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But Joel's cup was not yet filled. When he returned to the dormitory after supper, he found two missives awaiting him. The first was from Wesley Blair:
"DEAR MARCH" (it read): "Please show up in the morning at Burke's for breakfast with the first eleven. You are to take the place of Post at L.H.B. It will be necessary for you to report at the gym at eleven each day for noon signals; please arrange your recitations to this end. I am writing this because I couldn't see you this afternoon; hope you are all right. Yours,
"WESLEY BLAIR."
Joel read this with a loudly beating heart and flushing cheeks. It was as unexpected as it was welcome, that news; he had hoped for an occasional chance to substitute Post or Blair or Clausen on the first team in some minor game, but to be taken on as a member was more than he had even thought of since he had found how very far from perfect was his playing. He seized his cap with the intention of racing across to Hampton and informing West of his luck; then he remembered the other note. It was from the office, and it was with a sinking heart that he tore it open and read:
"You are placed upon probation until further notice from the Faculty. The rules and regulations require that pupils on probation abstain from all sports and keep their rooms in the evenings except upon permission from the Principal. Respectfully,
"CURTIS GORDON, Secretary."
CHAPTER XI.
TWO HEROES
One afternoon a week later Outfield West and Joel March were seated on the ledge where, nearly two months before, they had begun their friendship. The sun beat warmly down and the hill at their backs kept off the east wind. Below them the river was brightly blue, and a skiff dipping its way up stream caught the sunlight on sail and hull until, as it danced from sight around the headland, it looked like a white gull hovering over the water. Above, on the campus, the football field was noisy with voices and the pipe of the referee's whistle; and farther up the river at the boathouse moving figures showed that some of the boys were about to take advantage of the pleasant afternoon.
"Some one's going rowing," observed Outfield. "Can you row, Joel?"
"I guess so; I never tried." West laughed.
"Then I guess you can't. I've tried. It's like trying to write with both hands. While you're looking after one the other has fits and runs all over the paper. If you pull with the left oar the right oar goes up in the air or tries to throw you out of the boat by getting caught in the water. Paddling suits me better. Say, you'll see a bully race next spring when we meet Eustace. Last spring they walked away from us. But the crew is to have a new boat next year. Look! those two fellows row well, don't they? Remsen says a chap can never learn to row unless he has been born near the water. That lets me out. In Iowa we haven't any water nearer than the Mississippi–except the Red Cedar, and that doesn't count. By the way, Joel, what did Remsen say to you last night about playing again?"
"He said to keep in condition, so that in case I got off probation I could go right back to work. He says he'll do all he can to help me, and I know he will. But it won't do any good. 'Wheels' won't let me play until he's found out who did that trick. It's bad enough, Out, to be blamed for the thing when I didn't do it, but to lose the football team like this is a hundred times worse. I almost wish I had cut that old rope!" continued Joel savagely; "then I'd at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I was only getting what I deserved." West looked properly sympathetic.
"It's a beastly shame, that's what I think. What's the good of 'believing you innocent,' as 'Wheels' says, if he goes ahead and punishes you for the affair? What? Why, there isn't any, of course! If it was me I'd cut the pesky rope every chance I got until they let up on me!" Joel smiled despite his ill humor.
"And I've lost half my interest in lessons, Out. I try not to, but I can't help it. I guess my chance at the scholarship is gone higher than a kite."
"Oh, hang the scholarship!" exclaimed West. "But there's the St. Eustace game in three weeks. If you don't play in that, Joel, I'll go to 'Wheels' and tell him what I think about it!"
"It's awfully rough on a fellow, Out, but Professor Wheeler is only doing what is right, I suppose. He can't let the thing go unnoticed, you see, and as long as I can't prove my innocence I guess he's right to hold me to blame for it."
"Tommyrot!" answered West explosively. "The faculty's just trying to have us beaten! Why–Say, don't tell a soul, Joel, but Blair's worried half crazy. They had him up yesterday, and 'Wheels' told him that if he didn't get better marks from now on he couldn't play. What do you think of that? They're not decent about it. They're trying to put us all on probation. Why, how do I know but what they'll put me on?"
