The Rival Pitchers: A Story of College Baseball
by Lester Chadwick · English · Gutenberg #39582 · 384,359 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Rival Pitchers: A Story of College Baseball
Author: Lester Chadwick
Release date: April 30, 2012 [eBook #39582]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39582
Credits: Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIVAL PITCHERS: A STORY OF COLLEGE BASEBALL ***
Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[Illustration: THE GAME WON--PHIL, AMID A RIOT OF CHEERS, KEPT ON TO
SECOND]
THE RIVAL PITCHERS
A Story of College Baseball
BY
LESTER CHADWICK
AUTHOR OF "A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK
THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES
12mo. Illustrated
THE RIVAL PITCHERS
A Story of College Baseball
A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK
A Story of College Football
(Other volumes in preparation)
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY NEW YORK
Copyright, 1910, by
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
THE RIVAL PITCHERS
Printed in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE OLD BELL CLAPPER 1
II A GOOD THROW 19
III A BASEBALL MEETING 27
IV THE HAZING 42
V A SCRUB GAME 51
VI THE POLE RUSH 62
VII TOM HOLDS HIS OWN 69
VIII AT PRACTICE 77
IX A GAME WITH BOXER HALL 86
X A COIL OF WIRE 93
XI AN ELECTRIC SHOCK 104
XII TOM DOESN'T TELL 112
XIII A GIRL AND A GAME 120
XIV TOM'S CURVES 132
XV A SOPHOMORE TRICK 139
XVI TOM MAKES A DISCOVERY 147
XVII AN EXPOSTULATION 152
XVIII SOME "OLD GRADS" 160
XIX TOM IN COLD WATER 168
XX A GAME OF ANOTHER SORT 176
XXI ON THE GRILL 185
XXII DARK DAYS 192
XXIII AT THE DANCE 200
XXIV DRESS SUITS COME HIGH 208
XXV TOM IN A GAME 216
XXVI THE FRESHMAN DINNER 227
XXVII TOM IS KIDNAPPED 234
XXVIII THE ESCAPE 240
XXIX ANTICIPATIONS 247
XXX A GREAT GAME 255
XXXI LANGRIDGE APPEALS 272
XXXII THE FINAL CONTEST 281
XXXIII VICTORY 293
THE RIVAL PITCHERS
CHAPTER I
THE OLD BELL CLAPPER
Down the green campus they strolled, a motley group of sturdy freshmen,
talking excitedly. In their midst was a tall, good-looking lad, who
seemed to be the center of discussion. Yet, in spite of the fact that
the others appeared to be deferring something to him, he regarded them
with rather an amused and cynical smile on his face. He paused to brush
an invisible bit of dust from his well-fitting clothes.
"Well, aren't we going to make a try for it to-night?" asked one youth,
whose hat was decorated with a silk band, yellow and maroon in color.
"My uncle, who used to be a football coach here, says the freshmen
always used to get it the first week of the term. My uncle----"
"Oh, let up about your uncle, Fenton!" exclaimed the lad on whose word
the others seemed to depend a great deal. "I've heard nothing but your
uncle, your uncle, ever since you came here. Give us something new."
"That's all right, Fred Langridge, but my uncle----"
"There you go again!" interrupted Fred. "I guess I know what the custom
is, as well as your uncle. He hasn't been here in fifteen years."
"I know that, but he says----"
"Say, if you speak uncle again, I'll land you one on the jaw, and
that'll keep you quiet for a while." The words, in spite of their
aggressiveness, were good-natured enough, and were spoken with a smile.
Ford Fenton, who seldom took part in any conversation about college
sports or frolics without mentioning his relative, who had been a
well-known coach at Randall, looked first surprised, then hurt, but
as he saw that the sympathies of his companion freshmen were with
Langridge, he concluded to make the best of it.
"I guess I know what the customs are here," repeated the well-dressed
lad. "Didn't I get turned down at the exams, and ain't I putting in my
second year as freshman? I helped get the clapper last year, and I'll
help again this term. But I know one thing, Fenton, and that's not two."
"What's that?" eagerly asked the youth who had boasted of his uncle.
"That's this: You may not get the clapper, but you'll get something
else."
"Why, what's the matter?"
For answer Langridge silently pointed to the gay hatband of the other.
"Take it off--take it off," he said. "Don't you know it's against the
sacred customs of Randall College for a freshman to wear the colors on
his hat until after the flagpole rush? Don't you know it, I ask?"
"Yes, I heard something about it."
"Better strip it off, then," went on Langridge. "Here come Morse and
Denfield, a couple of scrappy sophs. They'll have it off you before you
can say 'all Gaul is divided into three parts,' which you slumped on in
Latin to-day."
Fenton looked up, and saw approaching the group of freshmen which
included himself, two tall lads, who walked along with the swagger that
betokened their second year at college. The hand of Fenton went to his
hat, to take off the offending band, but he was too late. The sophomores
had seen it. They turned quickly and strode over to the group of first
years.
"Would you look at that, Morse!" called Denfield in simulated wrath.
"I should say so," came the answer. "The nerve of him! Hi, fresh, what
are you doing with that hatband?"
Then Fenton did something totally opposed to the spirit of Randall
College. He, a freshman, dared to talk back to a sophomore.
"I'm wearing it," replied he pertly. "Does it look as if I was playing
ping-pong with it?"
The sophomores could hardly believe their ears. There was no imitation
in the surprise that showed on their faces.
"For the love of Mike! Listen to him!" gasped Morse. "Grab him, Denfield!
Wow! But things are coming to a pretty pass when a fresh talks like that
the first week. Look out now, youngster, you're going to get a little
lesson in how to behave to your betters."
The two sophomores reached out their hands to grab Fenton. He made a
spring to get behind a protecting wall of his comrades, and for a moment
it looked as if the second year lads would be bested, for there were at
least fifteen freshmen. But Langridge knew better than to let his
friends get into trouble that way.
"Let 'em have him," he advised in a low voice. "It's the custom, and he
knew it. He deserves it all."
Thereupon the freshmen divided, and offered no opposition to the twain,
who gathered in their man. Morse snatched off the hat with the offending
band, and, while Denfield held the struggling Fenton, ripped off the
ribbon. Then with his knife Morse began cutting the hat to pieces.
"Here, quit that!" yelled Fenton. "That's a new hat!"
"Softly, softly, little one," counseled Denfield. "I pray thee speak
softly."
Though Fenton struggled to escape, the other easily held him, and the
freshman was forced to witness the destruction of his nice, new soft
hat. Having thus, as he believed, wiped out the insult offered, Morse
carefully folded the ribbon and placed it in his pocket.
"Maybe you'll get a chance to wear it--after the pole rush," he said
calmly. "I don't believe you will, for we're going to wipe up the ground
with you freshmen this term. But if you do, I'll give you back your
ribbon--er--what's your name, freshman?"
"Fenton," answered the humiliated one.
"Fenton what?"
"Ford Fenton."
"Say 'Fenton, sir,'" counseled Langridge in the other's ear.
"Don't you know how to reply to a gentleman?" asked Denfield fiercely,
shaking Fenton from a neckhold he had. "Say sir, when you speak to a
soph."
"Sir!" cried Fenton, for the grip hurt him.
"That's better. Now remember, no more ribbons until after the pole rush,
and maybe not then. This to all you freshies," added Morse.
"Oh, we know that," put in Langridge. "But we'll all be wearing them
after next week, and we'll be wearing something else, too."
"Nixy on the clapper, old chap!" called Denfield. "We won't stand for
that."
"We'll see," responded Langridge. "All is not gold that doesn't come out
in the wash."
"Ha! He speaks in parables!" cried Morse. "Well done, old chap! But come
on, Denfield. I've got a date."
The youth holding Fenton gave him a sudden turn and twist that sent him
spinning to the ground, and as he picked himself up the two sophomores
walked off, as dignified as senators.
"Confound them!" muttered Fenton as he brushed the dust off his clothes.
"I've a good mind to----"
"Easy, now," advised Langridge. "They're sophs, you know. Go easy!"
"But that's no reason why we should let them walk all over us!" exclaimed
a sturdy lad, who had watched, with rising anger, the attack on Fenton.
"I don't see why a crowd of us fellows should take whatever mean things
they want to inflict."
"That's all right, Clinton," declared Langridge. "It's college custom,
just the same as it is for us to take the clapper out of the chapel
bell, have it melted up, and cast into watch charms. It's college
custom, that's all."
"That's all right, it may be; but I like to see a fair fight!" went on
Phil Clinton. "I could have tackled Morse alone, and he's bigger than I
am."
"Maybe you could, but you'd have the whole sophomore class down on us if
you did, and you know what that means. No, let it go. Fenton brought it
on himself by wearing the band."
"I wish they'd tackled me," murmured the sturdy Clinton.
"I wish they had," echoed Fenton. "Look at my hat."
"That's all right, my uncle says I can have a new one!" piped up a
shrill voice, in imitation of Fenton's usual tones.
"Holly Cross, or I'm a Dutchman!" exclaimed Langridge, turning quickly
to glance at a newcomer, who had joined the ranks of the freshmen.
"Where've you been, Holly?"
"Down by the boathouse, watching the crew practice. I'll give you an
imitation of Billy Housenlager pulling," and Holly, or Holman, Cross,
began a pretense of rowing in grotesque style.
"That's Dutch all over," admitted Langridge. "He goes at it like a house
and lot."
"What's up?" demanded Holly, for he had seen from afar the little
rumpus. "Has 'my uncle' been cutting up?" and he winked at Fenton.
"That's all right," began the aggrieved one, who did not seem to know
when he was being made fun of. "Look at my hat," and he held up the
felt article, which was in tatters.
"New style," commented Holly casually. "Good for hot weather. Fine for a
souvenir. Hand it around and we'll all put our initials on it, and you
can hang it in your room. But say, is there anything doing?"
"There may be, to-night," answered Langridge.
"So--so?" asked Holly with a wink, the while he pretended to ring an
imaginary bell.
"Keep it mum," was Langridge's answer. "You fellows want to meet at the
boathouse to-night," he went on, as if giving orders. "Don't forget what
I told you, and don't walk as if you had new shoes on. Take it easy. Be
there at eight o'clock. Come along, Holly. I want to talk to you."
Langridge linked his arm in that of the newcomer, and the two strolled
off to one side of the college campus, while the group of freshmen made
their way toward one of the two large dormitory buildings.
"He orders us around as if we were working for him," objected Phil
Clinton. "Langridge takes too much for granted."
"Well, he's been here a year, and I s'pose he feels like a soph,"
remarked Sid Henderson.
"Maybe, but that doesn't make him one. He thinks because he's got plenty
of money, and comes from Chicago, that he can run things here, but he's
not going to run me," and Phil stuck out his square, well-formed jaw in
a manner that betokened trouble.
"Aren't you going to help get----" began Ed Kerr, who was quite a chum
of Langridge.
"Easy!" cautioned Sid. "Here are some sophs."
A group of second-year students passed the freshmen with suspicious
glances, but, seeing no offending colors, nor any other evidences of
anything that could be taken to mean that their traditional prey had
violated any rules, they saw nothing objectionable.
"Don't mention clapper," went on Sid.
"That's right," agreed Ed Kerr. "But I was going to say that Fred knows
the ropes better than we do. If we stick to him we'll come out all
right. It's no fun to try for--for it, and have the sophs give us the
merry ha-ha."
"Oh, we'll try to get it," assented Phil Clinton, "but I don't like
being ordered around."
"Langridge doesn't mean anything by it," spoke his friend.
"Well, I don't like it." And with that the lads passed into the
dormitory, for it was nearly time for supper, and the rule was that they
must come to the tables neatly dressed.
A little later Langridge and Holly strolled up to the buildings where
the three hundred students of Randall College were housed.
"Then you'll be on hand, eh?" asked Langridge.
"Oh, yes, I reckon so. But it seems like a lot of work for what we get
out of it."
"Get out of it! You old anthropoid!" exclaimed Langridge. "What's the
matter with you? Going back on the college customs?"
"What's an anthropoid?" asked Holly Cross, as he deftly juggled three
stones with one hand. "How's that for good work?" he asked irrelevantly.
"An anthropoid is a second cousin to a cynic," answered Langridge, "and
a cynic is a fellow whose liver is out of order, which makes him have a
bad taste in his mouth and get out of the wrong side of bed."
"Get out, you camel-backed asteroid!" cried Holly. "There's nothing the
matter with my mouth, and I can get out of either side of my cot without
knowing which side it is."
"Are you coming to-night?"
"Sure, I'll be there."
"All right; that's what I want to know."
Holly and Langridge passed into the east dormitory, where they had been
preceded by the other group of freshmen. This building was given over
to rooms for the first year and senior students, while in the west
dormitory the sophomores and juniors, as being the least likely to
indulge in hazing and horse-play, did their studying and sleeping.
There are few institutions of learning better known throughout the
Middle West than Randall College. It had been established several
decades before, and though small at first, and unimportant, the thorough
methods used soon attracted attention from parents who had sons to
educate. Many a well-known man of to-day, who has made his mark in the
world, owes part of his success, at least, to Randall College, and he is
proud to acknowledge it. In time, because of liberal endowments, and
because the institution became better known, its influence spread,
until, from a small seat of learning, it became a large one, and now
students from many States attend there.
Randall College was most fortunately situated. It was on the outskirts
of the town of Haddonfield, and thus was connected by railroad with
the outside world. It was far enough away from town to be rid of the
distractions of a semi-city life, yet near enough so that the advantages
of it could be had.
The buildings composing the college consisted of several in addition to
the main one, containing the classrooms, lecture halls, laboratories,
study rooms and the like. There was Biology Hall, a magnificent gift
from an alumnus, and Booker Memorial Chapel, a place of worship,
containing some wonderful stained-glass windows. The chapel was the gift
of a lady, whose only son had died while attending the school. Back of
the main college building, and somewhat to the left, was a modest
structure, where the faculty, including Dr. Albertus Churchill, the
venerable president, had their living apartments.
Farther to the rear of the main structure were two buildings that
contained dormitories and rooms for the three hundred or more students.
There were two dormitory buildings, the east and the west, and, for
obvious reasons, one, the eastern, was inhabited by the freshmen and
seniors, while the juniors and sophomores lived, moved and had their
being in the other.
The gymnasium, which was well equipped, was located a little to the left
of the west dormitory, and it adjoined the baseball diamond and the
football gridiron. Skirting the edges of this big, level field were the
grandstands and bleachers, for sports had a proper and important part in
life at Randall.
Standing on the knoll in front of the main building, one looked down a
gentle, grassy slope to Sunny River, which twisted in and out, lazily
enough, around a hill that contained the college and the grounds. The
campus swept down, in a sort of oval, to the very edge of the stream.
And there is no finer sight in all this country than to stand on the
steps of the main building some fine summer day (or, for that matter, a
wintry one) and look off to the river. If you are patriotic, and of
course you are, you will take off your hat to the colors that fly from a
tall flagpole in the center of the campus.
Sunny River was a beautiful stream, not as broad as some rivers, but
sufficiently so to provide boating facilities for the Randall students.
On it, every year, was held the annual regatta, Randall and some other
institutions participating. There was a large boathouse on the edge of
the river, located on your left as you stood on the campus, facing the
water.
Sunny River flowed into Lake Tonoka, which was about a mile below the
college, and in the midst of the lake was Crest Island. What exciting
times that lake and river have seen during the summer season! What
rowing races! What swimming races! What jolly picnics! And, let us
whisper, what mysterious scenes on nights when some luckless candidate
was initiated into a secret society!
On the farther side of the river from the village, and near the junction
with the lake, was a sort of park, or summer resort. A trolley line
ran from it to the town of Haddonfield, but the students more often
preferred to walk to the village, rather than wait for the cars, which
ran on uncertain schedules.
At the lower end of Lake Tonoka, just over the line in another State,
was Boxer Hall, a college somewhat smaller than Randall, while to the
west, fifteen miles away, was Fairview Institute, a co-educational
school that was well patronized. The three institutions had a common
interest in sports, and there was a tri-collegiate league of debating
clubs that often furnished milder, if more substantial, excitement.
It was an evening in early April, of the new term after the Easter
vacation, that a number of freshmen, who had taken part in the lively
scene of the afternoon, and some students who had not, met silently and
stealthily back of the boathouse on the back of Sunny River. The night
was cloudy, and thus it was darker than usual at that hour.
"Have you fellows got the rope?" asked Langridge in a whisper, as he
took his place at the head of the little force.
"Of course," answered Phil Clinton.
"There's no 'of course' about it," retorted Langridge arrogantly. "I've
seen the time it's been forgotten."
"What are we going to do with it?" asked Sid Henderson.
"Use it to hang a soph with," spoke Holly Cross. "Prepare to meet thy
doom!" he added in a sepulchral voice.
"Cut it out, Holly," advised Langridge. "I'm afraid the sophs are on to
us as it is."
"Then we'll rush 'em!" exclaimed Phil Clinton aggressively.
"No, that won't do any good. We'd never get the clapper, then."
"I know a good way," spoke Fenton. "My uncle says----"
"Say, you and your uncle ought to be in a glass case and in the museum,"
called Holly. "Dry up, Fenton!"
"Where's the Snail?" asked Langridge.
"Here," replied Sam Looper, who, from his slow movements, and from the
fact that he loved to prowl about in the dark, for he could see well
after nightfall, had gained that nickname. "What do you want?"
"Will you climb up the rope after I get it in place?"
"Sure."
"Then come on," whispered Langridge. "I guess it's safe now. There don't
appear to be any one stirring."
The mysterious body of freshmen moved off in the darkness toward the
Booker Memorial Chapel. Their object, as you have probably guessed, was
to climb to the steeple and remove the clapper from the bell, a prank
that was sanctioned by years of custom at Randall College. Once the big
tongue of iron was secured, it would be taken to a village jeweler, who
would have it melted up and cast into scores of miniature clappers.
These, when nickel-plated, made appropriate watch charms for the freshmen
class, and suitably, they thought, demonstrated their superiority over
their long-time rivals, the sophomores. For it was the duty of the
second-year students, if possible, to prevent the taking away of the
clapper. The purloining of it must always be done the first week after
the Easter vacation, and if this passed by without the freshmen being
successful, the clapper was safe, immune and inviolate. Hence the need of
haste, as but two more nights were left. Once the clapper was taken the
class had to contribute money enough to buy another for the voiceless
bell.
Silently, as befitted the occasion, the lads made their way from the
rendezvous at the boathouse toward the chapel. Their plan was simple. On
top of the cupola which held the bell was a large cross. It was the
custom to tie a stone, or some weight, to a light cord, throw the weight
over the cross, and by means of the thin string haul up a heavy rope. Up
this rope some freshman would climb, remove the clapper, and slide down
again, while his comrades stood guard against any attack of sophomores.
"Who's going to throw the stone?" asked Ed Kerr, as he walked along
beside Langridge.
"I am, of course."
"Oh, of course," repeated Clinton in a low voice. "You want to run
everything."
"Well, Fred Langridge is a good pitcher," spoke Sid Henderson. "He's
likely to make the 'varsity this year."
"Um!" was all Phil said.
The boys reached the chapel, and, under the direction of Langridge, the
cord and rope were made ready.
"Got a good stone?" asked the leader.
"Here's a hunk of lead," replied Ed. "I made it on purpose. It's not so
likely to slip out as a stone."
"That's good. Hand it over."
The lead was soon fastened to the cord.
"Look out, now, here goes!" called Langridge. "I'm going to pitch it
over. Be all ready, Snail."
He stepped back, and tossed the lead, intending to make the cord fall
across one arm of the cross. But either his aim was poor, or he could
not discern well enough in the darkness the outlines of the cross.
"Missed it!" exclaimed Clinton.
"Well, so would you," growled Langridge. "Some one stepped on the cord."
"Let Snail try," suggested Henderson.
"I'm doing this throwing," declared Langridge curtly.
"It doesn't look so," murmured Phil.
Langridge tried again, but with no success.
"Hurry," spoke Kerr. "The sophs will be out soon."
Langridge made a third attempt, and failed. Then Snail Looper called out
in an excited whisper:
"Here come the sophs! Cut it!"
"No!" cried Langridge. "Hold on! I'll get it over now. Fight 'em back,
boys!"
CHAPTER II
A GOOD THROW
There was excitement in the ranks of the freshmen. They formed in a ring
about Langridge, who once more prepared to throw the weight over the
cross.
"Hold 'em back, boys!" he pleaded. "We can do it. It won't take five
minutes to get the clapper after the rope's up."
"But first you've got to get it up," replied Clinton.
"And I will. Cut out your knocking. Here goes!"
Off to the right could be seen a confused mass of shadows moving toward
the chapel. They were the sophomores, who in some mysterious manner had
heard of the attempt to take the clapper, and who now determined to
prevent it.
"They're coming," said Kerr ominously.
"I know it," answered Langridge desperately. "Keep still about it, can't
you?" he asked fretfully. "You make me nervous, and I can't throw
well."
"Humph! He must be a fine pitcher if he gets nervous," declared Clinton.
Langridge glanced at the circle of freshmen about him. There were enough
of them to stand off the rush of the sophomores, who, as they came
nearer, were observed to be rather few in number.
"Here it goes!" exclaimed the rich youth, and he threw the lead weight
with all his force. It struck the cross, but did not carry the cord over
the arm.
"At 'em, fellows! At 'em!" yelled the leading sophomores. "Tear 'em
apart! Don't let 'em get the clapper!"
There was a struggle on the outer fringe of freshmen, who crumpled up
under the attack of the second-year lads.
"Hold 'em back!" yelled Langridge. There was no longer any need of
caution.
The sophomores were hurled back by the weight of superior numbers.
