Pepper/Reverse English

HILE the varsity diamond was still undried by the March winds, and as long as the squad held practice in the cage, Monk Spinden wielded his pet bat with the ease and precision of a billiardist. No pitched ball was too swift for his eye to follow, no curve too deceptive for him to analyze, no fadeaway too elusive for him to misjudge. He simply took them as they came, and kept the palms of the infielders well supplied with fresh blisters. It was common knowledge that if he could only improve his fielding a trifle, he was certain to give John Phillips the battle of his life for the shortstop's position on the Harvard team.

When the squad got out of doors, however, the situation seemed to change overnight. Percy Young, who was sometimes accused of being a poet simply because he wrote rimes for the Monthly, said that Monk was like a hothouse flower, which bloomed charmingly under a roof, but withered and faded in the open air. Ted Sewall, who was nothing if not practical, alleged that Monk had contracted astigmatism from looking at his own ties, which were fashionably and hideously polka-dotted, and of many colors. McHenry suggested that Monk had been weeping to think how badly the Elis would feel after the spring series, and the coach said that there were no two ways about it: Spinden had lost his batting eye, and it was a shame, because he had showed signs of developing—with hard and conscientious work—into a fair third-string substitute for John Phillips.

As a matter of fact, Spinden had lost more than keen eyesight. He had lost heavily in class standing, appreciably in weight, astonishingly in appetite, and regularly in temper. He was about as congenial a table companion as a bulldog with an injured foot. He never went to his club. He never went in town. Now and then he disappeared for an evening, but when he returned to Mount Auburn Street he was more melancholy and more choleric than ever. By the time the baseball team had played its first two games, Spinden was on the ragged edge of probation, hovering pitiably on the verge of the second nine, in grave disrepute with his fellows, and of practically no use to himself or anybody else. And because Spinden was really a valuable member of society, the class wanted to know what was the matter with him; and because there was only one emissary who could handle a situation as delicate as that of assaulting a man's disposition, McHenry was naturally selected to do the talking.

The urbane Pepper found Spinden's door ajar, and went in. Spinden, who was seated at his desk with his head in his hands, looked up, forced a grotesque smile to his lips, and motioned toward a chair—a distant one.

"Hello, Pep! Sit down."

"What's eating you, Monk?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Sure there is! Are you on prob yet?"

"Lord, no!"

"Busted?"

"Of course—but that's nothing."

"Sick?"

"Not exactly."

"Oh!" said Pepper, fumbling for a pipe. "Now I get you. Who is she?"

Spinden's face flamed.

"None of your darned business, McHenry!"

"I knew that before I asked you," admitted the unabashed diplomat. "Say, where do you go when you want to borrow matches?"

"Right under the table. Where were you to-night?"

"Dining with the highbrows on the water side of Beacon Street," said Pepper, who, having failed in the direct method of the catechism, veered suddenly to the indirect. "It was a bum bunch. Large amount of furniture, and poor food. I sat next to the worst imitation of a college widow I ever hope to see."

"Always the way," said Spinden, striving to seem nonchalant and cheerful.

"Yes. You know I'm getting to believe in all this stuff about the amount of good it does a man to associate with high-minded women. Why, after I'd spent a couple of hours with that hilarious dame to-night, I just love the poor workingman! I could make friends with a cab driver! Yes, sir, those college widows make me appreciate men more than anything else I know!"

"College widow?" queried Spinden.

"I said it. One of these thirty-year-old girls, you know—been to all the Cambridge dances for sixteen seasons, and pretty soon she'll be dancing with the sons of her first gang. Always has a couple of undergraduates on the string—I don't suppose she'd marry the Czar of Russia, but she certainly does enjoy playing around with the willie-boys. Funny, too, she's got a face like an icicle. I don't see how she gets away with it. Perfectly harmless, I suppose, but never happy unless a few athletes are in love with her. Piffle!"

"I never ran across one like that," said Spinden.

McHenry looked at him soberly.

"What is the matter with you, Monk?" he demanded.

