The Winning Touchdown/Chapter 32
CHAPTER XXXII
"THIS ISN'T OURS!"
Half an hour later Tom Parsons and his chums left the antique upholstering shop, richer in the possession of an old warming pan, which they did not want, poorer in the sum of six dollars, but also possessing more information than they at first had regarding the Hebrew to whom had been traded their old chair—or, at least, the chair they hoped would prove to be theirs.
"His name is a common Hebrew one," the dealer told them, when he had been thawed out by the trade, "but I don't believe it was Cohen. Anyhow, he lives on the Medford Road, just beyond the village of Rosevale. I remember that, because he told me how long it took him to drive in from there. But if he shouldn't have the chair on which you fellows seem so bent, I can fix you up. I've got an ancient Colonial one that"
"I guess we've got all we need to-day," said Phil, as he and his chums walked out. "Whew!" he exclaimed, as he stood on the sidewalk. "If we hadn't made a break when we did, he'd have sold us a Spanish sideboard or a Holland tiled fireplace. Come on, fellows, we must get on the trail of this Hebrew gentleman."
"I'm afraid we can't to-day," spoke Tom.
"Why not?"
"Kindlings will want us to get into our football togs as soon as we get back, and jump out at practice. No chance to chase off around the country, looking for an unknown furniture dealer out Rosevale way."
"That's so," agreed Sid. "Well, we can go tomorrow.'
"I'm full up with lectures to-morrow," objected Phil.
"Well, some of us can go," declared Frank. "We mustn't let that chair get away again." For, though he was a new chum, he felt the same interest in the recovery of the missing piece of furniture as did his friends. "I can stand a few more cuts, and I can get off right after practice."
"Maybe I can go with you," suggested Tom.
The two did manage to get away the next day, taking a trolley car as far as it went, and hiring a farmer to drive them to the village of Rosevale, a quaint little place. The farmer said he knew of no second-hand furniture dealers in that vicinity, but the boys had hopeful visions, and, dismissing their rig, as they intended to hire another in which to drive back, they tramped along the country roads, making inquiries wherever they could.
But fate was against them. Late that afternoon, having covered many miles, they gave up, and made arrangements to be driven back to where they could get a trolley car to Randall.
They had called on many men who dealt in old furniture, and some who made a specialty of upholstering. Some were Hebrews, and some were not. But none had the chair they sought.
"I wonder if that Yankee was fooling us?" asked Tom.
"No, I guess he meant all right, but he couldn't tell us any better than he did," replied Frank.
"And we're out six bones for that warming pan," went on Tom, regretfully. "We'll have to see him again."
They did, but the dealer insisted that he had told them to the best of his ability. He offered to get the man's name and correct address the next time he saw him, but this was not likely to be soon.
In the meanwhile our friends were without their chair, and their spasmodic efforts to discover the mystery of the clocks had amounted to nothing.
"I tell you what it is," said Kindlings to them one day. "If you chaps don't perk up, and come to practice a little oftener, you'll find yourselves on the side lines when the Boxer game comes off."
That put more "ginger" into Tom and his chums, for they had been rather neglecting practice of late in their efforts to locate their chair. They had, however, almost given up ever seeing the ancient piece of furniture again.
In the meanwhile matters concerning the lawsuit were not going any too smoothly. A most careful search had been made for the missing quit-claim deed, and without it, it was rumored, the court proceedings must soon come to an end, with the eviction of the college authorities from the ground in dispute.
There were dark days for Randall, and only the hope of winning the football championship kept up the hearts of the students. Nor was this hope any too strong, for there were whispers as to the prowess of Boxer Hall. Randall had won her final game before the big struggle, and now was devoting all her energies to playing off the championship tie.
New plays were tried and rejected. A different code of signals was put in vogue, for it was rumored that Boxer Hall was "on" to those in use.
"They say Langridge is playing his head off this year," declared Tom one night, when a crowd of the football boys had gathered in the room of our friends.
"Maybe he'll go stale," suggested Holly Cross.
"He won't if he can help it," was Sid's opinion. "He's been waiting all season to get a whack at us fellows."
"Well, it will make the game lively," declared Kindlings. "We'll give Boxer Hall all she wants."
Jerry Jackson, who was sitting on the old couch with Sid, moved to a more comfortable position.
"I say," he drawled, "it's a wonder you fellows wouldn't either renovate your furniture, or else get some new. Joe and I got some swell stuff the other day from an old Shylock of a chap that has a joint out Rosedale way."
"Out where?" asked Tom, quickly, catching at the name.
"Out in a little place called Rosedale," repeated Jerry.
"I guess you mean Rosevale, don't you?" asked Sid. "We heard of that fellow, but we couldn't find him."
"No, I mean Rosedale—d-a-l-e," spelled Jerry. "He's an ancient Hebrew—rather a decent chap, too, and he had a lot of antique stuff. Joe and I bought a fine sofa."
"A peach!" declared the twin brother. "You can go to sleep on it standing up."
"What's this fellow's name?" asked Phil, quickly.
"Rosenkranz," replied Jerry. "But he hasn't got any more sofas. We bought the last one."
"Has he any chairs?" inquired Sid.
"A raft of them."
"And his place is in Rosedale, and not Rosevale?" spoke Tom.
"That's it," the Jersey twin asserted. "The two places are in opposite directions. I guess we ought to know. Joe and I were out on a walk one day, and we saw the sofa in his window. He has his shop in one side of his house—a queer old place with a lot of Russian brasses. He had one samovar that was a pippin, but he wanted eight dollars for it, and the sofa broke us."