Seeing this their leader hastily sent for reinforcements. Meanwhile the
others renewed their attack on the freshmen. Langridge prepared to make
another cast.
"He'll never do that in a week!" exclaimed Clinton in disgust. "Why
doesn't some one who can throw try it?"
"I'll throw, all right!" cried Langridge, as he untangled the cord,
which was in a mass at his feet. He was about to make another attempt,
when a lad stepped to his side--a lad who was a stranger to the others.
Where he had come from they did not know.
"Let me try," he said pleasantly. "I used to be pretty fair at throwing
stones. Your arm is tired, I guess."
"Who are you?" demanded Langridge suspiciously. "Are you a soph? How'd
you get here?"
"I'm not a soph," replied the other good-naturedly, in a pause that
followed a second hurling back of the attackers, who withdrew to wait
for reinforcements. "I'm a freshman. My name is Parsons--Tom Parsons.
I'm a little late getting here this term. In fact, I just arrived
to-night. I was on my way from the depot to the college, when, as I
crossed the campus, I heard what was up. As I'm a freshman, I decided to
join in. Hope it's all right."
"I don't know you," said Langridge hesitatingly, fearing this was a
trick of the enemy. "You may be a soph----"
"No, I assure you I'm not," said Tom Parsons. "Wait a minute. Is there
any one here named Sidney Henderson?"
"That's my name," replied Sid.
"Then you ought to know me. I'm to room with you, I believe. At least, I
have a letter from Dr. Albertus Churchill to that effect. He's quartered
me on you."
"Oh, that's all right!" cried Henderson. "Parsons is a freshman, all
right. I didn't remember about it. Sure, he's all right. It's a queer
time to arrive, though."
"Isn't it?" agreed Tom good-naturedly. "Couldn't help it, though. Train
was late."
"Here come some more sophs!" called Kerr.
"Get that line over, for cats' sake!" demanded Clinton.
"I will!" exclaimed Langridge.
"Shall I throw it?" asked Tom. "I guess----"
"I'll do my own throwing," replied the other coldly.
"If he knows how to throw, let him try," suggested Clinton. "We want to
get that clapper some time to-night."
"Go ahead, Fred," urged Kerr. "I guess your arm ain't in shape yet."
Langridge murmured something, but as there arose a general demand that
he let some one else try, and as a new body of sophomores were rushing
down to the attack, he handed over the lead weight.
"Can you pitch?" he asked of Tom.
"A little," was the quiet reply.
The two faced each other in the darkness, as if trying to see of what
stuff each was made. It was the first time Tom Parsons and Fred Langridge
met, and it was rather prophetic that this first meeting should presage
others which were to follow, and in which the rivalry thus early
established was to be fought out to the bitter end.
"Hurry!" urged Kerr. "We're going to have our hands full now. They're
going to rush us."
Tom Parsons grasped the lead weight, and shook the cord to free it of
kinks. He stepped back a few feet, looked up in the darkness to where
the cross was dimly visible, and then, drawing back his arm, sent the
lead with great force and straight aim up into the air.
"A good throw!" cried Sid Henderson, as the moon, just then coming out
from behind a bank of clouds, showed that the cord had fallen squarely
over one arm of the cross, the weight coming down to the ground on the
other side of the chapel.
"A good throw!" echoed Clinton.
"Humph!" growled Langridge. "I could have done as well on the next try."
"Haul up the rope!" ordered Kerr. "Lively, now!"
Several lads ran around to where the end of the cord, still attached to
the weight, was on the ground. All around a struggle was going on, the
freshmen endeavoring to hold back the attacking sophomores. Now and then
a second-year lad would break through the protecting fringe, only to be
hurled or pushed back again by the defenders.
Quick hands hauled on the cord, and the heavier rope rose in the air
and slipped over the cross. It was held down on one side by several
turns taken around a post. Then it was made taut at the opposite end.
"Shin up now, Snail!" cried Langridge, who had again assumed command of
things. "Quick! We'll hold the rope! Get the clapper!"
The night-loving youth moved slowly forward. But, in spite of his lack
of speed, he managed to make good time up the rope, which he skilfully
ascended hand over hand.
"Don't let 'em get the clapper!" "Break through and yank down the rope!"
were the cries of the sophomores.
Again and again they hurled themselves against the circle of freshmen,
who protected the two groups of their comrades holding either end of the
rope.
"Hold 'em, boys! Hold 'em!" pleaded Langridge.
Tom Parsons threw himself into the thick of the fight. He gave blows,
and he took them, all in good nature. Once, when a small sophomore broke
through, Tom picked him up bodily and deposited him outside the circle
of defenders.
"Say, he's got muscle, all right," observed Clinton to Kerr.
"That's what. There's class there, all right. Shouldn't wonder but what
he'd give Langridge a rub for pitcher, if he plays baseball."
"Oh, he'll play, all right. A fellow who can throw as he did can't help
playing."
"Who's that?" asked Sid in a breathing spell, following a temporary
repulse of the enemy.
"The new lad--Tom Parsons."
"Oh, yes, he plays ball," said Sid. "His father knows my father. They
used to be chums in Northville, a country town. That's how Tom happened
to come here, and he asked if he couldn't room with me. He plays ball,
all right."
"Pitch?" asked Clinton laconically.
"I think so. Look out, here they come again!"
The conversation was interrupted to repel another rush.
"Look out below!" suddenly called the Snail from his perch near the
cupola.
"Got the clapper?" yelled Langridge.
"Yep! Here it is!"
Something fell with a thud in the midst of a group of freshmen. It was
the bell clapper, which the Snail had unhooked. Tom Parsons made a dive
for it.
"I'll take that!" exclaimed Langridge roughly, as he shoved the newcomer
to one side and grabbed up the mass of iron.
"I was only going to help," replied Tom good-naturedly.
"Cut with it!" ordered Kerr. "We can't hold 'em much longer, and we
don't want 'em to get it now. Skip, Langridge. Take some interference
with you."
As if it was a football game, several lads made a sort of flying wedge
in front of Langridge, with him inside the apex, and, thus protected, he
bored through the mass of sophomores.
"After him!" yelled several second-years, who had become aware of the
trick. "He's got the clapper!"
Most of the lads rushed away from the chapel, only those remaining who
were holding the rope taut. Some of these even started away.
"Hold on!" yelled the Snail. "I'm up here yet! I want to get down!"
"Don't leave Sam up there!" cried Kerr. "Hold the rope, fellows, until
he shins down."
Several freshmen ran back.
"I'll help hold," volunteered Tom, though there was a temptation to join
the fighting throng that surrounded Langridge and his defenders.
The Snail slid to the ground, the rope was pulled from the cross, and
the lads, coiling it up as they ran, hastened to the aid of their
freshmen comrades.
CHAPTER III
A BASEBALL MEETING
"Swat 'em, freshmen! Swat 'em!" was the rallying cry of the first-year
lads.
"Get the clapper! Get the clapper! Don't let them get away with it!"
implored the sophomores.
There was a confused mass of arms, legs and bodies. The mass swayed, now
this way, now that. Tom Parsons, the Snail, Ed Kerr and some others who
had remained behind to manage the rope, threw themselves into the fray.
Their help turned the tide of battle, and the sophomores, who were
outnumbered, turned and fled, leaving the freshmen victors of the fight.
"Have you got the clapper, Langridge?" called Kerr anxiously.
"Of course," and the lad addressed produced the unwieldy souvenir from
underneath his coat.
"Then get it to our room and hide it," went on Kerr. "They'll not give
up yet. We've got to expect a hunt for it to-night."
Kerr and Langridge, who roomed together, started away, the clapper of
the bell safe in their possession, while the others brought up the rear,
a guard against a possible unexpected attack. But none was made, and
presently the long, iron tongue was safely hidden in the rooms of the
freshmen.
"I say," remarked Tom Parsons to Sidney Henderson, when the excitement
had somewhat calmed down, "I wonder if I'd better report to the proctor,
or to Dr. Churchill to-night. I've just entered, you know."
"What's the use?" asked his companion. "You're to room with me--that's
settled. Mr. Zane, the proctor, won't want to be disturbed. Besides, I
rather think that Dr. Churchill, our venerable and respected head--by
the way, we call him Moses, you know--I say I don't believe he'd thank
you for coming."
"Why not?"
"Well, you see, there's been more or less of doings to-night. Of course,
the faculty are not supposed to know that we take the bell clapper, but
you can bet they do know. They pretend not to, and take no notice of it.
If you were to go and ring Moses up at this hour, he'd have to become
aware--take cognizance, he'd call it--of our little racket. That might
make trouble. No, on the whole, let the proctor and Moses alone."
"Why Moses?"
"What's that?"
"I say--why Moses?"
"Oh, I see. Well, we call him that from his name. Church and hill. Moses
went up on a hill to preach about the church, hence--aha! see?"
"You needn't draw a map," answered Tom, "even if I am from the country."
"That's so, you're from Northville, where dad used to live."
"That's right."
"Well, I wouldn't boast of it, if I were you--especially when any of the
fellows are around."
"Why not?"
"Well, of course it's all right with me--I understand, but they might
make fun of you--rig you, you understand."
"Yes, I understand, but I don't mind being 'rigged,' as you call it. I
fancy I can do some 'rigging' on my own hook."
"All right, it's your funeral. I've warned you."
"Thanks. But if you think it's all right for me to go right to your
room, and bunk, without telling Dr. Churchill--excuse me, Moses--why,
I'm willing."
"That's all right. Come on, we'll go to my room. There may be some
excitement after a bit."
"How?"
"Well, the sophs may try to get the clapper back. They generally do.
We'll have to help fight 'em in that case."
"Of course. By the way, what do you fellows do with the bell tongue,
anyhow?"
Sid told about the watch charms.
"You'll get one," he added. "That was a good throw you made."
"Well, maybe. It was hard to see in the dark. I guess What's-his-name
could have made it, only he tired himself all out."
"Oh, you mean Langridge."
"Is that his name?"
"Yes. I don't like him very well, but he's got lots of dough, and the
fellows hang around him. He's manager of the baseball team."
"He is?"
"Yes. Got the election because he's willing to spend some of his money
to support the team."
"Well, that's white of him."
"Oh, yes, Fred's all right, only for what ails him. He's got some queer
ways, and he thinks some of us ought to bow down to him more than we do.
But I won't, and I guess Kerr is getting sick of him. Some fellows think
he got to be manager, and keeps the place, because he used some money.
There's been talk about it."
"Who's Kerr?"
"The fellow with the black hair. He's catcher on the nine."
"I see."
"Are you going to play ball?" asked Henderson as they entered the room
Tom was to share.
"I'd like to. Is there any chance?"
"Guess so. The nine's not all made up yet. They're going to have a
meeting to-morrow, or next day, and try out candidates. You'll have as
good a chance as any one. Where do you play?"
"I've been pitching."
Henderson uttered a low, long whistle.
"What's the matter?"
"That's Langridge's pet place. He thinks he's a regular Christy
Mathewson."
"Well, I haven't disputed it," replied Tom quietly. "But if you don't
mind, I'm going to take off my shoes; my feet are tired. Think any sophs
will come?"
"It isn't likely now. They'd been here some time ago if they were
coming. Guess I'll turn in. I've got to get up early and do some boning
on my trigonometry. It's rotten stuff, ain't it?"
"Oh, I rather like it."
"Um!" was all the answer Sid made, as he prepared for bed, while Tom
also undressed.
Tom Parsons had come to college, not because he wanted to have "a good
time," nor because it was the fashion, nor because his father had the
money to send him. Tom came because he wanted to gain knowledge, to fit
himself for a place in life, and he earnestly wanted to learn. At the
same time he did not belong to the class known as "digs." Tom was a
sport-loving lad, and it needed but a look at his well-set head, on
broad shoulders, his perfectly rounded neck, his long, lithe limbs,
small hips and deep chest, to tell that he was an athlete of no little
ability.
Tom's hair was inclined to curl, especially when he was warm from
running or wrestling, and when it clung about his bronzed forehead in
little brown ringlets, he was an attractive figure, as more than one
girl had admitted. But Tom, to give him his due, never thought about
this.
He was tall and straight, and he could do more than the regulation on
the bars, or with dumbbells, while on the flying rings, or at boxing,
you would want to think twice before you challenged him.
But Tom's specialty, if one may call it such, was on the baseball
diamond. He had played in all the positions ever since he was a little
lad, and he and the other country boys laid out a diamond in a stubble
field, with stones for bases, and a hickory club for a bat. But Tom
had a natural bent toward pitching, and he gradually developed it,
principally by his own unaided efforts, together with what he could pick
up out of athletic books, or what was told to him by his companions. In
twirling the ball Tom's muscles, hardened by work on the farm, served
him in good stead.
For Tom Parsons was a farmer lad, though, perhaps, not a typical one.
His father was fairly well-to-do, and had a large acreage in the town of
Northville. Tom was an only son, though there were two sisters, of whom
he thought the world.
When Tom had finished his course at the village academy, and had
expressed a wish to go to college, his father consented. He furnished
part of the money, and the rest Tom supplied himself, for he was an
independent sort of lad, and thought it his duty to take part of his
savings to gain for himself a better education than was possible in his
home town.
So Tom, as you have seen, came to Randall, and of the manner of his
arrival, due to a combination of circumstances, you have been duly
informed. He made two resolutions before coming. One was to stand
well in his classes, and the other--well, you shall learn the other
presently.
Tom slowly undressed. He was not used to change, for he had been a "home
boy" for years, though he was no milksop, and did not in the least mind
roughing it. But, after the reaction of the night, when he was in the
little room with the lad who was to be his chum, he felt a bit lonely.
It was new and strange to him, and he thought, not without a bit of
regret, of the peaceful farmhouse in Northville, with his mother and
father seated in the big, comfortable dining-room, talking, and the
girls reading books, or sewing, under the light of a big lamp.
Tom looked slowly about the little room that was to be his "home" for
some time to come.
Randall was not a rich college, and, in consequence, the dormitories and
study apartments were not elaborately furnished. There was a sufficiency,
and that was all. Of course, there was nothing to prevent the students
from adding such articles to their rooms as they wanted, or thought they
desired, and some, whose parents were wealthy, had nicely furnished
studies.
But the one occupied by Sid and Tom was quite plain. There was a worn
rug on the floor, so worn, in fact, that the floor showed through it in
several places. But Sid remarked that it was a virtue rather than
otherwise, for it obviated the necessity of being careful about spilling
things on the rug, and also did away with the necessity of a door mat.
"They can't harm the rug, no matter how much mud they bring in," Sid had
said, when Tom suggested getting a new one.
There were two small iron cots or single beds in the apartment, a bureau
for each lad, a closet for clothes, but which closet contained balls,
gloves, bats, sweaters, old trousers and other sporting "goods," almost
to the exclusion of clothes. And then the closet did not contain it all,
for many articles overflowed into the room, and no amount of compression
sufficed to get things entirely within the closet. There was always
something sticking out. Several old chairs, one a lounging one with a
broken set of springs in the seat, a sofa that creaked in every joint,
like an old man with rheumatism, a table with a cover spotted with ink,
a shelf of books, an alarm clock, some cheap pictures, prints from
sporting papers, and water pitchers and bowls completed the furnishings.
Tom wondered, as he fell asleep, whether the sophomores would make a
further attempt to regain the clapper, but they did not, and the night
was undisturbed by further pranks. At chapel next morning Dr. Churchill,
after the usual devotions, announced with a twinkle in his deep-set eyes
that the reason there was no bell to call the students to worship was
because the tocsin was clapperless.
"It mysteriously disappeared during the night," went on the president,
"and--er--well, ahem! I think matters may take their usual course," he
finished quickly, trying hard not to smile.
It was always this way. By "usual course" Dr. Churchill and the students
understood that the freshmen would meet, make up by contributions enough
to buy a new clapper, and the incident would be closed until another
year brought new freshmen to the college.
This course was followed. Langridge, who was president of the class,
called a meeting that afternoon, the amount needed was quickly
subscribed, and the money was taken to Dr. Churchill.
"Why do you encourage that nonsense?" asked Professor Emerson Tines, the
Latin instructor (dubbed "Pitchfork" by the college lads in virtue of
his name). "Why do you submit to it?"
He happened to be with the president when Langridge brought in the
money.
"I don't submit to it, Professor Tines."
"But you encourage it."
"No; I simply ignore it."
"But the clapper is taken year after year."
"Is it?" asked the doctor innocently. "Well, now, so I have been informed
by the janitor, but, you know, of my own knowledge I am not aware of it.
It is simply hearsay evidence, and I never like to depend on that."
"But, my dear sir, don't you _know_ that the clapper is taken by the
first-year pupils?"
"Perhaps I do," answered the good doctor with a smile, "but I'm not
going to admit it. I was young once myself, Professor Tines."
"So was I!" snapped the Latin teacher as he went to his own apartments.
"I--I doubt it, and that's not hearsay evidence, either, I'm afraid,"
murmured Dr. Churchill, as he resumed his study of ancient Egyptian
hieroglyphics.
Tom Parsons, after chapel, introduced himself to Dr. Churchill and the
proctor, and was properly enrolled on the college books. He was assigned
to his classes, and soon began to feel himself at home among the
students.
"Well, are you going?" asked Sid of Tom that afternoon, as they came
from the last recitation.
"Going where?"
"To the baseball meeting. Didn't you see the notice?"
"No."
His roommate showed it to Tom. It was a note on the bulletin board in
the gymnasium, stating that all interested in the baseball nine, whether
as players or as supporters, were invited to meet in the basket-ball
court that afternoon.
"Of course I'm going," declared Tom.
The size of the throng that gathered in the gymnasium was proof enough
of the interest taken in affairs of the diamond by the Randall students.
There was talk of nothing save bases, balls, strikes, sacrifices, bunts,
home runs, fielding, pitching, catching, and what-not. Langridge called
the meeting to order, and in a few words explained that the object of it
was to get the team in shape for the spring games.
"I understand that there are a number of new men with us this year," he
went on in easy tones. There was no use in denying that the well-dressed
lad knew how to talk, and that to get up in front of a throng did not
embarrass him. "I hope, as manager as well as a player," he went on,
"that we shall find some good material. The team needs strengthening in
several places, and it is up to us to do it. Now I have a list here of
the former players, and the names of some who have already signified a
desire to try for places this year. I'll read them."
It was quite a long list, and Tom Parsons, listening to it, began to
wonder if he would have any chance among so many.
"If there are any others who would like to put their names down as
candidates, I'll take them," announced Fred.
Several stepped forward, and their names were noted, together with the
positions they desired to play.
"Go on up," urged Sid to Tom.
The country lad advanced to where Langridge stood.
"I'd like to try for a place," he said.
"Oh, you would, eh?" asked the other, and the sneer in his voice was
evident. "Well, don't you think you'd better wait until the hayseed is
out of your hair?" and he laughed.
"Here's a comb," retorted Tom quickly, extending a small pocket one.
"Maybe you'll give me a hand. I can't see the back of my head."
"That's one on you, Langridge," cried Phil Clinton. "That's the time you
got yours good and proper."
Tom was smiling good-naturedly, but the other was scowling.
Tom looked Langridge straight in the eye, and the other turned aside.
The country lad put back the comb into his pocket.
"What's your name?" growled Langridge, though he knew it full well.
"Tom Parsons."
"Where do you want to try for?"
"Pitcher."
There was some confusion in the room, but it ceased at Tom's reply.
"Pitcher!" exclaimed Langridge.
"I said pitcher," replied Tom quietly.
"Why--er--I'm pitcher on the 'varsity nine!" fairly snarled Langridge.
"That is, I was last year and expect to be again. Do you mean pitcher on
the scrub?"
"On the 'varsity," spoke Tom, smiling the least bit.
Langridge shot a look at him from his black eyes. It was a look that
boded Tom no good, for the former pitcher had recognized in the new
arrival a formidable rival.
"Put his name down," called Sid. "You might get a sore arm, and we'd
need a substitute."
Langridge glanced quickly at the speaker.
"His name is down," he answered quietly--more quietly than any one
expected him to speak. "Are there any others?"
No one answered.
"We'll meet for practice to-morrow afternoon," went on Langridge. "Of
course, it's understood that no one plays on the team who doesn't
contribute his share of expenses," and he looked straight at Tom
Parsons.
Without a word the country lad drew out a wallet, none too well filled,
to judge by the looks of it.
"What's the tax?" he asked, still smiling.
"The--er--the finance committee attends to that," was the answer
Langridge made. "They'll meet to-night."
Evidently he had not expected so ready a compliance on Tom's part.
"Well, if it's all settled, I move we adjourn," suggested Ed Kerr.
"Let's have a scrub game, for luck."
At that moment a lad came hurrying into the gymnasium.
"Where's Langridge?" he asked excitedly.
"Here," replied the baseball manager. "What's up?"
"Hazing!" was the somewhat breathless answer. "The sophs are going to
try it on to-night, to get square about the bell clapper. I just heard
it."
"That's the stuff!" cried Phil Clinton. "Now we'll get a chance to have
some fun."
"And I'll pay 'em back for slashing my hat," added Ford Fenton. "My
uncle says----"
But what his respected relative had remarked was not learned, as the
boys rushed from the room to prepare for the ordeal that they knew
awaited them.
CHAPTER IV
THE HAZING
"What sort of hazing do they do?" asked Tom Parsons of Sid Henderson as
the two youths followed their companions from the gymnasium.
"Oh, all sorts. It's hard to tell. Mostly they come in your room and make
a rough house, but not too rough, for the proctor doesn't stand for it.
They'll tumble you about, tear down any ornaments you may have up, pour a
pitcher of water in the bed, and make things unpleasant generally."
"Are we supposed to stand for that?" There was a grim look settling on
Tom's face.
"Well, what can you do when three or four big sophs are holding you?"