Now there was a curious bipartite personality in James Pepper McHenry. A ruthless joker, a keen and biting satirist, a man of perpetual humor, he was at the same time a very sympathetic listener when sympathy was needed; and his power of getting right to the heart of the trouble was almost uncanny. Spinden knew of old that he could confide in McHenry.

"I've known for a long time that you weren't right," said Pepper gently. "You're all but fired from the baseball squad, and you're only about half a D from a row with the office, and you're acting like a perfect idiot! You won't talk, you won't sing, you won't play poker, you won't smoke, you're losing weight, and—and I think you'll feel a lot better if you hear the sound of your own voice telling Pep McHenry all about it."

"Well—I'm in dutch."

"Where?"

"Up the street a bit."

"Lady?"

"Uh-huh," said Spinden, examining his shoe laces carefully.

"Oh, I begin to see a light! Serious?"

"That's the funny part of it—I don't know."

"You don't know!"

"Not—altogether."

"Holy mackerel!" said Pepper, wasting another match on his damp tobacco. "Why don't you know?"

"Oh, Pep—haven't you ever been there?"

"Never, thank Heaven!" said McHenry piously. "Who is she?"

"Oh, she's a wonder! Very brilliant color, you know, regular Billie Burke—"

"Cut it out!" ordered Pepper sharply. "I can read the magazines myself. What's her name?"

"You'll keep it dark?" inquired Spinden, most suspiciously.

"Absolutely."

"Miss Walters—Helen Walters."

"What!" said McHenry, starting violently. "Why, she's the girl I was talking—why, when did all this happen?"

"If you really want to know about it, Pepper—"

"Let her run, old top—it's a long time before breakfast!" He settled himself comfortably, and gave ear, but even before Spinden had finished his elaborate description, and commenced the actual narrative, he had already mapped out his plan of campaign. Was a mere girl—a college widow at that—to keep his beloved Monk from the varsity baseball squad? Why, you must have failed to catch the name—it was James Pepper McHenry who thought otherwise!

"You see," said Pepper to John Phillips, "I wouldn't butt into a man's private love affairs for any amount of money, but this isn't serious at all! It's a regular thing with some of the girls around Cambridge—they're crazy to meet athletes, and have 'em to tea, and dance with 'em, and blow about 'em to their friends; and poor old Monk thinks he's found an affinity! Well, by football season she'll have met a sub tackle, and won't remember Monk's name—she couldn't forget his face! So, as long as he's in trouble with his work, and the squad, and the crowd, I don't mind mixing up in it a little. The point is right here; in order to get Monk civilized again, this lady has got to throw him over good and plenty. Then he'll throw a fit, want to jump off the dock, find he isn't dead yet, wake up, and play ball. The sooner we get it over, the better, so I've framed up a scheme to work on Monk himself, and you're to cut him out with the fair one."

"How?" said Phillips.

"Exactly. I'll take you up and introduce you, and as soon as she finds out that you're an H man, and Monk's only a sub, she'll drop him like a hot cake. One week of tragedy, and Monk's human again."

"But where do I come in?" demanded Phillips. "Suppose I don't happen to care for your little party? Is there any particular reason why I should go and make a martyr of myself—"

"Oh, you might like her—you never can tell. And I didn't say you've got to do anything rash, you know. You simply go up to call, and that puts the kibosh on Monk. See?"

"Well—it's a pretty desperate remedy, Pep—'"

"Another half D will put Monk out of college!" flashed McHenry. "And besides, look what rotten ball he's playing!"

"Of course," mused Phillips, "a man hasn't any business to fritter away time with Cambridge girls. It gives me a pain in the neck. It's perfectly disgusting! I wonder how long I'd hold down the job of shortstop if I got to going around to sloppy tea parties! By gosh, a man has some duty to the university! Pep, I hate to do it; but, after all, it's for poor old Monk—I'll go you!"

"Good luck to you," McHenry cheered him. "We'll start in Thursday evening—because that's when my other little committees begin to work. You're sure you're with me?"

"Absolutely!" declared Phillips. "By gosh, to think of a man letting himself get worried off the baseball squad on account of a—"

"Hush!" said McHenry piously. "We ought to show some respect for old age, John. Why, I'll bet she's twenty-eight if she's a day!"

