The Triumph of "Curly" - Page 2

was but two weeks distant. This morning there had been trouble in the German class, and as a result, two students had been placed on probation. The fact that one of them, Rogers, was the best pitcher in school, and that the loss of his services would in all likelihood mean the defeat of Willard's nine in this decisive game was most unfortunate. To be sure, Rogers had merited his punishment, but the school failed to consider that, and indignation ran high.

Curly himself, seated in the silent class room, acknowledged failure at last. He looked at his watch. It was quarter past three. With a sigh he drew paper toward him, dipped pen in ink and began to write.

The letter was brief, yet it took him nearly ten minutes. When at last it was finished, lacking only the signature, he read it over. He had made no attempt at explanation or extenuation, but had thanked the faculty for their kindness and patience, regretted their disappointment, and begged them to accept his resignation. He subscribed himself "Respectfully yours, Isaac Newton Stone," sealed the letter and addressed it to the principal.

This done, he gathered his books, took up his hat and stepped from the platform. Footsteps sounded in the echoing corridor, and a flushed, perspiring face peered into the room. Then a boy of sixteen hurried up the aisle.

"Mr. Stone, sir," he cried, "will you help us? It's the beginning of the sixth inning, and the score's eight to six in our favor. They've knocked Willings out of the box, sir, and we haven't anyone else. Apthorpe's cousin says you can pitch, and--and we want to know if you won't play for us, sir?" He ended with a gasp for breath.

"But--I don't quite understand!"

"Why, sir, we held 'em down until the fifth, and then they made six runs. Maybe they've scored some more. If you could only come right away!"

"But who said I could pitch, Turner?"

"Tom Apthorpe's cousin, sir; he's down for Sunday."

"But how did he know?"

"Why, sir, he knew you at college, and--"

"What's his name?"

"Harris, sir. He said--"

"Jack Harris!" The instructor's eyes lighted. He tossed the books on the desk. "Run back and tell them I'll come as soon as I leave this note at Dr. Willard's."

There came a cheer from the playground. It was not a Willard cheer.

Turner listened dismayed. "Couldn't you come now, sir?" he begged. "It may be too late. They're batting like anything. Couldn't you leave the note afterwards, sir!"

"Well, may be I could," said Curly. He dropped it into his pocket, put on his hat and strode down the aisle. "Come on, Turner!" he cried.

Along the terrace of the playground, under the elms, were gathered the