Scott Morgan
The Great Oakdale Mystery

CHAPTER XV.
THE PLAYER WHO BLUNDERED

The elation of the Oakdale players over making a touchdown and goal in the first quarter was quickly subdued by their captain, who, in the privacy of the gym, sternly informed them that they should have done much better.

“It was a lucky stab, nothing less,” said Ben. “Only for the resourcefulness and speed of Grant, they would have held us scoreless. We threw away fine opportunities, one splendid chance in particular; and, although we got the start on them to begin with, we made nothing by it. Unless we do better, we’ll be outplayed in the next quarter, mark what I say.”

After this bit of general talk, he selected several of the players for special advice and criticism. Lastly he spoke to the quarterback, whose eyes, although fixed on Stone, held a far-away look, which seemed to indicate lack of attention.

“Sage,” said Ben sharply, “Sage, listen to me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Fred, with a start.

“Several times you were woefully slow with your signals, and you know that the swift aggression of a team depends mainly upon the quarterback. No matter how prompt and ready the players may be, they can’t play fast when a quarter dawdles over his signals. It’s not like you to be slow, and I fail to understand it. You missed a fine chance to take advantage of a Barville fumble, and, only for Nelson, those chaps would have obtained possession of the ball after losing it on a bungling pass and letting it bound to your very feet. Are you sick?”

Fred’s face was crimson. “No, sir, I’m not sick,” he answered. “I’m all right.”

“Then it’s up to you to get into the game and play as if you were all right.”

“I will, depend on it,” promised the quarterback.

Before the boys returned to the field Roy Hooker found an opportunity to speak privately with his friend.

“Get a brace on, Fred – get a brace on,” urged Roy. “If you don’t, they’ll blame it on our little outing last night. I never saw you so punk before. Your wits seem to be wool-gathering.”

“I guess that’s right,” acknowledged Fred regretfully. “I’ll get into gear now. Watch me.”

“Has anything happened to worry you?”

“Nun-no,” faltered Sage, “not a thing.” But, somehow, Roy felt that his chum had not spoken the truth.

The second quarter opened quite as fiercely as the first, but with Barville plainly prepared for quick, savage work and ready to contribute her part of it. Indeed, the visitors seemed the more aggressive, even though Oakdale improved all the opportunities that were offered; and, presently, after some eight minutes of play, the home team found itself making a desperate defence on its own thirty-yard line. Right there, after a first down had yielded no gain, Barville tried the forward pass and executed it successfully, cutting down the distance to the home team’s goal by fully one half.

“Hold them, boys – you’ve got to hold them!” was the cry from the Oakdale crowd.

“Got ’em going!” came from the visiting spectators. “Keep it up, boys! Put the ball over for a touchdown! You can do it!”

Barville had found a weak spot in Oakdale’s line, and, mercilessly buffeted and battered, Bob Collins, the left guard, showed signs of grogginess. With only fifteen yards to gain, the visitors followed the forward pass with another assault on Collins, which, although they made only a slight gain, left him groaning on the ground. Promptly attended by a doctor, Collins pluckily tried to stand on his pins and resume his place in the line; but the moment he was released by supporting hands he staggered, being prevented from falling only by the quickness of Nelson in catching him.

Stone saw that Collins could not continue and ordered him to the side line, at the same time calling for Hooker. Surprised that he should be selected from the waiting substitutes, Roy promptly responded.

“Get in there at left guard, Hooker,” directed Stone, “and see if you can stop that hole.”

Fresh and exultant, Roy took his place in the line, and, when Barville tried the quality of the substitute, the hole was found to be stopped effectively. Not another foot could the visitors gain through Oakdale’s left wing.

Blocked and held, Barville apparently decided to try for a field goal, even though success at that would leave the home team still in the lead. It was Stone, however, who suspected a fake and hurriedly warned his players; and Ben’s perception baffled the smashing charge of the visitors, who were held for the final down, thus losing the ball.

Of course no time was lost in booting the pigskin away from that dangerous point.

Nothing daunted over this failure, Barville resumed the battering process, occasionally varying it with an end run or some peculiar piece of strategy of her own concoction. But the locals, stronger on the defence than the offence, refused for the time being to let the enemy regain the lost advantage.

In the last minutes of the quarter, with Oakdale in possession of the ball, Sage once more betrayed surprising slowness and even symptoms of confusion in giving the signals. This was true to such an extent that finally, in desperation, Stone went in at quarter himself, letting Fred play fullback. And even then Sage was slow about getting into the plays.