"Not much, that's a fact. But I'm going to fight back."
"So am I, but that's all the good it'll do. If they don't put enough on
you in your room they'll tackle you outside, when you're alone, and
maybe chuck you into the river or lake, or make you walk Spanish, or
force you to parade through town doing the wheelbarrow act. Oh, you've
got to take some hazing in one form or another."
"Well, I don't mind getting my share. So they're coming to-night, eh?"
"So the twin said."
"The twin--who's he?"
"The little fellow that brought word. I don't know whether he was Jerry
or Joe Jackson. I didn't look closely enough to see."
"Why, is it hard to tell?"
"Sure. They're two brothers, Jerry and Joe. They come from some town in
New Jersey. We call them the 'Jersey Twins,' and they look so much alike
it's hard to tell them apart. The only way you can tell is when they're
playing ball."
"How then?"
"Why, Jerry plays right field, and Joe left. Then it's easy to say which
is which; but when they come to bat it always happens that some one on
the other team makes a kick. They think we're ringing in the same man
twice, and we have to explain. That's what I've heard. Of course, I've
only been here a week."
"Oh, then they've played here some time?"
"Yes; they're juniors. It was mighty white of Jerry or Joe, whichever it
was, to tip us off. Now we'll be ready for the sophs."
"What can you do?"
"Well, if you know in time, as we do now, we can take down the best
things in our room, so they won't get busted, and we can hide the bed
clothes, so they won't get soaked. Then we can put on our old clothes.
It's no fun to have a good suit ruined, especially when you don't find
new clothes growing on trees."
"That's right. Let's go to our room and make ready."
"Oh, we've got plenty of time. I fancy it won't be until after dark. The
only thing is for all of us freshmen to keep together if we go out. For
if they catch two or three of us alone they'll put it all over us. But I
guess there won't be any scrub game now. The sophs would break it up."
"When do we have any rest from them?"
"In about two weeks. After the pole rush."
"The pole rush?"
"Yes. It's an old college custom, as Fenton's uncle would say. We
freshmen form a ring about the big flag-pole on a certain night and the
sophs try to pull us away. If they make us leave inside of fifteen
minutes it means we can't wear the class college colors until next term.
If we win, why, we sport a hat like Fenton had--the one Morse and
Denfield slashed up."
"I see. But, say, I'd like to know more about the ball team. Does
Langridge run it all?"
The two lads by this time were in their room, where they proceeded to
hide under the beds and bureaus their choicest possessions against the
prospective raid. It was close to the supper hour and they did not have
much time.
"No, Langridge doesn't run everything," answered Sid. "He's manager,
that's all."
"That seems a lot."
"Well, it is in a way, though it's only because he has plenty of cash
and isn't afraid to spend it. But he couldn't be elected captain. He
tried, but was defeated his first term, though he made the managership."
"Who is captain?"
"Bricktop Molloy was last year, but this season we're going to have a
new one. I guess Dan Woodhouse stands as good a show as any one. He's a
senior and a fine player."
"Woodhouse--that's an odd name."
"Yes, we call him Kindlings for short. I'm going to vote for him."
"So will I then; I'll depend on your say-so."
"I fancy you threw a scare into Langridge," went on Sid as he carefully
slid under a mat at the edge of the bed a picture of a football game.
"How so?"
"Telling him you wanted to try for pitcher. It was like stepping on his
corns. He thinks he's got a cinch on that position. Always has ever
since he helped win a game last year."
"Has he?"
"Well, I don't know. It depends on who is captain. Langridge wants to
see Ed Kerr elected captain. If that happens, he and Ed will run things
to suit themselves. Ed's quite a chum of Langridge, though Ed's a better
fellow all around. The only reason some of the fellows won't vote for Ed
is that he's too thick with Langridge. But if old Kindlings is elected
he'll not take any orders from Langridge."
"Langridge doesn't seem to be very popular with you," observed Tom.
"He isn't. I don't like him. Yet he's all right in a way. You see, he's
pretty well off in his own right. His father died, leaving him quite a
sum, and when his mother died he got more. His uncle is his guardian,
but he doesn't look after Fred very closely, and Fred does pretty much
as he pleases. Now that isn't good for a lad, though I don't mind
admitting I wish I had plenty of money. But Langridge is something of a
sport. He has good clothes--better than most of us here--he has all he
wants to spend, and he's liberal with it. He has quite a following and
lots of fellows like him. He doesn't care what he does with his money,
and that's the whole thing in a nutshell. That's why he's manager and
for no other reason. But, as I said, Woodhouse won't stand for any of
his dictation."
"Maybe I'll get a chance then," mused Tom.
"I guess you will. I'd like to see another good pitcher on the nine.
Maybe we'd win more games if we had a good one."
"I don't know whether I'm a good one or not," answered Tom. "I want to
try, though. Back home they used to say I had a good delivery."
Sid did not answer at once. He was thinking that to pitch on a country
nine was vastly different from doing the same thing on a good-sized
college team. But he did not want to discourage his roommate.
"Well," he said after a pause, in which he surveyed the somewhat
dismantled room, "I don't know whether it's pitching, or catching, or
fielding, or what it is our team needs, but it's something. We're at the
bottom of the league and have been for some years."
"What league is that?"
"Oh, I forgot you didn't know. Well, it's the Tonoka Lake League. You
see, our college, Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute have a triangular
league for the championship. But we haven't won it in so long that the
memory of man runneth not to the contrary, as the legal documents have
it. Last year we had a good chance to be second, but Langridge got a
glass arm in the final game and we were dumped. That's why I say we need
a new pitcher, and I'm glad you're going to try for it."
"Maybe I'll do worse."
"Well, Langridge sure does deliver a good ball," said Sid slowly; "the
only trouble is that he----"
He stopped suddenly and seemed embarrassed.
"Well?" asked Tom questioningly.
"Maybe you'll find it out for yourself," concluded Sid Henderson.
"There's the supper gong. Come on. There'll be hot work after a bit."
Puzzling somewhat over the answer his chum had made to the question
regarding Langridge and wondering what it was he might find out for
himself, Tom followed Sid to the dining hall, where throngs of students
were already gathered.
There was something in the air that told of mischief to come. The
sophomores, who dined together, maintained a very grave and decorous
air, utterly out of keeping with their usual mood. There was silence
instead of talk and laughter at their table.
"They're almost as dignified as the seniors," remarked Phil Clinton to
Tom as he took a seat next to him. "It means trouble. Look out."
"Oh, we're looking out," replied Tom.
Few lingered over the meal, and, going back to their room, Sid and Tom
took their best clothes and hid them in a closet at the end of the long
corridor. It was a closet used for the storage of odds and ends.
"There, I don't believe they'll find them there," spoke Sid. "Now we're
ready for them."
On their way back to their apartment they heard some one preceding them
down the long hall.
"Who's that?" asked Sid.
"I don't know," replied Tom. "Let's take a look. Maybe it was some one
spying on us."
They hastened their steps and saw some one hurry around a corner.
"Did you see him?" asked Tom.
"Yes," answered Sid slowly.
"Was it a soph?"
"It was Langridge," came the hesitating answer.
"I wonder what he was doing up here?" inquired Tom.
"I wonder too," added his chum.
There was a rush of feet in the hall below and the sound of voices in
protest.
"Here they come!" cried Sid. "The hazers! Come on!" And he slid into the
room, followed by Tom. They slammed the portal shut and bolted it.
The noise below increased, and there was the sound of breaking doors.
"Do they smash in?" asked Tom, to whom a college life was a new
experience.
"Sure, if you don't open."
"Going to open?"
"I am not. Let 'em break in. They'll have to pay for the damage."
In spite of lively scenes on the floor below, the noise was kept within
a certain range. Neither the freshmen nor the sophomores desired to have
their pranks interrupted by the college authorities, which would be sure
to be the case if the fun grew too hilarious.
The noise seemed to be approaching the room of Sid and Tom.
"Here they come," whispered the country youth.
Sid nodded and there was a grim smile on his face. An instant later the
door was tried.
"The beggars have locked it!" some one exclaimed.
"Break it in!" another added.
"Ask 'em to open first," counseled a third. "We've smashed so many now
that we'll have a pretty bill to pay."
"Oh, blazes, give it your shoulder, Battersby," exclaimed a loud voice.
"Going to open, fresh?" called out a student on the other side of the
portal.
"Nope!" cried Sid.
There was a moment's pause and then some one hurled himself at the door.
The bolt held for a few seconds, but on a second rush there was a
splintering of wood, the screws pulled out and the portal flew open,
giving admittance to a crowd of sophomores.
CHAPTER V
A SCRUB GAME
"Stripped!" exclaimed a tall sophomore with a broken nose. "The beggars
have stripped their den!"
"I told you some one had been giving us away," added another. "They knew
we were coming. Didn't you, fresh?" and he turned to Sid and Tom.
"Sure," replied Sid as he looked around the room, which was bare of the
articles that usually afforded the second-year men an opportunity for
causing annoyance.
"Who tipped you off?" asked he of the broken nose.
"Yes, tell us," chimed in several others. "We won't do a thing to him
but make him sorry."
"Oh, we had a dream," put in Tom with a grin.
"Ha! Here's a fresh fresh!" exclaimed "Broken-nose." "Well, fellows,
let's give 'em a shower bath, anyhow."
"Look under the beds," suggested a big sophomore.
"Nope; haven't time, Gladdus. Here, some of you hold 'em while the rest
of us douse 'em."
In an instant Sid and Tom were grasped each by half a dozen hands and
pulled to the middle of the room. Then Broken-nose and some others took
the two water pitchers and poured the contents over the two freshmen. It
was not a pleasant ordeal, but Tom and his chum bore it unflinchingly.
It was useless to struggle.
"Oh, this is no fun!" exclaimed Gladdus. "They don't fight."
"The odds are too heavy," retorted Tom quickly. "I'll take any one of
you alone," he added, and he looked as if he meant it.
"Let me take him on," pleaded a tall sophomore.
"No--none of that," declared Broken-nose, who was addressed as Fenmore.
"We've got lots to do yet. I wonder where their good clothes are.
They've got on old togs. We'll give 'em a soaking."
Tom and Sid were glad that they had hidden their garments in the hall
closet. There was a hasty search on the part of the sophomores, but as
nothing was disclosed the second-year men prepared to leave.
"Come on," ordered Fenmore. "There's no water left in their pitchers,
anyhow."
"Oh, we could get more H{2}O if we could find their togs," spoke
another.
Just then another second-year youth came along.
"I know where their clothes are," he said. "In the closet at the end of
the hall. Langridge----"
"Shut up!" cried Gladdus.
"Come on, fellows!" called Fenmore. "We'll soak 'em good."
Sid groaned as the sophomores released him and Tom and made a run for
the closet.
"We'd ought to have scattered 'em," he said. "Now we'll have to wear wet
duds to chapel to-morrow. We can't go in these," and he looked at his
dripping garments--clothes in which he did cross-country running and
played tennis--old and somewhat ragged and muddy habiliments.
"Did you hear what that soph said?" demanded Tom.
"You mean----"
"I mean about Langridge. He gave us away. He told them where our clothes
were; the mean sneak!"
"That's right," chimed in Sid. "That's what he was doing up here--spying
on us. Oh, I'll pay him back all right!"
"So will I!" declared Tom fervently as a triumphant shout down the
corridor announced that their clothes had been discovered. The garments,
dripping wet and all out of shape, were thrown into their room a little
later.
"Well, wouldn't that put your nerves on the gazabo!" exclaimed Sid
disgustedly. "Oh, Langridge, I'll have it in for you!"
The hazing went on until after midnight and then the dormitory quieted
down. Scarcely a freshman escaped and those who absented themselves from
their rooms were due to be put on the grill later.
Tom and Sid sat up late, wringing as much of the water as they could
from their clothes and drying them somewhat by inserting an electric
light bulb in the arms of the coats and the legs of the trousers.
Fortunately their bedding was not wet or the boys would have passed a
miserable night. As it was they did not have a good one, and they arose
early to hang their moist clothes out of the window to let the morning
sun finish the work of drying.
But they were not the only ones in this plight, and it was a bedraggled
lot of freshmen who appeared at chapel--that is, all but Langridge. He
was spick and span as he always was, dressed in expensive clothes.
"Didn't they get at you?" asked Sid as he and Tom caught up to the
wealthy youth on the way to class.
"Get at me?"
"Yes, your clothes don't seem to have suffered."
"Oh, this is another suit. They wet one for me, but I had this put
away."
"And no sneak went and told the sophs where you put it, did they?" asked
Tom.
"What's that?" asked Langridge quickly, and he turned a bit pale.
"I say no sneak gave you away?"
"I don't know what you mean," and Langridge turned aside.
"Oh, yes, you do," said Sid quickly. "You know all right and we know,
and what's more, you'll get what's coming to you all right. That's all
from yours truly, but look out--that's all--look out, Fred Langridge!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," was the cool retort, and then
the students passed into the class room.
It was two days later that the miniature clappers, which had been made
from the tongue of the big bell, were received, and a proud lot of
freshmen they were, including Tom Parsons, who attached them to their
watch chains.
"Now, if we win the pole rush, we'll be all to the merry," exclaimed
Phil Clinton as he walked along the campus toward the gymnasium. "I'm
just aching for a chance to pummel some of those sophs. They certainly
made a rough house of my room the other night."
"Oh, we'll get the chance all right," remarked Sid. "The rush is a week
from to-night. But say, how about the baseball election? Isn't Langridge
taking his own time calling it?"
"He sure is. He's trying to work up votes for Kerr for captain, but he
can't do it. The fellows haven't anything against Ed, but he's too thick
with Langridge. I'm for old Kindlings."
"So are we," put in Tom.
"They've got to hold the election to-morrow," said Phil. "That's the
last day, according to the rules. Why, we haven't had a bit of practice
yet. We don't know who's going on the scrub and who has a chance for the
'varsity. I hope I can get center field."
"Had you rather play there?" asked Tom.
"I always have. I fancy I know that position better than I do any other.
But, to tell you the truth, I like football better than baseball. I'm
going to try for the eleven this fall."
"I hope you make it. But what's going on?" asked Tom as he saw a little
commotion about the gymnasium.
"It's a scrub game," exclaimed Sid. "That's the stuff. Come on. Maybe
we'll get a chance. Langridge sees that he's got to get things going."
They hurried to the gymnasium and found that preparations were under way
for a scrub game. There was also a notice on the bulletin board stating
that the election for captain would be held the following day.
"I wonder if he's got enough votes for Kerr?" mused Sid. "I hope
not--for the sake of the team."
The crowd, including students from all four classes of the college,
moved off toward the diamond. Rivalries were forgotten in the interest
in the game. The lads were not in uniform, but had on old clothes.
Langridge was issuing orders and two temporary captains were chosen,
they selecting their men. Bob, or "Bricktop" Molloy, the captain of last
year, had one scrub team, and Pete Backus, who rejoiced in the nickname
"Grasshopper" from the fact that he was always trying to see how far and
how high he could jump, had another. Langridge assumed the role of
manager, though there was little to manage.
"Now play lively, boys," he urged. "I want to arrange for some other
games this season besides those in the league, and we want to win some
of 'em."
To his delight Tom found himself chosen by Bricktop, together with Sid
and Phil Clinton. Langridge held a whispered conversation with Backus,
the other captain, and was promptly chosen on that hastily formed nine.
"I'll pitch and Ed Kerr'll catch," Langridge announced, as if that
settled it. And it was noticeable that Backus did not make a protest,
though he was as good a catcher as was Kerr.
"Will you pitch for us, Parsons, me lad?" asked Bricktop with just a
trace of rich Irish brogue. "Sure and I heard what ye did, me lad, the
night of the clapper."
"Well, that was mostly luck, I guess," replied Tom modestly, "though I'd
like the chance to pitch now."
"Sure, then, an' you'll have it," replied the Irish lad with a twinkle
in his honest blue eyes. "Come on, fellows. We're last at the bat."
"Hold me down, somebody!" exclaimed Dutch Housenlager as he turned a
hand spring and came down so close to Molloy that the former captain was
nearly sent over. "I'm feeling like a two-year-old."
"That's all right, Dutch, me lad," exclaimed Bricktop, relapsing into a
broader brogue as his feelings came uppermost. "This isn't a stable,
though, and we can dispense with the horse play until after the game if
you can accommodate yourself to the exigencies of the occasion," and he
spoke much after the manner of Dr. Churchill, for Bricktop, in spite of
the fact that he was a senior, "grave and reverend," liked fun and his
joke. "If you will kindly resume the upright stature befitting a human
being," he went on, "you may try to stop whatever balls come in the
direction of shortstop, for there's where ye'll play."
"All right," answered Dutch good naturedly. "I'm agreeable, my fair
captain. But would you mind keeping your hat on? When the sun strikes
your red-gold locks it dazzles my eyes."
"Go on wit' your blarney!" exclaimed Molloy, making a punch at
Housenlager, who skilfully ducked it.
The diamond was in fine shape, for it had been cut and rolled and the
base lines marked off in readiness for the opening of the season. The
grass was like velvet and the clean, fresh green, contrasted with the
brown earth of the diamond proper, the long white lines, the new bases
and the level field made a picture that rejoiced the heart of every lad.
"Wow! isn't it great?" cried Tom. "And the smell! Do you smell the green
grass, Sid, and the earth, and--and the baseball smell? Isn't it great?"
"Cheese it!" cried Phil Clinton with a laugh. "You'll be spouting poetry
next."
"I wish I could," returned Tom a little more soberly. "I never get out
on a ball field but I want to orate something like Thermopylae or
Horatius at the Bridge. The fever of the game gets in my blood."
"There is something in that," admitted Phil. "Oh, it's a great game.
There's none greater except football, and when I see the gridiron marked
off and hear the 'ping' of somebody's boot against the pigskin my heart
begins to thump and I catch my breath and want to take the ball to
batter down a stone fence and make a touchdown."
"Bravo!" cried Sid. "You're as bad as Tom."
"Quit talking and get to practice!" exclaimed a voice at the rear of the
lads, and they turned to see Langridge.
"Say, who told you to give orders?" asked Sid quickly. "Bricktop is our
captain."
"Well, we're going to have a little warm-up practice first," remarked
Langridge. Then he turned to Tom and said: "So you're going to pitch
against me?"
"It seems so."
"Humph!" was all Langridge said as he walked away.
Two or three good batters on each side began knocking flies for the
others to catch and Tom and his chums soon found themselves warming up
in earnest. The country lad discovered that he could judge the balls
quite accurately and he made some good throws from a long distance.
"Play ball!" suddenly called Bricktop Molloy. "Come on, fellows! Out in
the field. Parsons, let's see what sort of a twirler you are."
Tom went to the box. He was a trifle nervous, but he controlled himself
as well as he could. The first man up was Langridge, and there was an
unpleasant look on the face of the rich youth as he faced his rival.
Tom sent in an out curve and he was pretty sure it was going over
the plate. But he heard the umpire cry: "One ball!" and he was much
surprised. There was a mocking smile on the face of Langridge. Tom
held the next ball rather longer. He threw in a peculiar little drop.
Langridge saw it coming and struck savagely at it, but a resounding
"thump" told Tom that the horsehide had landed safe in Molloy's mitt.
"One strike!" yelled the umpire, and Tom's heart was glad.
"That's the way to do it!" cried Phil Clinton, from center field.
"Strike him out!"
Langridge hit the next ball, though it was only a weak liner, which Tom
stopped and threw over to first, but there was no need, for Langridge
had seen the uselessness of running.
"One out. Go on with the game," sang out Bricktop.
CHAPTER VI
THE POLE RUSH
Tom managed to strike out the next man, but the third batter knocked a
two-bagger, and Kerr, who followed, sent a beautiful long fly to right
field, where Jerry Jackson muffed it. There was wild delight on the part
of Pete Backus and his men when they got in three runs before Tom
managed to strike out another player, retiring the side.
"Well, that's not so bad," spoke Bricktop, but there was some dubiousness
in his tone.
"My pitching was bum," acknowledged Tom, "but I'll do better next
inning."
"Of course you will, me lad," said Captain Molloy kindly. "It's a new
ground to you."
There was a confident air about Langridge when he took his position in
the box and it was somewhat justified when he struck out the first two
men in quick succession.
"He's doing better than I thought he would," said Sid.
"He's a good pitcher," admitted Tom honestly, for he saw that his rival
had something that he himself lacked--a better control of the ball,
though Tom could pitch a swifter curve.
Tom was third at the bat. Now a good pitcher is usually a notoriously
bad hitter. Tom proved an exception to the rule, though perhaps he had
not developed into such a good pitcher yet that it applied in his case.
He faced Langridge confidently and even smiled mockingly as a swift ball
came in. Tom was a good judge of it and saw that it was going wild, so
he did not attempt to strike it. His judgment was confirmed when the
umpire sang out:
"Ball one!"
Langridge looked annoyed and sent in a swift one. Tom's bat met it
squarely and it went well over the center fielder's head.
"Go on! go on, me brave lad!" yelled Molloy, his brogue very pronounced.
"That's the stuff!"
"Take two bases! take two!" cried Phil.
"Make it three! make it three!" begged Sid, and three Tom made it, for
he was a swift runner, and the ball rolled provokingly away from the
fielder who raced after it.
"Well, you can bat, anyway, me lad," observed Molloy as Tom came in on a
safe hit made by Sid a little later.
"Does that mean I can't pitch?" asked Tom with a smile.
"Not a bit of it. It only accentuates it, so to speak. You're all
right--_facile princeps_ as the old Romans have it--which, being
interpreted, means you can come in and sit at our training table."