Monk Spinden, who had acted much more civilized since his confession to McHenry, suddenly found himself assailed from all directions by his closest friends. Francis Wilcox, whose prominence in university life entitled him to vast consideration, came first, and advised Spinden that he was a disgrace to his club—an argument infinitely more powerful than if he had rested his hopes on the class, or the university. Wilcox said that Monk had it in him to play a rattling game, and that there were mighty few athletes in the club anyway, and that it was a distinct reflection on the constitution for a man who'd done so well in the cage to play like such a novice on the field. Monk, he said, couldn't bat .023 in the Epworth League these days, and it was all tommyrot. The club wanted to know why he didn't brace up? When Wilcox retired, he left Spinden abject and apologetic, filled with remorse, and resolved to come out and knock four home runs out of five times at bat—and a three-bagger the other time. He didn't know that McHenry had told Wilcox when to see him, and what to say.

Then Roger Ward, the best student of the crowd, dropped in, and observed that it was as much of a disgrace for an athlete to be lax in his studies as for him to break training. He managed to convey the impression that the dean had asked him to reason with Monk, so that Monk was horribly frightened, swore to keep off probation and not lower the reputation of his club with the faculty, for six of their men were on probation already—and never once suspected that McHenry had not only dictated Ward's course of rhetoric, but had also rehearsed him in it.

Finally, Ted Sewall appeared for a little dissertation on the highest advantage of college life, which is communion with one's fellows. Why didn't he act like a live one? Had he grown so blamed exclusive that it hurt him to be seen with his old friends? Sewall volunteered to provide a book of etiquette if Monk would promise to read it. That was what McHenry had told him to volunteer.

During the same evening on which a full dozen of Spinden's friends were successively badgering him, Pepper McHenry engineered the second part of his conspiracy. He took John Phillips up to call on the "widow," and saw that he wore his little gold football watch charm which denoted a championship. On his return to college, he stopped at John's from sheer force of habit, ate two bacon sandwiches, and went up to see Spinden.

"Well, Monk, old squirrel!" he said cheerfully, "how's baseball these days?"

"Oh, well enough. I haven't a chance in a million, and I know it."

"Cheer up—something might happen. Phillips might break a leg, you know, or both legs. You never can tell!"

"Well, that's the worst of it. This new man Smith is very much of a demon. If he beats out John for shortstop, that'll put me just one peg farther in the hole."

It occurred to McHenry that in founding the Harvard show rooms, which had made it possible for this same Smith to come out for the team, he might have compromised his plans for Spinden, but he smiled hopefully.

"I noticed that you played three innings of the practice game to-day," he remarked.

"Nothing in that," deprecated Spinden. "That's just to jolly me along. I don't fool myself. Oh—wait just a second, will you? I've got to telephone."

He was gone an unusually long time, and when he returned his expression was glum and downcast

"Any news, Monk?"

"Oh, no—nothing."

McHenry grinned. He had introduced so many athletic heroes to the college widow that her calling list was complete for the next ten days—Phillips had been the last—and Pepper, had he chosen to speak aloud what he knew of Spinden's thoughts, would have received credit for wizardry beside which his earlier achievements were as nothing.

On the following day Spinden reported for practice at a very early hour, and worked harder and with better results than for many, many days. After dinner he went to his club for an exact forty minutes of sociability, and returned to his own room, where he learned, to his horror and amazement, that he was very nearly three weeks in arrears with his college requirements. Mindful of the vast amount of good advice he had so recently received, he tackled his books as whole-heartedly as he had baseball; and his spirits improved as he advanced in both mental and physical science. For ten days, during which he had no opportunity to call at the big house on Brattle Street, he perfected his knowledge of the principles of logic, of the three-card draw in the national indoor sport, and in fielding grounders on his left-hand side. On the eleventh day he dressed nervously, and paid a visit to the shrine of his divinity.

