Dick Prescott's Second Year at West Point Part 38

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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k struck out. But even his wrist seemed to be treacherous now. The second Lehigh man offered at nothing, and went to first on called b.a.l.l.s. So did the second, and a third man, and the bags were filled.

Maitland glanced appealingly at d.i.c.k.

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 d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k 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 hoa.r.s.ely. "And you, Holmesy, for shortstop!"

d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k.

"But I mean it seriously," protested Anstey.

"So do I," replied d.i.c.k

"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 d.i.c.k. "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 s.e.x, had, in the yearling cla.s.s, 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 d.i.c.k, "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."