Left Tackle Thayer

CHAPTER XVI

AMY TAKES A HAND

Clint told Amy about Pen­ny's vi­olin with­out men­tion­ing the lat­ter's sus­pi­cion. Amy lis­tened with dark­en­ing face and when Clint had end­ed said: “Dreer, eh? It's the sort of thing you'd ex­pect from him. What's Pen­ny go­ing to do?”

Clint ex­plained about the schol­ar­ship and Amy nod­ded. “I see. I guess he's right. Dreer would be sure to go to Josh and Pen­ny'd get what-​for; and then it would be good-​bye, schol­ar­ship! Un­less--” Amy paused thought­ful­ly.

“Un­less what?”

“Un­less he could in­duce our friend Dreer to 'fess up.”

“Not like­ly!”

“N-​no, not very. Still--Well, I'm sor­ry for old Pen­ny.”

“Durkin asked me not to say any­thing about it, Amy.”

“So you told me?” laughed the oth­er.

“He said I might tell you. I guess he was afraid if the fel­lows learned of it they'd cheer!”

Amy chuck­led. “Bet they would, too! Where's my dear old Ger­man dic­tio­nary?”

The two boys set­tled down at op­po­site sides of the ta­ble to study. Af­ter a few min­utes, Clint whose thoughts still dwelt on Pen­ny's tragedy, asked: “What made you think it was Dreer, Amy?”

“Eh? Oh, why, who else would it be? Shut up and let me get this pif­fle.”

But a half-​hour lat­er, when Clint closed his Latin book and glanced across, Amy was lean­ing back in his chair, his hands be­hind his head and a deep frown on his fore­head. “All through?” asked Clint en­vi­ous­ly.

“Through?” Amy ev­ident­ly came back with an ef­fort. “No, I wish I were. I was--think­ing.”

When nine o'clock sound­ed Clint sighed with re­lief and closed his book. Amy got up and walked to the win­dow and threw him­self on the seat. “Look here,” he said fi­nal­ly, “Dreer oughtn't to be al­lowed to get away with that cute lit­tle stunt of his.”

“No, but how--”

“I've been think­ing.” Amy thrust his hands in­to his pock­ets and a slow smile spread over his face. “Pen­ny can't touch him, but that doesn't say I can't. I haven't any schol­ar­ship to lose.”

“But you can't go and knock Dreer down for what he did to some­one else,” ob­ject­ed Clint.

“Why can't I, if I want to?”

“But--but they'd ex­pel you or--or some­thing.”

“I won­der! Well, maybe they would. Yes, I guess so. Con­se­quent­ly, I'll knock him down on my own ac­count--os­ten­si­bly, Clint, os­ten­si­bly.”

“Don't be an ass,” begged the oth­er. “You can't do that.”

Amy dou­bled a ca­pa­ble-​look­ing fist and viewed it thought­ful­ly. “I think I can,” he re­spond­ed grim­ly.

“Oh, you know what I mean, Clint. You haven't any quar­rel with Dreer.”

“I told him that the next time he talked rot about how much bet­ter Claflin is than Brim­field I'd lick him. I gave him fair warn­ing, and he knows I'll do it, too.”

“All right, but he hasn't said any­thing like that, has he?”

“Not that I know of, but”--Amy's smile deep­ened--“some­thing tells me he's go­ing to! Come on over here where I won't have to shout at you.” Amy pat­ted the win­dow-​seat. “That door isn't so aw­ful­ly thick, I'm think­ing.”

Clint obeyed, and for the next ten min­utes Amy ex­plained and Clint de­murred, ob­ject­ed and, fi­nal­ly, yield­ed. In such man­ner was the plot to avenge Pen­ny Durkin's wrongs hatched.

