement of Clif and Loring to get him there, and it was the Triumvirate rather than Tom who succeeded. With final examinations impending, it was no time, as Loring pointed out, to get penalized.

Loring was getting a great deal of enjoyment out of life those days. That discussion with Coach Connover had led to others. Steve, although he was perhaps never swayed by Loring’s views, seemed to find the boy’s theories and judgments interesting. It was at his suggestion that Loring’s chair was rolled to the end of the players’ bench of an afternoon, and frequently the coach slipped into the seat beside him and conversed. He was genuinely surprised when Loring confessed to having witnessed but four baseball games previous to this spring and to having obtained what knowledge of the game he possessed from the perusal of every book on the subject that he had been able to lay hands on and from watching the practice. In defense Loring said one day:

“Of course, Mr. Connover, I understand that I don’t really know much about the game. A fellow can’t, I guess, unless he plays it. All I’ve got is a lot of theoretical stuff. It――it’s mighty good of you not to laugh at me, sir.”

“Laugh at you? Nonsense, Deane. What you call theoretical stuff is perfectly sound, and I find it remarkable that you have absorbed so much of it without――how shall I put it?――without more incentive. Here you are, physically barred from playing, with a full knowledge of baseball, and all around us are fellows actually engaged in playing who don’t know the rules of the game, to say nothing of the strategy. No, you don’t owe any one an apology for being able to talk baseball intelligently, Deane, and if I don’t always agree with you it isn’t because your theories are wrong but because no theory――no baseball theory, at least――is always applicable in practice. A certain situation may call for one procedure to-day and a different procedure to-morrow, and that is largely because theories do not take into consideration the personal equation. I am not, of course, speaking now of the few hard and fast――er――tenets of the game; laws firmly established by experience; but of the more hypothetical theories that we call ‘inside stuff.’ Given a certain situation, Deane, the coach or the captain has to measure the book theory against all sorts of conditions; the opposing team’s reactions to certain moves, the abilities of his own players to perform those moves, many things. A play that might succeed in the early innings would fail in the later for any one of a number of reasons. Even weather is a factor, and as for psychology――” Steve sighed――“once a coach starts on psychology he’s lost!”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand that,” said Loring.

“Well, what I meant is that it’s so plaguy easy to overdo that part of it, Deane, so easy to let psychology take the place of common sense. Besides, what does any one know about it, after all? As a practical aid to winning ball games it’s been a good deal overrated, I think. Baseball writers like to use the phrase ‘the psychology of the game,’ but more than likely what they call a psychological manifestation――or whatever they _do_ call it――if tracked down will resolve into some such chance happening as a ball hitting a pebble and bounding wrong or a pitcher having a twinge in his elbow as he lets the ball go. All the psychology in the world won’t win a ball game, Deane, or lose one; not unless we call psychology by a shorter name.”

“You mean――luck, sir?”

“Chance,” said Mr. Connover. “Chance, the finest baseball and football general in the histories of the games!”

Wattles, seated slightly behind the wheel chair, listened in rapt attention to the talks and discussions. There were times during a debate on the proper play with which to meet a situation when Wattles allowed himself a slight compression of the lips or a faintly eloquent elevation of the eyebrows. Occasionally Wattles might express agreement of a hearty character by placing an immaculate handkerchief to his nose and trumpeting loudly. But he knew his place, did Wattles, and no matter how vehemently he might agree or disagree with the contentions of either the coach or Loring he kept his mouth tight. Perhaps it was not easy, either, for Wattles, too, had delved into baseball lore, reading word for word with Loring, and had formed opinions. Then, too, Wattles had one advantage over Loring. Wattles had played the game!

He had never mentioned that lapse from dignity, nor had Loring ever questioned. Wattles had had more than thirty minutes of thrills that Saturday afternoon when, jokingly invited by the boy who clerked in Burger’s drug store, he had cast discretion to the winds, removed part of his apparel and chased about over a dusty field in pursuit of an elusive ball. Afterwards he had regretted the affair. Or had he? He was never quite certain as to that. Certain it was, however, that the memory of those wild moments still brought a glow; and certain it was, although Wattles sternly refused to acknowledge it, that if a like opportunity occurred again he would once more forget his dignity and his derby!

