Barry Locke, half-back
clutched Barry’s arm just short of the house.
“Look ahead,” he said softly. “Beyond the light there. See anything?”
Barry looked and finally assented.
“Some one standing in the shadow,” he whispered. “Who is it? What’s he
want?”
“Don’t know,” answered Peaches. “Let’s see what he does.”
They went on toward the gate, and as they did so the figure retreated,
finally disappearing utterly in the pocket of darkness beyond the
nearest lamp.
“Thought so,” muttered Peaches. “I’ll bet that taxicab guy spilled the
beans. Gosh! I wish Davy had beat it when he had the chance!”
CHAPTER XIX
THE NEW TYPEWRITER
Peaches went toward the back of the house, while Barry ascended the
stairs. It was fully five minutes later when the murmur of voices in
the dining-room ceased and Peaches came up. The two boys went into his
darkened room and peered cautiously from the window that overlooked the
road in the direction of town. Once they were certain they discerned
the watching form about thirty yards away, where the gloom was deepest,
but when they looked again it had either disappeared or merged with the
shadows.
After a few moments of further staring into the night they withdrew
and Peaches lighted up, drawing the curtains. Barry approved the
latter act, for he had begun to feel sort of shivery. They talked the
situation over, in voices unconsciously lowered. Peaches said that Davy
wasn’t going to try to get away to-night, that probably it was best not
to.
“If that fellow down there is really watching the house,――and I guess
there’s no doubt about that,――he’s likely to keep on watching most
of the night. He would know that if Davy is here he wouldn’t try to
get off until midnight or later. What I can’t make out is why the cop
doesn’t come in and have a look.”
“Maybe,” suggested Barry, “they aren’t certain. Maybe they’ve just
heard enough to make them suspicious. You have to have a warrant to
search a house, don’t you?”
“I guess you do. Well, I’m going to bed, and you’d better do likewise,
old-timer.”
In the morning Barry’s first act was to hurry across to Peaches’
room and look anxiously from the side window. The street was utterly
deserted, and, in the bright sunlight, it was easy enough to believe in
the innocence of the lurking form of the night before.
The Springfield game was dull and one-sided. Again Barry saw service
in the final episode and was called on for six punts. The Major used
nearly every second- and third-string player before, at last, the
contest ended with the score 33 to 0. Followed much rejoicing until
news came that Hoskins had defeated Peebles, 22 to 3. Recalling that
Peebles had humbled Broadmoor by a score of 21 to 3, the rejoicers
ceased rejoicing and amazedly considered the fact that, if figures
didn’t lie, Hoskins was at that moment exactly thirty-seven points
better than Broadmoor!
Monday saw the beginning of secret practice on the field and the
institution of evening sessions in the gymnasium, and Wednesday
witnessed the hardest practice of the season. Not until the lights had
begun to appear in the windows on the campus were the players released.
Barry was far too tired to hurry through his shower and his dressing,
and the locker-room was almost empty when he left it. To his surprise,
Clyde was waiting outside on the steps, and joined him.
“Some drive,” he said.
Barry agreed and, accommodating his step to Clyde’s, headed toward
Dawson.
“You got quite a send-off in the paper this morning,” said Clyde, after
a pause. “See it?”
Barry hadn’t seen it.
“Well, I saved it for you. It’s in the room. Short Higgins is
corresponding here, and he has half a column of dope. Calls you
‘Broadmoor’s punting ace,’ and if Hoskins believes what he says they’ll
probably lay for you and try to put you out, Barry. It seems to me
Higgins hasn’t done us any favor by boosting you as a kicker. I’d like
to know what the Major thinks of it. What’s the sense of advertising
the fact that we’ve got a punter? Much better keep quiet about it, I
think, and surprise the enemy if we can.”
“I heard,” said Barry, “that the Major always read what the newspaper
correspondents sent out.”
“Well, that’s what I thought. If he read that stuff of Short’s, he must
have been in a hurry. Unless――” Clyde hesitated an instant―― “unless he
wants Hoskins to know! By Jove, Barry! he might! The Major’s awfully
foxy.”
Barry considered that theory while he followed Clyde upstairs in
Dawson, but he failed to see any advantage to be gained by the
publicity. Clyde turned on the lights and produced the city paper of
that date, opened to the sport page. Barry read the article through.
Higgins had gone exhaustively into the capabilities of the Broadmoor
players, discussing them individually at some length. The reference to
himself Barry found almost embarrassingly flattering. He was credited
with having punted fifty-five yards,――which was true to the extent of
one lucky performance in practice,――with being an exceptionally fast
and clever runner, and with being the outstanding discovery of the
football season at Broadmoor.
Also, although the fact was not distinctly stated, the writer managed
to give the impression that the young “punting ace” was being kept
under cover. Barry went through the article a second time. It was just
as he had thought. Higgins had discussed perhaps twenty players, but
only in the case of Barry Locke had he let himself go. Nothing had been
told of the others that would reach the rival camp as fresh news! He
laid the paper down, with a puzzled look at Clyde.
“That reads sort of――sort of funny,” he said.
Clyde nodded.
“It certainly does. I don’t get it, Barry. Either Higgins got that past
without the Major seeing it or the Major tipped Higgins off to write it
that way. And if it was the last, what’s the big idea? Every one says
we’re certain to play a punting game through at least one half, and
if we do he will have to use you. Tip Cartright can’t do it all; and,
anyway, you’re better than he is, now.”