Two days lat­er Har­mon Dreer, look­ing for mail in Main Hall, came across a no­tice from the post of­fice ap­pris­ing him that there was a reg­is­tered par­cel there which would be de­liv­ered to him on pre­sen­ta­tion of this no­tice and sat­is­fac­to­ry iden­ti­fi­ca­tion. Har­mon frowned at the slip of pa­per a mo­ment, stuffed it in­to his pock­et and sought his nine-​o'clock recita­tion. A half-​hour lat­er, how­ev­er, hav­ing noth­ing to do un­til ten, he start­ed off to­ward the vil­lage. He was half-​way down the drive to­ward the east gate be­fore he be­came vis­ible from the win­dow of Thurs­by's room on the front of Tor­rence. Amy, who had been seat­ed at the win­dow for half an hour, at once arose, crossed the hall and put his head in at the door of Num­ber 14.

“Got him,” he an­nounced placid­ly.

Clint, who had cut a recita­tion to re­main with­in call, and had been salv­ing his con­science by study­ing his French, jumped up and seized his cap.

“He's about at the gate now,” added Clint as they hur­ried down the stairs. “We'll give him plen­ty of time, be­cause we don't want to meet him un­til he's half-​way back. I knew he'd bite at that reg­is­tered par­cel.” Amy chuck­led. “He couldn't even wait un­til noon!”

Fif­teen min­utes lat­er Har­mon Dreer, re­turn­ing from the post of­fice, spied ahead of him, loi­ter­ing in the di­rec­tion of the Acade­my, two boys of whom one looked at the dis­tance of a block away very much like the ob­nox­ious Byrd. For choice, Dreer would have avoid­ed Amy on gen­er­al prin­ci­ples, but in this case he had no chance, for, un­less he climbed a fence and took to the fields, there was no way for him to reach school with­out pro­ceed­ing along the present road. Nei­ther was it ad­vis­able to daw­dle, for he had Greek at ten o'clock, it was now twelve min­utes of and “Un­cle Sim” had scant pa­tience with tardy stu­dents. There was noth­ing for it but to hur­ry along, but the fact didn't im­prove his tem­per, which was al­ready bad. To walk three-​quar­ters of a mile in the ex­pec­ta­tion of get­ting a valu­able reg­is­tered par­cel and then dis­cov­er on open­ing it that it con­tained on­ly two fold­ed copies of a dai­ly news­pa­per was enough to sour any­one's dis­po­si­tion! And that is what had hap­pened to Dreer. Some­one, of course, had played a sil­ly joke on him, but he couldn't imag­ine who, nor did he for a mo­ment con­nect Byrd's ap­pear­ance on the scene with the reg­is­tered par­cel. When he reached the two ahead he saw that one was Byrd, as he had thought, and the oth­er Thay­er. They were so deeply in con­ver­sa­tion that he was al­most past be­fore they looked up. When they did Dreer nod­ded.

“Hi, fel­lows,” he mur­mured, with­out, how­ev­er, de­creas­ing his pace.

“Hi, Dreer!” re­spond­ed Amy, and Thay­er echoed him. “Say, you're just the fel­low to set­tle this,” Amy con­tin­ued.

“Set­tle what?” asked Dreer, paus­ing un­will­ing­ly.

“Why, Clint says--By the way, you know Thay­er, don't you?”

Dreer nod­ded and Amy went on.

“Well, Clint says that Claflin played two fel­lows on her team last year who weren't el­igi­ble. What were their names, Clint?”

“Ain­smith and Ken­ney,” replied Clint un­hesi­tat­ing­ly.

“Ain­smith!” ex­claimed Dreer. “Ken­ney! Say, you don't know what you're talk­ing about, Thay­er!”

“That's what I told him,” said Amy ea­ger­ly. “They were all right, weren't they? Clint says that last year was their first at Claflin and that they didn't have any right to play on the team.”

“Rot! Ain­smith's been at Claflin two years and Ken­ney three. Where'd you get that dope, Thay­er?”

“I heard it and I think I'm right,” said Clint stub­born­ly.

“You can't be,” per­sist­ed Amy. “Dreer went to Claflin last year, and he knows, don't you, Dreer?”

“Of course I know! Be­sides, Claflin doesn't do that sort of thing, Thay­er. It doesn't have to! You'd bet­ter turn over; you're on your back!”