The quarter ended with the score unchanged.

In the second period of rest the Oakdale captain drew the quarterback apart from the others and talked to him with great earnestness. Of those who watched the two, Piper took special note of the fact that Sage seemed discouraged and downcast, and it was evident that Stone was seeking by every possible manner of encouragement to brace him up. With Fred at his best, no one else on the team could fill his position nearly as well, and for this reason Ben was extremely loath to make a change.

Collins, having recovered from the gruelling he had received, was anxious to get back into the game, and he made an appeal to Stone the moment Ben finished his talk with Sage. Hooker, however, had done surprisingly well, and the captain told Collins that he would have wait until, during the course of the play, an opportunity offered for him to return.

The Oakdale boys were now showing few signs of elation, for the second quarter had led them to realize that the two teams were more evenly matched than they had supposed, and that, doubtless, they had been rather lucky in securing six points in the first quarter, to say nothing of their success in holding Barville in check after that.

In the last minute before they returned to the field, Stone called all the players around him and hastily gave them a plan of action. As soon as the ball came into their possession, unless they should chance to get it so close to their own line that a kick would be necessary, they were to line up and attempt a series of three varied plays, without waiting for signals. He was careful to make them all understand precisely what those plays were to be, and in what order they would be carried out. Having made certain that no man misunderstood these directions, he led them back to the gridiron.

It was Barville’s kick-off, but Copley’s effort was somewhat weak, and Nelson ran the ball almost to the forty-five yard line before he bit the dirt. This made it especially favorable for the carrying out of Stone’s plans, and the Oakdale players lined up, eager to get the start on their antagonists then and there.

Tuttle, with the ball between his feet, took one quick backward glance, and, seeing the others springing into position, prepared to snap it. Just as he was on the point of doing so, he was astounded to hear Sage cry:

“Signal!” Following which, Fred rattled off some numbers which called for a play entirely different from that agreed upon.

A bit confused, Tuttle snapped the ball to Sage, who passed it instantly to Grant. The confusion of the center was likewise felt by every member of the team, which led to faltering and gave the enemy a chance to overwhelm them and bear them back for a loss of more than five yards.

In the midst of the untangling mass Stone reached Sage, grasped him by the shoulder and almost snarled into his ear:

“What’s the matter with you? What made you do that? You know we had arranged to work three plays without signals.”

“I – I forgot,” said Fred. “I’m sorry, but I forgot, captain.”

“Well, you messed things finely! It’s too late now. Get into action and see if you can make up for the blunder somehow.”

Apparently Sage tried hard to atone, and for a time he displayed a return to his best form. His blunder, however, had greatly disturbed the others, and the entire team betrayed such uncertainty and lack of cohesive, united action that the home crowd was dismayed. In a few moments Oakdale was compelled to surrender the ball on a kick.

After this the quarter was heartbreaking in many ways. Twice the visitors threatened Oakdale’s goal, and twice they were repulsed. In her turn Oakdale had an opportunity that set her supporters into a frenzy of hope and enthusiasm. An end run that netted thirty yards was followed by a trick play that yielded ten more, and then came a forward pass which placed the locals within striking distance of the enemy’s goal.

Right there Sage once more dashed Oakdale’s hopes. The team had two sets of signals. This was necessary to enable them to switch from one set to the other in case their opponents should get wise to the signals in use. Now, however, Sage put them all into confusion by mixing the signals himself in such a manner that it was impossible to tell which of two plays he had called for. Then he made a bad pass, which was followed by a fumble, and Barville, coming through Oakdale like water through a sieve, got the ball.

Immediately Stone ordered Sage out of the game. Nelson was placed at quarter, and his position was filled by a substitute.

CHAPTER XVI.
REMARKABLE BEHAVIOR OF SAGE

Crestfallen and deeply chagrined, Sage attempted to watch the game from the side line. He gave no heed to the substitutes, who stared at him and muttered among themselves. His face, at first flushed, gradually lost its color until it became almost ghastly and haggard. He saw the exultant, confident Barville team, with the ball in its possession, tearing to pieces the defence of the locals in a manner that promised disaster for Oakdale.

“They’ll seek explanations in the next intermission,” he whispered to himself. “I can’t answer their questions.”