Tom's side only gathered in two runs, however, and from then on up to
the eighth inning the team Langridge was on held the lead, the score at
the beginning of the ninth inning being 10 to 8 in favor of Backus'
men. That inning Tom and his chums rather went to pieces as regarded
fielding, nor did Tom shine brilliantly in the box. He struck out two
men and then he seemed to lose control of the ball. The bases were
filled, two men knocking a one and two bagger respectively and another
getting his walking papers. Then Tom got nervous, and just when he
should have held himself well in hand to keep the score down, he gave
another man a chance to amble easily to first on four balls and forced
in a run.
There were cries of derision from the opposing players and an ominous
silence on the part of Captain Molloy and his men. The next man got a
one-bagger and the player who followed him knocked a pop fly, which
Molloy, who was on third, missed. The inning ended with three more runs
in favor of Langridge and his mates, making the score 13 to 8.
"Six runs to win and five to tie," murmured Molloy. "Can we do it,
boys?"
"Sure," said Phil Clinton confidently. Phil always fought to the last
ditch. But it was not to be. Tom made one run and Sid another, but that
was all. Langridge struck out his last man with the bases full and the
game ended.
"I thought you were a pitcher," sneered Langridge as the teams filed off
the field, and there were several laughs at Tom's expense, for he had
not made a good showing in the box.
"Sure he can pitch," cried Molloy, coming to Tom's defense. "The ground
was new to him, that's all."
"Rats!" retorted Langridge, and Tom was too humiliated to make a reply.
"Just the same he'll make a good pitcher," said Mr. James Lighton, the
coach of the 'varsity, who had strolled out to watch the practice. "He
has a swift ball, but he lacks control. We can make a first-class
pitcher of him, Molloy."
"I'm sure I hope so," murmured the red-haired youth. "We didn't do very
well last year with Langridge, though he seems to have improved to-day."
"So will young Parsons," declared the coach. "You watch him. I'll take
him in hand as soon as the team is in shape. He'll probably have to go
on the scrub first, but he won't stay there long."
But Tom did not hear these comforting words, and it was with rather a
bitter feeling in his heart that he went to his room to dress for
supper.
"You'll be better next game," said Sid, trying to console him.
"Maybe there won't be any next game for me," was Tom's reply. "I saw
Kerr and Langridge talking together, and I'm sure it was about me."
"That's all right. Kerr isn't going to be captain of the 'varsity."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure. I've got a straight tip. We've votes enough to elect old Kindlings
Woodhouse."
And so it proved the next day, when the election was held. Dan Woodhouse
received forty more ballots than did Kerr and his election, after the
first test, was made unanimous, a compliment always paid. Then baseball
matters began in earnest. Candidates were chosen, Coach Lighton ordered
regular practice and established a training table. Tom was much chagrined
when he found that he was named for pitcher on the scrub, while Langridge
got the coveted place as pitcher on the 'varsity, but Sid told his chum
that the scrub was but a stepping stone to the final goal. And when the
coach began to take Tom in hand and give him some much-needed instruction
about control Tom began to feel that, after all, perhaps he had a chance.
It was about a week later, following some rather hard practice on the
diamond, that a hurried knock was heard on the door of the room occupied
by Sid and Tom.
"Come," called Sid, looking up from his Latin book.
"Pole rush to-night!" cried Dutch Housenlager, poking his head in and
rapidly withdrawing it, as though he feared a book would be hurled at
him. "Meet on the campus at eight o'clock. Old clothes--it's going to be
a hard fight."
"That's the stuff!" exclaimed Sid, throwing his book across the room.
"Come on, Tom. We'll have a battle royal with our traditional enemies,
the sophs."
The pole rush was like the cane or cannon rushes held in other colleges.
Half a dozen of the strongest of the freshmen formed a circle, with
linked arms about the big flag pole on the campus. About them in
concentric circles their chums formed a series of defensive rings.
Then the sophomores came at them with a rush, seeking to displace the
first-year lads and arrange themselves in a circle about the pole. If
they succeeded in doing this inside of fifteen minutes it meant that the
freshmen could wear no college colors their first term. It was to this
rush that Tom, Sid and their friends hurried when Dutch and some others
went about to the various rooms sounding the rallying cry.
Out on the campus that soft spring evening was a motley crowd of
students. On one side were gathered the sophomores and on the other the
freshmen.
"My, there are a lot of 'em," remarked Phil Clinton. "I shouldn't wonder
but they've rung in some seniors on us."
"No, they wouldn't do that," declared Sid. "They're a big class."
Langridge and some others were going about selecting the men who were to
form the first circle about the pole. Tom and Phil, who were both sturdy
lads, were chosen for this honor.
"In place! in place!" cried the impatient sophomores.
"Line up! line up, fellows!" shouted Langridge.
Tom and his chums took their positions. The protectors formed about
them.
"Hold fast, everybody!" cautioned Phil as he grasped Tom's arm.
"Here they come! here they come!" was the warning cry, and with a rush
the sophomores hurled themselves against the mass of lads about the
pole.
CHAPTER VII
TOM HOLDS HIS OWN
It seemed for a moment as if the first-year boys would be quickly shoved
aside and their places taken by the sophomores, for so heavy was the
impact that the outer and second lines of defense were broken through
and the attackers were in the midst of the defenders.
"Throw 'em back! throw 'em back!" yelled Phil Clinton. "Tackle low!"
"Think you're playing football?" panted Tom, for some of his mates had
been pushed against him and he almost lost his grip on Phil's arm.
"It's like a scrimmage," replied Phil. "That's the stuff, boys!" he
added as the lines of defense formed again.
The freshmen by a fierce effort succeeded in blocking the advance of
their enemies, and those who had penetrated part way into the circles
were hurled back. But the battle had only just begun.
Once more came the rush of sophomores, the members of the class calling
to each other encouragingly. There were more of them than there were of
freshmen, but the latter had the advantage of a firm base of support,
for the lads nearest the pole clung to that and those adjoining them
locked their arms or legs about those of their comrades, thus forming a
compact mass.
"Pick 'em off one by one!" yelled Gladdus, one of the leading sophomores.
"Bore a way in there, Fenmore, and some of you fellows. We ought to get
them away."
"Hold fast! Hold fast, everybody!" cried Tom, for the joy of battle was
upon him and his heart exulted in the struggle that was going on about
him, in the pressure of bodies against his, the labored breathing, the
panting, the fierce grips that were broken only to be made anew.
The sophomores now began other tactics. Several of them would grab a
freshman in the outer circle. They would pluck him from the restraining
grasp of his companions, and then, when a hole was thus made, other
sophomores would bore their way in to repeat the process. So quickly was
this done and so strong was the peculiar attack that, almost before the
freshmen knew it, Gladdus and Fenmore, two of the most aggressive
attackers, had reached the circle that was about the pole. The two
boldly grabbed at Tom, at the same time calling out:
"Sophs this way! Sophs this way! Here's meat for us!"
Tom suddenly felt himself being pulled away from the pole. The grips of
Phil Clinton on one side and Sid Henderson on the other were slipping
from his arms.
"Hold fast! Don't let them take you!" cried Phil.
"I won't!" gasped Tom.
He thought of a trick he had acquired in wrestling. Quickly arching his
back like a bow, he suddenly straightened it with a snap, and the holds
of Gladdus and Fenmore were broken. They were hurled back and then other
freshmen took them up bodily, thrusting them beyond the outer line of
defense.
Then the whole body of sophomores quickly threw themselves against the
freshmen, as if to force them away from the pole by weight of numbers.
They nearly succeeded, and Tom and his fellow defenders of the flag
staff thought their arms would be pulled out of the sockets. But, as if
it was a second down in a fierce football game, the freshmen held their
opponents and thrust the wave of sophomores back.
So it went on, the attack becoming fiercer until, when the timekeepers
announced that there were but two more minutes left in which to hold or
gain the pole, the second-year men seemed fairly to overwhelm the
others.
"Tear 'em up! tear 'em up!" pleaded Gladdus.
"Hold, boys, hold!" begged Langridge. And hold they did, for when time
was called the defenders were found with their arms still locked about
the flag staff.
"We win, fellows!" yelled Tom, capering about, with his hands grasping
those of Sid and Phil.
Then followed an impromptu war dance, while the vanquished sophomores
filed away in the darkness, the exultant freshmen sending cheer after
cheer out on the air.
"Here's where we wear ribbons on our hats!" cried Ford Fenton. "Now, I'd
like to see any soph make me take it off."
He pulled from his pocket a band and fixed it to a new hat he had bought
to replace the slashed one.
"You came prepared, didn't you?" asked Holly Cross. "Here, let me give
you an imitation of a soph," and he held out the decorated hat, though
the gaily decorated band could not be seen in the darkness, and
pretending to regard it with horror, minced along like some grotesque
dancer on the stage.
"Good! good!" cried his fellows.
"That's the stuff, Holly, old chap!" remarked Phil. "We'll have you in
the next play."
"Why don't you fellows run the colors up on the flag pole?" proposed a
lad who had stood watching the fun.
"That's it, Jerry Jackson!" exclaimed Sid. "Good idea."
"I'm not Jerry, I'm Joe," replied the Jersey twin.
"I'll have to take your word for it," went on Sid. "Say, you two ought
to wear labels. We're always getting you mixed up."
Amid much laughter and joking a long streamer of yellow and maroon was
fastened to the halyards and run up to the truck. Langridge had the
colors with him, anticipating a victory.
"We ought to have a parade now," suggested Fenton. "My uncle says----"
"If you say uncle again inside of a week, we'll duck you!" cried Sid as
he jostled Ford to one side. "We know him by heart by this time."
"I don't believe he ever had an uncle," declared Kerr. "But come on,
fellows, let's have a parade."
The idea took at once, and the victorious freshmen formed in line and
marched about the college buildings, singing songs and yelling joyfully,
for it had been a good, fair, clean fight, and they had won.
"Let's go to Haddonfield and get out hat bands," proposed Langridge.
"We'll all be wearing them in the morning."
As discipline was rather relaxed during the first two weeks of the term
and as it was the custom for the victorious class to celebrate in some
way the idea was adopted and the joyous lads made for the town, which
at their advent at once awakened from a sort of evening nap. They went
to a dealer who made a specialty of college goods and soon all were
decked out in the gay hat bands, all save a few who, like Fenton, had
already provided themselves with the articles.
"I suppose you aren't used to such things as this down on the farm, are
you?" asked Langridge of Tom sneeringly as they were about ready to
depart for the college. "Corn husking bees and quilting parties are more
in your line."
"Wa'al, thet's what they be!" retorted Tom quickly, imitating the nasal
drawl of the typical farmer. "We folks down Northville way is some
pumpkins when it comes t' huskin' corn. Was you ever there, sonny?"
His manner was so patronizing and the effect of his words and assumed
mannerisms so odd that the lads about him burst out laughing, much to
the annoyance of Langridge.
"Going to the post-office for the mail and meeting the pretty country
girls was about the height of your enjoyment, wasn't it?" persisted the
rich youth, who seemed bound to pick a quarrel with Tom.
"Wa'al, now you're talkin'," came the quick answer in the same drawl.
There was something rather strange about Langridge. His eyes seemed
very bright and his cheeks were flushed. He evidently took Tom's
acquiescence as an indication that the country lad was willing to have
fun poked at him.
"I suppose you got lots of letters from the pretty country lasses,
enclosing locks of their red hair," sneered Langridge.
"You bet I did," exclaimed Tom, still imitating a farmer's peculiarities,
"but I want to tell ye suthin', an' when you come out Northville way,
mebby you'll remember it." Then, suddenly becoming serious and with
a change in his manner, he added: "I also used to get letters from
gentlemen, but I don't believe you could write me one!" There was a snap
in his words.
"What--what's that?" cried Langridge, taking a step toward Tom.
"You heard what I said," was the retort.
"That's the time you got yours all right, Langridge," exclaimed Phil
Clinton. "You can't tell by the looks of a haystack how far a cow can
jump, you know."
Langridge fairly glared at Tom. He seemed to want to make some reply,
but the words stuck in his throat.
"I'll--I'll get----" he stammered, and then, turning on his heel, he
linked his arm in that of Kerr and the two started off down the street.
"You held you own that time, Tom," said Sid as a little later they
followed.
"Yes, I don't mind a joke, but he went a little too far. My people live
in the country, and I'm proud of it, and proud of all my friends in
Northville. But come on, let's get back to our room. I've got some
studying to do."
CHAPTER VIII
AT PRACTICE
Following the exciting scenes of the pole rush it was rather difficult
for any of the lads to settle down to study that night, but for some it
was a necessity, and Tom and Sid were in this number. Tom, by reason of
missing the first week of the term, was a little behind his class, but
he was a fine student, and the instructor saw that there would be no
trouble for the lad in covering the lost ground. With Sid it was another
matter. Though faithful and earnest, studying did not come easy for him,
and, as he expressed it, he had to "bone away like a ground hog" to get
facts and dates fixed in his mind. Consequently, because of the evening
of fun, ten o'clock saw Sid and Tom busy in their room over their books.
For an hour or more nothing was heard but the occasional turning of the
pages or the noise of a pencil being rapidly pushed across the paper. At
length Tom, with a sigh of relief, closed his chemistry and remarked:
"There, I guess that will do for to-night. My eyes are tired."
"So are mine," added Sid. "I'm going to kiss this Latin prose good-night
and put it to bed," and he threw the book under his cot. "Pleasant
dreams," he added sarcastically. "Gee! but I hate Latin," he exclaimed.
"Why do you take it?"
"Oh, dad thinks I'll need it. I'd a heap sight rather learn to play the
banjo."
"Not much comparison there, Sid."
"No, but don't mention comparison. That reminds me of grammar, and
grammar reminds me of verbs, and verbs naturally bring to mind
declension, and--there you are. Let's talk about something pleasant."
"What do you call pleasant?"
"Well, baseball, for instance, though maybe that isn't very pleasant for
you, since you didn't make the first team."
"No," admitted Tom frankly, "it isn't pleasant to think about. I did
want to get on the first team and I may yet. But I've learned one thing
since coming here."
"That's good. Maybe I'd better call up Moses and tell him. He'll feel
encouraged that some of the students are progressing."
"No, I wouldn't advise you to do that," spoke Tom with a laugh that
showed his white, even teeth. "In fact, what I've learned didn't have
much to do with books."
"What was it?"
"Well, it's been made very clear to me that it's something different
from being a big fish in a little puddle than acting the part of a
small-sized finny resident in a more extended body of water, to put it
scientifically."
"Meaning what, if you don't mind translating?" came from Sid as he
stretched out on the rather worn and springless sofa.
"Meaning that I had an idea that I was about as good as the next one in
the pitching line, but I find I'm not."
"Proceed," came calmly from Sid, who had his eyes shut.
"No, I'm afraid I might disturb your slumbers," said Tom quickly, and
there was a curious change in his voice.
Sid sat up quickly.
"I beg your pardon, old man," he exclaimed. "I was listening all right
and I'm interested, honest I am. Only my eyes hurt to-night. But it must
be quite different, coming from a small village to a fairly large
college. Did you have a good nine at Northville?"
"Well," went on Tom, somewhat mollified at his chum's interest, "we
cleaned up all the other nines around there. I was considered a
crackajack pitcher, but I guess now the reason for that may have been
that the others were rotten batsmen."
"There's something in that," admitted Sid judicially. "You see, things
are peculiar here. Now take Langridge. Nobody, unless it's Kerr and a few
others, cares much about him. Yet he's a fairly consistent pitcher, and
he's the best they've had in some years, they tell me. Now our college
has had rather hard luck on the diamond, especially in the Tonoka Lake
League. There was a better chance of winning the championship last year
than in any previous one, but we didn't make good. It wasn't altogether
Langridge's fault. He didn't have very good support, I'm told. Now
they've decided to keep him on, or, rather he's engineered things so
that, as manager, he keeps himself on. And there are some hopes of
pulling out somewhere in the lead of the league this season. But
Langridge is his own best friend."
"And he keeps me from pitching on the 'varsity," said Tom somewhat
bitterly.
"Can you blame him?"
"No, I don't know that I can," was the frank answer. "I s'pose I'd do
the same thing. But I hope in time to be a better pitcher than he is."
"How are you coming on with the coach?"
"Fine. Mr. Lighton has given me some good pointers, and I needed them.
My curves are all right and so is my speed. It's my control that's
weak, and I'm getting rid of some of my faults."
"We're going to have a practice game with you scrubs to-morrow or next
day," said Sid. "Maybe you'll get a chance to show what you can do
then."
"I hope so. I want to show Langridge that he isn't the only bean in the
pot, to put it poetically."
"Very poetically," murmured Sid, who seemed to be dozing off.
"Say, Sid," exclaimed Tom suddenly, "do you remember what you started to
say about Langridge the other day and stopped?"
"Yes."
"What was it?"
"I'd rather not tell. You'll probably find out for yourself before long.
I did, though not many know it."
"You mean----"
"I'm not going to say what I mean. Only," and Sid suddenly sat up, "it
may increase your chances of pitching on the 'varsity."
"I think I know," said Tom slowly, and he began to get ready for bed.
A practice game between the 'varsity and the scrub was called for the
next afternoon. The first team was in rather disorganized shape yet.
That is to say, not all the players were in permanent positions and
shifts were likely to be made at any time as practice brought out
defects or merits. It was even said that some now on the 'varsity might
be relegated to the scrub and some from the second team advanced. Tom
secretly hoped so in his case, but his common sense told him he stood a
slim chance. Langridge, of course, was pitcher on the first team and
Kerr was the catcher. Kindlings Woodhouse played on third, where he
could direct the efforts of his men.
When the scrub and regular teams were out on the diamond ready for the
practice game Kindlings looked over his players.
"Where's Sid Henderson?" he asked.
"He got turned back in Latin at last class," volunteered Jerry Jackson.
"Here he comes now," added Joe Jackson, as if he was an echo to his
brother.
Sid came running up, all out of breath, buttoning his blouse as he
advanced.
"What's the matter, son?" asked the captain.
"That rotten Latin."
"Be careful," warned Kindlings. "Don't slump too often or you may put us
in a hole. You aren't the only first baseman that ever lived, but you're
pretty good, and I don't want to go to work training you in and have you
fired off the team by the faculty for not keeping up your studies."
"Oh, I'll be careful," promised Sid confidently, and then the game
started.
The 'varsity played snappy ball and the scrub seemed a bit ragged,
naturally perhaps as there was less incentive for them to play hard.
"Brace up, fellows," implored Tom toward the close of the game. "They're
only four runs ahead of us, and if we can knock out a couple of
three-baggers we'll throw a scare into them. They're weak in right and
left field. Soak the horsehide toward either of the twins, but don't get
it near Phil Clinton. If he gets it within a foot of his mitt, it's a
goner."
"It's a wonder you wouldn't strike out more men," said Fenton. "My uncle
says that when he was a coach----"
"Play ball!" yelled the umpire, and the reminiscence was cut short.
The scrubs did "take a brace" and began finding the curves of Langridge,
much to that pitcher's annoyance. Tom made a neat two-bagger, but died
on third, though the score was bettered in favor of the scrub by two
more runs.
Tom went to his box with a firm step and a more certain feeling about
his ability than he had ever experienced before. He was sure he could
strike out at least two men, and he did so, including Langridge and
Holly Cross.
Holly, who was a good batter, was laughed at by his chums.
"You'll have to do better than that," warned Langridge.
"Do better yourself," retorted Holly. "I didn't want to hit it, anyhow.
I was giving you an imitation of how close I could come to it and miss
it."
"Those imitations don't do on this circuit," added the tall Kindlings.
"It's mighty risky in a game."
"Oh, yes, in a game," admitted Holly with a laugh.
Tom gave one man a chance to walk and the next popped out a fly that
Dutch Housenlager neatly gathered in. The game ended with no runs for
the 'varsity in the last inning and they had beaten the scrub by only
two runs.
"It might be worse," said Mr. Lighton grimly as the teams filed off the
diamond. "It might be worse, Woodhouse, but I don't like it."
"Neither do I," admitted the captain gloomily. "We tackle Boxer Hall in
the first of the league series next week, and I think I'll have to make
some more shifts. What do you think of Langridge?"
"Well, he's all right--yet. If he doesn't----" The coach stopped
suddenly, seemed about to say something and then evidently thought
better of it. "At any rate," he finished, "if worst comes to worst, we
can put Parsons in. He's improving every day, and with a little more
coaching so that he isn't quite so awkward and can run better, he'll
make a star player. He'll be on the first team next year."
"He wants to get on this year."
"Perhaps he will," and with that the coach walked off rather abruptly.
CHAPTER IX
A GAME WITH BOXER HALL
The grandstand was filled with cheering students. In one section were
the cohorts of Randall College, led in giving their cries by "Bean"
Perkins, who had a voice like unto that of some fog horn. There was a
mass of glowing colors as flags and streamers were waved in the wind.
In another part of the stand a smaller but no less enthusiastic throng
sent up exultant cries of rivalry, calling out repeatedly: "Boxer!
Boxer! Boxer!"
Scattered among the students in each of the two divisions of the stand
were girls and more girls, all of them pretty, at least in the eyes of
their admirers, and all of them sporting one college colors or the
other.
The bleachers were filled by ardent supporters of the game who were not
so particular about having a roof over their heads and who, for one
reason or another, had to look to the difference in cost between a
grandstand ticket and one on the side benches.
It was the occasion of the first regular game of the season in the
Tonoka Lake League between Randall College and Boxer Hall. As the
opposing players came out for warm-up practice the yells, cheers and
cries were redoubled, and the stands seemed a waving riot of colors,
like some great bed of flowers.
The sounds of balls impinging on thick mitts, of willow bats cracking
out hot liners or lofty flies were heard all over the diamond. Never had
the grass seemed greener and never had the field looked so inviting. It
was a perfect day for the game.