“That's what I heard,” per­sist­ed Clint.

“You're wrong!” Dreer laughed con­temp­tu­ous­ly. “Who­ev­er told you that stuff was string­ing you. Well, I must get a move on. I've got a ten o'clock.”

“But wait a minute,” begged Amy. “You've got time enough. Let's get this set­tled.” Dreer sud­den­ly dis­cov­ered that Amy was be­tween him and the Acade­my and that he had a de­tain­ing hand on his arm.

“Can't, I tell you! I'll be late! Be­sides, there's noth­ing to set­tle. I know what I'm talk­ing about. And if Thay­er doesn't be­lieve it all he's got to do is to look in the Claflin cat­alogue. I've got one in my room he can see any time he wants to.”

“Sure, I know,” said Amy sooth­ing­ly. “I've told him you'd know all about it.” Amy turned to Clint im­pa­tient­ly. “Dreer went to Claflin--- how many years was it? Two, Dreer?”

“Yes; that is, one and a half. I left in the Win­ter.”

“Of course. Well, don't you see, Clint, he'd ought to know what he's talk­ing about?”

“Maybe he ought,” replied Clint rude­ly, “but I don't be­lieve he does. He says Claflin doesn't do that kind of thing. If it's such a fine school why didn't he stay there?”

“You bet it's a fine school!” re­turned Dreer heat­ed­ly. “It's the best there is!”

“Oh, pif­fle,” sneered Clint. “Bet­ter than Brim­field, I sup­pose?”

“Bet­ter than--Say, you make me laugh! There isn't any com­par­ison. Claflin's got it all over this hole ev­ery way you look!” Dreer paused sud­den­ly and cast a doubt­ful look at Amy. But for once Amy seemed un­con­cerned by such sen­ti­ment. His smile even seemed ap­prov­ing! Dreer warmed to his sub­ject. “Of course, you fel­lows haven't been any­where else and think Brim­field's quite a school. That's all right. But I hap­pen to have gone to Claflin and I know the dif­fer­ence be­tween a re­al school and a sec­ond-​rate im­ita­tion like this! Brim­field's a reg­ular hole, fel­lows, be­lieve me! Gee, I must get on!”

“I wouldn't hur­ry,” said Amy. Some­thing in his tone caught Dreer's at­ten­tion and he glanced around ap­pre­hen­sive­ly to find Amy re­mov­ing his coat.

“Wha--what do you mean, you wouldn't hur­ry?” he asked un­easi­ly.

Amy hung his coat on a pal­ing and placed his cap on top. Then he tugged his belt in an­oth­er hole. And all the time he smiled quite pleas­ant­ly. Dreer moved back­ward to­ward the curb, but found Clint bar­ring his way. His anx­ious gaze searched the road for help, but in each di­rec­tion it was emp­ty. He laughed ner­vous­ly.

“What's the joke?” he asked.

“No joke at all, Dreer,” replied Amy. “I gave you fair warn­ing that the next time you ran down the school I'd beat you. If I were you, Dreer, I'd take off my coat.”

“You dare touch me and it'll be mighty bad for you, Byrd! I'm not go­ing to fight you, and you can't make me.”

“Suit your­self about that,” replied Amy, step­ping to­ward him.

Dreer thought of flight, but it looked hope­less. Be­sides, a rem­nant of pride coun­selled him to blus­ter it out rather than run away. He laughed, not very suc­cess­ful­ly. “Two against one, eh? Wait till fel­lows hear about it! You won't dare show your faces, you two thugs!” Again his gaze trav­elled along the emp­ty, sun­lit road. “Any­way, I didn't say any­thing I didn't have a right to say. You asked me what I thought and I told you. You--you made me say it!”

“I did, Dreer!” Amy shook his head gen­tly. “Think again. Sure­ly, I didn't do that?”

“Well, he did,” fal­tered Dreer. “And you put him up to it, I'll bet! Don't you touch me, Byrd!”

“Put your hands up!”