Turning suddenly, he left the field. Having passed outside, he made a dash for the gymnasium, in which he began ripping off his sweat-soaked football togs in a manner that was almost frantic. He did not pause for a shower, knowing that there would be no time for it if he wished to get away before his teammates appeared. Dully he seemed to hear the cheering of the crowd upon the field, taking notice in a benumbed way that the Barville cry was swelling stronger and more triumphant.

Leaving his playing togs as he had dropped them, he dashed bareheaded from the gymnasium, flinging himself into his coat as he ran. Round the corner he darted, scudded down Lake Street until the entrance to the academy yard was reached, ran panting across the yard and settled into a rapid walk when his feet were presently on the path that led across lots between Middle and High Streets.

He had made his escape none too soon, for barely was he out of sight when the third quarter ended and the Oakdale players came hurrying toward the gymnasium. They were a soiled, battered, weary-looking band, and more than one seemed to totter in his stride. In the gym they flung themselves down upon benches and blankets, some even sprawling upon the floor.

“Cripes!” groaned Sile Crane. “Them fellers sartainly made us fight. We barely 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 a coach does for a team.”

Two chaps were rubbing Chipper Cooper’s left ankle, which he had wrenched in a scrimmage. The smell of witch hazel and arnica filled the room.

“Look at the confounded thing,” snapped Chipper, his face contorted by grimaces of pain. “You can almost see it swell. I’ll be as lively as a toad on that bum peg.”

“If Sage hadn’t messed things up!” muttered Rodney Grant, as if speaking to himself. “What was the matter with him, anyhow?”

“Where is Sage?” asked Stone, looking around. “I don’t believe he came in 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 field clothes 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 why Fred should desert us like this. What will we do if – ” He checked himself 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,” he said. “There’s no other explanation for his actions. He wouldn’t acknowledge it, but he must be sick. You all know what a football enthusiast 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 the team. Desperately though Stone sought to rally his players, he could not help feeling that the effort was profitless. They returned to the game in a spiritless, almost sullen humor, which made them, although they fought stubbornly, quite unable to cope with the persistent, determined, undaunted visitors; and, with the opportunity in their grasp, the Barvilleites presently hammered out a touchdown and kicked the tying goal.

Oakdale made a mighty effort to hold the game to a draw, and for a time it seemed that such would be the result. In the very last minute of play, however, getting within the home team’s twenty-five yard line, the visitors made a field goal.

As the ball soared over the crossbar a groan of dismay came from the Oakdale spectators.

“That settles it,” declared a keenly disappointed man. “Our boys are beaten.”

He was right; the game ended with Barville victorious and jubilant.

It was a sore and disgruntled bunch of fellows who took their showers and rubdowns in the gymnasium. With scarcely an exception, they were disposed to place the blame of their defeat entirely upon Sage. Vainly Hooker tried to defend his friend.

“He ran away without a word,” reminded Grant. “There’s sure no excuse for that.”

“Nary bit,” agreed Crane. “He done us a dirty turn to-day, and it’ll take 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 run for Sage’s home.

“I don’t understand it myself,” he muttered, as he hurried along. “I can’t imagine what threw Fred into such a pitiful condition. I hope he can 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 in conversation. At the same moment Fred seemed to espy Roy, and immediately, with a quick word to his father, he darted into the stable and disappeared.

Mr. Sage walked out to meet Hooker. There was a strange expression on the man’s face, and Roy fancied that he seemed somewhat nervous and distraught.

“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 see you.”

His perplexity greatly augmented, Roy stared at the man.

“Is he ill?”

Andrew Sage seemed to hesitate. Lifting a hand to his lips, he coughed behind it.

“Well, not – er – not exactly ill,” he answered; “but he isn’t feeling well enough to talk with anyone, Roy. I hope you don’t mind?”

This treatment from his comrade piqued Hooker. “I didn’t suppose,” he said, “that Fred would refuse to see me unless he was dangerously ill in bed – and I know he isn’t that. It’s all right, though. Will you please tell 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 for me. He isn’t sick, that’s sure; and still, his father says that he doesn’t feel well. Possibly,” he added resentfully, “the information that Barville trimmed us will make him feel better.”

CHAPTER XVII.
WORK OF THE YOUNG DETECTIVE

That evening a group of somewhat doleful-looking boys gathered in front of the Oakdale post-office and shivered as they discussed the game. Without a single dissenting voice they blamed Sage for their failure to win from Barville.

Sleuth Piper appeared, hurried into the post-office and presented himself at the delivery window.