There was not a little anxiousness on the part of the Randall players
as they "sized up" their opponents. They found them a sturdy lot of
youngsters.
"They're playing snappy ball," observed Coach Lighton to Captain
Woodhouse.
"Yes, and so will we," predicted Kindlings. "Just watch us."
"I intend to. That's why I'm out here. Now let me give you and Langridge
a few pointers," and he called the pitcher to him, the three strolling
off to one side of the field.
Tom Parsons was on hand, and it does him no discredit when it is stated
that there was a feeling of envy in his heart. But it was honest envy.
He wanted to get out on the diamond and do his share in helping the
Randall team to win. But he could only look on and cheer with the
others.
To win or lose the first game meant much to either team. Not so much to
Boxer Hall, perhaps, as that team had run Fairview Institute a close
second for the championship, but to Randall the winning of the game
might put the necessary "snap" into the lads, while to lose it might so
discourage them that it would be well on in the season before they would
"take a brace."
So it is no wonder that there was a feeling of nervousness on the part
of the coach and the players.
The practice was over. The preliminaries had been arranged, the home
team, Randall, having the privilege of being last to bat. Langridge,
with final instructions from the coach, took his place in the box.
"Play ball!" fairly howled the umpire, and the game was on.
"Ping!" That was the sound of the bat colliding with the ball, the first
ball that Langridge threw. Describing a graceful curve, the white sphere
sailed up into the air. Ed Kerr, hoping it might be a foul, had thrown
off his mask and was wildly looking for it, but it was winging its way
toward Jerry Jackson in right field. A yell went up from the two hundred
college supporters of Boxer Hall, but it was changed to a groan when one
of the Jersey twins neatly gathered in the fly and put the runner out.
Langridge breathed a sigh of relief and struck out the next two men.
Not a man got to first on the Randall team in the initial inning. Kerr
knocked a pop fly, but it was caught by the pitcher, who repeated
Langridge's trick and sent the next two men to the bench in short order.
The next three innings saw goose eggs in the squares of both teams, the
only hitting that was done being foul tips.
"It's a pitchers' battle," began to be whispered from seat to seat, and
so it seemed. In the sixth inning Randall succeeded in getting a man to
first on balls, and then began an attempt on the part of the onlooking
students of that college to get the pitcher's "goat," which, being
interpreted, meant to "rattle" him. That he had a "glass arm" was
the mildest epithet hurled at him, but Dave Ogden, who was doing the
twirling for Boxer Hall, only smiled in a confident sort of way and
struck out the next man.
He was not so successful with Kindlings Woodhouse, and the captain
hammered out a pretty fly that was good for two bases and sent Bricktop
Molloy to third. The Randall boys were rejoicing now, for they saw a
chance to score the first run. And the run itself was brought in by the
blue-eyed and red-haired Molloy a moment later, when Phil Clinton
knocked a hot liner right between the Boxer Hall shortstop and the third
baseman. But that ended the fun, though the score was 1 to 0 in favor of
the home team.
This may have been an incentive to the visitors, for straightway they
began pounding Langridge, and when the seventh inning ended the score
was 4 to 2 in favor of Boxer Hall.
"Boys, we've got to down 'em!" said Woodhouse fiercely. "Don't let them
put the game on ice this way. Don't do it. Take a brace."
In the eighth inning it looked as if there was going to be a slump in
Randall stock. Langridge seemed to go to pieces and issued walking
passes to two men, while he was batted for a two-bagger and a three-base
hit. But with a gritting of their teeth the others rallied to his
support, and though the visitors tucked away two more runs, making the
score 6 to 2, at which their cohorts went into a fine frenzy, that was
all they could do.
"Fellows, we're going to win!" cried Captain Paul, or "Pinky" Davenport,
of the Boxers.
"Wait a bit, son," advised Kindlings dryly.
In the ending of the eighth there was a look of "do or die" about the
Randall players. Tom Parsons felt himself gripping the sides of the seat
until the board hurt his hands.
"Oh, if I could only get down there and play!" he whispered to himself.
"Why can't I? why can't I?" But he couldn't and he knew it.
Rather to their own surprise the Randall lads began finding the
ball with surprising regularity. They batted it out "for keeps," as
Molloy said, and they managed to tie the score. Then came the ever
nerve-thrilling ninth inning in a close game. By great good luck, after
he had given one man his base on balls, Langridge retired a trio in
one-two-three order, and the score still stood a tie.
"Now, fellows, slam it into them. Wallop the hide off 'em--sting
'em--souse 'em--put 'em in brine for next year!" implored Holly Cross.
"I'm first up, and I'm going to give you a correct imitation of a man
making a home run."
But he didn't. Holly struck out miserably and he went away into a far
corner and thought gloomy thoughts. Not for long, however. A resounding
crack of the bat told him some one had knocked a fly. It was Phil
Clinton, and he started for first like a deer with the hounds after it.
"My, but he can run!" exclaimed Tom in admiration. "Wouldn't he be fine
covering the gridiron with the ball tucked under his arm? Go on! go on!
That's the stuff, Phil! Pretty! pretty! That's a beaut! that's a beaut!"
Tom was on his feet yelling at the top of his voice. So were hundreds of
other lads and girls also. But the Boxer third baseman was right near
the ball. He gathered it in and hurled it to first. It would have been
all over with Phil, in spite of his magnificent run, except that the
first baseman missed it, and Phil, amid a riot of cheers, kept on to
second.
That sealed the fate of the Boxers. They "slumped" and went to pieces
badly. The Randall lads garnered a run and so they won the game--the
first of the season--by a score of 7 to 6.
And then what cheering there was!
CHAPTER X
A COIL OF WIRE
"Bonfires to-night, fellows--bonfires multiplied by seven and one more!"
cried Captain Woodhouse as he gathered the victorious nine about him and
tried to hug each member. "Well played, my hearties! Yo ho! and a heave,
yo ho! You shall dine sumptuously this day, an it please ye!"
"Hold hard there!" came the laughing but calming voice of the coach. "No
breaking of training just because you've won the first game. Not much!
You've got to buckle down harder than ever from now until school
closes."
"Not even a cigarette?" asked Holly Cross, with a wink at his chums.
"Or an ice cream soda?" added Bricktop, his blue eyes twinkling.
"Go on," answered the coach with another laugh, not taking the trouble
to return an answer to so obvious a question. "They are going to cheer
you. Get ready to give them a yell in return."
The defeated team had gathered together. There was an air of sullenness
about the members at losing the game, but this mood quickly passed under
the entreaties of Pinky Davenport, who was a sportsman and "a good
loser," as he besought his men to "perk up and wallop 'em next time." He
called for three cheers for the victors, and they were followed by the
Boxer Hall yell.
Back came three ringing acclamations and a "tiger" from Woodhouse and
his mates, and their yell, as weird a combination of words and syllables
as could well be devised, brought the whole concourse of spectators
standing up in acknowledgment. Then came more cheering, and the nines
disappeared into the dressing-rooms beneath the grandstand, while the
crowds filed away.
"Well," remarked Sid as he walked along with Tom a little later, "it was
a glorious victory, as the poem says. I don't exactly remember what it
was all about nor how we did it, but ''twas a glorious victory.'"
"Now you're talking," was Phil Clinton's opinion. "Eh, Tommy, my lad?"
Tom was rather silent. He had cheered the nine until his throat ached,
but somehow there was to him a hollowness in the winning.
"Too bad you couldn't play, old man," commented Sid. "I was almost
hoping Langridge would strain his arm, and then----"
"Don't!" exclaimed Tom quickly. "That's bad luck, and, what's worse,
Sid, it's treason."
"Then give me liberty or buy me a seltzer lemonade, Patrick Henry!"
declaimed Phil. "Honest now, Tom, weren't you just aching to get out and
play?"
"I was," replied Tom so earnestly that the others looked curiously at
him. "I never wanted so much in my life to get into a game. Why, I'd
even been glad to act as backstop. But it's all right," he added
quickly. "It was a great game, and maybe I'll have a chance to play next
year if I live that long," and he laughed, but there was no mirth in it.
"Mighty pretty lot of girls at the game," observed Sid, as if to change
the subject.
"That's what," agreed Tom, glad to get on a more congenial topic.
"Oh, wait until we play Fairview Institute," said Phil.
"Why?" from Tom.
"Why, that's co-ed, you know--girl students as well as boys. And, say,
maybe there aren't some stunners among 'em! They take in all the games
at home and some that aren't, and they have flags and a yell of their
own. They know how to yell, too. I was over to a ball game there last
year, before I thought of coming to Randall, and say, it was immense.
There was one----"
"Cut it out, if it's about a girl," advised Sid. "When you get on the
dame question, you don't know where to stop. Sufficient to say that
there are some."
"Yes, and then some more," added Phil. "Wait until we go there or they
come here. Then you'll see something worth seeing."
"May the day come soon," spoke Tom with a laugh. "I sat next to a mighty
pretty girl to-day all right. She had a flag of Randall colors, and when
we won she waved it so hard she nearly put my eye out."
"Of course you made a fuss," said Phil with a grin.
"Of course. I turned to apologize and so did she, and I knocked her hat
all squeegee and she blushed and I got red, and then--well, I up and
asked her if she had a brother at college."
"That's going some," commented Sid. "What did she say? Did you learn her
name? Where does she live?"
"Fair and softly, little one," advised Tom, with a sort of assumed
superciliousness. "Trust your Uncle Dudley for that."
He walked on a few paces.
"Well?" demanded Phil.
"Is that all?" cried Sid.
"No," said Tom, provokingly mysterious about it.
"Go on. Tell a fellow, do."
"What's the use?" asked Tom. "I saw her walking off after the game with
another fellow."
"Who?" demanded his two chums.
"Langridge."
"With him?" exclaimed Sid, and there was a new meaning in his tones.
"Who was the girl?"
"Her name was Madge Tyler," replied Tom slowly.
"Madge Tyler!" repeated Sid. "Why, her brother used to go here. He
graduated two years ago. He was a crackajack first baseman. And so Madge
Tyler is going with Langridge?" he questioned.
"Or he with her," said Tom dryly. "I don't see that it makes much
difference. Why, hasn't he got a right to?"
"Oh, I s'pose if you put it that way, he has," went on Sid. "Only----"
and he stopped abruptly.
"Only what?" asked Tom.
"Only--nothing. Say, here's a chance to buy me that seltzer lemonade. I
think you ought to stand treat for Phil and me, Tom, seeing that if it
hadn't been for us the game would have been lost and you wouldn't have
met Miss Madge."
"I don't know that it has benefited me much," replied Tom.
"What do you mean, you old cart horse?" asked Phil, thumping his friend
on the back. "Seeing the game won or meeting the pretty girl? I believe
you said she was pretty."
"I didn't say so, but she is--very. But I meant about meeting her.
Langridge seems to have a mortgage in that direction, I fancy."
"He makes me sick!" exclaimed Phil. "He and the airs he gives himself.
But come on in here," and he turned toward a drug store. "I'm like a
lime kiln, I'm so warm. It's your treat, Tom."
"All right, I'm willing."
"Did Miss Madge ask you to call?" inquired Phil as the three were
wending their way toward college again.
"Yes."
"You don't say so! Well, it seems to me that for a new acquaintance you
rushed matters fairly well."
"I forgot to add," said Tom slowly, "that I knew her before--back in
Northville where I live. She moved away from there some years ago and I
didn't recognize her at first. But she knew me at once."
"Wow! You old coffee percolator!" shouted Sid. "Why didn't you dish that
out to us first, instead of letting us think you made an impression
simply by the aid of your manly figure? So you knew her of old. Ha! ha!
Likewise ho! ho! I begin to smell a concealed rodent in the woodpile."
"You didn't give me a chance," was Tom's quiet answer, and then he fell
to talking about the game until he and Sid got to their room. Later
there were bonfires and fun galore in honor of the victory.
Coach Lighton gave the nine no rest. Early the next Monday afternoon, as
soon as lessons were over, he had them out on the diamond playing
against the scrub. Somewhat to the surprise of members of the second
team as well as that of the 'varsity, Tom Parsons struck out an unusual
number of players.
"You fellows will have to bat better than this," growled Langridge when
practice was over and the 'varsity game had been saved merely by a
fumble on the part of a scrub fielder. "This won't do."
"Physician, heal thyself," quoted Captain Woodhouse with a grim smile.
"You struck out twice, Langridge."
"I know it, but batting isn't my best specialty and it is for some of
you fellows."
"True enough," admitted Kindlings gravely, "and we must brace up a bit
for the game next Saturday with Fairview."
"The captain is right, boys," added the coach. "You must do some hard
hitting."
"Or else Tom Parsons mustn't pitch so well," said Phil Clinton in a low
voice to Sid. "How about it?"
"That's right. He's improving wonderfully. Langridge will have to look
to his pitching arm."
At that moment the wealthy youth passed by Phil and Sid. He heard what
they said, and if they could have seen his face then they would have
been somewhat puzzled at the look on it. But neither Tom nor any of his
friends saw.
It was the next day after the scrub game that as Tom was alone in his
room, "boning" away on Latin, a knock sounded on the door.
"Come!" he cried, and, much to his surprise, Langridge entered.
"You're becoming a regular greasy dig, aren't you?" he asked pleasantly.
"Well, I've got to do some studying, you know. That's what I came here
for."
"Yes, I know and all that sort of thing, but if you're going in for
athletics you can't pound away at your books too hard."
"Oh, I guess what pounding I do won't hurt me," and Tom laid aside the
volume, the while wondering why Langridge had called on him. Tom
distinctly was not in the rich youth's set.
"I hope not," and the other's manner was becoming more and more cordial.
"But I say, Parsons, don't you want to help us get one in on the sophs?"
"Sure. You can always count on me. What is it this time?"
"Well, you know the little open pavilion down near the river?"
"The one near the boathouse?"
"That same."
"Sure I know it."
"Well, you know according to ancient and revered college tradition that
is sacred to the sophomores. None other but members of the second-year
class may go there. If one of us freshmen is caught there it means a
ducking, to say the least."
"So I've heard."
"Well, Kerr and I were in there the other day, for we heard that the
sophs were off on a little racket, and we didn't think we'd be disturbed.
We had a couple of girls there and were having a little confab when along
came Gladdus and Battersby, grabbed us before we knew it and chucked us
into the H{2}O, whence we floundered like drowned rats."
"Yes, I heard about it."
"So did the whole college, I guess. Now Kerr and I feel that not only
have we been insulted, but that the whole freshman class has."
"I agree to that."
"And will you help us to get even?"
"Sure. What you going to do?"
"You'll see later. What I need now is a coil of wire. I want to know if
you'll get it for me."
"Certainly, but why can't you get it for yourself?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I've got about all the marks I can stand
this term, and merely because I happened to play an innocent trick in
class to-day I'm forbidden to leave the college grounds for a week. Just
when I want to go to town, too. So I've got to get some one else to get
the wire for me, and I thought you would. I'll pay for it, of course."
"Sure I'll get it," agreed Tom, not stopping to think that Kerr, the
special chum of Langridge, might have acted for his friend. "What kind
do you want?"
"I'll tell you. Here's the money," and Langridge handed over a bill,
also giving Tom a memorandum of the kind of wire wanted and where to get
it in Haddonfield.
"And one more thing," the other youth added as he prepared to take his
leave.
"What's that?"
"Don't, for the life of you, tell a soul that you got the wire for me. I
want it kept a dead secret. The trick will be all the better then. Will
you promise?"
"I will."
"On your honor as a freshman of Randall College?"
Tom wondered at the other's insistence.
"Of course I will. Shall I swear?" and Tom laughed.
"No, your word is enough," spoke Langridge significantly. "Have the wire
by to-night, and we'll teach the sophs a lesson they won't soon
forget."
CHAPTER XI
AN ELECTRIC SHOCK
Late that same afternoon Tom, having gone to town alone, that he might
accomplish his mission unobserved, came back with a coil of telegraph
wire concealed under his sweater at his waist. He smuggled it to
Langridge's room without being seen.
"That's the stuff, old man," cried Langridge heartily, but there was an
air of patronizing superiority in his manner that Tom did not like.
Still, he reasoned, the other could not rid himself of an inborn habit
so easily, and it really seemed, in spite of the fact that Tom might be
regarded as a rival of Langridge, that the latter was doing his best to
be friendly.
"I s'pose it wouldn't do to ask what's up, would it?" inquired Tom as he
was about to leave.
"Hardly," replied Langridge with what he meant to be a genial smile. "It
might get out, you know. But you can be in at the death, so to speak.
The whole freshman class will assemble at the boathouse about nine.
There'll be a full moon and we can have a good view of the sophs'
pavilion."
"Are they going to be there?"
"I hope so. In fact I'm counting on it. This is the night of their
annual moonlight song festival. They gather in and about the pavilion
and make the night hideous with snatches of melody. They're rotten
singers--the sophs this year--but that is neither here nor there. The
point is that they'll be there, and it's up to us freshmen to give 'em a
little surprise party."
"I suppose you're going to arrange the wire so they can't get into the
pavilion without cutting it," suggested Tom, "or else put it across the
path to trip them up."
"Er--yes--something like that," replied Langridge hastily. "Oh, by the
way, have you a knife? I lost mine out rowing the other day. I'll give
it back to you to-morrow."
Tom passed over his knife, a good-sized one, with his name engraved on
the handle. His father had given it to him.
"Don't lose it," he cautioned. "I think a great deal of it."
"I'll not," promised Langridge. "Now don't forget to be on hand."
"I'll be there to see the fun."
"And maybe you'll see more than you bargain for," whispered Langridge
as Tom went out. There was a curious look on the face of the 'varsity
pitcher.
One by one, by twos and threes or in small groups, silent figures stole
away from dormitories that night and gathered about the pavilion or the
boathouse, which was not far from it. To the first place went the
sophomores, bent on having their annual frolic of song. To the second
rendezvous traveled the freshmen, but they went more silently, for they
did not want their natural enemies to learn of their presence.
The sophomores, however, were on their guard. From time immemorial it
had been the custom for the first-year class to endeavor to break up the
song fest of their predecessors, and it was the function of the first
years to do this in as novel a manner as possible.
Tradition had it that various methods had been used, such as setting
fire to the pavilion, digging pits in the paths that led to it and
covering the holes with leaves and grass, laying a line of hose to the
place, so that at an opportune moment the singers would be drenched and
routed. The latter was a favorite plan and most successful.
But to-night a more strict guard than usual had been kept over the
battle-scarred pavilion. All that day a committee had been on the watch
so that it was thought impossible that any hose could be used or any
pits dug.
Now the sophomores were beginning to gather in and around the small
shelter. They were jubilant, for they began to think they had outwitted
their never-ceasing enemies.
Meanwhile the freshmen were not idle. In large numbers they had quietly
gathered at the boathouse, in the dark shadows of which they remained in
hiding, waiting for the opening of the singing and the consequent
breaking up of the sophomore body.
"What's the game?" asked Sid of Tom as those two and Phil Clinton made
their way to the rendezvous. "Water pipes, fire or something brand new?"
"You can search me," was Tom's non-committal answer. "I hope it's
something new. There doesn't seem to be any provisions for a bonfire and
none of us swiped the fire hose."
"Langridge and his committee have it in charge," said Phil. "There's
some secrecy about it, and very properly, too. Last year, I understand,
it leaked out and the fun was spoiled."
Tom did not reply, but he wondered what use Langridge was going to make
of the wire.
"They ought to start soon now," whispered Phil. "There's a good crowd of
them there."
"Yes, and they've got scouts out all around," added Sid as he and his
chums saw a number of shadowy figures patroling the stretch around the
pavilion. "They're not going to be caught unawares."
"I don't see how we're going to break 'em up," remarked Phil.
"You wait and you'll see," exclaimed Langridge, who was moving about
among the freshmen. "Say, Ed, you'd better go now and light the fuse."
"Is it an explosion?" asked Sid eagerly.
"Better be careful," cautioned Phil.
Tom's heart was thumping. He began to see the use to which the wire
might be put, and he was afraid lest he had taken part in some dangerous
prank. If Langridge had planned to explode a mine under the pavilion,
some one might be injured.
"There'll be no explosion, only an explosion of wrath pretty soon,"
replied Langridge. "Go ahead, Kerr. Let 'em sing one song and they'll
think we've called it off. Then let it go."
Kerr hurried off, keeping in the shadows. No sooner had he started than
a movement was noticeable among the sophomores, groups of whom could
easily be seen now, as the moon was well up.
Then, on the stillness of the night, there broke a song. It was an old
melody, sacred to Randall, and, in spite of being rendered by hilarious
students, it was well done.
"That's not half bad," commented Phil. "They've got some good members
for the glee club there."
"It's punk!" sneered Langridge. "Wait until we have a song fest. We'll
make them feel sick!"
The melody continued, and coming as it did from the distance, while all
about was the wondrous beauty of the moon, the effect produced on Tom
Parsons was one of distinct pleasure. It was like being at some play.
"What a pity," he thought, "to spoil it all! What brutes we college
fellows are--sometimes. I like to listen to that."
The song was softer now, and then it broke forth into a full chorus,
well rendered.
"It's a shame to break it up," reasoned Tom. Then a class feeling
overcame him. After all, the sophomores were their traditional enemies,
and college tradition demanded that they disperse the gathering.
"Kerr ought to be there now," whispered Langridge. "The fuse will burn
for two minutes."
"Fuse--fuse," repeated Phil. "It _must_ be an explosion. You want to be
careful, Langridge."
"Oh, I know what I'm doing," was the answer. "But mind now, no squealing,
whatever happens."
"You needn't say that," was Phil's quick retort. "We're Randall College
freshmen," as if that was all that was necessary.
Kerr glided in from somewhere.