They discussed the puzzle for several minutes without arriving at a
solution. Then, partly because it was growing late and partly because
he wanted to get away before Hal Stearns came in, Barry pocketed the
paper at Clyde’s invitation and arose. As he did so his eyes lighted on
a small black case on the big table.
“Hello!” he said. “You’ve got one of those, too, haven’t you?”
Clyde nodded, lifting the cover of the small typewriter and idly
jabbing at a key.
“Yes, a fellow named Whitwell is selling them around school and I
thought I’d help him along. Besides, some of the faculty give you
better marks, they say, if you turn in your stuff typewritten. Pretty
good little contraptions, too. Want to try it?”
Barry picked out his name on the keys and Clyde rolled the result into
view. The effort hadn’t been very successful, for Barry had forgotten
in one place to use the shift, and had evidently struck the wrong key
on two occasions. Also, the capital B was not aligned with the other
letters. The result was this:
John Bsrry lockw
“Gee! I’d almost forgotten about the John,” commented Clyde. “Guess
I’ll call you Jack for a change.”
“If you do,” answered Barry, “I’ll call you Fletcher――no, Fletch. That
sounds like a side of bacon. Say, what’s the matter with that B? Looks
as if it felt it was more important than the other letters!”
“Gee! I don’t know! It always does that. Maybe that thingumbob is bent.
I’ll have to get Whitwell to look at it. Well, don’t get a swelled head
over that newspaper stuff, youngster. See you to-morrow.”
Barry didn’t allow the article to increase the size of his cranium, but
he did clip it very carefully and put it away with other and similar
treasures. Also he showed it first to Peaches, and Peaches began
calling him “Ace” and pretending a new and impressive deference. But
even Peaches couldn’t explain why Higgins had been allowed to get that
paragraph past the censor! They were still discussing the matter that
evening in Barry’s room when footsteps came along the hall and Toby, as
ever disdaining to knock, burst enthusiastically in on them, one hand
extended before him and his eyes glowing behind his enormous spectacles.
“Say, fellows, look here, will you? Say, look at this for a beauty! He
was outside the window and didn’t say ‘Boo!’ when I picked him off.
Lookut!”
Toby thrust the prize under Barry’s eyes and Peaches got up to look,
too. It was a medium-sized moth, its upper wings of pale yellow with
black tracery and its lower ones of pinky red――they, too, marked with
black. It certainly was a beautiful thing, and both Barry and Peaches
admired it in a fashion to satisfy its captor. Peaches wanted to know
the name of it, but Toby shook his head.
“Golly! I don’t know,” he answered regretfully. “I’ve never seen one
like it before. I’m going to look it up at the library to-morrow. Ain’t
it a corker?”
“Wonderful, Toby,” assented Peaches. “Is he dead?”
“No, I guess he’s just kind of chilled.” Toby touched the moth gently
and it stirred in lazy protest, stretching its upper wings a little
wider. Then, as if to make the protest more emphatic, it fluttered
out of Toby’s palm and settled on the blue blotting-pad on the desk.
“Don’t touch him!” warned Toby in agonized tones. “You might tear his
wings.” He reached a stealthy finger down and tried to persuade the
moth to crawl upon it, but the invitation was refused. There was a
sudden fluttering of pale yellow-and-red wings and the moth careened
agitatedly about their heads, dipped swiftly, and mysteriously
disappeared.
“Well, where the dickens――!” exclaimed Peaches.
“He went into that drawer!” declared Toby. “There he is! I see him!”
Barry drew the top drawer of the desk farther out and Toby, peering
excitedly in, made a grab among the papers and various articles there,
but missed the moth.
“Better take the drawer out,” suggested Peaches. “Although, for my
part, I hope he gets away from you!”
Barry placed the drawer upon the desk and carefully lifted the contents
out, while Toby stood by waiting to pounce. But the moth wasn’t there.
“He’s in the next one,” said Toby. “He flew out over the back, I guess.
Let me look, Barry, will you? Gee! I don’t want to lose him!”
Barry, who had been seated, arose and Toby took over the search. One
by one, very cautiously, he took out the four drawers and went through
them while the others looked on and offered encouraging advice. Foiled,
Toby squatted, and stared into the dim depths of the cubby that had
held the drawers. “Got a match?” he demanded feverishly.
Instead of a match, Barry offered a pocket torch and Toby got to his
knees and continued the hunt. At that moment the doorbell tinkled and
the boys heard Betty responding to the summons. Toby’s antics had
rather palled by now and both Barry and Peaches lent their attention
to the voices at the front door. For a week a ring at the doorbell
had sent their thoughts to the subject of police. Consequently Toby’s
grunts and remarks, somewhat smothered because he had introduced his
head into the recess, went unheeded.
“Gee! he ain’t here!” said Toby, mournfully. “Not unless he――Ugh!
Gosh!――Maybe there’s a crack―― Say, here’s something stuck up here in
a splinter, Barry.” Receiving no response, Toby dropped the something
behind him into the nearer drawer and went on with his muttering: “Gee!
I’ll bet I’ve lost him!” There was a loud sneeze, followed by a sharp
_bang_ as Toby’s head came in contact with a crossbar. “Ow!” cried the
explorer in an agonized voice. “Say, there’s more dust in here――”
“Shut up, Toby!” warned Peaches, peremptorily. There were firm