For the Honor of Randall: A Story of College Athletics
by Lester Chadwick · English · Gutenberg #42130 · 362,420 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: For the Honor of Randall: A Story of College Athletics
Author: Lester Chadwick
Release date: February 19, 2013 [eBook #42130]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL: A STORY OF COLLEGE ATHLETICS ***
[Illustration: FORWARD HE HURLED HIMSELF, STRAIGHT THROUGH THE AIR.]
FOR THE HONOR OF
RANDALL
A Story of College Athletics
BY
LESTER CHADWICK
AUTHOR OF “THE RIVAL PITCHERS,” “A QUARTER-BACK’S
PLUCK,” “BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS,” ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
=BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK=
=THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
THE RIVAL PITCHERS
A Story of College Baseball
A QUARTER-BACK’S PLUCK
A Story of College Football
BATTING TO WIN
A Story of College Baseball
THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
A Story of College Football
FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL
A Story of College Athletics
=THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS
Or The Rivals of Riverside
BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE
Or Pitching for the Blue Banner
(Other volumes in preparation)
_Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York_
Copyright, 1912, by
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL
Printed in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A PERILOUS RIDE 1
II BAD NEWS FROM HOME 15
III WHEN SPRING COMES 27
IV THE NEW FELLOW 34
V IN “PITCHFORK’S” PLACE 42
VI THE NEW LEAGUE 51
VII THROUGH THE ICE 66
VIII TOM KEEPS SILENT 76
IX IN THE ICE BOAT 84
X A MISSING PICTURE 94
XI THE WAY OF A MAID 102
XII IN BITTER SPIRITS 112
XIII TOM SEES SOMETHING 118
XIV SHAMBLER’S VISITOR 128
XV TOM IS SUSPICIOUS 135
XVI FRANK’S SURPRISE 144
XVII THE AUCTION 153
XVIII TOM’S TEMPTATION 160
XIX THE TRY-OUTS 168
XX “WE NEED EVERY POINT” 176
XXI ON THE RIVER 183
XXII CURIOSITY 192
XXIII THE BIG HURDLE RACE 202
XXIV THE ACCUSATION 213
XXV A DISPUTED POINT 221
XXVI FRANK WITHDRAWS 229
XXVII “WHAT’S TO BE DONE?” 236
XXVIII A BOTTLE OF MEDICINE 245
XXIX AN ALARM IN THE NIGHT 255
XXX JUST A CHANCE 261
XXXI AT THE GAMES 272
XXXII AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR 280
XXXIII TOM’S RUN 289
XXXIV SID’S GREAT JUMP 300
XXXV RANDALL’S HONOR CLEARED 306
FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL
CHAPTER I
A PERILOUS RIDE
“What a glorious night!”
Tom Parsons, standing at the window of the study which he shared with
his chums, looked across the campus of Randall College.
“It’s just perfect,” he went on.
There was no answer from the three lads who, in various attitudes, took
their ease, making more or less of pretenses at studying.
“The moon,” Tom went on, “the moon is full----”
“So are you--of words,” blurted out Sid Henderson, as he leafed his
trigonometry.
“It’s one of the finest nights----”
“Since nights were invented,” broke in Phil Clinton, with a yawn. “Dry
up, Tom, and let us bone, will you?”
Unmoved by the scorn of his chums, the tall lad at the casement, gazing
out on the scene, which, to do him justice, had wonderfully moved him,
continued to stand there. Then, in a quiet voice, as though unconscious
of the presence of the others, he spoke:
“The moon o’er yonder hilltop rises, a silver disk, like unto a warrior’s
shield, whereon he, from raging battle coming, is either carried upon it,
or bears it proudly as----”
“Oh for cats’ sake!” fairly yelled Frank Simpson, the Big Californian,
as he had been dubbed. He shied his book full at Tom Parsons, catching
him in the back, and bringing to a close the blank verse our hero was
spouting, with a grunt that greatly marred it.
“Say, you fellows can’t appreciate anything decent!” shot back the lad at
the window. “If I try to raise you above the level of the kindergarten
class you are in deep water. I suppose I should have said: ‘Oh see the
moon. Does the moon see me? The moon sees me. What a pretty moon!’ Bah!
You make me tired. Here we have the most glorious night of the winter,
with a full moon, snow on the ground to make it as light as day, a calm,
perfect night----”
“Oh perfect night!” mocked Sid.