"Well?" asked Langridge.
"It's all right."
The sophomores had started another song. They were about through the
second verse when there came a series of sudden yells from the pavilion.
There were cries of pain, and Langridge, in the midst of the freshmen,
called out:
"That's it! That's the stuff! Rah! rah! sophs! This time we break you
up. Cheer, boys, cheer!"
The freshmen set up an exultant cry as it became evident that, in some
way, the gleeful singing of the second-year lads had been stopped. There
was an excited movement in the pavilion, yet the waiting freshmen could
not see that anything had taken place.
Then came a cry--two exclamations--louder and more anguished than any
that had preceded. There was a yell--a protesting yell--and then some
one in the pavilion shouted:
"Cut it, fellows! The hand railing is charged with electricity!"
"Three cheers for the freshmen!" called Langridge, and the response came
spontaneously, for his mates knew that they had triumphed over the
sophomores.
Suddenly above the confused cheering and shouting there came another
cry.
"Help me, fellows! Oh, help--help!" screamed some one inside the
pavilion.
There was a confused movement among the singers. Something seemed to
have happened--something serious. The freshmen stopped their cheering
and crowded up. A big sophomore broke through the throng and dashed
toward the college.
"What's the matter?" called Tom, and he had an uneasy feeling as he
asked the question.
"Matter? It's you confounded freshmen, that's what's the matter! Gladdus
and Battersby have been knocked unconscious."
"Unconscious?"
"Yes, by a powerful current of electricity. Get out of my way, fresh, or
I'll knock you down! I'm going for a doctor. Some of you had better
notify the proctor," he added to a few of his classmates who followed
him on the run. "This is serious business."
"Come on, fellows," advised Langridge. "It's all right. We broke up the
pavilion meeting all right."
"But maybe some one is seriously hurt," said Sid.
"Nonsense, it was only a current from the incandescent light lamps. It
couldn't hurt them. Come on, take a sneak away from here. We've had our
fun. And mind, everybody keep his mouth shut," and Langridge disappeared
in the shadows of the trees, while ahead of him panted several sophomores
on their way to summon a physician.
CHAPTER XII
TOM DOESN'T TELL
Tom and Sid hurried along in the midst of the freshmen, Phil Clinton
trailing after them. The three found themselves in a little group,
comparatively alone.
"Maybe we'd better do something," proposed Tom.
"No, best not to interfere," advised Sid. "Let them manage it."
"But if Gladdus and Battersby are hurt----"
"Come on," urged Phil. "We're likely to be caught any minute. Proc. Zane
will be out after all that racket. Let's get to our rooms and lay low."
When Tom and Sid were in their apartment the scrub pitcher turned to his
chum and asked:
"Did you know what was in the wind to-night, Sid?"
"No. I left it all to Langridge and Kerr. But I guess it's all right.
Why?"
"Oh, nothing much. But if some one is hurt----"
"Nonsense, don't worry. Why, that's nothing to what other classes have
done. I remember hearing a story of how----"
But Sid's yarn was interrupted by a tap at the door, and Ford Fenton
slid in. There was rather a frightened look on his face.
"What's up, Fenton?" asked Sid.
"I don't know, but something is. They've carried Gladdus and Battersby
into the infirmary, and there's a lot of scurrying about. They've sent
for a doctor from town, and Moses and Proc. Zane have gone down to the
pavilion."
"What for?" asked Tom.
"Blessed if I know. Say, but we broke up their singing all right, didn't
we? It was great. My uncle says----"
"Shut up!" cried Tom, and there was such unusual irritability in his
tone that the other two looked at him in surprise. He saw it and went
on: "I--I didn't exactly mean that, Fenton, old chap, but I'm--I'm all
upset."
"For cats' sake, what about?" demanded Sid. "You don't mean to say
you're worried because our class knocked out a couple of greasy old
sophs?"
"Well, I--er----"
There came another interruption, and a lad entered.
"Here's the Snail," exclaimed Sid as Sam Looper crawled in and closed
the door softly behind him. "He can find out what's up. How about it,
Snail--any news?"
Sam blinked his eyes as if the light hurt him.
"I've been around--around," he said slowly, waving his hand to take in
the whole compass of the college and grounds. "I saw 'em carry the two
sophs away. They're badly burned and shocked. Langridge is a fool!" They
had seldom seen the Snail so excited. "He went and strung a wire from
the electric light circuit to the iron hand rail around the pavilion.
Only he made a mistake in the connections and got the wires crossed with
the powerful arc circuit. The incandescent is only a hundred and ten
volts, while the arc is twenty-four hundred. Some difference. Only that
they got a small part of it, they'd be dead instead of merely badly
shocked."
Tom Parsons half uttered an exclamation.
"What's the matter?" asked Sid quickly.
"Oh, nothing. Go on, Snail."
"That's about all," came from Sam. "Pitchfork--he's a sort of doctor,
you know--he's working over 'em now. I guess they'll be all right."
Tom started to leave the room.
"Where you going?" inquired Sid.
"Out. I--I must see what's happened!"
"You stay here!" ordered Sid, half fiercely. "You'll be nabbed in a
minute. Proc. Zane has his scouts out, waiting to corral everybody.
Here, Snail, you go. You know how to keep out of sight."
"Sure," agreed Sam, who liked nothing better than to prowl around in the
dark. "Wait here and I'll sneak back."
"Be careful," cautioned Ford.
The Snail slowly winked his half-shut eyes, but did not speak. Then he
closed the door softly and they heard him tiptoeing down the corridor.
"The Snail will find out," almost whispered Sid. Somehow they all
appeared to be under a strain. Tom was pacing back and forth in the
room. Ford stood with his back to the mantel, his hands clasped behind
him. Sid tried to look at a book, but he took no sense of the words.
Finally, with an exclamation, he threw it on the sofa. Ford quietly left
the room and a little later Phil Clinton came in. Sid and Tom saw that
he had heard all.
Tom ceased his nervous walk and went over to the sofa. He sat down on
it, the ancient piece of furniture creaking with his weight. But he was
not there half a minute before he arose and began pacing up and down
again. Then he tried an easy chair, whence there floated up a little
cloud of dust from the old cushions. There was silence in the apartment,
broken only by the ticking of a fussy little alarm clock. It seemed to
double up on the number of seconds allotted to a minute. The three could
hear each other's breathing. They were under some strain, though, for
the life of them, neither Sid nor Phil could tell what it was.
"Why doesn't some one say something?" asked Phil at length, and it was
as if some one had broken the silence in a church.
Sid picked up the book he had cast aside. Then he threw it down again,
for there sounded the noise of a person coming along the corridor. The
Snail came in.
"Well?" gasped Tom, and it was as if he had shouted it, though he spoke
in a low, tense voice.
"They're in a bad way," said the Snail slowly, "but there's a chance to
pull them through. There's going to be an investigation, I heard.
Langridge is likely to----"
There came a knock on the door. The lads started guiltily. Phil, being
nearest the portal, opened it, though if it was one of the proctor's
"scouts," as was likely, he would be "up" for breaking one of the
college rules about being in another room after the prescribed hours. It
was a "scout," Mr. Snell, a sort of upper janitor.
"Mr. Parsons," said the scout deferentially--and he took no notice
of the presence of the Snail or Phil, for which they were duly
grateful--"Mr. Parsons, the proctor would like to see you in his
office."
"Now?" asked Tom, and his heart began to beat double strokes.
"Now, yes, sir."
Without a look at his chums Tom went out and to the office. He was
afraid lest he might betray the secret he feared would be disclosed at
any moment--the secret of the coil of wire.
"Mr. Parsons," began Proctor Zane slowly when the door had closed behind
Tom, "there has been a serious accident to-night."
Tom bowed. He could not trust his voice.
"Two students were badly hurt and the results may be lasting. They are
only just now out of danger."
Once more Tom bowed. He could not speak. The beating of his heart was
choking him.
"As a rule," went on the proctor judicially, "I take no notice of
the--er--the affairs between the different classes or student bodies.
But this time I am obliged to. Dr. Churchill and myself have made an
examination of the pavilion where this outrage occurred. We discovered
the wires running from the electric light circuit to the hand rail. We
discovered where a spring connection had been made, so that, by the
burning away of a fuse, the parts of the spring closed, the wires came
in contact and the current filled the hand rail. We also discovered
something else."
He paused, and Tom, for the first time, looked the proctor full in the
face. Mr. Zane held out a small object.
"This knife was found near where the wires were fastened to the railing,"
he said. "It has your name on it. Is it yours?"
"Yes, sir," replied Tom.
"You took part in this affair?"
"I am a freshman."
"That is answer enough. Did you attach the wires?"
"No, and I had nothing to do with that part of it."
"Your knife would seem to indicate that you had."
No answer from Tom.
"Did you use your knife to attach the wires?"
"No, sir."
"Do you know who did?"
"I think I do."
"Will you tell?"
Tom could almost hear his heart beating. There was a singing in his
ears. Then he answered:
"No. I cannot tell, Mr. Zane. I--I----"
"That will do," said the proctor gravely. "I did not expect you would
tell."
Tom turned and made his way from the room. There was a mist before his
eyes. There came back to him the promise he had made to Langridge. On
his honor as a freshman he had agreed not to give information. When he
gave the promise he had not known how serious it would be. But,
nevertheless, it was a promise.
Tom stumbled into his room. The Snail and Phil were gone. Sid sat with
the light turned low. He jumped up as his chum came in.
"Tom," he cried, "what's the matter?"
"Nothing," was the answer in a dull, spiritless tone. Tom threw himself
into a chair. The fussy little clock ticked away. Half an hour passed
and not a word was spoken.
"You'd better go to bed, old man," said Sid gently. "It'll be all right
to-morrow."
Without a word Tom began to undress. The light was turned out. Sid was
dozing off when he heard his chum tossing restlessly on his bed.
"Tom," he called through the darkness, "can I help you?"
"No," came the answer, and then Tom lay quiet. But he did not sleep.
CHAPTER XIII
A GIRL AND A GAME
There was a more complete investigation the next day. The report was
also circulated that the two sophomores were not so badly injured as had
at first been feared. But there was something in the air which showed
that stringent measures were likely to be taken by the faculty.
Dr. Churchill was ten minutes late in opening chapel that morning, and
there was much stately moving to and fro on the part of the instructors.
On the face of Professor Emerson Tines there was a look of satisfaction,
as if he was glad that some one had gotten into trouble.
"Look at Pitchfork!" said Sid to Tom, but Tom's face had not lost its
anxious look.
"For Heaven's sake, cheer up!" whispered Phil Clinton. "They'll think
you did the whole business if they see your face, Tom."
Dr. Churchill made an unusual prayer that morning. Though he did not
directly refer to the happening of the previous night, it was in his
petition, and many a freshman, impressed by the solemn words, then and
there resolved to abjure in the future unseemly pranks and to become a
"grind."
"The freshman class will remain after chapel this morning," announced
the venerable head of Randall, and as the other classes filed out there
were commiserating looks cast at the unlucky first-years by the juniors
and seniors and vindictive glances bestowed by the sophomores.
The examination was a long and searching one. Tom was questioned at
length, but all he would admit was that he took part in the affair,
though he stated that he had had nothing to do with fixing the wires.
Nor did he tell of having brought the coil to Langridge. His knife was
damaging evidence against him, and he was content to let it stand as
such. Kerr manfully admitted lighting the fuse which sprung the wires
together and sent the current sizzling into the hand rail, but he would
go no further nor tell who had strung the conductors.
The faculty dismissed the class and the instructors went into executive
session.
"Maybe we'll all be in for it," predicted Phil as the lads strolled off
to their classrooms. "They may suspend us all for a week."
"I don't believe they'd do that," was Sid's opinion. "They may forbid
any of us taking part in athletics, though."
"Yes, they might do that," added Fenton. "My uncle says----"
The boys all stopped and looked at him. No one spoke a word. Fenton
squirmed under their unflinching gaze.
"Well--well," he began hesitatingly, "he ought to know, for he was a
coach here----"
"Yes, and you're a regular trolley car, with an automatic gong that
rings up the same thing every time," exclaimed Langridge. "They wouldn't
dare keep us out of athletics for such a little joke as that. Why, the
whole student body would be up in arms. The ball team would go to
pieces, and we'd lose the championship. They wouldn't dare."
"Glad you think so," remarked Holly Cross calmly. "But I can see us
giving a good imitation of a lot of fellows in trouble. Maybe we--that
is, whoever strung those wires, for I don't know who it was--maybe we
went a little too far. If I'd have known what was up, I'd have made a
kick."
"Oh, is that so?" sneered Langridge. But he did not admit his part in
the prank and he let Tom suffer for him, for that afternoon it was
announced that Tom was to be suspended for two weeks and Kerr for three.
Every other member of the freshman class was barred from leaving the
college grounds for a week.
There arose a mighty protest over this, for there was a game scheduled
with Fairview Institute at the end of the week, and if the class was
kept within bounds it meant that many of the nine could not play and
that all the freshmen would be barred from witnessing the second of the
championship struggles, as the contest was to take place at Fairview.
Then the faculty reconsidered the matter, being "almost human," as Phil
said, and, with the possible exception of Professor Tines, having once
been young and fond of sport themselves. They made a new ruling: That
the class was to keep within bounds until the day of the game, when all
would be allowed to attend save Tom and Kerr. In their case no exception
would be made.
There was more objecting, but the ruling stood. It meant that Tom could
not pitch on the scrub and that Kerr could not catch on the 'varsity,
whereat there was much anguish of soul, for the Fairview team was a hard
proposition, and it would take the best that was in the Randall lads to
beat them. But there was no help for it.
Nor did Tom reproach Langridge for having gotten him into the trouble.
Tom had hoped that his rival would confess and shoulder the blame, in
which case, merely having brought the wire on a supposition that it was
to be used for a comparatively harmless prank, Tom's case would not have
been nearly so bad. But Langridge said nothing. Sid heard somehow of the
'varsity pitcher's part in the trick. Then Tom's chum expressed the
belief that Langridge had deliberately acted so as to get Tom into
trouble because the rich lad had feared the newcomer might supplant him
as pitcher.
But Tom would not hear of this. He took his suspension grimly, silently,
and though barred from class, he kept up his studies; nor did he neglect
his practice of throwing curves, Kerr gladly agreeing to catch for him,
for the two were outcasts from the diamond, Tom not even being allowed
to play on the scrub.
"But two weeks and three weeks can't last forever," declared Kerr,
"though I sure would like to see the Fairview game."
Saturday came and with it a feeling of apprehension on the part of the
Randall students, for various reports had come to them of the prowess of
their rivals. The team made ready to depart for Fairview Institute. They
were to go by rail to the college that was fifteen miles away. Tom and
Kerr, about the only ones in the athletic set who remained at Randall,
looked wistfully at their departing comrades.
And then, so suddenly that it seemed like a miracle, their sorrow was
turned to joy, for the proctor sought them out on the campus, where the
team was being cheered previous to departure, and announced in the case
of the two suspended students that they might go to the game, but take
no part, even in an emergency. They gladly accepted the terms. Dr.
Churchill's heart had softened at the last moment.
"Girls, girls, girls!" exclaimed Tom as he walked out on the field
with Sid and Phil and saw the grandstand at Fairview massed with gay
femininity. "And all pretty too!"
"Of course," agreed Sid. "What did I tell you? But what interests me
more is the other team. Jove! but they are quick," for the Fairview
students were batting and catching in a manner to provoke admiration.
There were shrill cries of encouragement from the girls and more hoarse
shouts from the male students, for at Fairview the sexes were about
evenly divided, both boys and girls taking equal interest in sports.
Coach Lighton shook his head dubiously as he saw the Randall boys stream
out on the diamond for practice.
"I hope Cross will appreciate the seriousness of the matter," he said.
"He can't begin to touch Kerr at catching, yet he's the best one we can
put in."
"Yes," agreed Kindlings. "But maybe we'll make out. I hope so."
Kerr was as nervous as a girl at not being able to play. He paced up and
down the coaching lines until Kindlings, fearing he would disconcert
the team, sent him to the grandstand, where Tom had already gone.
Well, that game with Fairview is ancient history now. Sufficient to say
that after a good beginning, when they gathered three runs the first
inning and held their opponents down to a goose egg, principally through
the pitching of Langridge, the Randall lads went to pieces and the
Fairviews ran away with them. Langridge was finally fairly batted out of
the box and the final score was 16 to 4 in favor of the co-educational
institution.
It was a sorely disappointed nine that filed off the diamond, nor could
the generous cheers of the victors apply any balm to the wounds.
"Such pitching!" grumbled Phil as he was in the dressing-room. "That
lost us the game as much as anything else. Langridge didn't seem to be
in form."
The pitcher overheard him.
"I say, Clinton," he called out sneeringly, "you mind your own affairs.
I train as good as you, and I didn't miss a fly that came right into my
hands," for Phil had thus offended, letting in a run.
"I've seen you pitch better," spoke Sid quietly, for he and several
others were "sore" at Langridge, who plainly enough had not been in his
usual good form.
"Well, maybe. I can't be on edge all the while," and the pitcher laughed
nervously.
Tom, in the grandstand, was making his way down amid a bevy of pretty
girls and wishing he had some one who would introduce him to them when
he heard a voice call his name. He turned quickly and saw Madge Tyler in
a bewilderingly pretty dress, her hair framing her face in a most
bewitching manner, while her eyes were bright with the joy of youth and
the fire thereof.
"Too bad, wasn't it?" she asked sympathetically, holding out her hand to
Tom. "I was so sorry for Mr. Langridge!"
"Why Langridge?" asked Tom quickly.
"Oh, well, because the pitcher seems to have to work so hard, and then
to be defeated----"
"Yes, it was unpleasant--the defeat," agreed Tom. "But are you going
out?"
"Yes, I came over with friends to see the game, but I seem to have
missed them in the crush."
"Then let me be your escort back to Haddonfield?" asked Tom. "I'm rather
by my lonesome, too."
"Oh, thank you. I dare say----"
She paused and looked over the moving mass of students, boys and girls
who were laughing happily or walking away dejectedly according to the
colors they wore. Tom followed her gaze. He saw Langridge approaching
and he knew that Miss Tyler had seen him also.
"There's Mr. Langridge!" she exclaimed. "I wonder how he feels? He
promised to meet me after the game."
Tom took a sudden resolve. He did not stop to think that it might be a
foolish one. He was actuated solely by what he argued to himself was a
platonic interest in the pretty girl at his side. He had known her in
childhood, he knew her people, and they were old friends of his folks.
Of late Tom had heard certain rumors about Langridge, nothing serious as
rumors about college students go, but enough to make Tom glad that, in
the case of his sisters, Langridge could not get to know them. It was
therefore with somewhat the same feeling that he might have warned his
sisters that he spoke to Miss Tyler.
"You and Mr. Langridge are quite friendly," he said in what he intended
to be a light tone.
"Oh, yes," came the frank answer. "I like him immensely. I like all
college boys--when they're nice," she finished with a little laugh.
Tom's face was grave, and she saw it. With a girl's intuition she felt
that there was something in the air, and, girl-like, she wanted to know
what it was.
"Shouldn't I like him?" she demanded with an arch look.
"Well--er--that is--no, Miss Madge!" burst out Tom, speaking more loudly
than he had intended to. "You won't mind me speaking about it, for I've
known you so many years."
"Oh, I'm not so ancient as all that!" exclaimed the girl rather pertly.
"No," admitted Tom, and he felt that he was getting into deep water and
beyond his depth. But he would not retreat and floundered on: "No, but
I--I know your folks wouldn't like you to go with Langridge--that is,
too much, you know. He does not bear a very good----"
There was a hand on Tom's shoulder, and he felt himself wheeled suddenly
around, to be confronted by Langridge. The pitcher had brushed his
uniform and looked particularly handsome in a well-fitting suit, while
there was a healthy glow to his face.
"Perhaps you'd better repeat over again, Parsons," he said somewhat
sternly, "what you were just saying to Miss Tyler about me. I didn't
catch it all!"
"I--er--I----" Tom was choking, and the girl bravely came to his relief.
"We were just talking about you," she admitted with a nervous little
laugh. "I was saying how disheartening it must be to pitch through a
hard game and then lose it. And Tom--I mean Mr. Parsons, but I always
call him Tom, for I've known him so long--he was just saying--er--he was
just saying that you were rather--well, rather a flirt. I believe that
was it, wasn't it, Tom?" and she looked quickly at him, but there was
meaning in her glance.
Langridge kept his hand on Tom's shoulder and the two looked each other
straight in the face unflinchingly. Miss Tyler lost some of her blushes
and her cheeks began to pale. Then Tom spoke quietly.
"If you wish to know exactly what I said," was his quiet but tense
answer, "I will tell you--later," and he swung on his heel and started
down the grandstand steps.
For an instant Langridge stared after him. Then, with a little laugh, he
turned to Miss Tyler.
"Poor Parsons is sore because he's been suspended," he said. "He can't
even pitch on the scrub. But how pretty you're looking to-day, Miss
Madge."
"Miss Tyler, please," she corrected him.
"Mayn't I even call you Miss Madge after I've been defeated in the
game?" he pleaded, and he looked at her boldly. "It would be--er--well,
sort of soothing to me."
"Would it?" and she laughed lightly.
"It surely would," and he bent closer toward her.
"Well, then, you may--but only on occasions of defeat."
"Then I'm going to lose every game," he added promptly as he turned at
her side and walked down the steps.
Tom Parsons, strolling alone over the now vacant diamond, saw them
together, and there was a strange feeling in his heart.
CHAPTER XIV
TOM'S CURVES
There was lively practice of the Randall nine the following week, and
Coach Lighton said some things that hurt, but they were needed. Nor was
Langridge spared, though he affected not to mind the sharp admonition
that he must pitch more consistently.