No one, not even McHenry, ever knew what happened. It was enough that Spinden locked his door, closed the transom, and declined to answer knocks, fusillades, threats, insults, or proffers of helpful suggestion. At breakfast he was silent, and couldn't be moved by humor, sarcasm, or invitations to incorporate himself as a pickle factory, and make a fortune simply by looking at the new little cucumbers as they came in. He went to Soldiers' Field, and practised faithfully, doggedly, and rather creditably; but he didn't appear at his club after dinner. Instead he went to the library, and, when he emerged, he had quite unconsciously read enough of the Comp. Lit. 5 prescribed books to put him about a month ahead of his section.

McHenry borrowed ten dollars from Wilcox, and dragged the disconsolate Monk to a musical comedy in town; Sewall, who was class treasurer, appointed him to the finance committee, and compelled him to spend every spare moment dunning the delinquents for dues; and Ward demanded of him a "Varied Outlook" for the Advocate. Having no time to himself, he gradually thawed, and showed signs of reverting to his old nature. McHenry redoubled his efforts; he insisted on coming to Spinden's room each evening to discuss abstruse baseball problems; he talked baseball morning, noon, and night; and as Monk slept better, ate better, and began to regain his weight, he also picked up in his batting. Only once did he say anything referring to the college widow; and that was when Pepper casually remarked that John Phillips had gone up Brattle Street to call. "Cut it out," said Spinden aggrievedly. "I tell you. Pep, I'm disappointed in you! You took John up there, and now—well, I'm disappointed in you! I always thought you were a diplomat!"

It was batting practice at the nets on Soldiers' Field. A lanky pitcher was serving languid curves to the varsity men, who each took three whistling drives toward the marshes, three bunts, and made way for the next man. Smith, the prodigy unearthed by McHenry, had taken his three stinging drives, and his three accurately placed sacrifices, and Monk Spinden, who followed him, had done even better, when John Phillips came to the plate. The lanky pitcher offered a sweeping out-curve, which Phillips missed by a foot

"What's the matter, John?" queried the graduate coach surprisedly. "Want 'em on a platter?"

Phillips said nothing, but waited for the second ball, which was a dainty drop squarely over the plate. He struck too soon, and lifted a childish foul fly.

"Try a few more wallops," said the coach. "Watch out for your shoulders, John. You're 'way ahead of your swing. Run your hands up an inch or two. That's better! Send her along, Atkins!"

The ball came perfectly straight, waist high, and Phillips, making a mighty lunge, succeeded in getting off a grounder which was not too difficult for Atkins to gather in with his bare hand.

"Stay there—you're cramping your wrists! Loosen up—let her come!"

Phillips, his teeth set, sent up a lazy fly which wouldn't have carried out of the infield.

"What is the matter with you to-day, John? Eyes bad?"

"Why, no," said Phillips queerly, "they feel all right."

"Well—you'd better take extra batting practice after the game. Line-up same as yesterday—no—Spinden, you cover second on the first for a while. John, see if you can't bolster up the scrubs for once. Ginger 'em up a little!"

The regular practice game began, with the scrubs at bat. The first man singled sharply to center, and his successor fouled out. Phillips came next, bit at a teasing slow ball, and eventually slapped a lethargic grounder over second base. Spinden was after it like a frightened hare, took it with his gloved hand, stepped on the bag, and lined the ball to Morton for an easy double play.

His own batting order on the varsity was fifth, and when he stepped to the plate, there were two men on base, and two out. The pitcher was the best man in college, and his best ball was an outdrop which few collegians had been able to solve with any regularity. Spinden caught it on the trade-mark—and the coach ran out and stopped him as he rounded third, and gave him a lecture on the idiocy of sprinting when he had an absolutely unquestionable home run!

According to the opinion of the players and spectators alike, the rest of that afternoon was a complete vindication and triumph for Monk Spinden. He didn't exactly make four home runs and a three-bagger, but he did amass two singles in addition to his first mighty drive, and he covered second base like a professional. He smothered apparent safe hits with consummate ease; played pivot in two more double plays; and finally cemented his towering glory by running clear to the end of the bleachers and pulling down a foul out of the sun with his back to the plate.

