CHAPTER XXX
AN UNEXPECTED CLEW
Four lads sat in various ungraceful if easy altitudes in the room of our heroes one evening. Four—for Frank Simpson was now an accredited member in full and regular standing of the "Big Four," as they were coming to be called.
Frank had moved his belongings into the apartment of the three chums, who were now four, for he found their comradeship congenial, and they liked him immensely.
It was a week after the announcement by Dr. Churchill of the setback the college had received in the opening of the legal battle. Football practice had, naturally, gone on as usual, and there was a more hopeful look on the faces of the captain and coach. The team was playing more as a unit. Kicks were being handled better, the ball was being advanced with greater certainty in the games with the scrubs, and it looked as if Randall would come into her own again. They had played another minor game, and had rolled up a surprisingly big score.
"But the trouble of it is," said Tom, as he got in a more comfortable position on the creaking sofa, "the trouble of it is that Boxer Hall is doing just as well. She's cleaning up everything that comes her way."
"But we have a look-in at the championship," declared Sid.
"Yes, if we win the game Saturday against Pentonville Prep.," agreed Phil.
"Oh, we'll do that all right," declared Frank.
The football situation in the Tonaka Lake League was peculiar that year. In spite of the fact that Randall had not done well and had been beaten by Fairview, the latter college had "slumped" so after her victory over Randall that she was practically out of it as regards the championship. Should Randall win the game against Pentonville, which was almost a foregone conclusion, there would be a tie between Boxer Hall and the college of our heroes for the championship. It was this knowledge which made the players, coach and captain a trifle nervous, for so much depended on the final struggle that was close at hand.
Would it be Randall or Boxer Hall that would carry off the honors of the gridiron?
"Well, we'll play our heads off, that's all I can say," remarked Tom, as he glanced over the sporting pages of a paper. "I see that they're trying some new kicking game at Boxer."
"Yes, they're always after fads," declared Phil. "But straight football, with some of the old-fashioned line bucking, such as we play, and two halves, are good enough for me."
"Same here," agreed Sid.
"I guess nothing will come of that law business before the final game, eh, fellows?" went on Tom, who seemed anxious about it.
"No danger of a decision from the courts right away," said Frank. "From what I can hear, our lawyers are going to get back at Langridge and his partner in some new kind of an injunction or a lis pendis or a whang-doodle. That may make it look like a white horse of another color."
They talked of football and the legal tangle at some length, and were deep in a discussion about a certain wing-shift play, when tramping footsteps were heard down the corridor.
"Holly Cross," ventured Sid.
"Dutch Housenlager or—an elephant," predicted Tom. "He walks as though he had his football shoes on."
"Perhaps he's coming to suggest another trick on the proctor or Pitchfork," suggested Phi!, for the latest attempt of Dutch was a standing joke against the fun-loving student.
"Hello, Dutch!" greeted Tom, as the big guard entered. "Anything wrong?"
"No. Why?"
"Oh, I didn't know, but I thought you looked as if you just met the proctor, who made you sweep and dust his room."
The others joined in the laugh against Dutch.
"Oh, can you fellows ever forget anything?" he asked, in accents of deep disgust, as he looked about for a place to sit down. "Where's the seat of honor, anyhow?" he demanded. "Am I to sit on the floor?"
"Oh, suit yourself," remarked Phil. "Our seat of honor hasn't yet come back from the realms of mystery."
"No, hang it all!" exclaimed Sid. "I'd give a good deal to know who has our old chair."
"What! Haven't you got that back yet?" asked Dutch. "Seems to me if I were you I'd make it a point to go in the room of every fellow in college until I found it."
"We've practically done that," declared Phil.
"In fact, we've done everything but offer a reward, and I guess we'll have to do that next."
"Just what sort of a chair was it that you lost?" asked Frank Simpson. "I've heard a lot about it since I came to Randall, but I don't exactly know whether it is a Turkish rocker or a Chinese teakwood affair with a cold marble seat."
"It was the easiest chair you ever sat in!" declared Tom.
"A regular sleep-producer," was Sid's opinion.
"Nothing like it ever known when you came in all tired out from football practice, as I did tonight," spoke Phil. "It rested you all over, and now we only have the couch, and Tom or Sid have that all the time now, so I don't get a chance at it.'
"Get out, you syndicated cynic!" cried Tom. "You're always on the 'lay' when I come in. But, Frank, seriously, this chair of ours was the real thing. It was a beaut, and I haven't been able to find one like it since. It was an heirloom!"