"Fellows!" cried Tom, excitedly, "I believe we are on the right track at last!"
"Track of what?" demanded Jerry.
"Our chair," and Tom quickly told what little was known. "It's evident," he said, "that the Yankee dealer got twisted between Rosevale and Rosedale. They're as alike as two peas."
"Then it's Rosedale for ours as soon as we can get there in the morning!" cried Phil. "This time I hope we're on the right trail.
"Yes, we've been in the right church, but the wrong pew, so often that it's getting to be monotonous," commented Sid.
Mr. Rosenkranz proved to be a Hebrew gentleman of the old-fashioned type—venerable, with a long, straggly beard. He greeted the boys courteously when they called on him two days later, as that was the first chance they had to make the trip.
With a voice that trembled with hope, Tom asked about an old-fashioned easy chair.
"Sure I have him," declared the Hebrew, eagerly, scenting a trade. "Ven effer you vants an easy chair, comes you to Isaac Rosenkranz, und you get him. I show you!"
The boys followed him to the rear of the store. There, amid a pile of broken furniture, old stoves, odds and ends that seemed utterly worthless, but which seemed to constitute the entire stock-in-trade of the dealer, they saw a big chair.
"That's it!" cried Phil, eagerly.
"Ours—ours!" gasped Sid.
"No mistake this time," murmured Tom.
"Chair, allow me to present you to our new member, Frank Simpson; this is the chair you have heard so much about."
"Are you sure of it?" asked the big Californian, as he pretended to make a bow to the article of furniture.
"Sure, we can't be mistaken," declared Phil.
"There are the claw feet, lions on the arms, and all that. That's our chair."
"Your chair?" asked the dealer, quickly. "Ha, yes, I see, if you buys him!"
The boys looked at each other. What was to be done? At length Tom hit upon the simplest plan. It was no doubt their chair, he explained, and he told how it had disappeared. They could recover it by process of law, he went on, when Mr. Rosenkranz evinced a desire to hold it, but they would pay a reasonable price for it.
"Mind you, only to get it back in a hurry, though," declared Tom, "for it's ours by right But I think it will be a lucky hunch for the football team, if we get it before the big game with Boxer Hall Saturday. So, Mr. Rosenkranz, how much do you want for it?"
The dealer named a preposterous sum, but the boys were shrewd, and beat him down. Finally, when he had admitted that the chair was not likely to sell soon, because it was in poor repair, he consented to part with it for a reasonable sum. He confirmed what the Yankee dealer had said, that he had acquired it in a trade.
"Well, we'll take it," said Tom, passing over the money. "Now, how can we get it home?"
It was rather a problem, as the chair was big and clumsy, and they were quite a distance from Randall. But finally, on payment of a further small sum, the dealer offered to deliver it to the college.
"It doesn't seem possible that we've got it," said Tom, as they were on their way back that afternoon, the Hebrew promising to bring the chair to them on the morrow. "We'll have a celebration in honor of its return."
"Nothing in the fancy eats line until after the big game, I'm afraid," objected Sid. "Kindlings and Lighton will sit down on that. But we'll have a double celebration after we do up Boxer Hall."
"I wish it was to-morrow—I mean, so we could sit in the old chair," went on Phil, almost as eager as a child.
But the chair did not come the next day, and after fretting and worrying, the boys received a badly written, and worse spelled, postal from Mr. Rosenkranz, explaining that his horse was sick, but that he would deliver the chair as soon as the animal was well.
"Say, there's a hoodoo about that chair," declared Tom, as he went out to football practice with his mates.
It was on the morning of the big game with Boxer Hall that an ancient wagon, drawn by a decrepit horse, drove up to Randall College. At first the students were inclined to make game of the outfit, but when Phil and Tom discovered that it was Mr. Rosenkranz with their chair, there was a change of heart. For the belief that the chair might prove to be a mascot or "lucky" hunch had grown.
"There she is!" cried Sid, seeing the old piece of furniture on the wagon. "Now, up into our room with her, fellows."
"Yes, and don't stop to admire it all day, either," called Kindlings. "I want you in practice right away."
The chums promised, but they could hardly tear themselves away from the room where, once more, reposed the old chair. It looked as natural as it ever had, and its sojourn "in the land of the Philistines," as Tom declared, had apparently not harmed it any.
"I declare, the old clock seems glad to see it back," declared Phil.
"It sures does," agreed Sid, sinking down on the sofa. That piece of furniture seemed to creak and groan out a welcome to its fellow.
"We'll draw lots to see who has the honor of first sitting in the old chair, and then we'll get out on the field," suggested Tom.
He himself drew the lucky number. With something of a little ceremony he made ready to sink down into the depths of the chair. Slowly he let himself back.
A cloud of dust, as of yore, arose around him, making Phil, Sid and Frank sneeze.
"They're greeting you, old chap!" cried Tom to the chair.
He leaned back. His chums, watching him, saw a look of wonder come over his face. Then his hand went under the seat, and began feeling there. Tom leaped up, raising more dust a regular cloud.
"What's the matter? A pin stick you?" asked Sid.
"A pin? No. But, say, fellows, this isn't our chair!"
"Not our chair?" echoed Phil.
"Not—not" faltered Sid.
"Not our chair!" exclaimed Tom, decidedly, as he sat down in it again. "Here, Phil, you try it. It looks like our chair, and it's built like it—upholstery and all—it's a dead ringer, in fact, but it's not ours!" and Tom moved aside while Phil ready to make the test.