Outfield hit his shoe violently with the driver he held until it hurt him. For although Joel was debarred from playing golf there was nothing to keep him from watching West play, and this afternoon the two had been half over the course together, West explaining the game, and Joel listening intently, and all the while longing to take a club in hand and have a whack at the ball himself.
"That's bad," answered Joel thoughtfully. "It would be all up with us if Blair shouldn't play."
"And that's just what's going to happen if 'Wheels' keeps up his present game," responded Outfield. "Who are those chaps in that shell, Joel? One looks like Cloud, the fellow in front." Joel watched the approaching craft for a moment.
"It is Cloud," he answered. "And that looks like Clausen with him. Why isn't he practicing, I wonder?"
"Haven't you heard? He was dropped from the team yesterday. Wills has his place. Post says, by the way, that he's sorry you're in such a fix, but he's mighty glad to get back on the first. He's an awfully decent chap, is Post. Did you see that thing he has in this month's Hilltonian about Cooke? Says the Fac's going to establish a class in bakery and put Cooke in as teacher because he's such a fine loafer! Say, what's the matter down there?"
The shell containing Cloud and Clausen had reached a point almost opposite to where West and Joel were perched, and as the latter looked toward it at West's exclamation he saw Cloud throw aside his oars and stand upright in the boat. Clausen had turned and was looking at his friend, but still held his oars.
"By Jove, Joel, she's sinking!" cried Outfield. "Look! Why doesn't Clausen get out? There goes Cloud over. I wonder if Clausen can swim? swim? Come on!"
And half tumbling, half climbing, West sped down the bank on to the tiny strip of rocks and gravel that lay along the water. Joel followed. Cloud now was in the water at a little distance from the shell, which had settled to the gunwales. Clausen, plainly in a state of terror, was kneeling in the sinking boat and crying to the other lad for help. The next moment he was in the water, and his shouts reached the two lads on the beach. Cloud swam toward him, but before he could reach him Clausen had gone from sight.
"What shall we do?" cried West. "He's drowning! Can you swim?" For Joel had already divested himself of his coat and vest, and was cutting the lacings of his shoes. West hesitated an instant only, then followed suit.
"Yes." Off went the last shoe, and Joel ran into the water. West, pale of face, but with a determined look in his blue eyes, followed a moment later, a yard or two behind, and the two set out with desperate strokes to reach the scene of the disaster. As he had taken the water Joel had cast a hurried glance toward the spot where Clausen had sunk, and had seen nothing of that youth; only Cloud was in sight, and he seemed to be swimming hurriedly toward shore.
Joel went at the task hand over hand and heard behind him West, laboring greatly at his swimming. Presently Joel heard his name cried in an exhausted voice.
"I–can't make–it–Joel!" shouted West. "I'll–have to–turn–back."
"All right," Joel called. "Go up to the field and send some one for help." Then he turned his attention again to his strokes, and raising his head once, saw an open river before him with nothing in sight between him and the opposite bank save, farther down stream, a floating oar. He had made some allowance for the current, and when in another moment he had reached what seemed to him to be near the scene of the catastrophe, yet a little farther down stream, he trod water and looked about. Under the bluff to the right Cloud was crawling from the river. West was gone from sight. About him ran the stream, and save for its noise no sound came to him, and nothing rewarded his eager, searching gaze save a branch that floated slowly by. With despair at his heart, he threw up his arms and sank with wide-open eyes, peering about him in the hazy depths. Above him the surface water bubbled and eddied; below him was darkness; around him was only green twilight. For a moment he tarried there, and then arose to the surface and dashed the water from his eyes and face. And suddenly, some thirty feet away, an arm clad in a white sweater sleeve came slowly into sight.
With a frantic leap through the water Joel sped toward it. A bare head followed the upstretched arm; two wild, terror-stricken eyes opened and looked despairingly at the peaceful blue heavens; the white lips moved, but no sound came from them. And then, just as the eyes closed and just as the body began to sink, as slowly as it had arisen, and for the last time, Joel reached it.
There was no time left in which to pause and select a hold of the drowning boy, and Joel caught savagely at his arm and struck toward the bank, and the inert body came to the surface like a water-logged plank.
"Clausen!" shouted Joel. "Clausen! Can you hear? Brace up! Strike out with your right hand, and don't grab me! Do you hear?"
