Part 22 (1/2)

And so Phil found himself sulking at school, seeking to bear the atmosphere of one who had been treated outrageously, and growing more and more resentful and sullen as time pa.s.sed and none of the fellows came around to coddle and coax him. He had felt certain that he would be approached by some of them, and repeatedly he had rehea.r.s.ed the speeches by which he would let them know exactly how he felt about it, resolved carefully to avoid uttering a word which might convey the impression that he regarded himself as a single whit at fault.

But no one--not even Cooper or Tuttle--approached him, and he began to believe that the time he had spent in constructing and committing those speeches of mingled defense and accusation had been wasted. He had once been deeply concerned in a plan by which Rodney Grant had been practically ostracized by the academy boys, and now, to his deepening rage, while Grant floated high on the wave of popularity, he found himself ignored.

Phil was naturally a sociable fellow, and a very little of such treatment was sufficient to make him suffer keenly. Nevertheless he sought to hide the fact beneath a haughty and disdainful air, which was a course his disposition and temperament hardly qualified him to do.

His sister, who had not attended the game at Clearport, was the first of his family to learn that he had fibbed about that game, and this she did not discover until the following Monday morning, when her chum, Lela Barker, told her everything.

”Oh, Phil,” Sadie had said when she found a chance to speak with him privately, ”what made you tell father such a whopper about the game?

Why, it wasn't stopped by rain at all, and they say you ran away right in the middle of it, and that Roger wanted you after that when they got to hitting Rodney, and that you couldn't be found anywhere, and that all the fellows are sore on you because you skipped out, and that----”

”Oh, cut it!” interrupted Phil. ”What do I cuc-care what they say!

Let them talk their heads off.”

”But, Phil,” persisted the girl, ”what made you do it? You don't want to get everybody down on you, do you?”

”They can get down on me or not, just as they pup-please!” he flung back. ”I know when I get a rotten deal, and Roger Eliot, or Rod Grant, or anybody else can't wipe his feet on me more than once--that's all!”

On Monday, when school was over for the day and the fellows hurried over to the gym to dress for practice, Phil walked stiffly out of the yard and turned his steps toward home. It is true that he longed and almost hoped to hear some one of those fellows calling after him, but not a soul seemed to observe which way he went, and resentful anger blazed yet more fiercely in his soul.

Thus it was upon Tuesday night, when he observed that Roy Hooker was one of the fellows who hastened toward the gym, which was enough to convince him that Roy had practically been taken onto the team to do a portion of the pitching.

When his sister again tried to talk with him about baseball that night he cut her off in such a snappy, savage manner that she was really frightened.

The next night, however, he did not walk down the path to the gate in view of the scholars, so that they might take notice that he declined to accompany the baseball squad. Instead of that, he dodged back round the corner of the academy, crossed the yard at the rear, and took the footpath across the field to High Street.

He was lonely and cast down and bitterly disappointed; for had he not sounded the professed friends.h.i.+p of his chums of yesterday and found it very shallow! Not one of them had shown the decency to give him a word of cheer; they were willing that he, who but a short time ago they were regarding as their star slabman, should slide back into shadows and forgetfulness, while a practical stranger from a distant part of the country filled his place. It was hard to believe of them, but he told himself he was glad to find out just what they were.

Had Grant himself shown a further inclination to friendly advances Phil might have met him halfway, but the Texan had some pride of his own, and he was not the kind to seek continued rebuffs. Had he known that Springer was ready and yearning to yield, doubtless Rod would have lost not a minute in again putting forth the hand of friends.h.i.+p; but, being unaware of what was pa.s.sing in Phil's heart, and feeling that already he had tried to do the right thing, the boy from the Lone Star State remained aloof with the others.

Halfway across the field, as the path curved round some bushes, Springer came upon Herbert Rackliff, sitting on a stone, manicuring his nails with the file blade of a pearl-handled knife, a cigarette clinging to his moistened lower lip.

”h.e.l.lo,” said Herbert, with no intonation of surprise, as he looked up.

”How do you happen to be dodging across this way, Springer?”

Phil was annoyed. He had never liked Rackliff. Still here was some one to whom he could talk, and desire to ”chin” was strong upon him.

He stopped.

”This is a short cuc-cut for me,” he explained. ”What are you doing here?”

”Tr.i.m.m.i.n.g my nails a bit. Have to do my own manicuring down in this jumping-off place, and I never have time for it mornings; barely get to the old academy soon enough to escape the tardy record--sometimes I don't escape. Never knew you to come this way before, even if it is a short cut. In a hurry?”

”Ye-yes--no, not exactly; but this was as good a way as any.”

”You don't seem to be practicing with the great Oakdale nine,” said Herbert, bringing forth a fresh cigarette. ”I'm surprised at that.”

”Are you? Well, you needn't be.”

In lighting the cigarette Rackliff was seized by a choking fit of coughing, which led him to wipe his eyes with a dainty silk handkerchief.

”I knew I'd catch a beastly cold coming home through the rain the other night on that old lemon of Hooker's,” he said when he could get his breath. ”I hate a cough; it always seems to tear my lungs out. Next thing I know I'll be throwing one of 'em up.”