Right End Emerson

CHAPTER XXI

STICK SELLS OUT

Stick Patterson was drawing meaningless lines and figures on a sheet of paper when Russell opened the door, and he didn’t cease doing it nor relapse from his preoccupied attitude until Russell had drawn his chair nearer the end of the table, from where he could see his companion without having to dodge the lamp, and seated himself. Then Stick looked across gloomily.

“I want to talk about – about this,” announced Russell.

Stick returned his level gaze a moment and then tossed the pencil he had held aside and thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat. “So do I,” he replied with a tone of relief. “Look here, Rus, I’ve been thinking about it, and I guess I’ve been wrong. I don’t believe it would be fair to you to sell out to some other chap. You and he might not get on together the way we do. I’ve decided to stick it out. Maybe later you’ll have the money. Anyway, I’ll stay with you to the end of the school year, or as long as we hold out. Even if we do bust, maybe we’ll save something.”

“That’s fine, Stick,” replied Russell gratefully. “And it’s very decent of you. You have a perfect right to sell, of course, but if you did it would put me out of business, I guess.”

“I don’t see why, Rus. Anyway, I’m not going – ”

“Because Mr. Crocker would see to it, Stick. You don’t really believe that he has any idea of keeping both businesses going?”

“What’s Crocker got to do with it?” asked Stick.

“A whole lot if he owned your interest.”

“But he wouldn’t.” Stick looked genuinely puzzled. “This fellow Throgmorton – ”

“Stick,” interrupted Russell, “did Mr. Crocker stop in at the store a week ago last Saturday?”

“What? Why, yes, he did. I didn’t say anything about it because – well, he didn’t want me to, and – Oh, well, I know I ought to have told you, but he said he thought he might find some one who would buy my interest, and that you’d better not know about it until it was settled. It was sort of low-down, Rus, and I’m sorry.”

“Crocker didn’t offer to buy himself, then?”

“Crocker? No, he said he wouldn’t take it at any price. Of course I wouldn’t have sold to him, anyway.”

“Then you really thought that Throgmorton wanted your interest for himself?”

Stick stared. “Of course! Didn’t he? Look here, you don’t mean – ”

“He and Billy Crocker, Mr. Crocker’s son, are together a lot,” answered Russell. “And Mr. Crocker would like to see our place closed up. I can’t prove it, but – ”

“You don’t need to!” cried Stick angrily. “Of course that was the game! You wait until I see that smart Aleck! I’ll – I’ll tell him where he gets off! I’ll kick him across the Green! I’ll – ”

“I wouldn’t say anything about it,” said Russell soothingly. “He only has to deny it. You can’t prove anything, Stick.”

“That’s all right! I don’t need to do any proving!” Stick, as has been already intimated, greatly disliked having anything “put over on him.” “The fat-head! I thought it was funny, his wanting to buy into the business. Why – ” Stick paused and dropped his voice several tones. “I say, Rus, I didn’t suspect that for a minute. I wish you’d believe me. I know it looks funny. But honest – ”

“That’s all right,” replied Russell. “I believe you, Stick. I couldn’t quite believe that you meant to do anything like that.”

“But wasn’t I the goop?” muttered Stick incredulously. “Never thought that that old shifty-eyed rascal was trying to pull my leg! He was so thunderingly nice and – and sympathetic! You wait till I see the old fraud! You wait – ”

“Never mind that,” laughed Russell. “After all, the laugh’s on your side, Stick, for you’ve got them fooled. When you tell Throgmorton you’ve changed your mind – hold on, though! How can you get out of it? You gave him your promise, didn’t you?”

“I said he could have it if you didn’t take it by to-morrow,” answered Stick, “but he didn’t tell me he was buying to sell again to Crocker! He can chase himself now!”

“Still, a promise is a promise,” mused Russell.

