Dick Prescott's Second Year at West Point - H. Irving Hancock (free e reader .TXT) 📗

the ball drop into the hands of the Lehigh catcher, who promptly sent it spinning straight into the third baseman's hands.

Then Maitland gained first on called balls, and Furlong did the same, which advanced Prescott to third.

Now Carson came up with the stick, sending out a slow grounder.

In like an Apache runner came Prescott, kicking the plate just before the ball dropped.

From the seats of the Army came the triumphant yell:

"North point, east point, south point, West Point—-two points!"

The next Army man struck out, but West Point was breathing, now, with score two to one.

"Don't let Lehigh put another dot on the card, Prescott, and you'll be our pitcher this year," promised Maitland.

"Wait and see if the visitors can get any more from us," laughed Dick coolly. He felt that he had his old Gridley winning gait on now. He proved it by striking out three straight in the first half of the eighth. But West Point did not score, either, in that inning.

Then came Lehigh, grim and desperate, to bat for the ninth time. The first man Dick struck out. But even his wrist seemed to be treacherous now. The second Lehigh man offered at nothing, and went to first on called balls. So did the second, and a third man, and the bags were filled.

Maitland glanced appealingly at Dick.

The new batsman, at the second offer, drove a slow grounder. Greg Holmes raced forward for it, like a deer. As he caught it up there was no perceptible pause before he sent it straight into Maitland's hands, and the man headed for the plate was out. But the three bags were again full.

Another Lehigh man hit one of Dick's drives, but only faintly with the edge of his bat, and he went out on a foul hit.

"Now, I'm going to strike this new man out," resolved Dick desperately, steeling nerves and muscles for the effort.

"Strike one!" called the umpire. "Ball one! Ball two! Strike two! Strike three! Out!"

It was over, and Lehigh, covered with chagrin, gave up the contest, while a pandemonium of Army cheers went loose. Two to one!

"Prescott, I guess you're our pitcher here-after" called Maitland hoarsely. "And you, Holmesy, for shortstop!"

Dick Prescott found himself the center of a swift rush of cadets. Then he was hoisted aloft, and rushed off the field in triumph and glory, while the corps yell rang out for him. Over in the gym. Prescott was forced to hold an impromptu reception. Greg got much of the ovation.

Captain Verbeck, the head coach, came up to grasp Dick's hand.

"Prescott, I don't understand how you ever got by us. But Maitland wants you for our star pitcher after this, and you'll have to be. It was the greatest Army game, from the box, that I've seen in many a year."

"Say, you fellows," greeted Anstey, breaking into their room after the chums had returned to barracks, "you two had better go over today, and the men who are to drag the spooniest femmes tonight are all plotting to write you down on the dance cards of their femmes."

"That's the best reason in the world for keeping away from Cullum, then," laughed Dick.

"But I mean it seriously," protested Anstey.

"So do I," replied Dick

"I'm really a committee of one, sent here by some of tonight's draggers," protested the Virginian.

"Tell them of your non-success, then, do," urged Dick. "For I'm not going to Cullum tonight. Are you, Greg?"

"Ye-es," returned Holmes promptly. Then, suddenly, he paused in his moving about the room.

He now stood looking at his left hand, on which appeared a small smear of black.

"No!" suddenly uttered Greg. "I'm not going. I've changed my mind—-and for the best reasons possible."

"Now, what on earth has made you so excited?" demanded Anstey wonderingly.

CHAPTER XXII GREG'S SECRET AND ANOTHER'S

"Are you going to the hop tonight?" asked Holmes, looking up with gleaming eyes from the smear on the back of his hand.

"No," admitted Anstey.

"Can you keep a secret?

"Yes, suh; suhtinly."

"Then come here at 8.15 to-night."

"What are you talking——-"

"I'm not talking, now," retorted Greg with a resolute tone in his voice. "Like a wise man, I'm going to do some thinking first. But you call around this evening. It'll be worth your while."

Anstey looked and felt highly mystified. It must be something both sudden and important to make Greg change his mind so swiftly. For Cadet Holmes, who, in his home town, had not been exactly noted for gallantries to the other sex, had, in the yearling class, acquired the reputation of being a good deal of a "spoonoid." This is the term applied to a cadet who displays a decided liking for feminine company.

"I can see that it isn't any use to ask you anything now," went on Anstey.

"It isn't," Greg returned promptly. "I'm never secretive against you, Anstey, old man and the only reason I don't talk at once is that I don't know just what I want to say. But remember—-8.15. By that time I think I shall have solved myself into a highly talkative goat yearling."

Rap-tap! at the door, and Furlong and Dunstan dropped in.

"Want to tell you what I think about your pitching, old ramrod," announced Furlong.

"It's rotten!" glowed Dunstan cheerfully "And your shortstop work,
Holmesy——-"

"What kindergarten nine did you play with last?" insisted Furlong.

"I was just making up my mind not to pitch again this season," grinned Cadet Prescott.

"Why not?" Furlong demanded.

"Milesy," laughed Dick, "you should never go out on a kidding expedition until you're sure you're josh-proof yourself. Do you think anything less than the coaches and the team captain could stop me from pitching? But I sorry for Ken, if I'm to supplant him."

"You needn't be. Kennedy is glad. He hopes to make the cavalry, and he says he wants to train that wrist for wielding a sabre."