“I won't! You're bul­lies! Two against one isn't fair!”

“Thay­er won't touch you. I'll at­tend to you alone and un­aid­ed, Dreer. Fair warn­ing!”

“Keep away from me! You'd bet­ter! Don't you--”

Dreer picked him­self up slow­ly from the side­walk. There was a fright­ened look in his eyes.

“I don't see what you're do­ing this for,” he half whim­pered. “I haven't done any­thing to you.”

“You spoke dis­re­spect­ful­ly of the school, Dreer. I told you you mustn't. I'm ter­ri­bly fond of the dear old school and it hurts me to hear it ma­ligned. And then there's Durkin's vi­olin, Dreer. Per­haps you haven't heard about that.”

A gleam of com­pre­hen­sion flashed in the boy's face and he backed up against the fence. “I don't know any­thing about any vi­olin,” he mut­tered.

“Of course you don't, Dreer,” replied Amy cheer­ful­ly. “I'm just telling you about it. Some­one went in­to his room day be­fore yes­ter­day and smashed it. Isn't that a shame? _You_ wouldn't do a thing like that, would you?”

“I didn't!” whined Dreer. “You haven't any right to blame me for it!”

“Who's blam­ing you for it? Per­ish the thought, Dreer! I'm just telling you about it.”

“Then you let me go, Byrd! I didn't hurt his old fid­dle!”

“Tut, tut! You mustn't think I'm knock­ing you around on ac­count of that. Oh dear, no! I wouldn't have any right to do that, Dreer. What I'm do­ing is pun­ish­ing you for speak­ing dis­re­spect­ful­ly of our dear old Al­ma Mater. Look out for your face, Dreer!”

Dreer put up a half-​heart­ed de­fence then, and for a mo­ment the two boys cir­cled about on the dusty side­walk, Dreer pale and plain­ly scared, Amy smil­ing and de­lib­er­ate. Then came a feint at Dreer's body, a low­er­ing of his guard and a quick out-​thrust of Amy's left fist. The blow land­ed on Dreer's cheek and he went stag­ger­ing back­ward against the pal­ings. He was too fright­ened to cry out. With a hand pressed to his bleed­ing cheek, he stared dumb­ly at Amy, trem­bling and pant­ing. Clint, who had watched pro­ceed­ings from a few yards away, felt sor­ry for the boy.

“That's enough, Amy,” he said. “He can't fight.”

“Oh, yes, he can,” re­turned Amy stern­ly. “He can fight when the oth­er fel­low's small­er than he is, can't you, Dreer? And he's a very skil­ful arm-​twister, too. I haven't got him warmed up yet, that's all. We've on­ly start­ed, haven't we, Dreer?”

“You--you brute!” mut­tered Dreer. “What do you want me to do? I--I'll do any­thing you say, Byrd.”

“Will you? Then come away from that fence so I can knock you over again, you sneak!”

“He's had enough, Amy,” plead­ed Clint.

“Enough? Oh, no, he hasn't! When he's had enough he's go­ing to tell us who smashed Durkin's vi­olin, aren't you, Dreer? And he's go­ing to tell us that he's been aw­ful­ly mis­tak­en in his es­ti­mate of Brim­field Acade­my, too. Why, he's go­ing to just love the dear old school be­fore I get through with him, Clint!”

“I--I tell you I didn't touch his vi­olin,” cried Dreer with a brief flash of de­fi­ance.

“There! You see?” said Amy. “His mem­ory is still weak, Clint. Come away from the fence, Dreer.”

“I won't! Let me alone! You've struck me twice, Byrd. That--that ought to be enough.” He end­ed with a snif­fle.

“Sor­ry,” said Amy, “but I've got to arouse that mem­ory of yours. If you won't come away from there, why--”

“Hel­lo, hel­lo!” said a voice. “What's the trou­ble, fel­lows?”

The three boys start­ed. A few yards away, lean­ing on his cane, stood a tall man of twen­ty-​three or four years, a mild­ly sur­prised ex­pres­sion on his good-​look­ing face.