“I’ll tell him you’ve bought it. No, I guess that wouldn’t do, either.” Stick scowled perplexedly. “I’ll tell you – ”

“It’s barely possible I may be able to get the money by twelve to-morrow,” Russell cut in. He told about Jimmy’s plan and Stick listened impatiently until the end. Then:

“Austen can’t have it,” he declared vehemently. “No one can have it! I’m going to keep it myself, and we’re going to show that old pirate of a Crocker that he can’t run us out of business! But I will do this, Rus. I’ll take your note now for a hundred and twenty-five dollars and you can have my interest until noon to-morrow. Then we trade back. Here’s a piece of paper.”

“What shall I write?” asked Russell.

“‘One month after date I promise to pay to George Patterson One Hundred and Twenty-five Dollars with interest at six per cent.’ Now date it and sign your name.”

“But is it legal, Stick?”

“I guess so. It’s legal enough for me, anyway. I’ve sold out to you and I can tell Throgmorton so without lying. That’s all I want.”

“I forgot to tell you,” said Russell as Stick folded the piece of paper and thrust it into the drawer on his side of the table, “that there’s a pretty fair chance of our selling to the football team next fall.” He recounted Jimmy’s talk with Tod Tenney. “There’s nothing certain,” he ended, “but I’m going to speak to Mr. Cade some day before he goes away, and – ”

“Of course we’ll get it!” put in Stick almost impatiently. “We’ll work for it until we do! Rus, when we get through with old man Crocker he’ll be selling hardware and nothing else, believe me!”

“All right,” laughed Russell. “Now do you want to go over to the football mass meeting?”

The next morning appeared Jimmy with a tragic countenance. His father’s secretary had wired him that Mr. Austen was in Boston and would not be back until to-morrow. “He says,” wailed Jimmy, “that he will bring the matter to father’s attention immediately on his return, the crazy galoot, but what good will that do? It wouldn’t have hurt him to have used his bean and sent the money!”

Russell soothed him with news of Stick’s new attitude, and Jimmy glowed with delight. Then he chuckled. “I’d like to be there when Patterson talks to Throgmorton,” he said wistfully.

“Well, there won’t be any bloodshed,” replied Russell. “Stick usually calms down before the battle begins! And Throgmorton, you tell me, is fairly sizable.”

Jimmy grinned. “That’s so. I guess Patterson is too wise to start anything he can’t finish. Well, I’m awfully glad it’s turned out so well. I’m sort of sorry, though, that I’m not to get a finger in the pie after all. I believe you and I, Rus, could have made the Sign of the Football pay real money.”

“Yes, Jimmy, I guess we could have, but it’s going to pay real money as it is, I think, for Stick’s as stubborn as a mule, and now that he’s decided to work instead of growl I believe we’ll make a success of it.”

“Hope so,” said Jimmy. “You’ve got my best wishes, old son, if they’ll do you any good. By the way, I’m glad you kept me from making a useless trip to New York last night. Wouldn’t I have been sore when I got to the office this morning and found dad wasn’t there? Still, I’ll bet I’d have dug that money out of some one before I left! Well, so long, Rus. Come over to-night and tell me what happens.”

Not very much did happen. Stick kept his engagement with Throgmorton at the latter’s room and found Billy Crocker with him. The money was there, too, seven nice new twenties and a ten. There was, too, a very official looking paper awaiting Stick’s signature, and Billy Crocker explained his presence by stating that he was there as a witness. Stick took the money and counted it slowly, prolonging the agony, as he put it later to Russell. Then he laid it down and shook his head.

“Anything wrong with it?” demanded Billy.

“No, it looks all right,” replied Stick. “May be counterfeit, but I can’t tell.”

“Not likely,” said Throgmorton, who was a large and rather heavy-mannered youth of nineteen. “Put it in your pocket, Patterson, and sign on the dotted line.”

Stick shook his head and smiled gently. “No, I just dropped around to tell you that the deal is off.”

“Off!” shouted Billy Crocker. “What do you mean, off?”

“Why, just off; not on,” explained Stick patiently. “O, double-F, off. Meaning nothing doing, Crocker.”