The first team was now down to seventeen members, its roster including Ogden, Moore, Erlingby and Frost, pitchers; Cobham and Risley, catchers; Van Dyke, Kemble, Tyson, Leland, Coles and Jackson, infielders; Raiford, Greene, Talbott, Pierce and Lester, outfielders. Two or three players who had survived the middle of the season had gone to the second, displacing others or, after a brief test, retiring to private life. The second kept sixteen men. On the Saturday afternoon that the first had journeyed away to play Broadmoor the second had met Freeburg High School in the first contest of its three game schedule with outside teams and had met with a sound drubbing. The second was woefully weak in its pitching department, and the opponent had batted Purdy from the mound in the fourth inning and treated his successor no more kindly. The only thing that prevented Coach Wadleigh from putting in a third twirler in the seventh was the fact that there wasn’t any third. Clif had a busy afternoon, running after balls until he quite lost his breath in the seventh inning. He had six chances during the engagement and accepted them all. If he could have done as well at bat he would have completed a very satisfactory day’s work, but he didn’t have much luck against the High School pitcher, getting but one hit, a two-bagger. The other three times at the plate he struck out. Some of his companions saw nothing deceptive in the pitcher’s offerings and found them frequently, but he remained an enigma to Clif all through the game except in the third when the latter managed to connect with a fast one. Freeburg won in the end by the lop-sided score of 11 to 4.

During practice these days Clif was utterly deserted by his fellow members of the Triumvirate, for Tom had long since departed to the other diamond and now Loring, facetiously termed by Clif the Advisory Council, spent his afternoons hobnobbing with Coach Connover. Even Mr. Cooper’s lean brown face was no longer to be seen above the rail of the first base stand, for he, too, had found the attractions of the big team superior. Or perhaps it was his interest in Tom which caused him to desert his old friends, for there was no blinking the fact that he and Tom were getting to be as thick as thieves. Clif resented that a little. It really didn’t make a bit of difference in the relations between Tom and him, for the companionship Mr. Cooper offered was that of an older person and didn’t in the least endanger Tom’s regard for Clif, but the latter couldn’t help feeling a trifle jealous at times. Why, it had got so of late that Tom went over to the Inn three or four mornings a week! Clif didn’t like Mr. Cooper any the less, however; indeed, those pangs of resentment were neither frequent nor profound, and he did his best to discourage them. Bit by bit they were learning more of Mr. Cooper. They knew now that he had served in the English Army during the War, had been invalided twice, once for wounds and once for gassing, and had been discharged with the rank of lieutenant. This information came from Tom and was the result of his visits to the Inn. Tom declared, also, that he was plumb certain Mr. Cooper had all sorts of decorations, although he had neither heard of nor seen any of them. As an indication of how the gentleman stood with Loring and Clif, it may be mentioned that neither of them doubted for a moment that Tom was correct in his surmise.

Mr. Cooper had made other friends and acquaintances beside the members of the Triumvirate and had become a familiar figure about the school. Mr. Clendennin, head of the Junior School, and “Lovey” McKnight, who was the chemistry instructor and, incidentally, Clif’s advisor, were among Mr. Cooper’s growing circle of intimates, while, to the surprise of the Triumvirate, he was discovered by them one evening at supper with Doctor Wyatt. That in itself was not so astounding, since “J. W.” frequently acted as host to school visitors, but the fact that Mr. Cooper had made no mention of the incident to them and went through with it so casually perplexed the boys. Later, apprised by Tom that he had been seen in dining hall, he merely said: “Oh, really? I thought the food remarkably good.”

Curiosity prompted Clif to seek information of Mr. McKnight one evening, and so, after the instructor’s opinion had been obtained on a matter regarding the approaching examinations, Clif introduced the subject of Mr. Cooper. “You know, sir, we like him a lot,” said Clif. “It’s funny, but he doesn’t seem much older than we are. I mean he isn’t――isn’t stodgy a bit; doesn’t try to make a chap realize that he’s just a kid and doesn’t know much of anything. You know, some men _are_ like that!”