"Can you two near-plebes find time to drop in this evening, at just 8.15?" demanded Greg.

"Certain idea! What's up, Holmesy?"

"It isn't a feed," declared Greg. "But I think you'd be sorry afterwards if you failed to come."

"We'll be here," promised Dunstan.

"Then I guess our party will be complete," mumbled the mysterious
Greg.

"Say, Holmesy," nudged Dunstan, "how did you get that smear on the back of your hand? Do you know, it looks like the famous one that Cadet Dodge rubbed off with a borrowed handkerchief, once on a time."

"Does it?" asked Greg innocently. "Be good enough to loan me your handkerchief, then?"

"Not much!" growled Dunstan, backing away. "The loaning of personal linen seems on its way to becoming a court-martial offence."

When the visitors had left, Dick turned on his chum, demanding curiously:

"What's the game for tonight, anyway, Greg?"

"You didn't see how I got this smear on my hand, did you, old ramrod?"

"No."

"Then I'm not going to tell you at present," replied Greg, going to his washbowl and pouring in water. "But the way I got it set me to thinking.

"About what?"

"Well, about the way Bert Dodge got his hand smeared back in the days of ancient history. And, old ramrod, I believe that following up the clue may lead to some other discoveries that will possess a vital interest for you."

"But——-"

"No more at present! That's a special order," affirmed Greg.
"Be good, like the rest, and wait until 8.15 to-night."

At supper, in cadet mess hall, the talk all naturally turned to the diamond game with Lehigh that afternoon. The Army, at the outset, had hardly expected to win against that year's Lehigh nine. When the game was well under way, Army hopes had been still lower. Now, the talk was all on how Prescott and Holmes had saved the game to the Army. Even Maitland, without a trace of jealousy, conceded them most of the credit.

"What has cherubic, spoonoid Holmesy got up his sleeve for 8.15?" asked Dunstan in an undertone of Anstey.

"I reckon, suh, you'll have to apply for particulars to the Information and Security Service, suh," replied the Virginian. "To the best of my belief, suh, the secret is all Mr. Holmes's."

So no more questions were asked. But at 8.15, to the second, Furlong and Dunstan tapped on the Prescott-Holmes door, and, as they did so. Anstey turned at the head of the stairs. Punctuality is one of the cardinal virtues of the soldier; to be a half minute late is a grave breach of etiquette; to be five minutes late amounts almost to a crime.

"Now, Holmesy, we want light," insisted Furlong.

"At first blush," returned Greg, "some of you may not like the job. It is nothing more nor less than a visit to Dodge's room, while he and Blayton are absent at the hop."

"It is an extreme measure, surely," murmured Dunstan.

Anstey remained silent, waiting for further particulars.

"What I would call to your attention," went on Greg, "is that my roommate, old ramrod, was nearly bounced out of West Point for something he never did. I believe, and probably you all do, that Mr. Dodge played an evil and guilty part in what became nearly a tragedy."

"I wouldn't put anything mean beyond Dodge," replied Furlong.

"Now, I believe I can take you to Dodge's room. Both he and Brayton are absent at the hop. Brayton has always been a decent fellow, I don't believe he admires Dodge any too much, but he has to put up with his roommate. Now, in that room I hope to find evidence which will prove that Dodge is not fit to be a member the corps of United States Military Academy cadets. Will you come with me and look for the proof?"

"I suhtinly will, suh," replied the Virginian promptly.

"If Anstey will go on a job like that," muttered Dunstan, "then
I guess it's a proper undertaking for gentlemen."

"I thank you, suh," nodded the Virginian gravely.

"Then come along, all hands," begged Greg. "If we find anything of the sort that I expect to, then there will be witnesses enough to prove the find to the satisfaction of the class and of the corps."

Feeling like so many conspirators, this committee of five moved along to Dodge's room. Greg went a little ahead and tapped. Had Dodge been there it would not have interfered seriously with his plans. But there was no answer, so Holmes pushed open the door, turning the gas half on and lighting it.

"This afternoon," declared Greg, "I dropped a stub of a pencil in our room. It fell on the bricks of the floor of the fireplace, and rolled into the space between two of the bricks. In getting that pencil out I got on the back of my hand the smear that you all saw.

"Fellows, I've been thinking for weeks and months about that smear on the back of Mr. Dodge's hand. When I saw the one on the back of my own hand it occurred to me at once how Mr. Dodge might have got that black spot on his hand. It came over me, all in a flash. I knew that Brayton and Mr. Dodge would be out of the way this evening at the hop. Dodge has a hiding place somewhere in this room. From the past history of the Academy we know that favorite hiding places have always been under the bricks of the fireplaces. For use in the winter time the hiding place must be in the outer edge of the brick flooring, close up to where it joins the boards. In such a hiding place the fire wouldn't harm the hidden objects. Now, some of you might help me to see what we can find."

Anstey, with a gravely judicial air, knelt beside Holmes. Together they tapped back and forth over the bricks with rulers taken from the study tables.

"This is the brick that hides the place, I reckon, suh," announced the Virginian rather deliberately.

"Let's pry it up, then," suggested Greg.

But the brick resisted rather strenuous efforts.

"That's odd, in itself," muttered Holmes. "Almost of the bricks