Phillips, on the contrary, was experiencing an off day. He made two inexcusable errors, struck out three times, and so far from gingering the scrubs, hampered them considerably. Toward the end of the game a certain young lady, who was sitting with two or three admirers in the grand stand, seemed to turn her attention from Phillips, on whom it had originally been riveted, to Spinden. The strange part of it was that Phillips looked up at that grand stand as often as he dared; and each of his misplays occurred immediately after he had looked up. Monk Spinden, however, never took his eyes from the game. As a matter of fact, he was so much interested in playing baseball that he didn't know she was there!

If you had asked any one in Cambridge who was the surest man for Phi Beta Kappa, the answer would invariably have been John Phillips—that is, until the last week in April, or the first in May. A mysterious atmosphere enveloped him; he certainly wasn't the man he used to be, and he was unequivocally a much worse baseball player. Then, too, he had taken to spending too much time with himself; and, although he came to the club frequently, it was not often that he joined in the revelry which Pepper McHenry and Monk Spinden started as soon as they came in.

Spinden, by the way, was doing wonderfully. His popularity, which had suffered somewhat in March, was more than restored in May. His classroom work was so brilliant that he was jestingly accused of being a grind, and only his equal brilliance on the varsity diamond saved him from that scorned [tigress].

"Do you know," he said to Pepper one evening, "I think John Phillips has had something happen to him! I can't make it out at all! I wonder if he's gone stale?"

"Search me!" said Pepper promptly. "He was always quiet."

"Well—there are a lot of different kinds of quiet, Pep. And John's all kinds."

"Well, I'm the best little detective around these parts," declared Pepper modestly, "and I suppose it's up to me to find out what the trouble is. Gee! We certainly can't have John acting this way!"

"I suppose it's probably hurt him a lot to be taken out of the regular line-up," hesitated Spinden. "Of course, I'm darned glad to be in there, but I sort of hate to have to take it away from John. Only when Smith showed up so well, they tried us both out for second—and, of course, I played the best I could—"

"Rot!" said McHenry. "John isn't that kind of grouch. I'll bet he's stale!"

He made a point of happening into Phillips' room that evening, and found him lounging in a leather chair, looking moodily at the ceiling.

"Greetings, Johannes," burbled Pepper. "I came in to ask you which you'd rather have—a blanket of roses, or a wreath of immortelles."

"What!"

"Oh, I know, you're not dead yet," conceded Pepper airily. "Only unburied. What's eating you these days?"

"Me? Nothing at all."

"This is McHenry speaking," explained Pepper. "Hello—hello—I said, this is McHenry speaking!"

"Talk sense!" snapped Phillips, who generally saw great humor in whatever Pepper said.

"I will, if you will. Something's wrong with you, John—I know there is. You haven't acted natural for I don't know how long. What's back of it?"

"I don't know. Oh, nothing, nothing at all!"

"Your work's slipped back, and you're playing a sad game of ball. Aren't overtrained, are you?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"Well," said Pepper reminiscently, "we sure did do a great thing for poor old Monk, didn't we?"

"Did we?"

"Why, you poor prune, of course we did! Look at the way he's going now! Why, darn him, if he doesn't look out they'll elect him captain of that team next year, and two months ago he wasn't good enough to carry the water pail!"

"I'm glad he's made good," said Phillips sincerely. "Monk's a hard worker—he deserved to make good."

"But I can't understand what's happened to you, old top. You don't feel sick?"

"No—not exactly."

"You're not on prob—oh, that's ridiculous! Of course, you're not!"

Phillips grew suddenly crimson, and looked at his feet.

"Only I am," he admitted, under his breath. "That is—I'm afraid I am. I fell down on my thesis for Phil. 4 b. I haven't heard yet, but I've had pretty rotten grades this last half year, and you know the office is darned strict with men in athletics."

"Why—John!"

"Y—say. Pep, I like you a lot, and all that, but I wish you wouldn't come butting in like this on a man! I've got the deuce of a lot of work to do—"

"All right, all right! Don't rub it in! I'm going this minute. But—" He halted; and an expression of wonder and bewilderment and chagrin spread over his face. He tried to speak, but the words refused to come. He stood there staring dumbly at Phillips, and at last Phillips met his eyes—

"By gosh!" whispered Pepper. "Now I know where you've been spending your time! So that's  what's the matter with your work, and your ball playing! Why—"

"Cut it out!" roared Phillips, advancing threateningly. "What business is it of yours, McHenry?"