“Vandal!” hissed Tom.
“Go on! Hear Hear! Bravo!” cried Phil. “Let the noble Senator proceed!”
“Oh, for the love of mustard!” broke in the big lad who had tossed his
book at Tom. “There’s no use trying to do any work with this mob. I’m
going over to see Dutch Housenlager. He won’t spout blank verse when I
want to bone, and that’s some comfort.”
“No, but he’ll want to get you into some horse-play, like tying knots in
Proc. Zane’s socks, or running the flag up at half mast on the chapel,”
declared Tom. “You had much better stay here, Frank. I’ve got something
to propose.”
“There! I knew it!” cried Phil. “There’s a girl in it somewhere, or Tom
would never be so poetical. Who is she, Tom? and when are you going to
propose?”
“Oh, you fellows are worse than the measles,” groaned the lad who had
been looking at the moonlight. “I’m done with you. I leave you to your
fate.”
With a grunt of annoyance Tom turned away from the window, kicked under
the sofa the book which Frank had thrown at him, and reached for his cap
and coat.
“Where you going?” asked Phil quickly, as he turned over in the deep
armchair, causing the ancient piece of furniture to emit many a groan,
and send out a choking cloud of dust. “Whither away, fair sir?”
“Anywhere, to get away from you fellows,” grunted the displeased one.
“No, but seriously, where are you going?” asked Frank. “Now that you’ve
broken the ice, I don’t mind admitting that I don’t care such an awful
lot for boning.”
Tom paused in the doorway, one arm in and the other out of his coat.
“I’m going out,” he answered. “It’s too nice to stay in. The coasting
must be great on Ridge Hill, and with this moon--say it’s a shame to
stay in! That’s what I’ve been trying to ding into you fellows, only you
wouldn’t listen. Why, half of Randall must be out there to-night.”
“What about Proc. Zane?” asked Sid, referring to the proctor, who kept
watch and ward over the college.
“Nothing doing,” answered Tom. “A lot of the fellows went to Moses after
the last lecture and got permission to take their bobs over on the hill.
There were so many that the good old doctor said he’d raise the rules
for to-night, because it was likely to be such a fine one. So there’s no
danger of being up on the carpet, if we get in at any decent hour.”
“Why didn’t you say so at first?” demanded Sid. “Of course we’ll go. Why
didn’t you mention it instead----”
“I thought you had some poetry in you,” responded Tom. “I tried to make
you appreciate the beauty of the night rather than appeal to the sordid
side of your natures, and----”
“Cut it out!” begged Phil, with a laugh. “If there’s any coasting, and I
guess there is, we’ll be in it. Come on, fellows, and we’ll see how our
bob does on the hill.”
With laughter and gay talk, now that they had made up their minds to
adopt Tom’s suggestion, and go coasting, the four chums, than whom there
was no more devoted quartette in Randall, passed out into the corridor.
As they descended the stairs they heard a subdued hum that told of other
students bent on the same errand, and, when they had a glimpse of the
snow-covered campus, they beheld many dark figures hurrying along,
dragging single sleds or big bobs after them.
“Say, I hope no one pinches ours!” cried Tom, and at the thought he
hastened his pace toward an out-building of the gymnasium, where the
students kept their bicycles in Summer, and their bobs in Winter.
It was now Winter at Randall, a glorious Winter, following a glorious
football season. For several years it had been the custom for the
students to indulge in coasting on a big hill about a mile away from the
college. Some of the lads clubbed together and had built fine, big bobs,
with foot rests, carpet on the top, with immense gongs to sound warning,
and with steering wheels that equalled those of autos, while some had
drag brakes, to use in case of emergency.
The bob owned jointly by Tom Parsons, Sid Henderson, Phil Clinton and
Frank Simpson, was one of the best in Randall. It was fifteen feet long,
and could carry quite a party. It needed no small skill and strength to
steer it, too, when fully loaded.
Our friends, getting out their sled, soon found themselves in the midst
of a throng of fellow students, all hurrying toward the hill. The four
chums had hold of the rope to haul the big bob.
“There are the Jersey twins,” remarked Sid, as Jerry and Joe Jackson
hurried on, dragging a small bob.
“And here comes Dutch,” added Phil. “He can ride with us, I guess.”