The nine played a game Saturday with an outside team, more for practice
than anything else, and won it "hands down," as Holly Cross said. But,
after all, it was not much credit to the 'varsity, for their opponents
were not as good as the college scrub. Holly caught, the period of
Kerr's suspension not being up yet.
Tom kept at his practice, but he was more than glad when he could resume
his class work again and take his place on the second nine.
"Now we'll tackle work together," said the coach one afternoon to Tom,
for Mr. Lighton had not been allowed to give him directions during the
suspension weeks. "I hope you haven't gone stale, Parsons."
"I hope not. Kerr and I have been sort of practicing together."
"That's good. I hope, before the season is over, that you and he will go
into a regular game together. If not, you'll have your 'innings' next
year, if you progress as you have been doing."
Tom was glad of the praise, but he would have been more glad of a chance
to get on the 'varsity. Still he determined to do his best on the scrub,
but it was hard and rather thankless work.
Mr. Lighton put him through a hard course of "sprouts" that afternoon.
With some members of the scrub to bat against him, Tom sent in swift and
puzzling balls, for all the while his ability to curve was increasing
and his control was improving. That afternoon he struck out six men in
succession, retiring them without having given any one of them more than
two balls. It was very good work, and the fact that the men were not
extraordinary good hitters did not detract from it.
"That's fine!" cried Mr. Lighton enthusiastically. "I'm going to----"
But what he was going to do he did not say.
"They ought to make you substitute pitcher on the 'varsity team," was
the opinion of Dutch Housenlager when the practice was over. "Rod Evert
isn't one-two-six with you, and he doesn't do any practicing to speak
of."
"Maybe he feels that he doesn't have to, for Langridge seems to make
good nearly every time," spoke Tom.
"Aw, rats! All that keeps Langridge manager is his money. He certainly
runs the financial end of the game to perfection. And if he wasn't
manager he wouldn't be pitcher. But the fellows know he takes a lot of
responsibility from them, and they're just easy enough to let things
slide. Some day we'll be up against it. Langridge will be knocked out of
the box, Evert won't be in form, and we'll lose the game."
"Unless they call on 'yours truly,'" interjected Tom with a laugh.
"Exactly," agreed Dutch seriously. "That's my point. I wish they'd name
you for sub. I'm going to ask----"
"No, no!" expostulated Tom quickly. "If I can't get there on my own
merits, I don't want it. No favors, please. I can wait."
"Well, just as you say, of course. But say, there's the Grasshopper.
Watch me make him jump."
He pointed to Pete Backus, a tall student, who seemed to be measuring
off a certain distance on a grassy stretch down near the river.
"Looks as if he was going to jump without you making him," observed Tom.
"Oh, he's always jumping. He thinks he's great at it. Wants to make the
track team, but he can't seem to do it. He'll do his distance easily
one day and fall down the next. You can't depend on him. But I'll make
him jump now. Sneak down behind those bushes."
Tom followed Dutch softly. There were no other students about and they
managed to gain the screen of the bushes unobserved by the Grasshopper,
who was intent on measuring distances with a pocket tape. The two
conspirators could see where he had been practicing the broad jump.
The Grasshopper stood close to a clump of elder bushes, with his back to
them. He was preparing for another test. Dutch Housenlager, who was not
happy unless he was engaged in some joke or horse play, silently cut a
long pole and fastened to it a big pin, which he extracted from some
part of his garments. Then, seeing a good opening that gave access to a
tender part of the rear elevation of the Grasshopper's legs, he thrust
with no gentle hand just as poor Pete was about to throw himself forward
in a standing broad jump.
"Wow!" cried the punctured one.
But it was so sudden that he did not have time to stop his leap, which
he was on the verge of making, and he sprang through the air like an
animated jumping-jack.
"Fine! fine!" cried Dutch, rising up from his place of concealment.
"That's the time you beat your own record, Grasshopper."
Pete turned. He looked over the space he had covered. His heels had come
down at least a foot beyond where he had previously landed. The look of
anger on his face, as he felt of his pricked leg, turned to one of
satisfaction.
"By Jove! I believe you're right," he exclaimed. "I have done better
by--let's see"--and he measured it--"by fourteen inches."
"I told you so," called Dutch, still laughing. "Next time you want to
jump, just let me get in the bushes behind you. It'll be good for an
extra foot every time."
"Um," murmured the Grasshopper, still rubbing his leg reflectively. "It
was an awful jab though, Dutch."
"What of it? Look at your distance," and once more Pete looked happy as
he again measured the space he had covered.
"Poor old Grasshopper," commented Dutch as he and Tom strolled along the
campus, leaving the jumper still at his practice. "Poor old Grasshopper!
He'll never make the track team."
The next few days saw Tom putting in all his spare time practicing
curves under the watchful eye of Mr. Lighton. The 'varsity played with
the scrub and narrowly escaped a good drubbing. Langridge seemed to be
asleep part of the time and issued a number of walking papers. It was
after the contest, which the regulars had pulled out of the fire with
rather scorched fingers, that the coach called Captain Woodhouse and
Langridge to him.
"I rather think we'd better make a little shift," he said.
"In what way?" asked Langridge quickly.
"Well, I think we ought to name Parsons as substitute pitcher on
the 'varsity. He's been doing excellent work, fully equal to yours,
Langridge. Of course he's a little uncertain yet, but one big game would
take that out of him. I'd like to see him pitch at least part of the
game against Boxer next week."
"Does that mean you're dissatisfied with me?" asked Langridge quickly,
and his face flushed.
"Not necessarily. But I think it rather risky not to provide better than
we have for a substitute pitcher. Evert is available, of course, but as
he is a junior his studies are such that he can't devote the necessary
time to practice. Parsons ought to be named."
"Do you demand that in your official capacity as coach, Mr. Lighton?"
asked Kindlings. "Because if you do, I'll agree to it at once."
"No, I merely make that suggestion to you."
The captain looked at the manager. Langridge stood with a supercilious
smile on his face.
"I presume I shall have something to say as manager," he remarked.
"Certainly," admitted the coach gravely.
"Then I say Parsons shan't act as substitute pitcher. I'm good for the
season, and I'm going to play it out. I see his game. He wants to oust
me and he's taken this means of doing it. He got you to plead for him,
Mr. Lighton. I'll not stand for it."
"You're entirely mistaken, Langridge," said the coach, with the least
suspicion of annoyance in his even voice. "It is my own idea. Parsons
does not even know that I have spoken to you; in fact, I believe that he
would not allow me to."
Langridge was sneering now.
"I guess he would," he said.
"Then you, as manager, don't want Parsons as substitute pitcher?" asked
the coach.
"No!" snapped Langridge.
"Of course if you order it, Mr. Lighton," began honest Kindlings with an
uneasy look at the coach--"of course if you make a point of it----"
"No, I don't," and Mr. Lighton spoke quietly. "That was not my
intention--just yet. Parsons will remain on the scrub then, at least for
the present. Later I may--er--I may make a point of it," and he turned
and walked away.
CHAPTER XV
A SOPHOMORE TRICK
While knowing nothing of the efforts Coach Lighton was making in his
behalf, Tom continued hard practice at his pitching. Every day he made
some improvement until his friends on the scrub regarded him as a
marvel. But, as if some mysterious whisper had come to Langridge, the
latter also showed improvement. He spent more time in practice and at
one game, when it looked as if the scrub would beat the 'varsity,
chiefly due to Tom's fine pitching, Langridge saved the day by brilliant
work in the box. The coach was pleased at this and Tom could not help
feeling that his chances were farther away than ever.
There were many other phases of college life, aside from baseball, that
appealed to Tom. He liked his studies and he gave them more attention
than perhaps any other lad of the sporting set. He was not a "greasy
dig," by which was meant a student who burned midnight oil over his
books, but he stood well in his classes, for learning came naturally to
him.
Not so, however, to his roommate. Poor Sid had to "bone" away rather
hard to get along, and, as he was required to put in a certain amount of
time on the diamond, his lessons sometimes suffered. He was warned one
day by Professor Tines, in the Latin class, that if he did not show more
improvement he would be conditioned and not allowed to play on the team.
"And that mustn't happen," declared Captain Woodhouse. "Take a brace,
Sid. Don't go throwing us down now. It's too late to break in another
first baseman."
Sid promised, and, for a time, stood better in his class. In the
meanwhile other sports went on at Randall College. The crew was out
every day on the river and the 'varsity eight-oared shell, several
doubles and some singles held impromptu races. A freshman eight was
formed and Tom was asked to join, but he wisely refused, for he reasoned
that he could not give enough time to it to become a member of a racing
crew without sacrificing either baseball or his studies, and he would do
neither.
"But you'll never make the 'varsity nine," argued Captain Bonsell, of
the freshman crew. "Much better to train with us, for I'll promise you a
place in the boat when it comes to the championship race. You'll never
be the 'varsity pitcher."
For Bonsell had looked with envy on Tom's big muscles.
"Well, I'm not going to give up until the last game," declared Tom
stoutly. "Maybe I'll get a chance at the tail end. Langridge can't last
forever, though far be it from me to wish him any bad luck."
"I see," spoke Bonsell with a laugh, "the survival of the fittest. I
wish you luck, old man."
So Tom practiced and practiced and practiced until on the scrub his name
became one to conjure with. But Langridge remained in his place on the
'varsity and Evert was the substitute pitcher. Between Tom and Langridge
there was more than ever a coldness. It was not due to the sneaking act
of the rich lad in not absolving Tom from blame in the wire episode, but
might more properly be ascribed to the incident connected with Miss
Tyler, though neither youth was willing to admit this. In spite of
himself, Tom found that he was entertaining a certain indescribable
feeling toward the girl. Often, at night, he would recall her laughing,
tantalizing face as she walked away with Langridge.
"Hang it all!" Tom would exclaim to his pillow. "He's not fit for her!
She ought to know it. I practically told her, yet she went off with him,
after all. Confound it all, I can't understand girls, anyhow."
But Tom might well have been comforted, for no one else does either,
though many believe that they do.
But, though part of Tom's coldness toward Langridge was based on the
latter's meanness about the wire and though probably the 'varsity pitcher
kept aloof from Tom for the same reason, there was no disposition on
Tom's part to complain or "squeal." As far as the faculty was concerned,
Tom was guilty of the prank that had had so nearly a fatal ending. But he
did not complain. He had given his word.
"Well, Tom, old man, going along?" asked Sid one day as he came in from
a biology lecture and tossed his text-book under the bed, though he knew
he would have to crawl for it afterward.
"Going along where?"
"The team's going to Dodville for a game with a big prep. school there.
Not much as regards a game, but it will be fun. It's a nice trolley
trip, and I hear all the subs are going."
"But I'm not a sub."
"Well, you're a scrub, and that's almost the same. Come along and root
for us, anyhow, though I guess we'll wipe up the earth with the preps."
"I thought we had a game with Boxer to-morrow."
"We did, but they canceled it, as they have to fill in a postponed game
with Fairview, so we've shifted our schedule. Will you come?"
"Sure, if there's room."
"Of course there is. Langridge has hired two special trolleys. You know
he's not going to play the regular 'varsity team. Only freshmen are to
be allowed on it. It's more for practice than anything else."
"Oh!" exclaimed Tom. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Sid
thought there might be a chance to do some pitching, but he thought
better of it.
The Dodville Preparatory School had a good nine and a reputation of
putting up a hard game, but Langridge was set on the idea of playing
only freshmen against them, and thus it was decided. On the afternoon of
the game the team, many supporters and the scrubs and substitutes
boarded two trolleys for the trip to the grounds.
It was a jolly crowd, and the way was enlivened by songs and jokes. Tom
was in the first car with Sid and some others of his particular chums.
Langridge was also there, but he kept rather away from Tom.
Out on the platform with the motorman was an individual with a slouch
hat pulled down over his eyes and his coat collar turned up.
"Who's that, a tramp?" asked Tom as he noticed the man.
"Looks like it," admitted Sid. "Begging a ride maybe on the strength of
this being a special. Well, let him go. If you call attention to him,
some of the fellows may make a row and create a rough house. Don't say
anything."
Tom did not, but he noticed that the tramp appeared to be very friendly
to the motorman and talked frequently with him. The electric line to
Dodville ran through a stretch of country not thickly populated, and at
one point it switched over another trolley road which ran to a distant,
thriving village. The boys were so engrossed in their fun, laughing and
joking that they paid little attention to matters outside, and the time
passed quickly. Holly Cross was giving (by request) an imitation of a
well-known vaudeville performer when Sid, who happened to look out of
the window, exclaimed:
"Say, fellows, where, for the love of tripe, are we? This isn't the road
to Dodville."
"Aw, what's eatin' you?" demanded Dutch Housenlager. "Could the trolley
car go off by itself on a road alone? Answer me that!"
"I don't know what it could do, it's what it has done," retorted Sid. "I
know this road. It goes to Fayetmore, which is next door to Squankum
Center. Fellows, we're five miles from Dodville!"
"Get out!" cried Langridge, unwilling to believe it.
"Fact!" asserted Sid. "We're five miles out of our way, on the wrong
road, and the game starts in less than an hour. They'll call it a
forfeit on us and never stop twitting us about this."
"Ah, you must be wrong," declared Holly Cross. "Don't you s'pose the
motorman knows the way? It isn't as if this was an auto."
Sid pulled open the front door. The tramp, who had been talking to the
motorman, had gone.
"I say," began the first baseman, "is this the road to Dodville? Aren't
you on the wrong line?"
"Why, sir, I don't rightly know," replied the motorman somewhat timidly.
"You don't know?" repeated Sid incredulously.
"No. I--I hope this is the right road."
"You hope so!" cried Langridge. "Well, I should say yes. Why don't you
know?"
"Well, you see, I'm new on this section of the line. To-day is my first
run. I took the turn back there where the gentleman told me to."
"What gentleman?"
"The one who was out here on the platform with me. He said he was your
manager."
"Manager!" fairly yelled Langridge. "Why, I'm the manager of this team."
"Can't help it. That's what the gentleman said. He said he knew the road
to Dodville, and when I got to the switch he told me to come this way."
"What was his name?" demanded Langridge, who was beginning to "scent a
rodent," as Holly Cross said.
"He gave me his card," went on the motorman, who had halted his car in
the midst of a lonely stretch of woods.
"Let's see!" cried Sid.
The trolley man fumbled in his pocket for it. Tom looked back, but could
not see the other special car. That had probably been some distance
behind the first one and had doubtless gone the right road, the motorman
not suspecting that his predecessor was not ahead of him.
Sid took the bit of pasteboard which the man held out to him. He looked
at it and then uttered an exclamation.
"It's a trick!" he cried, "a soph trick! Listen to this, fellows. This
is Fenmore's card, and he's written on it this message: 'This is only
part of what we sophs owe you freshies for the pavilion game. There is
more coming. Hope you have a nice picnic in the woods.' That fellow on
the platform was Fenmore," went on Sid. "No wonder he kept his hat
down."
"And here we are--part of the team--out here in the wilderness, five
miles from the game, which starts in half an hour!" cried Langridge in
disgust. "Say, those sophs got back at us all right. We're in a nice
pickle!"
CHAPTER XVI
TOM MAKES A DISCOVERY
There was consternation among the freshmen and their supporters. With a
divided team, part of it being so far away from the grounds that it was
practically impossible to arrive on time, and on a wrong road at that,
the situation was enough to discourage any nine.
"What made you let that fellow tell you where to go?" demanded Sid of
the motorman.
"Well, he said he was your manager, and I believed him."
"Manager!" cried Holly Cross. "Yes, we need a manager. We need a nurse
and a governess, that's what we need. To think that twenty of the
brightest freshmen at Randall have been duped by one soph! Wow! I must
have blood!" and he began to dance and howl like a stage Indian.
"Well," said Langridge disgustedly after a few minutes' thought, which
period was occupied on the part of the others by the use of language
more strong and rugged than polite, "the only thing to do is to go
back. Make the best time you can and see what we can do. Shift the car,
motorman."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I got orders not to start back until half-past four. You see,
this is a single-track road, and I might run into a car coming in the
opposite direction. We've got to stay here until four-thirty."
This was worse than ever, and a howl went up. But suddenly Sid, who had
been narrowly looking at the motorman, took a step toward him. He
reached up, grabbed his beard and pulled it off.
"Hayden!" he exclaimed as there was revealed to view the features of one
of the liveliest of the sophomore class. "By all the gods that on
Olympus dwell, it's Hayden!"
"At your service, gentlemen," exclaimed Hayden with a mocking bow. "This
is a little pleasure trip that Fenmore and I arranged for you. I hope you
enjoy it," and with another mocking bow he slipped off the controller
handle and leaped over the dashboard of the car.
"We hired the regular motorman to let us take his place," he went on. "I
guess you don't play ball to-day," and he disappeared in the woods with
a tantalizing laugh.
"Let's catch him!" cried Holly Cross.
"Sure! Let's scalp him and tie him to a tree," proposed Dutch
Housenlager.
"What's the use?" asked Sid. "He knows this part of the country like a
book, for he's been hunting in it. Better let him go. He'll only laugh
the more at us."
"But what are we to do?" demanded Langridge. "We don't want to lose
the game." He was very vexed, for he knew it would reflect on him as
manager.
"The only thing I see to do is to walk back until we meet another car
and then send on word of this abandoned one," said Sid. "It's a long
walk, but----"
"Hark!" cried Tom Parsons suddenly. "An auto is coming along the road."
"Maybe some of us can get a ride," proposed Phil Clinton. "We can go to
town and hire a rig for the rest of you."
Along the road rumbled some big vehicle. There came in sight a big auto
truck, ponderous and heavy. It was one of several used by a milk concern
to transport cans to the railroad depot.
"That's the stuff!" cried Tom. "Maybe he'll take us to Dodville if we
pay him."
The man was hailed and the situation explained to him. He looked dubious
and shook his head.
"Why can't you take us?" asked Phil. "You say you have no load on your
truck, and it isn't much out of your way. We'll pay you well."
"Maybe you would," admitted the man, "but I've heard of you students.
If some of you ran off with a trolley car, there's no tellin' but what
you'd take this truck away from me at some lonely spot and go cruisin'
off like Captain Kidd."
"No, no," promised the lads eagerly. "We won't cut up a bit."
They had some difficulty in convincing the man of this, but did so
finally, and he allowed them to pile in. They had to stand up and the
road was rough. They were jolted about, for the truck was not built for
easy riding, but they did not mind that, for they felt that there was a
chance to play the game, and they urged the man to put on all speed.
[Illustration: THE MAN ALLOWED THEM TO PILE IN]
They reached Dodville just as the game was about to be awarded to the
preparatory school on a forfeit. The members of the Randall nine who had
arrived in the second trolley car, which safely made the trip, could not
explain the absence of their companions.
The game was started, but it was not remarkable for any brilliant work
on the part of the college freshmen. In fact the other students played
all around them. Possibly this was due to the episode that had occurred,
for Langridge was nervous and threw wild, giving a number of men their
bases on balls. Kerr asked him to let Tom pitch, but Langridge refused
arrogantly and with bitter words against the scrub twirler. Nor would
he consent that Evert should fill the box.
"I'll pitch!" he cried excitedly. "I'll strike 'em out next inning. You
watch."
Tom happened to be in the dressing-room when it was the turn of Randall
to bat, and Langridge came in. The 'varsity pitcher did not see his
rival, but going to where his valise was containing his clothing, he
took something from it. Tom saw Langridge put a bottle to his lips.
"I wonder if he's taking medicine," he thought.
A moment later the pitcher hurried from the room as his name was called
to bat. Tom walked to a window that gave a view of the grounds. As he
passed Langridge's valise he smelled a pungent, alcoholic odor. He
started and for a moment could not tell what it was. Then it came to
him.
"Liquor! He's been drinking liquor!" he almost exclaimed aloud. "He's
broken the training rules. I wonder--I wonder if this is what Sid hinted
at--if this is what Mr. Lighton meant!"
From the diamond there came a sharp crack. It was a bat meeting a
swiftly pitched ball with that inspiring sound that indicates a fair
hit. Tom saw Langridge speeding for first base, while Randall lads were
yelling at the top of their voices.
"It's a three-bagger!" cried Tom delightedly, and so it proved, Langridge
bringing in a run a moment later on a sacrifice hit by Holly Cross.
CHAPTER XVII
AN EXPOSTULATION
"Now we'll do 'em up!" cried Langridge, dancing about in a strange
enthusiasm as he crossed the home plate. "Knock a home run, Kerr, and
we'll roll up a score. Then I'll strike out the next six men."
There were but two more innings to play, and the run Langridge brought
in had reduced the lead against the Randall freshmen from 6 to 5. But
five runs are a big handicap, especially when you can't depend on your
pitcher. Kerr struck out and so did Sid, who was up next. Langridge was
disappointed, though not discouraged, and he made wild promises about
what he was going to do. But he did not fulfil them and got careless in
his pitching.
The game degenerated almost into a farce in the last inning, when
Dodville piled up four runs, making the total score 17 to 5, it being
the worst drubbing the Randalls had received in many years. The only
consolation was that it was not the 'varsity team, but, as Kerr said,
that was no excuse. There were almost jeers mingled with the cheers of
the preparatory school lads, and it was a sore and sorrowful lot of
freshmen who made their way to the special trolley cars, the stalled one
having been brought up in the meanwhile.
"Who's eating cloves?" asked Sid Henderson as he piled into the electric
and threw his big mitt on the seat beside him.
"Have some?" asked Langridge, holding out a quantity. "I had toothache
and I took a few."
"No, thanks, don't use 'em," replied Sid with a quick look at the
pitcher, whose eyes were unnaturally bright. "But if you have any ginger
about you, it might come in handy."