"But, John," wailed the diplomat, "didn't you know you can't go fussing every night—and probably to theaters, and dances, and all that sort of silly rot—"

"Shut up!" said Phillips, blushing to his ears.

"Your duty to the university—"

"I couldn't help it!"

"And you said it was disgusting for a man on a team to—" "Keep still, Pep! And besides—I hadn't met her then I I didn't know what a wonder she is!"

"And you've lost your job on the team—"

"Monk's a better man, anyway, and besides—"

"And your scholarship's punk—"

"That isn't the only thing in the world!"

"And it isn't even serious! And I only had you go up there for Monk's sake—I didn't suppose you'd make an ass of yourself—"

"Pepper," declared Phillips, "if you say one more word on that subject, I'll slay you!"

McHenry ducked, side-stepped, and dodged through the door. On the sidewalk he loitered, thinking hard. Then suddenly he appeared to come to a decision; for he turned abruptly to the right, and fared on to Brattle Street.

"By gosh," he said to himself, "she is a mighty nice girl—and her dad keeps darned fine cigars—"

It was the first game of the Princeton series. The Harvard team, which, at the beginning of the season, had been far from promising, had played wonderfully well since the Southern trip, and had an eye out for the championship. It was a very good all-round team, but its major strength, so the papers said, lay in the heavy hitting of Smith, the shortstop, and Spinden, the second baseman.

By a fortunate combination of a base on balls, an error, and a hit, Princeton scored two runs in the first inning, and held the score at two to nothing for the next six rounds. At that juncture, the regular Harvard third baseman was taken out, and a stocky young man raced from the players' bench to the accompaniment of a wild burst of cheers from the home rooters.

"Certainly," said McHenry to his companion. That's Phillips. He had a fierce slump in mid-season, but he came out of it all right. Only he couldn't pry Monk Spinden or that guy Smith out of their places, so they coached him for third. He's good at it, too—not as good as he was at short—but he hits better than the lad who went out, and he fields well enough."

In the last half of the lucky seventh, Monk Spinden opened the inning with a screaming liner to deep left field, and rested safely on second. Morton struck out, but Smith singled, and Spinden took third. John Phillips came to the plate—and Spinden talked to him.

"Bring me in, old boy!"

"Get ready to beat it," warned Phillips, rubbing dirt on his hands.

"Paste it all the way to Brattle Street, old top!"

"Which window do you want me to hit?" grinned Phillips.

"Play ball!" snapped the umpire.

Yes, that Harvard team was one of heavy hitters. When John Phillips timed his swing correctly, and got his shoulders into it, and that pretty snap of the wrists just as horsehide met the wood, there was work for the Tiger outfielders to do; but by the time they finished their share of the proceeding, the score was three to two.

Arm in arm, the stocky Phillips and the lithe Spinden walked to the bench, but neither of them had a thought for the cheers or the glory, or for anything other than the fact that they had done their best for the team—and that their best was very, very good. Indeed, they were so conscious of victory, and nothing more, that neither of them saw McHenry sitting in the first row of the grand stand with a very pretty girl.

"Oh, Pepper!" she breathed, as the next batter went to the plate to continue the hallowed labor of beating Princeton, "how dreadful! Do you really mean that you've been coming to see us so much that you've let your college work suffer? Father's very fond of you—he says you're the cleverest boy he's seen for ten years, and we've always lived right here in Cambridge—he ought to know—but do you think it's right to neglect your work?"

"Oh—I don't know—"

"Before I forget it, we're going to open the New Hampshire cottage next Friday. We're having a house party. Lots of people you know are coming. Can't you cut one day, and come up, too?"

"Why, I'd like to, but I can't," said Pepper, emitting a wild shriek as Greening doubled cleanly to left center. He resumed his seat with an air of apology. "The fact is," he conceded unwillingly, "you see—I'm on probation!"