The last sentence was added defensively in response to Lovey’s smile.

“Yes, I guess they are,” Lovey agreed. “And I can easily see that Cooper wouldn’t be. I found him very interesting and likable, too, Clif.”

“Yes, sir.” Clif hesitated. “He didn’t tell you―― I mean, you don’t happen to know why he’s here, sir?”

“Here? In Freeburg? Why, no, he didn’t say. And I didn’t ask him. In fact, it didn’t occur to me, Clif. But why shouldn’t he be here?”

“I suppose there isn’t any reason why he shouldn’t,” laughed Clif, “only it seems sort of a dead place to _live_ in. I mean to say, if you hadn’t some _reason_ for doing it, sir, you wouldn’t hit on this place as a――a residence, now would you?”

“I wouldn’t,” agreed the instructor, “but another man might. I could imagine a chap who was looking for the quiet life in an attractive village being quite satisfied with Freeburg. The Inn isn’t so bad, Clif, and you’ve got to own that this part of the country is mighty pretty in spring. Perhaps Mr. Cooper is doing some writing or――well, reading. I understand there are still a few in this country who sometimes read.”

“I don’t think it’s that, though,” pondered Clif. “Tom goes to see him pretty often, sir, and he says Mr. Cooper hasn’t many books in his room. Awhile ago he borrowed one from Loring Deane, a book on baseball.”

“Well, he will doubtless tell us if he wants us to know, Clif. After all,” he added with a twinkle, “it’s rather more his affair than ours.”

“Yes, of course,” Clif flushed slightly. “I guess you think I’m sort of cheeky, sir, but――”

“No,” Mr. McKnight laughed, “I just think that you’re a whole lot like the rest of us, Clif; that is, extremely curious about things that don’t really concern us. That is a lamentable feature, old chap, of our national character.”

So Clif departed better informed on the national character, but with no new information regarding Mr. Cooper.

Yet new information was forthcoming. From Mr. McKnight’s study in West Hall Clif made his way, through the dim corridor of Middle, to East and down the stairs to Loring’s room on the first floor. Mr. Cooper, Tom, Loring and Wattles were on hand when he entered in the middle of a debate on Wyndham’s chance to win from Horner Academy in the boat races to be held a few days later. Wattles, of course, was not taking part in the discussion, being busy in a corner of the room with a bottle of odorless cleanser and a couple of dozen of Loring’s neckties, but he looked as if ready to supply an opinion if it was asked for. Wattles in the past eight months had become an ardent Wyndhamian and was firmly convinced that the Dark Blue could whip anything on land or water; or, discounting the future, in the air, for that matter!

This was an election year, and the newspapers were giving much space to the impending national conventions. Loring was greatly interested in politics, a subject which bored Tom supremely, and after the boat races had been exhausted Loring asked: “Who are you going to vote for for President, Mr. Cooper?”

Mr. Cooper smiled a little. “I can tell you which of the candidates I fancy I’d vote for if I were going to vote,” he replied.

“If you were going―― But do you mean that you aren’t, sir?” Loring sounded outraged. “Why, don’t you think that every citizen――”

“Absolutely, Loring! But, you see, I’m not a citizen.”

“How do you mean, sir?” asked Tom.

“I mean that I’m not an American citizen. I thought you chaps knew.”

“Why, no, sir!” exclaimed Tom. “I thought of course you were. Heck, that’s a blow! May I ask why you aren’t? I mean, what――”

Mr. Cooper chuckled. “I was born in Derbyshire, England, Tom. And although I’ve lived over here a good part of my life, and in other countries another good part, I’m still a subject of His Majesty King George.”

There was a suppressed exclamation from Wattles in the corner of the room, followed by the thud of the bottle of cleansing fluid against the carpet and the _glug-glug_ of its wasting contents.