"Ginger--how?"
"For this team. We need it. To be beaten by a bunch of schoolboys!"
"Well, we didn't have our regular team," explained Langridge. "Besides,
I didn't have any support. I pitched well, but you fellows didn't back
me up."
There was an arrogant look on his face.
"Yes, you pitched well, you did," exclaimed Kerr with an unconcealed
sneer in his voice. "You did hot work, you did."
"What about my three-bagger?"
"That didn't make up for your rotten pitching!"
The others looked at Kerr in surprise. It was something new for him to
find fault openly with Langridge. The latter felt it, too, and hardly
knew what to say.
"Well, I--er--I----"
"Yes, make some excuse," went on the catcher bitterly. "We got dumped,
and that's all there is to it. I'm not saying I did such brilliant
work--none of us did--but you did rotten, Langridge, and you know it. It
isn't as if you couldn't do better, for we all know you can. You've gone
stale--or--or something!"
Tom had an idea what it was that had made the pitcher go "stale." His
brilliant hit and run had been followed by a reaction, the result of the
stimulant he took. It is always thus.
Langridge stared at Kerr, his most particular chum, and then, as if not
understanding it, went off by himself in a corner of the car. It was not
a jolly party that rode back to Randall College. Nor were matters much
better when they arrived. The freshmen had to endure the taunts of
the sophomores concerning the trolley episode, as well as their own
unexpressed disappointment at the result of the game.
"Sid," said Tom in their room that night, when his roommate was stretched
out on the old creaking sofa--"Sid, if you knew some member of--er--well,
the crew who didn't train properly--that is to say, did sneaking things
on the sly--didn't keep in form for a race, what would you do?"
"How's that? Is some member of the crew trying to throw the college?"
cried Sid, suddenly sitting up.
"No, no. Of course not. I'm just supposing a case. You know we have to
suppose cases in our psychology class. I'm just taking one for the sake
of argument."
"Oh," replied Sid sleepily. "If it's only a supposititious case, all
right. I thought you meant you knew of some chap who was doing a dirty
trick."
"Well, suppose I did know of one--or you did--what would you do? Would
you tell the coach or the captain?"
"What good would it do?"
"That's not the point. Would you?"
"Well, you must have a reason for telling. Don't you learn that in
psychology?"
"Of course. Well, my reason might be that I wanted to see the crew do
good work and not lose on account of some fellow who couldn't last out a
race because he broke training rules on the sly. Or it might be that I
wanted to see the fellow himself take a brace."
"Both good reasons, son. Both good. As the Romans say, _Mens sana in
corpore sano_. You would do it for his own physical good. Very nice. For
his mental improvement also."
"I'm serious," declared Tom.
"So am I, you conscientious old wind-ammer! I know it. The trouble is
you're too serious. Why don't you let things slide sometimes?"
"I can't."
"No, I s'pose not. Well, then, fire away, old chap. Wait until I get
more comfortable, though," and Sid turned and wiggled on the decrepit
sofa until it threatened to collapse.
"You haven't answered my question yet," persisted Tom when his chum had
been silent for two minutes.
"What question? Oh, blazes, Tom, I thought you'd gone to sleep. But say,
why don't you come right out and say what you mean? Do you know any
member of the crew who's doing that?"
"No, I don't. I told you this was a supposititious case. But, if there
was one, what would you do?"
"Well, I'll give you a supposititious answer."
Sid closed his eyes. The fussy little alarm clock seemed to be counting
time for him while he made up his mind.
"Why don't you tell the fellow yourself?" asked Sid so suddenly that Tom
jumped.
"Would you?" he asked.
Sid arose. He came and stood close to his chum. Then he spoke.
"There be certain things, son," he said with an assumed serious air
which was more than half real, "certain things that, in college, one
might better ignore. If, perchance, however, one is so constituted
morally that one can't; if the laws of the Medes and the Persians are so
immutable that one can't rest--why, my young philosopher, take the
easiest course so long as you are true to your own motto, _Dulce et
decorum est pro alma mater mori_. There, I don't know whether I've
got the Latin right, but it says what I mean--tell the other fellow
first--Tom," and with that he went over, picked up his trigonometry and
fell to studying.
It was not an easy fight that Tom had with himself that night. He went
all over the ground: the arrogance of Langridge, the scene in the
dressing-room, the pungent odor of liquor and then his knowledge of it.
Was it fair to the team to let the members be in ignorance of the fact
that their pitcher took stimulants secretly--that he had done it before?
For Tom was sure it was not the first time. Would it not mean, in the
end, that Randall would lose some deciding game and the championship?
Tom thought so and determined that it was his duty to do something. The
question was, what? In a measure Sid had solved this for him, and before
he fell asleep that night Tom determined to expostulate with Langridge
the first chance he got.
It came sooner than he expected. There was a game with Boxer Hall on the
grounds of the latter university and it was expected to be a hard one,
which expectation was not unfulfilled.
For the first few innings Randall seemed to have the contest well in
hand. Then, during a few minutes when his side was at bat, Langridge
disappeared into the dressing-room. With a heart that beat harder than
usual Tom quietly followed. He was just in time to see Langridge putting
away a bottle that gave out the characteristic odor.
"Don't do that!" cried Tom quickly, but in a low voice. He was hardly
conscious of what he was saying.
Langridge wheeled around and faced him.
"Don't do what?" he asked sharply, his face flushed.
"Take that liquor to brace you up. You'll only pitch the worse for it,
and it's not fair to the team."
Langridge took a step toward Tom.
"What right have you got to speak so to me?" he demanded. "You're a
dirty sneak, that's what you are, following in here to spy on me! I
guess I know what I'm doing. Can't I take a little toothache medicine
without being insulted by you? Liquor! Supposing it is? The doctor
ordered it for me."
"Not in the middle of a game," said Tom quietly. "Besides, it's against
training rules, and you know it. It's not fair."
"Oh, I see your game," sneered Langridge. "I know what you're after.
You want to tell some story about me, thinking that I'll be dropped and
you can have my place. But you can't. I'll do you yet. I'll show 'em how
I can pitch!" He was boasting now, for he was not himself. "Get out of
my way, you dirty sneak!" he cried. "I'm going to bat out a home run,"
and he put some cloves in his mouth.
He almost knocked Tom over as he rushed past him and went out in time to
take his place at the home plate. He did knock a home run to the
delirious delight of the team, but it was short-lived joy, for, just as
in the other games, Langridge went to pieces in the box, and Boxer Hall
won the game by a score of 8 to 5. But the home run of Langridge so
shone out that even Kerr did not have the heart to decry his friend's
ragged pitching. Coach Lighton, however, shook his head, as the
championship chances for Randall College seemed fading away.
"Well," thought Tom as he accompanied the defeated team back that
afternoon, "I did my duty, anyhow. I expostulated with him and was
insulted for my pains. I did all I could."
But that night there came to him something like a voice asking, "Did
you?" Tom tossed restlessly on his bed. "What shall I do next?" he
thought.
CHAPTER XVIII
SOME "OLD GRADS"
"What's the matter, old man?" inquired Sid the next morning as he rolled
over in bed and looked at Tom.
"Matter? Why?"
"You look as if you'd been drawn through a knot hole, and a small one at
that. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," and Tom tried to laugh it off. "I didn't sleep very well,
that's all."
"For that matter, neither did I."
"Get out! I heard you snoring away like a boiler blowing off steam."
"Then I must have been tired. I never snore unless I am. Wow! ouch!
Decameron's Prothonotary!"
Sid made a face that indicated intense anguish and put his hand to his
side as he turned over in bed.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom anxiously.
"Strained my side when I slid for second base that time. I didn't notice
it yesterday, but it hurts like sin now. Guess I'll have to cut lectures
to-day and stay in bed."
"What excuse will you give?"
"Oh, I'll say--no, I won't, either," declared Sid with a sudden change of
decision. "I can't say it was playing baseball that laid me up or Moses
will ask me to cut out the ball. I've got to suffer. I know what I'll do.
I'll limp in chapel and on my way to lectures. I'm not prepared in trig,
anyhow, and maybe they'll let me off easy. I'm sure to slump in Latin,
but maybe Pitchfork will have mercy on a gladiator who was willing to die
for Caesar."
Tom felt like laughing, but he restrained himself as he saw that Sid was
really suffering. The first baseman crawled out of bed with many a groan
and made wry faces. He limped across the room.
"How's that?" he asked Tom. "Do I do it naturally?"
"Sure. It would deceive anybody."
"I don't want to deceive 'em. It's gospel truth. I'm as lame as a sore
horse. But I'll go down."
"Let me rub it," suggested Tom, and he forgot part of his troubles in
giving vigorous massage to Sid's strained side.
"It feels better. Thanks, old man," declared the hurt one as he began to
dress.
"But you're limping worse than ever."
"Sure. No use losing any of the advantages of my limp. It may save me
from a discredit in Latin. Oh, if you want to know how to limp come to
your Uncle Dudley."
Tom laughed and prepared for chapel. He himself was in no very jolly
mood, however, for he could not help thinking of the problem connected
with the discovery about Langridge. That it was a problem, and no small
one, Tom was ready to admit. He felt himself in a peculiar position. He
had spoken to the 'varsity pitcher and had been insulted. To let him go
on in his course, breaking training and endangering the success of the
nine, Tom felt would not be right. Yet if he spoke to the coach or
captain about it there would be but one construction put upon his
action.
Tom could fancy Mr. Lighton thanking him for the information about
Langridge and could even imagine the coach acting on it and warning the
pitcher. Tom could see the look on the face of Kindlings when he was
told. It would be a revelation. Yet for all the service that he rendered
to the team there would be but one construction put upon Tom's act by
his classmates--he would be accused of informing in order to oust
Langridge so that he might have the pitcher's place.
"And I can't do that," declared Tom to himself. "I'll have to find some
other way. I'll make one more try with Langridge."
Sid's limp did not save him in Latin, for he "slumped" most ungracefully,
and with a black look Professor Tines marked a failure against him,
accompanying it with words of warning. As for Tom, his worry over the
secret caused him to pay too scant attention in his geography class, and
he was caught napping, whereat the instructor looked surprised, for Tom
was one of the best students.
The next day the scrub team went on a little trip to Morriston to play a
small semi-professional nine, and Tom had a chance to show what he could
do in the box. He gave a fine exhibition of pitching, so much so that
the other nine was held down to a goose-egg score, and there were very
few hits secured off Tom. The scrubs were wild about it and held a
celebration, for it was the best victory they had scored yet.
During the next few days Tom saw little of Langridge. In fact the
'varsity pitcher seemed to be keeping out of the way of the lad who had
remonstrated with him.
"I'll see him at the Boxer game Saturday," thought Tom. "If I get a
chance, I'll make one more attempt, though I'm afraid it won't do any
good."
The next Boxer contest was a sort of annual mid-season affair. It was
a game which members of the alumnae of both colleges made it a point
to attend in even greater numbers than at the contests deciding the
championship. In fact of late years there had been no chance for such
exhibitions, for Randall did not have a "look in" at the pennant, as
Holly Cross used to say.
The game was to take place on the Randall grounds, and before the hour
when it was to be played the stands and bleachers began filling up. It
was a beautiful afternoon about the middle of May and a better one for a
game could not have been had, even if made to order.
Oh, how Tom wanted to play! But he could only look on. The regular team
came out for practice, with the substitutes waiting for a chance to
go in. Then out trotted the Boxer Hall lads, to be received with a
cheer. There were pretty girls galore, each one waving the flag of her
particular college. Tom moved about in the grandstand, trying to pretend
to himself that he was not looking for any one, but all the same his
heart gave a great thump when he heard some one call:
"Tom! Mr. Parsons!"
"Why, how do you do, Miss Tyler?" he exclaimed. "I didn't know you were
coming."
"Oh, yes, I wouldn't miss this for anything. I just love to see the old
graduates. They are so interesting, just as if they were boys again."
She made room for Tom beside her, and he gladly availed himself of the
chance.
"Yes, there are quite a few of the old boys on hand to-day," he
remarked. "Look at those two," and he pointed to two well-dressed men,
each attired in a tall silk hat and a frock coat. They each had a
gold-headed cane and they were very staid in looks, yet at the sight of
each other they rose in their seats, clasped hands across the heads of
intervening persons and one, the elder, cried out:
"Well, well! If it isn't old Skeeziks! How are you? I haven't seen you
since I graduated in '73!"
"Nor me you, you old fish-pedler! How are things? Do you remember the
day we kidnaped Mrs. Maguire and took all her chickens?"
"Hush! Not so loud!" cautioned the other, his face breaking into smiles.
"The faculty never found out who did that, and there's no use telling
now. But I am glad to see you. Do you think our boys will win?"
"I hope so, though I see by the papers they haven't been playing as good
ball as when we went to school. They need a little ginger."
"That's right. I wish I was young again. We certainly had some great
games."
On all sides similar scenes were being enacted and like reminiscences
were being exchanged. It was a great day for the "old grads," and they
took advantage of it. Many there were also from Boxer, though they
occupied a different part of the grandstand. However, they exchanged
visits with their former rivals during the practice.
Ford Fenton was in his element. His uncle, who had been a coach at
Randall, was on hand, and Ford was showing him off as if he was a prize
animal at a county fair.
Ford wanted to take his uncle around and introduce him to his classmates,
but Mr. Fenton declined, as he wanted to meet some of his old friends.
But this did not deter Ford from going about telling the news, and about
all he could be heard to say was:
"My uncle, the former coach, is here. He came to see the game. My uncle
says----"
Then the long-suffering ones would turn away, or if they were lads who
had no particular regard for Ford's feelings, they would guy him
unmercifully.
"Hi, Ford!" cried Holly Cross after about half an hour of this sort of
thing, "have you heard the latest?"
"No. What is it?"
"Why, 'my uncle' says that if you don't stop talking about him, he's
going to leave and take you with him. He says he's being 'uncled' to
death."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Dutch Housenlager. "That's right, Ford, that's right,"
and he pretended to collide accidentally with the lad, knocking him
against Holly, who promptly pushed him back.
But now practice was over. The rival captains were in conference, the
umpire was taking the new ball from the tinfoil wrapping and the
spectators were settling back for the contest.
"Boxer has improved since the other game," said Tom, who had been
critically watching the teams at practice.
"That's what I heard," replied Miss Tyler. "Oh, I do hope our boys will
win!"
"So do I," exclaimed Tom as he watched Langridge, who was first to go to
the bat, in this game the visitors winning the privilege of being last
up. Tom tried to notice the 'varsity pitcher, to see if he was in good
form, but he could not judge then.
"Play ball!" called the umpire, and Dave Ogden, the Boxer pitcher, drew
back his arm to deliver a swift curve.
CHAPTER XIX
TOM IN COLD WATER
Langridge at the first effort sent out a hot liner, which flew just over
the pitcher's head. The second baseman made a jump for it and the ball
began to roll along in front of the center fielder. Amid a wild burst of
yells Langridge raced for first and got there safely, not daring to go
on to second, as Ogden had run down to help cover it.
"That's the stuff! that's the stuff! That's the way to line 'em out!"
chanted an excited voice, and Tom looked around to see the two
silk-hatted "old grads" embracing each other and doing an impromptu
dance in their seats.
"Aren't they jolly!" exclaimed Miss Tyler.
"Very, but they're crowing too soon. The game has only just begun. Boxer
Hall will play strong."
And Tom's prediction came true, for in spite of the auspicious opening
by Langridge, not a man crossed home plate for the Randalls that inning,
the pitcher dying on third. Then it came the turn of the home team to
show what they could do in holding down the visitors. It looked as if
they were going to do it, too, for Langridge struck out the first two
men. But he gave the next one a pass to first and was batted for a
two-bagger by the following player, the inning ending with one run for
Boxer. The Randall College boys and their girl supporters began to look
anxious and so did some of the "old grads." On the other side there was
laughter, cheers and jollity, while some of the aged former students of
Boxer began to chant oldtime college songs.
"Oh, I do hope our fellows win," exclaimed Miss Tyler, and there was an
anxious look on her pretty face, while she tapped her flag of colors
impatiently against her little foot.
"Have you a bet on the game?" asked Tom. "A box of candy or some
gloves?"
"No, but I want to see Randall win. Besides, Fred--I mean Mr.
Langridge--he told me he was going to work hard for success, and I never
like to see any one disappointed--do you?"
"No," said Tom rather shortly. He really did not care to hear his
rival's praises sung by this fair damsel.
"Do you know," she went on, "I've been thinking of what you started to
tell me about him the other day. Is it really true?"
"Well," began Tom slowly, "if you will excuse the privilege of a friend
who has known you for some time, I would say that I don't believe your
people would like you to go with him."
"Why, mamma knows his uncle, who is his guardian, and she says he is
very nice--I mean the uncle," and she laughed a little.
"I have no doubt of it. I only----"
But Tom did not say what he was going to, for just then Pinky Davenport,
captain of the Boxers, knocked what Holly Cross described later as a
"lalapoolassa" fly, which went clear over the center fielder's head and
netted a home run for the captain of the visitors.
What yelling and shouting there was then! It seemed to put new life into
the opponents of Randall, if such was needed, for they began piling up
the score until they were six runs in the lead.
Then Randall "took a brace," encouraged by the yells of the "old grads"
and others, and by the eighth inning had cut it down even. In the close
of the eighth they held their opponents down to one run, making it
necessary to gather in two to win the game, but with that it meant
holding the visitors hitless in the last half of the final inning.
The first part of the program was carried out all right. By some
phenomenal playing Randall managed to get the lead by one run. They
would have had another but for a miscalculation on the part of Ed Kerr,
who was caught napping between third and home, where he was run down
and put out.
"Now, fellows, we have them on the hip!" exclaimed Captain Woodhouse as
he called his players together for a little talk before the final
struggle was made. "If we can hold them down this inning we have them.
Langridge, it's up to you!"
"I know it. But don't worry, I'll do it."
It sounded well, and there was a determined look in the pitcher's face,
but his eyes were unnaturally bright. His pitching had been ragged
during the last three innings and the sudden decline of the abilities of
the Boxer players had done as much as anything to give Randall her
chance.
"Oh, I hope Fred strikes three out, one right after the other!"
exclaimed Miss Tyler as she shifted nervously in her seat. "He must be
under a dreadful strain."
"Probably he is," said Tom. "But if he takes a brace now he'll be all
right."
"He's been taking too many bracers--that's what's the matter with him,"
said a voice back of Tom, and he knew it was one of the former graduates
speaking. Tom looked at the girl beside him. Either she had not heard or
she took no notice of the remark.
It was a tense moment when Langridge sent in the first ball. It was
called a strike and the batsman looked surprised. The next was a ball,
but two more strikes were called without the player getting a chance to
swing at the horsehide. Langridge smiled at the cheers which greeted
him. Then he did what few other pitchers could have done under the
circumstances. He struck out the next two men, though one did manage to
hit a high foul, which Kerr missed. Langridge had saved the game by
holding the other team hitless.
Such a cheer as went up then when it was seen that Randall had won! The
stamping of feet on the stands sounded like thunder. Back of Tom and
Miss Tyler two old men began yelling like Indians, hugging each other
and whirling about. They were the two "old grads" of '73. They were
waving their hats in the air and yelling "Randall! Randall! Randall!"
until their faces were the color of raw beef.
"Wow!" cried the taller of the two. "This does my heart good! I'm forty
years young again. Wow! Whoop-la!"
Suddenly he drew back his hand and his silk hat went sailing over the
edge of the grandstand to the grass of the outfield. It was caught by
some Randall players and quickly kicked out of shape.
"Why, that was a new hat!" exclaimed the man's companion.
"I know it, but there's more where that came from. I can buy a new hat
every day, but I can't see my old college win such a game as this. Wow!
Whoop!"
"That's right. I'm with you," and a second hat went the way of the
first, while the old men capered about like boys. They were given a
round of cheers on their own account by the team when the players
understood what had happened. Ford Fenton was running about, all
excited, trying to find his relative.
"Have you seen my uncle?" he asked several.
"No!" cried Holly Cross. "And if I do, I'll shoot him on sight! Get out
or I'll eat you up," and with a roar of simulated wrath he rushed at
poor Fenton, who beat a hasty retreat.
Tom was jubilant at the success of his college, nor did he withhold
unstinted praise for Langridge. He had been surprised at the sudden
improvement shown. Tom and Miss Tyler walked across the grounds toward
the campus, the girl looking back several times. Suddenly Langridge
appeared from amid a group of players.
"I'll be with you in a minute," he called to Miss Tyler, "as soon as I
change my duds. Wait for me."
There was an air of proprietorship in the words and the girl must have
felt them, for she turned away without speaking.
"Perhaps I'd better say good-afternoon," spoke Tom, a trifle piqued.
"Not unless you want to," she replied with a quick look at him.
"Of course I don't want to, but I thought----"
"Don't bother to think," she added with a little laugh. "It's tiresome.
Come and show me the river. Not that I haven't seen it before, but it's
so beautiful to-day, I want some one to enjoy it with me."
"How would you like to go for a little row?" asked Tom. "I can get a
boat and we'll go to Crest Island."
"That will be lovely. The water is like glass."
They were soon afloat. Tom was a good oarsman and sent the light craft
ahead with powerful strokes. They spent some little time on the island,
where other pleasure seekers were, and when the shadows began to
lengthen started back.
"I've enjoyed it ever so much," said Miss Tyler gratefully as the craft
neared the float adjoining the college boathouse.
"That's good," said Tom heartily. "Perhaps you will go again."
"I probably shall--if any one asks me," she replied archly, and then he
helped her out, whispering as he did so, for there were quite a number
on the float, "I'll be sure to ask you, Madge." Tom may have imagined
it, but he thought there was just a l
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