But there was no answer. Clausen was like stone in the water. Joel cast a despairing glance toward the bluff. Then his eyes brightened, for there sliding down the bank he saw a crowd of boys, and as he looked another on the bluff threw down a coil of new rope that shone in the afternoon sunlight as it fell and was seized by some one in the throng below.
Nerved afresh, Joel took a firm grasp on Clausen's elbow and struck out manfully for shore. It was hard going, and when a bare dozen long strokes had been made his burden so dragged him down that he was obliged to stop, and, floundering desperately to keep the white face above water, take a fresh store of breath into his aching lungs. Then drawing the other boy to him so that his weight fell on his back, he brought one limp arm about his shoulder, and holding it there with his left hand started swimming once more. A dozen more strokes were accomplished slowly, painfully, and then, as encouraging shouts came from shore, he felt the body above him stir into life, heard a low cry of terror in his ear, and then–they were sinking together, Clausen and he, struggling there beneath the surface! Clausen had his arm about Joel's neck and was pulling him down–down! And just as his lungs seemed upon the point of bursting the grasp relaxed around his neck, the body began to sink and Joel to rise!
With a deafening noise as of rushing water in his ears, Joel reached, caught a handful of cloth, and struggled, half drowned himself, to the surface. And then some one caught him by the chin–and he knew no more until he awoke as from a bad dream to find himself lying in the sun on the narrow beach, while several faces looked down into his.
"Did you get him?" he asked weakly.
"Yep," answered Outfield West, with something that sounded like a sob in his voice. "He's over there. He's all right. Don't get up," he continued, as Joel tried to move. "Stay where you are. The fellows are bringing a boat, and we'll take you both back in it."
"Stay where you are; The fellows are bringing a boat.
"All right," answered Joel. "But I guess I'll just look around a bit." And he sat up. At a little distance a group among which Joel recognized the broad back of Professor Gibbs were still working over Clausen. But even as he looked Joel was delighted to see Clausen's legs move and hear his weak voice speaking to the professor. Then the boat was rowed in, the occupants panting with their hurried pull from the boathouse, and Joel clambered aboard, disdaining the proffered help of West and others, and Clausen was lifted to a seat in the bow.
On the way up river Joel told how it happened, West throwing in an eager word here and there, and Clausen in a low whisper explaining that the shell had struck on a sunken rock or snag when passing the island, and had begun to sink almost immediately.
"And Cloud?" asked Professor Gibbs. There was no reply from either Joel or Clausen or-West. Only one of the rowers answered coldly:
"He's safe. I saw him on the path near the Society Building. He was running toward Warren." A silence followed. Then–
"You've never learned to swim, Clausen?"
"No, sir."
"But it is the rule that no boy is allowed on the river who can not swim. How is that?"
"I–I said I could, sir."
"Humph! Your lie came near to costing you dear, Clausen."
Then no more was said in the boat until the float was reached, although each occupant was busy with his thoughts. Clausen was helped, pale and shaking, to his room, and West and Joel, accompanied by several of their schoolmates, trotted away to the gymnasium, where Joel was put through an invigorating bath and a subsequent rubbing that left him none the worse for his adventure. The story had to be told over and over to each new group that came in after practice, and finally the two friends escaped to West's room, where they discussed the affair from the view-point of participants.
"When I got back to the bluff with the other fellows you weren't to be seen, Joel," West was saying, "and I thought it was all up with poor old Joel March."
"That's just what I thought a bit later," responded Joel, "when that fellow had me round the neck and was trying to show me the bottom of the river."
"And then, when they brought you in, Whipple and Christie, and you were all white and–and ghastly like, you know"–Outfield West whistled long and expressively–"then I thought you were a goner."
Joel nodded. "And Cloud?" he asked presently.
"Cloud has settled himself," responded West. "When he thought Clausen was drowning he just cut and ran–I mean swam–to shore. The fellows are madder than hornets. As Whipple said, you can't insist on a fellow saving another fellow from drowning, but you can insist on his not running away. They're planning to show Cloud what they think of him, somehow. They wouldn't talk about it while I was around. I wonder why?" Outfield stopped suddenly and frowned perplexedly. "Why, a month or six weeks ago I would have been one of the first they would have asked to help! I'm afraid it's associating with you, Joel. You're corrupting me! Say, didn't I make a mess of it this afternoon? I got about ten yards off the beach and just had to give up and pull back–and pull hard. Blessed if I didn't begin to wonder once if I'd make it! The fact is, Joel, I'm an awful dab at swimming. And I ought to be punched for letting you go out there all alone."