“Look a’ the businesslike bustle of the great detective,” said Crane, watching Piper through the window. “Anyone would sorter s’pose he expected to receive about a bushel of important mail. I bet he don’t get a thing.”

“You lose,” said Hunk Rollins, as a letter was passed out to Sleuth. “He’s got something.”

Before opening the letter, Piper was seen eagerly scanning the postmark upon the envelope, and the watchers fancied there was an expression of mingled excitement and satisfaction upon his face. Coming forth, Sleuth paused in front of a lighted window a short distance from the others and tore his letter open. In a moment he was eagerly intent upon the contents.

“Hi! Who’s the girl, Sleuthy?” called Jack Nelson. “Let us read it, will you?”

“’Sh!” sibilated Chub Tuttle, spluttering forth munched peanuts with a hissing sound. “The great detective has a scent.”

“Huh!” grunted Cooper, with a forced laugh. “If that’s so, he’s better off than I am. I bet on the game, and I haven’t a cent.”

“Look,” urged Nelson – “look at Sleuthy’s face! He’s excited. By Jinks! that letter must be rather interesting.”

“I’ll get a peep at it,” said Harry Hopper. “I’ll tell you if it’s a girl’s writing.”

But, although he tiptoed forward with great caution, Sleuth detected his approach, and, having finished reading the letter, hastily folded the missive and thrust it into his pocket.

“Go chase yourself, Mr. Sly Boy,” he said, waving Hopper off. “Rubbering will give you a cramp in the neck sometime.”

Roy Hooker, looking decidedly glum, came slouching along, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Immediately Sleuth pounced upon him.

“Just the man I’m looking for,” said Piper, in almost tragic tones.

Roy drew away, seeking to shake Sleuth’s hand from his shoulder.

“Well, I’m not looking for you,” he retorted. “I’ve no particular use for you, Piper.”

“Come now,” said Sleuth, “I wish to hold a private consultation with you on a matter of immense moment.”

“Run away and consult with yourself,” snapped Roy. “I don’t like your company, and you know the reason why.”

But Sleuth grabbed at him again as he made a move to pass on.

“Wait,” whispered Piper. “Perhaps you’d like to know what was the matter with Sage to-day? I can tell you.”

“The deuce you can!”

“I can,” insisted the other boy. “I’ve solved the mystery.”

“Well, if you know what ailed him, why don’t you tell? I’m sure I’m not the only one who would like to have the matter cleared up.”

“It’s not a subject for the public ear, Hooker; it’s something to be talked over privately and discreetly between ourselves. If you want to know what I know, you’ll just take a little walk with me to some spot where we’ll be all by our lonesomes. If you don’t want to know, if you haven’t got any interest in Sage and his affairs, you needn’t bother.”

To say the least, Roy’s curiosity was aroused.

“I’ll wager it will be a waste of time,” he said; “but I’ll listen. What have you done, concocted some sort of fool deduction about it?”

“I have the straight, solid, indisputable facts right in my inside pocket. I can tell you something about the Sages that will make your hair curl. Where shall we go?”

“You say.”

“Down to the bridge. There’s not likely to be anybody around there.”

It was somewhat chilly upon the bridge which spanned the river below Lake Woodrim, and Hooker’s teeth were inclined to chatter as he leaned against the railing and invited his companion to “divulge.”

“To begin with,” said Piper, “I want to ask you a question, and I hope you’ll give me an honest answer. You’ve been mighty chummy with Sage, and I have a notion that he gave me away by telling you that I was trying to make a ten-strike by capturing a certain criminal for whom a large reward is offered. Am I right, or not?”

“Whatever Fred has told me in confidence, I’ll not blow on him. If it was your object to pump me, Piper, you’re wasting your time – and mine.”

“You don’t have to answer,” said Sleuth instantly. “Your failure to give me a fair and square reply is sufficient. Sage told you. I knew he would. Well, I don’t care. I’ve got something to tell you now, and, as I said, it will make your hair curl.”

He paused impressively, apparently desiring Roy to urge him to go on; but Hooker, shrugging his shoulders a bit, waited the promised revelation.

“I want to ask one more question,” said Piper, “and you’ll not betray a confidence by giving me an answer. Saturday, one week ago, while out hunting with Sage, you encountered a certain mysterious stranger in the woods beyond Culver’s Bridge. You talked with the man face to face and had a fine opportunity to look him over thoroughly. Tell me, did he bear any personal resemblance to your friend, Sage?”

“Huh!” grunted Roy. “Resemblance? What do you mean?”