“Why?” asked Throgmorton darkly.

“Emerson bought,” replied Stick.

“That’s a lie,” cried Billy. “See here, you agreed to sell to us – ”

“‘Us’?” Stick’s brows went up.

“To Throg, here,” corrected Billy. “Now you’re welching, and – ”

“But, my dear fellow,” protested Stick, thoroughly enjoying the other’s disappointment, “how can I sell what I haven’t got? Be reasonable.”

“Oh, shut up!” wailed Billy. “You make me sick!”

“Sorry. Don’t see what business it is of yours, though. If you must witness something, Crocker, I’ll sign my name on my cuff for you. Well, I must be getting on. By the way, you might try Emerson. Maybe he’ll sell to you. Seems to me he ought to be glad to get into partnership with a fine, straightforward man like your father!”

Stick left them staring at him, looking, as he said to Russell, like two sick cat-fish! And that ended that affair for the time and Russell heaved a big sigh of relief. Fortunately he didn’t know then that Billy Crocker was quite as averse as was Stick Patterson to having anything put over on him, and that, unlike Stick, he didn’t forgive readily.

Thursday saw the end of the season for the second team, as has been told, and Thursday night witnessed the second team’s annual banquet in Ford’s Restaurant, in the town. Twenty-two battle-scarred but very contented youths ate their fill and sang and cheered and listened to speeches, of which that delivered by Coach Steve Gaston, while the briefest was the best. Steve told them a lot of nice things about their playing and their devotion to the School, and he told them, and with convincing emphasis, that what he had planned and hoped for had come true, that he was standing at that moment in the presence of the finest second team in the annals of Alton football! At which the roof of the building must have raised an inch before the cheering ceased!

They sang their last song at a quarter past ten and tumbled noisily and hilariously down the stairs to the street and out into the frosty sharpness of a starlit night and swung unhurriedly back to the Academy, very happy and very proud and, now that the excitement was over, deliciously tired. Near the end of the walk Russell found himself beside Steve Gaston. Steve had taken his season’s task seriously and, in a way, he had taken the celebration seriously. But now he had relapsed into a smiling and rather silent content, and it was not until they were crossing the Green that he made any lengthy remark. Then:

“Emerson, you certainly worked hard for me – well, for us, for the School. It’s hard to be impersonal always. And, for my part, I thank you. I needed you like the very dickens when I dug you out that time, and by making good the way you did you just about saved me. You’ve got another year, haven’t you? I thought so. Well, let me tell you something. You may know it already, but I don’t believe you do. Next fall you walk out on the field and tell the coach that you’re going to play right end. You’ll get it!”

Russell pondered that on his way upstairs. Of course Steve Gaston ought to know, but it did seem to him that the coach had let his judgment slip for once! Further cogitation on the subject was denied him just then, for as soon as he had stepped into Number 27 he knew that something startling had happened. Stick’s face was enough. Stick had thrown the door open at the sound of Russell’s steps in the corridor and now he was asking excitedly:

“Have you heard about it, Rus?”

“No! What?”

“Some one broke into the store to-night and beat up Mr. Pulsifer! They got him, too. That is, one of him; there were two. I’ve just come back from there. The police won’t tell who the fellow is, but every one says it’s Billy Crocker!”

CHAPTER XXII

MR. PULSIFER SHAKES HIS HEAD

It was well along toward the middle of the following morning before Russell had learned definitely what had happened at Number 112 West street. Stick’s account had been exciting but vague. He had, however, assured Russell that he had personally made an examination of the premises and found everything all right, after learning which Russell had been able to compose himself to slumber with the determination to await philosophically the full explanation of the surprising event. Not that he had sought sleep very early, for Stick, in spite of small knowledge, had had much to say, and his theories had prolonged conversation well toward midnight. In fact, Stick was still theorizing when Russell dropped asleep.