"Nonsense, Out! You couldn't help getting tired, especially if you aren't much of a swimmer. And now you speak of it I remember you saying once that you couldn't–" Joel stopped short and looked at West in wondering amazement. And West grew red and his eyes sought the floor, and for almost a minute there was silence in the room. Then Joel arose and stood over the other lad with shining eyes.
"Out," he muttered huskily, "you're a brick!"
West made no reply, but his feet shuffled nervously on the hearth.
"To think of you starting out there after me! Why, you're the–the hero, Out; not me at all!"
"Oh, shut up!" muttered West.
"I'll not! I'll tell every one in school!" cried Joel. "I'll–"
"If you do, Joel March, I'll thrash you!" cried West.
"You can't!–you can't, Out!" Then he paused and laid a hand affectionately on the other's shoulder as he asked softly:
"And it's really so, Out? You can't–" West shook his head.
"I'm afraid it's so, Joel," he answered apologetically. "You see out in Iowa there isn't much chance for a chap to learn, and–and so before this afternoon, Joel, I never swam a stroke in my life."
CHAPTER XII.
THE PROBATION OF BLAIR
Wallace Clausen's narrow escape from death and Joel's heroic rescue were nine-day wonders in the little world of the academy and village. In every room that night the incident was discussed from A to Z: Clausen's foolhardiness, March's grit and courage, West's coolness, Cloud's cowardice. And next morning at chapel when Joel, fearing to be late, hurried in and down the side aisle to his seat, his appearance was the signal for such an enthusiastic outburst of cheers and acclamations that he stopped, looked about in bewilderment, and then slipped with crimson cheeks into his seat, the very uncomfortable cynosure of all eyes.
Older boys, who were supposed to know, stoutly averred that such a desecration of the sacred solitude of chapel had never before been heard of, and "Peg-Leg," long since recovered from his contact with the bell rope, shook his gray head doubtfully, and joined his feeble tones with the cheers of the others. And then Professor Wheeler made his voice heard, and commanded silence very sternly, yet with a lurking smile, and silence was almost secured when, just as the door was being closed, Outfield West slipped through, smiling, his handsome face flushed from his tear across the yard. And again the applause burst forth, scarcely less great in volume or enthusiasm, and West literally bolted back to the door, found it closed, was met with a grinning shake of the head from Duffy, looked wildly about for an avenue of escape, and finding none, slunk to his seat at Joel's side, while the boys joined laughter at his plight to their cheers for his courage.
"You promised not to tell!" hissed West with blazing cheek.
"I didn't, Out; not a word," whispered Joel.
Many eyes were still turned toward the door, but their owners were doomed to disappointment, for Bartlett Cloud failed to appear at chapel that morning, preferring to accept the penalty of absence rather than face his fellow-pupils assembled there in a body. But he did not escape public degradation; for, although he waited until the last moment to go to breakfast, he found the hall filled, and so passed to his seat amid a storm of hisses that plainly told the contempt in which his schoolmates held him. And then, as though scorning to remain in his presence, the place emptied as though by magic, and he was left with burning cheeks to eat his breakfast in solitude.
Joel and Outfield were publicly thanked and commended by the principal, and every master had a handshake and a kind and earnest word for them. The boys learned that Clausen had taken a severe cold from his immersion in the icy water, and had gone to the infirmary. Thither they went and made inquiry. He would be up in a day or two, said Mrs. Creelman; but they could not see him, since Professor Gibbs had charged that the patient was not to be disturbed. And so, leaving word for him when he should awake, Joel and West took themselves away, relieved at not having to receive any more thanks just then.
But three days later Clausen left the infirmary fully recovered, and Joel came face to face with him on the steps of Academy Building. A number of fellows on their way to recitations stopped and watched the meeting. Clausen colored painfully, appeared to hesitate for a moment, and then went to Joel and held out his hand, which was taken and gripped warmly.
