tried the new mits and swung the bats with critical consideration. Then feeling hungry, they trudged up to Conover's for pancakes and syrup. Everywhere was the same feeling of dismay; what would become of the baseball nine? Then it suddenly dawned upon the Big Man that no one seemed to be sorry on the Butcher's account. He stopped with a pancake poised on his fork, looked about to make sure no one could hear him, and blurted out:
"I say, Butcher, it's not only on account of first base, you know; I'm darn sorry for you, honest!"
"Why, you profane little cuss," said the Butcher, frowning, "who told you to swear?"
"Don't make fun of me, Butcher," said the Great Big Man, feeling very little; "I meant it."
"Conover," said the Butcher, loudly, "more pancakes, and brown 'em!"
He, too, had been struck by the fact that in the general mourning there had been scant attention paid to his personal fortunes. He had prided himself on the fact that he was not susceptible to "feelings," that he neither gave nor asked for sympathy. He was older than his associates, but years had never reconciled him to Latin or Greek or, for that matter, to mathematics in simple or aggravated form. He had been the bully of his village out in northern Iowa, and when a stranger came, he trounced him first, and cemented the friendship afterward. He liked hard knocks, give and take. He liked the school because there was the long football season in the autumn, with the joy of battling, with every sinew of the body alert and the humming of cheers indistinctly heard, as he rammed through the yielding line. Then the spring meant long hours of romping over the smooth diamond, cutting down impossible hits, guarding first base like a bull-dog, pulling down the high ones, smothering the wild throws that came ripping along the ground, threatening to jump up against his eyes, throws that other fellows dodged. He was in the company of equals, of good fighters, like Charley De Soto, Hickey, Flash Condit, and Turkey, fellows it was a joy to fight beside. Also, it was good to feel that four hundred-odd wearers of the red and black put their trust in him, and that trust became very sacred to him. He played hard—very hard, but cleanly, because combat was the joy of life to him. He broke other rules, not as a lark, but out of the same fierce desire for battle, to seek out danger wherever he could find it. He had been caught fair and square, and he knew that for that particular offense there was only one punishment. Yet he hoped against hope, suddenly realizing what it would cost him to give up the great school where, however, he had never sought friendships or anything beyond the admiration of his mates.
The sympathy of the Big Man startled him, then made him uncomfortable. He had no intention of crying out, and he did not like or understand the new emotion that rose in him as he wondered when his sentence would come.
"Well, youngster," he said, gruffly, "had enough? Have another round?"
"I've had enough," said the Big Man, heaving a sigh. "Let me treat, Butcher."
"Not to-day, youngster."
"Butcher, I—I'd like to. I'm awfully flush."
"Not to-day."
"Let's match for it."
"What!" said the Butcher, fiercely. "Don't let me hear any more of that talk. You've got to grow up first."
The Big Man, thus rebuked, acquiesced meekly. The two strolled back to the campus in silence.
"Suppose we have a catch," said the Big Man, tentatively.
"All right," said the Butcher, smiling.
Intrenched behind a gigantic mit, the Big Man strove valorously to hold the difficult balls. After a long period of this mitigated pleasure they sat down to rest. Then Cap Kiefer's stocky figure appeared around the Dickinson, and the Butcher went off for a long, solemn consultation.
The Big Man, thus relieved of responsibility, felt terribly alone. He went to his room and took down volume two of "The Count of Monte Cristo," and stretched out on the window-seat. Somehow the stupendous adventures failed to enthrall him. It was still throughout the house. He caught himself listening for the patter of Hickey's shoes above, dancing a breakdown, or the rumble of Egghead's laugh down the hall, or a voice calling, "Who can lend me a pair of suspenders?"
And the window was empty. It seemed so strange to look up from the printed page and find no one in the Woodhull opposite, shaving painfully at the window, or lolling like himself over a novel, all the time keeping an eye on the life below. He could not jeer at Two Inches Brown and Crazy Opdyke practicing curves, nor assure them that the Dickinson nine would just fatten on those easy ones. No one halloed from house to house, no voice below drawled out:
"Oh, you Great Big Man! Stick your head out of the window!"
There was no one to call across for the time o' day, or for just a nickel to buy stamps, or for the loan of a baseball glove, or a sweater, or a collar button, scissors, button-hook, or fifty and one articles that are never bought but borrowed.
The Great Big Man let "The Count of Monte Cristo" tumble unheeded on the floor, seized a tennis ball, and went across the campus to the esplanade of the Upper House, where for half an hour he bounced the ball against the rim of the ledge, a privilege that only a fourth former may enjoy. Tiring of this, he wandered down to the pond, where he skimmed innumerable flat stones until he had exhausted the attractions of this limited amusement.
"I—I'm getting homesick," he admitted finally. "I wish I had a dog—something living—around."
At supper-time he saw the Butcher again, and forgot his own loneliness in the concern he felt for his big friend. He remembered that the Butcher had said that if he were expelled he knew what he would do. What had he meant by that? Something terrible. He glanced up at the Butcher, and, being very apprehensive, made bold to ask:
"Butcher, I say, what does Cap think?"
"He hasn't seen the Doctor yet," said the Butcher. "He'll see him to-night. I guess I'll go over myself, just to leave a calling-card accordin' to et-iquette!"
The Big Man kept his own counsel, but when the Butcher, after dinner, disappeared through the awful portal of Foundation House, he sat down in the dark under a distant tree to watch. In a short five minutes the Butcher reappeared, stood a moment undecided on the steps, stooped, picked up a handful of gravel, flung it into the air with a laugh, and started along the circle.
"Butcher!"
"Hello, who's that!"
"It's me, Butcher," said the Big Man, slipping his hand into the other's; "I—I wanted to know."
"You aren't going to get sentimental, are you, youngster?" said Stevens, disapprovingly.
"Please, Butcher," said the Great Big Man, pleadingly, "don't be cross with me! Is there any hope?"
"The Doctor won't see me, young one," said the Butcher, "but the at-mosphere was not encouraging."
"I'm sorry."
"Honest?"
"Honest."
They went hand in hand over to the chapel, where they chose the back steps and settled down with the great walls at their back and plenty of gravel at their feet to fling aimlessly into the dusky night.
"Butcher?"
"Well, Big Man!"
"What will you do if—if they fire you?"
"Oh, lots of things. I'll go hunting for gold somewhere, or strike out for South America or Africa."
"Oh!" The Big Man was immensely relieved; but he added incredulously, "Then you'll give up football and baseball?"
"Looks that way."
"You won't mind?"
"Yes," said the Butcher, suddenly, "I will mind. I'll hate to leave the old school. I'd like to have one chance more."
"Why don't you tell the Doctor that?"
"Never! I don't cry out when I'm caught, youngster. I take my punishment."