When he did learn the particulars it was from the still agitated lips of Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer. The two met in the police station, whither they had been summoned, and on a bench in the outer room waited to be conducted into the presence of the Chief. Shorn of unnecessary details and repetitions, the facts were these. Mr. Pulsifer had gone to the store after supper last evening and had remained there until nearly ten o’clock. He had then put out the light, locked the door behind him and reached the corner of Linden street, where the post office is situated. There he annoyingly discovered that he had failed to bring away with him two letters which he had early in the evening prepared for the mail. As it was necessary that they should be delivered in the city early in the morning, he had thereupon retraced his steps, entered the store and, without troubling to light up, groped his way to his desk and found the letters. He had again started toward the front of the store when sounds at the rear had attracted his suspicion. The sounds resembled the straining of a window sash, as though some one was forcing it upward with a jimmy.

Mr. Pulsifer had promptly made his way silently to the window at the left of the rear door. Sounds outside told him that burglars were at work. What his emotions were at the moment Mr. Pulsifer didn’t state. It is to his credit, though, that he quickly seized the nearest available weapon, which happened to be a broom reposing in a corner, and prepared to repel the marauders. He had barely got into position when the window sash went up and he dimly saw some one swing across the sill. What happened then was still doubtful so far as Mr. Pulsifer’s memory was concerned. He recalled raising a loud shout of “Police!” and of swinging the broom lustily. He recalled, less distinctly, the crash that resulted when the broom, evidently missing the intruder, struck the window glass. Then a surprising number of stars shot into his vision and when he next took cognizance of events he was being supported by a policeman, the store was dazzlingly illuminated and a second policeman stood by with a firm grasp on the prisoner.

Mr. Pulsifer had a dreadful headache and a swelling under his right eye, but after being given a drink of water was able to recount what had happened. Fortunately, one of the officers had been crossing the mouth of the alley on State street when the sound of breaking glass had reached him. He had run toward the scene in time to see a figure speeding away in the opposite direction, had shouted to it to stop and was raising his revolver to fire when a second figure had collided with him at the gate of the rear premises. The officer had been obliged to use the butt of his revolver to make his capture, for the prisoner had strongly objected to being detained. Mr. Pulsifer, having been assisted from the floor, observed that the prisoner, who was hardly more than a boy, although a very robust boy, looked extremely pale and that he was holding a handkerchief to the side of his head. Mr. Pulsifer was uncharitable enough to hope that the prisoner’s head was aching was much as his was!

After that they had proceeded in a compact body to the station house, accompanied by an ever-growing body of curious spectators. Inside, the prisoner had, after several hesitations, given his name as William Crocker and his residence as 43 Munroe avenue. Mr. Pulsifer had duly made a charge against the prisoner and then been conveyed in a taxicab to his home.

After some minutes of waiting Russell and his companion were summoned into the Chief’s office. The latter did most of the talking. He had, he informed them, got a confession from the boy. What had appeared last evening as an attempt at burglary turned out to be no more than a very silly school-boy prank. Of course, the Chief wasn’t excusing young Crocker, but, on the other hand, Mr. Pulsifer of course knew what boys were! The offender was a boy of excellent character, the son of one of Alton’s prominent merchants and respected citizens and of a hitherto stainless record. Young Crocker had earnestly disclaimed having intended any theft or damage, and the Chief believed him. Now, then, did Mr. Pulsifer think that any good would be done by prosecuting the charge already made?

Mr. Pulsifer felt of his cheek, blinked a few times and shook his head. The Chief smiled his approbation. Of course, he continued, if Mr. Pulsifer felt that he had a claim for personal injury doubtless that matter could be arranged easily and without publicity. The Chief bore heavily on the last word. Mr. Pulsifer started to feel of his cheek, thought better of it and again shook his head. The Chief looked relieved and arose from his arm-chair, intimating that the consultation was at an end and implying that Mr. Pulsifer had acted in exactly the way he – the Chief – had expected a gentleman of his wisdom and kindliness to act. It was Russell, who so far had said nothing, who, in a way of speaking, spoiled the finale.