"March, it's hard work thanking a fellow for saving your life, and–I don't know how to do it very well. But I guess you'll understand that–that–Oh, hang it, March! you know what I'd like to say. I'm more grateful than I could tell you–ever. We haven't been friends, but it was my fault, I know, and if you'll let me, I'd like to be–to know you better."
"You're more than welcome, Clausen, for what I did. I'm awfully glad West and I happened to be on hand. But there wasn't anything that you or any fellow couldn't have done just as well, or better, because I came plaguey near making a mess of it. Anyhow, it's well through with. As for being friends, I'll be very glad to be, Clausen. And if you don't mind climbing stairs, and have a chance, come up and see me this evening. Will you?"
"Yes, thanks. Er–well, to-night, then." And Clausen strode off.
After supper West and Clausen came up to Joel's room, and the four boys sat and discussed all the topics known to school. Richard Sproule was at his best, and strove to do his share of the entertaining, succeeding quite beyond Joel's expectations. When the conversation drew around to the subject of the upsetting on the river, Clausen seemed willing enough to tell his own experiences, but became silent when Cloud's name was mentioned.
"I've changed my room, and haven't seen Cloud since to speak to," he said. And so Cloud's name was omitted from discussion.
"I'm sorry," said Clausen, "that I made such a dunce of myself when you were trying to get me out. I don't believe I knew what I was doing. I don't remember it at all."
"I'm sure you didn't," answered Joel. "I guess a fellow just naturally wouldn't, you know. But I was glad when you let go!"
"Yes, you must have been. The fellows all say you were terribly plucky to keep at it the way you did. When they got you it was all they could do to make you let go of me, they say."
"The queerest thing," said West, with a laugh, "was to see Post standing on shore and trying to throw a line to you all. It never came within twenty yards of you, but he kept on shouting: 'Catch hold–catch hold, can't you? Why don't you catch hold, you stupid apes?'"
"And some one told me," said Sproule, "that Whipple took his shoes, sweater, and breeches off, and swam out there with his nose-guard on."
"Used it for a life-preserver," suggested West.–"Did you get lectured, Clausen?"
"Yes, he gave it to me hard; but he's a nice old duffer, after all. Said I had had pretty near punishment enough. But I've got to keep in bounds all term, and can't go on the river again until I learn how to swim."
"Shouldn't think you'd want to," answered Sproule.
"Are you still on probation, March?" asked Clausen.
"Yes, and it doesn't look as though I'd ever get off. If I could find out who cut that rope I'd–I'd–"
"Well, I must be going back," exclaimed Clausen hurriedly. "I wish, March, you'd come and see me some time. My room's 16 Warren. I'm in with a junior by the name of Bowler. Know him?"
Joel didn't know the junior, but promised to call, and West and Clausen said good-night and stumbled down the stairway together.
The next morning Joel dashed out from his history recitation plump into Stephen Remsen, who was on his way to the office.
"Well, March, congratulations! I'm just back from a trip home and was going to look you up this afternoon and shake hands with you. I'll do it now. You're a modest-enough-looking hero, March."
"I don't feel like a hero, either," laughed Joel in an endeavor to change the subject. "I'm just out from Greek history, and if I could tell Mr. Oman what I think–"
"Yes? But tell me, how did you manage–But we'll talk about that some other time. You're feeling all right after the wetting, are you?" And as Joel answered yes, he continued: "Do you think you could go to work again on the team if I could manage to get you off probation?"
"Try me!" cried Joel. "Do you think they'll let up on me?"
"I'm almost certain of it. I'm on my way now to see Professor Wheeler, and I'll ask him about you. I have scarcely any doubt but that, after your conduct the other day, he will consent to reinstate you, March, if I ask him. And I shall be mighty glad to do so. To tell the truth, I'm worried pretty badly about–well, never mind. Never cross a river until you come to it."
"But, Mr. Remsen, sir," said Joel, "do you mean that he will let me play just because–just on account of what happened the other day?"
"On account of that and because your general conduct has been of the best; and also, because they have all along believed you innocent of the charge, March. You know I told you that when Cloud and Clausen were examined each swore that the other had not left the room that evening, and accounted for each other's every moment all that day. But, nevertheless, I am positive that Professor Wheeler took little stock in their testimony. And as for Professor Durkee, why, he pooh-pooed the whole thing. You seem to have made a conquest of Professor Durkee, March."