“Did he look as if he might be a relative?”

“Why, I – I don’t know. What in the world are you trying to get at, Pipe?”

“That man professed to know the Sages and made inquiries about them. Nevertheless, at the approach of Fred he ran away, and, although he pretended to you that he was looking for work hereabouts, as far as I can learn he has not attempted to obtain employment, and has not been publicly seen since that day.”

“If you have an idea that he was some relative of the Sages, the mere fact that he has not been seen seems to knock your theory into a cocked hat.”

“When I place you in full possession of the facts,” returned Piper, in a lofty and superior manner, “you’ll perceive that the man’s care not to attract public attention strengthens the foundations of my theory. You have not answered my question. Did he look like Fred Sage?”

“In some respects he may have borne a slight resemblance. He had blue eyes, and Fred’s eyes are blue. But that’s nothing. Come across with your dope that’s going to make my hair curl.”

“Doesn’t it occur to you as very singular that so little is really known about the past history of the Sages? This family, consisting of father, mother and one son, came to Oakdale something like three years ago and settled here. Yet who is there in this town that can tell where they came from and how they happened to come? You’re chummy with the before-mentioned son, Hooker. How much has he ever told you about his past?”

“Oh, say, Sleuth, if you’re trying to fasten a dark and terrible past upon Fred Sage, you’ll do nothing but make yourself ridiculous. Why, anybody knows that he’s been one of the openest, frankest fellows in the world.”

“Huh! Is that so?” sneered Piper. “Really, he may appear to be all that you claim, Hooker, but appearances, you should know, are often most deceptive. Mr. Andrew Sage has the bearing of a country gentleman in moderate circumstances. Mrs. Sage is apparently a most estimable lady. These people are regular churchgoers, and have the respect of their townsfolk. Nevertheless, since living here they have never become especially intimate with anyone, and you must admit that they are rather reserved.”

“Aw, rot!” exploded Roy in exasperation. “Simply because people don’t choose to go about telling everybody their business and all their past history, you get the notion that they must have some guilty secret they are trying to cover up. That comes from reading the kind of trash with which you stuff your mind, Piper.”

“In a very few minutes,” retorted Sleuth, “I’ll make it necessary for you to take back some of your slurs, Mr. Hooker. You know what country people are. You know that gossip is one of their chief delights. As a rule, let a strange family move into a town like Oakdale, and within thirty days more than fifty per cent of the inhabitants of that place are conversant with the history of those people as far back as it can be traced. When the Sages came here the usual curious gossips attempted to learn things about them. They failed. To me that’s a guarantee that the Sages, for good and sufficient reasons, desired to keep their family history from being probed. This thought has occurred to me more than once, and many a time I’ve told myself that a little investigation of the before-mentioned Sages might prove interesting to a sensational degree. Recently I decided to investigate.”

“In other words, you decided to pry into affairs which did not concern you in the least. Poor business, Piper. The fellow who persists in poking his nose into a crack is sure to get it pinched some day.”

Not the least ruffled, Sleuth retorted: “The person who puts himself to extreme trouble to hide his past must have a guilty secret. Sometimes there are wolves in sheep’s clothing, and for the public weal they should be exposed. In order to obtain information regarding the Sages, it was necessary to learn where they came from when they moved to this town.”

“And you found out?”

“Having decided on a course of action, I never permit anything to baffle me.”

“How did you do it?”

“Oh, one day I dropped in on Mrs. Sage for a little social call. Fred wasn’t home, so I waited for him; and, while waiting, I made myself comfortable, at the lady’s invitation, in the sitting-room. I knew there must be in that house something which would give me the clue I sought. It was not long before I discovered the very thing, a family photograph album. While seemingly amusing myself by looking at the pictures in that album, I slipped several of them from their places and looked for the imprint of the photographer. There were pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Sage, and also of Fred, taken some years ago. Those pictures, I found, bore the name of a photographer in the town of Rutledge, State of New York. I lost little time in writing a letter to the postmaster of Rutledge, New York, making inquiries concerning the Sages. I asked if they had ever lived in that town. In case they had, I politely requested information concerning the entire family. To insure an answer, I enclosed a stamped and addressed envelope.”

“And did you get an answer?”

“Sure,” exulted Piper. “I received it to-night. I have it in my pocket now. The information it contains is of the most sensational character. It clears up the mystery of the Sages, and also, I firmly believe, fixes the identity of the mysterious man you met beyond Culver’s Bridge.”