"It was a relic of the dark ages!" broke in Dutch. "Say, Simpson, you'd ought to have seen it! That chair was broken in the back, the seat was humped up like a camel with the heaves, both cylinders were cracked, the gears were stripped smooth, the differential was on the fritz, there wasn't a tire on it without a puncture, it had the pip and the epizootic, and, to crown it all, when you sat down in it you never knew whether you were going to get out of it alive or were a prisoner for life on hard labor."
"Soak him!"
"Traitor!"
"Put him out!"
"Roll him under the sofa!"
"That'll do for you, Dutch!"
These were only some of the things that Tom and his mates called at the big guard as he went on slandering the precious chair. Frank Simpson sat an amused witness of the little scene.
"It was pretty big, wasn't it?" he ventured, at length. "That chair, I mean."
"As if we were talking of anything else," retorted Phil. "Yes, it was big and heavy and clumsy—about fifty years old, I guess, and it disappeared just before the clock went off on a vacation, and came back so unexpectedly. By the way, fellows, we're as far from that mystery as ever."
"Don't speak of it!" begged Sid.
"Did your chair have a sort of reddish-brown cover on it?" went on Frank.
"That may have been the color once," broke in the irrepressible Dutch, "but it was sky-blue pink when it walked away, for these fellows used to empty their ink bottles on it, and use the upholstery for a blotter."
"Cheese it!" cried Tom. "Yes, Frank, the cover was a reddish-brown."
"And were the legs carved with claws, and the arms with lions' heads?" went on the Californian.
"Exactly! Say!" cried Phil, "like the dervish in the story of the camel, have you got our old chair?"
He arose, and fairly glared at Frank. The latter, too, had been growing more serious as he proceeded with his questions. Sid and Tom leaned forward eagerly, and Dutch looked on, wondering what was coming next.
"I haven't got your chair," went on Frank, "but when I know what kind it is, as I do now for the first time, I think I can give you news of it."
"Then, for the love of Mike and the little fishes, speak!" cried Tom.
"Or forever after hold your peace," chimed in Dutch, solemnly.
"Where's our chair?" demanded Phil, dramatically.
"I was passing a second-hand store, the proprietor of which also does upholstering as a side line," went on Frank, "when, happening to glance into the left-hand—no, I think it was the right-hand window, I espied"
"Oh, put on more steam!" begged Tom.
"I saw a chair," went on the Californian, "a chair that I am sure must be yours. It was exactly as you have described it. I thought it looked to be quite a relic."
"Where is that second-hand place?" cried Phil and Tom in a breath, while Sid grew so excited that he grabbed Frank by the arm, and held to him as if he, too, might vanish as had the chair. "Where is it? Where is it?"
"In Haddonfield, on a little side street that runs up from the depot. I don't know the name of it," answered Simpson.
"Decker Street," supplied Tom. "About the only place we didn't look, fellows. I didn't know there was a second-hand place there."
"There's only this one!" said Frank. "But he has your chair!"
"Hurrah!" cried Phil. "On the trail at last! Where's my cap?" and he began looking about the room.
"Where you going, this time of night?" de* manded Dutch.
"Over to Haddonfield to get that chair, of course," replied the quarter-back. "Come on, Sid and Tom."
They were enthusiastically hunting about for their hats and coats, which were never put in the same place twice.
"I'll go along and show you," volunteered Frank. "But he may be closed now. It's after nine. We won't get to town until nearly ten."
"We'll make him open up if we have to get the police," declared Sid.
"Sure!" exclaimed Tom.
"Fellows, it's too late to go to-night," said Dutch, seriously. "You can't run any chances of Zane catching you, especially as the big game with Boxer is so near at hand. If you're caught it may mean being ruled off the team, and you ought not to take chances."
The four hesitated. It was their chair against the eleven, for they knew that there had been a number of college rule violations of late, and the proctor was unusually strict. They might be caught and punished.
"Morning will do," insisted Dutch, who, if he did not care much for the chair, did have the interests of the eleven at heart.
"It won't do, but I suppose we'll have to wait," conceded Phil, slowly. "Jove! It's tough to almost get your hands on it, and then have to hold back. Why didn't you tell us this before, Frank?"
"I didn't see the chair in the window until day before yesterday, and then I never thought it could be yours, until we got to talking about it to-night."
"And to think that we may have it back to-morrow," murmured Tom. "It seems too good to be true! I wonder how it ever got away?"
"I don't know that, but I do know that we'll chain it fast when we have it again," declared Phil, and then they made Frank tell all over again how he had happened to see it, and how it looked.