"He was very kind," answered Joel thoughtfully. "I don't believe, Mr. Remsen, that I want to be let off that way," he went on. "I'm no less guilty of cutting the bell rope than I was before the accident on the river. And until I can prove that I am not guilty, or until they let me off of their own free wills, I'd rather stay on probation. But I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Remsen."
And to this resolve Joel adhered, despite all Remsen's powers of persuasion. And finally that gentleman continued on his way to the office, looking very worried.
The cause of his worry was known to the whole school two days later when the news was circulated that Wesley Blair was on probation. And great was the consternation. The football game with St. Eustace Academy was fast approaching, and there was no time to train a satisfactory substitute for Blair's position at full-back, even had one been in reach. And Whipple as temporary captain was well enough, but Whipple as captain during the big game was not to be thought of with equanimity. The backs had already been weakened by the loss of Cloud, who, despite his poor showing the first of the season, had it in him to put up a rattling game. And now to lose Blair! What did the faculty mean? Did it want Hillton to lose? But presently hope took the place of despair among the pupils. He was going to coach up and pass a special exam the day before the game. Professor Ludlow was to help him with his modern languages and Remsen with his mathematics, while Digbee, that confirmed old grind, had offered to coach him on Greek. And so it would be all right, said the school; you couldn't down Blair; he'd pass when the time came!
But Remsen–and Blair himself, had the truth been known–were not so hopeful. And Remsen went to West and besought him to induce Joel to allow him (Remsen) to ask for his reinstatement. And this West very readily did, bringing to bear a whole host of arguments which slid off from Joel like water from a duck's back. And Remsen groaned and shook his head, but always presented a smiling, cheerful countenance in public. Those were hard days for the first eleven. Despair and discouragement threatened on all sides, and, as every thoughtful one expected, there was such a slump in the practice as kept Remsen and Whipple and poor Blair awake o' nights during the next week. But Whipple toiled like a Trojan, and Remsen beamed contentment and scattered tongue-lashings alternately; and Blair, ever armed with a text-book, watched from the side-line whenever the chance offered.
Joel seldom went to the field those days. The sight of a canvas-clad player made him ready to weep, and a soaring pigskin sent him wandering away by himself along the river bluff in no enviable state of mind. But one day he did find his way to the gridiron during practice, and he and Blair sat side by side, or raced down the field, even with a runner, and received much consolation in the sort of company that misery loves, and, deep in discussion of the faults and virtues of the players, forgot their troubles.
"Why, it wouldn't have mattered if you were playing, March," said Blair. "For there's no harm in telling you now that we were depending on you for half the punting. Remsen thinks you are fine and so do I. 'With March to take half the punting off your hands,' said he one day, 'you'll have plenty of time to run the team to the Queen's taste.' Why, we had you running on the track there, so you would get your lungs filled out and be able to run with the ball as well as kick it. If you were playing we'd be all right. But as it is, there isn't a player there that can be depended on to punt twenty yards if pushed. Some of 'em can't even catch the ball if they happen to see the line breaking! St. Eustace is eight pounds heavier in the line than we are, and three or four pounds heavier back of it. So what will happen? Why, they'll get the ball and push us right down the field with a lot of measly mass plays, and we won't be able to kick and we won't be able to go through their line. And it's dollars to doughnuts that we won't often get round their ends. It's a hard outlook! Of course, if I can pass–" But there Blair stopped and sighed dolefully. And Joel echoed the sigh.
The last few days before the event of the term came, and found the first eleven in something approaching their old form. Blair continued to burn the midnight oil and consume page after page of Greek and mathematics and German, which, as he confided despondently to Digbee, he promptly forgot the next moment. Remsen made up a certain amount of lost sleep, and Whipple gained the confidence of the team. Joel studied hard, and refound his old interest in lessons, and dreamed nightly of the Goodwin scholarship. West, too, "put in some hard licks," as he phrased it, and found himself climbing slowly up in the class scale. And so the day of the game came round.
The night preceding it two things of interest happened: the eleven and substitutes assembled in the gymnasium and listened to a talk by Remsen, which was designed less for instruction than to take the boys' mind off the morrow's game; and Wesley Blair took his examination in the four neglected studies, and made very hard work of it, and finally crawled off to a sleepless night, leaving the professors to make their decision alone.