“I’d like to ask,” said Russell, “what Crocker intended to do when he got inside the store.”

The Chief turned a displeased look on him. “Nothing at all, I understand, nothing at all. They – that is, he had no plan. It was merely a foolish prank, conceived hurriedly and carried out without – er – without reflection.”

“There were two of them in it, I think?” asked Russell.

“Two of them? Possibly, possibly.” The Chief frowned darkly. “Only one was apprehended, Mr. Emerson. As he refuses to state whether he had an accomp – a companion, that is, we are left in doubt. And since Mr. Pulsifer has decided not to prosecute the matter is of no importance. You are not, I think,” added the speaker suggestively, “the lessee of the premises?”

“No, but I sub-rent half the store, and – ”

“Nothing has been stolen or damaged?”

“Not so far as I know,” acknowledged Russell.

“Of course not! Very well then!” The Chief was once more affable and was herding them toward the door. “Thank you for your visit, Mr. Pulsifer. The matter will be allowed to drop, and so, of course, I trust that neither you nor Mr. Emerson will discuss it with others. I have the boy’s promise, and his father’s, that nothing of the kind will happen again. Good morning!”

Saying good-by to the florist, Russell hurried back to school and an eleven o’clock recitation. At twelve he mounted to Number 27 and found Stick anxiously awaiting his account of the interview. Russell told what had happened, and Stick snorted. “Ha, that’s old man Crocker,” he said. “I suppose he’s got enough influence to get Billy off if he committed murder! J. Warren’s a spineless shrimp, if you ask me. Didn’t intend any mischief! Oh, no, not a bit! If J. Warren hadn’t been there those two would have put the place on the blink, I’ll bet! Maybe they wouldn’t have swiped anything: I don’t believe they meant to: but they’d have ruined a lot of our stock.”

“Do you think the other fellow was Throgmorton, Stick?”

“Sure! Why not? Billy was mad because he couldn’t get my share in the business and he made up his mind to get square. Throgmorton’s a chunk of cheese, if you ask me, and Billy probably made him think it was just a sort of lark. Well, Crocker got a crack on the head and a couple of hours in jail, and he ought to be satisfied!” Stick’s expression became more mollified. “I guess we might as well be satisfied, too, Rus. The laugh’s on our side, all right. Billy’s in bad with faculty, you see, and out of football – Gee, that reminds me!”

Stick stepped to the table and rummaged amongst the litter.

“Out of football!” exclaimed Russell. “Gee, that’s tough, Stick!”

“Tough?” Stick laughed unfeelingly. “I don’t see it. Where the dickens is that – Oh, here it is! That crazy guy Johnson left this a few minutes ago.”

Russell took the folded sheet of paper and read the hastily scrawled words amazedly.

“Emerson: Report at training table at twelve-thirty. Hy. Johnson, Mgr.”

CHAPTER XXIII

A MEMBER OF THE TEAM

Afterwards Russell believed that he didn’t get his breath again until, at ten o’clock that night, he put the light out and crawled into his bed. Things had happened swiftly after the reading of that note from the first team manager. There had been dinner at the training table in the corner of the dining hall, a dinner of which Russell ate little. His appearance had evoked only few greetings and had been accepted in a surprisingly matter-of-fact fashion. Coach Cade was absent from table and it had been Johnson who had indicated his chair and briefly explained matters, talking across Rowlandson in an aside that probably reached the entire table.

“Crocker’s out of the game to-morrow, Emerson,” said Johnson, “and we’re shy an end. Wouldn’t be surprised if you had a shot at the enemy before the game’s over.”

“I’d be surprised if he didn’t,” growled Rowlandson, entering without apology into the conversation. “Seen you play, Emerson. You’re good. Pass the beets, some one.”

“Well, anyway, you be out at two-thirty this afternoon,” went on the manager.

“I’ve got a class at two,” said Russell.

“That’s all right. They’ve allowed cuts to-day.”