CHAPTER XVI.
REMARKABLE BEHAVIOR OF SAGE.
Crestfallen and deeply chagrined, Sage attempted to watch the game fromthe side line. He gave no heed to the substitutes, who stared at him andmuttered among themselves. His face, at first flushed, gradually lostits color until it became almost ghastly and haggard. He saw theexultant, confident Barville team, with the ball in its possession,tearing to pieces the defence of the locals in a manner that promiseddisaster for Oakdale.
“They’ll seek explanations in the next intermission,” he whispered tohimself. “I can’t answer their questions.”
Turning suddenly, he left the field. Having passed outside, he made adash for the gymnasium, in which he began ripping off his sweat-soakedfootball togs in a manner that was almost frantic. He did not pause fora shower, knowing that there would be no time for it if he wished to getaway before his teammates appeared. Dully he seemed to hear the cheeringof the crowd upon the field, taking notice in a benumbed way that theBarville cry was swelling stronger and more triumphant.
Leaving his playing togs as he had dropped them, he dashed bareheadedfrom the gymnasium, flinging himself into his coat as he ran. Round thecorner he darted, scudded down Lake Street until the entrance to theacademy yard was reached, ran panting across the yard and settled into arapid walk when his feet were presently on the path that led across lotsbetween Middle and High Streets.
He had made his escape none too soon, for barely was he out of sightwhen the third quarter ended and the Oakdale players came hurryingtoward the gymnasium. They were a soiled, battered, weary-looking band,and more than one seemed to totter in his stride. In the gym they flungthemselves down upon benches and blankets, some even sprawling upon thefloor.
“Cripes!” groaned Sile Crane. “Them fellers sartainly made us fight. Webarely held ’em.”
“If they’d had another minute they’d have scored,” sighed Harry Hopper.“They’re better trained than we are. They’re like iron. That’s what acoach does for a team.”
Two chaps were rubbing Chipper Cooper’s left ankle, which he hadwrenched in a scrimmage. The smell of witch hazel and arnica filled theroom.
“Look at the confounded thing,” snapped Chipper, his face contorted bygrimaces of pain. “You can almost see it swell. I’ll be as lively as atoad on that bum peg.”
“If Sage hadn’t messed things up!” muttered Rodney Grant, as if speakingto himself. “What was the matter with him, anyhow?”
“Where is Sage?” asked Stone, looking around. “I don’t believe he camein from the field. Here, Shea, go bring Sage.”
Piper touched Ben on the arm.
“Don’t bother to send for him, captain,” he advised.
“Why not?”
“You won’t find him out there. He’s gone.”
“Gone—where? Why——”
“I don’t know where,” said Sleuth; “but he’s gone. Here are his fieldclothes just as he dropped them. He didn’t even stop to put them away.”
Astonishment was plainly revealed in Stone’s face.
“I don’t understand it,” he finally said in a low tone. “I can’t see whyFred should desert us like this. What will we do if——” He checkedhimself abruptly.
“He’s run away! He’s quit!” cried Nelson. “What do you know about that,fellows?”
Hooker rose to the defence of his chum. “I’m dead sure Fred is sick,” hesaid. “There’s no other explanation for his actions. He wouldn’tacknowledge it, but he must be sick. You all know what a footballenthusiast he is, and you never before saw him put up such a numb,bungling game.”
“At least,” said Stone, “if he had to quit, he might have let me know.”
The inexplicable action of Sage seemed to cast a heavier shadow upon theteam. Desperately though Stone sought to rally his players, he could nothelp feeling that the effort was profitless. They returned to the gamein a spiritless, almost sullen humor, which made them, although theyfought stubbornly, quite unable to cope with the persistent, determined,undaunted visitors; and, with the opportunity in their grasp, theBarvilleites presently hammered out a touchdown and kicked the tyinggoal.
Oakdale made a mighty effort to hold the game to a draw, and for a timeit seemed that such would be the result. In the very last minute ofplay, however, getting within the home team’s twenty-five yard line, thevisitors made a field goal.
As the ball soared over the crossbar a groan of dismay came from theOakdale spectators.
“That settles it,” declared a keenly disappointed man. “Our boys arebeaten.”
He was right; the game ended with Barville victorious and jubilant.
It was a sore and disgruntled bunch of fellows who took their showersand rubdowns in the gymnasium. With scarcely an exception, they weredisposed to place the blame of their defeat entirely upon Sage. VainlyHooker tried to defend his friend.
“He ran away without a word,” reminded Grant. “There’s sure no excusefor that.”
“Nary bit,” agreed Crane. “He done us a dirty turn to-day, and it’lltake a whole lot of explainin’ to put him right with the bunch.”
Roy was the first to leave the gymnasium, and he started almost at a runfor Sage’s home.
“I don’t understand it myself,” he muttered, as he hurried along. “Ican’t imagine what threw Fred into such a pitiful condition. I hope hecan explain.”
As he came within view of Fred’s home he discovered his chum and Mr.Sage standing near the open stable door, apparently engaged inconversation. At the same moment Fred seemed to espy Roy, andimmediately, with a quick word to his father, he darted into the stableand disappeared.
Mr. Sage walked out to meet Hooker. There was a strange expression onthe man’s face, and Roy fancied that he seemed somewhat nervous anddistraught.
“I’d like to see Fred a minute,” said Hooker.
“I’m sorry,” was the answer, “but he’s not feeling well. He can’t seeyou.”
His perplexity greatly augmented, Roy stared at the man.
“Is he ill?”
Andrew Sage seemed to hesitate. Lifting a hand to his lips, he coughedbehind it.
“Well, not—er—not exactly ill,” he answered; “but he isn’t feeling wellenough to talk with anyone, Roy. I hope you don’t mind?”
This treatment from his comrade piqued Hooker. “I didn’t suppose,” hesaid, “that Fred would refuse to see me unless he was dangerously ill inbed—and I know he isn’t that. It’s all right, though. Will you pleasetell him that Barville won the game?”
Turning, he walked slowly away, his brow knitted with perplexity.
“I can’t understand it,” he told himself once more. “It’s too much forme. He isn’t sick, that’s sure; and still, his father says that hedoesn’t feel well. Possibly,” he added resentfully, “the informationthat Barville trimmed us will make him feel better.”