“Sure,” assented Tom. “I say, Dutch!” he called. “Got a sled?”
“No. Why should I when there are already plenty?” “Dutch,” or otherwise
Billy Housenlager, demanded.
“That’s right,” spoke Frank. “Come on, give us a hand, and we’ll give
you a ride.”
“I am too tired,” was the answer, “but I will let you have the honor of
pulling me,” and, with a sigh of contentment Dutch threw himself down on
the big bob.
“Here! Get off, you horse!” cried Sid.
A loud snore was the answer. Sid started back to roll the lazy student
off, but Tom, with a wink, indicated a better way of disposing of him.
At a signal the four students broke into a run.
“Ah, this beats an auto,” murmured Billy.
Suddenly the four swerved sharply, and the bob turned over, spilling
Dutch off, into a snow bank.
“Ten thousand double-dyed maledictions upon you!” he spluttered, as he
blew the snow out of his mouth. “Just for that I’ll not ride with you.
Hold on, Jerry--Joe,” he called to the Jersey twins, “wait for papa!”
There was a laugh at Dutch and his predicament, and then the crowd of
students hurried on, our heroes among them. In a little while they could
hear distant shouts, and the clanging of bells.
“Some crowd on the hill,” observed Tom. “I told you there’d be sport.”
“Right you are, my hearty,” agreed Phil. “Whew! I should say there was a
mob!” for by this time they had come out on top of the long slope that
led down the country road, forming the coasting place, known as Ridge
Hill.
While most of the crowd consisted of students from Randall College,
there were not a few lads and girls from the neighboring town of
Haddonfield, and the shrill voices of the lassies and the hoarser shouts
of the boys, mingled musically that moonlit night. The clang of bells
on the bobs was constant.
“Come on now, get ready!” called Tom. “Let’s take a crowd down.”
“Who’s going to steer?” asked Phil.
“Let Frank,” advised Sid. “He’s got the most muscle, and he needs
exercise.”
“I like your nerve,” retorted the Big Californian. But he took his place
at the steering wheel, while Tom got on the rear to work the brake, and
Sid acted as bell-ringer.
“Get aboard!” invited Tom, and several of his friends among the students
piled on.
“May we have a ride?” asked three pretty girls from the town. None of
our friends knew them, but it was a common custom to give all a ride for
whom there was room, introductions being dispensed with.
“Pile on!” invited Tom.
“I want the one with the red scarf!” sang out Frank, and this girl, with
a laugh that showed her even white teeth, took her place behind the
steersman. Her companions joined her, with happy laughs. The bob was
almost full.
“Room for any more?” asked a voice, and Tom looked up to see a young man
and lady looking at him.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Beach!” he exclaimed, as he recognized a friend of his
who lived in town. “Of course there is. Get on Mrs. Beach, and we’ll
give you a fine ride!” The young married couple had often entertained
our four friends at their home, and, as Mr. and Mrs. Beach were fond of
fun, they had come out to enjoy the coasting.
“All right!” cried Sid, clanging the bell.
“Push us off; will you?” Tom requested of a merry coaster, and the lad
with some others obligingly shoved the bob to the edge of the hill. Then
they were off, going down like the wind, while the runners scraped the
frozen snow sending it aloft in a shower of crystals that the moon
turned into silver.
“Oh, this is glorious!” cried the girl back of Frank. “Say, did you ever
try to go through the hollow, and up the other hill?”
“No, and I’m not going to,” replied Frank, turning his head toward her
for an instant, and then getting his eyes on the road again, for there
were many sleds and bobs, and it needed all his skill to wind in and out
among them.
“Why not?” persisted the girl, with a laugh.
“Too dangerous, with a big sled. We never could make the curve at this
speed.”
“Some of the town boys do it,” she went on.
“Not with a bob like this. Look out there!” Frank yelled as he narrowly
missed running into a solitary coaster.
The path to which the girl referred was a sort of lane, running off the
main hill road, dipping down, and then suddenly shooting up again,
crossing over a slight rise, and finally going down to a small pond. It
was a semi-public road, but seldom used. To attempt to negotiate it with
a swift bob was perilous, for the least mistake in steering, or a slight
accident would send the sled off to one side or the other of the small
hill, making an upset almost certain, and, likely broken bones, if
nothing worse.
“There goes one boy, now,” went on the girl back of Frank, as a coaster
shot into the hollow.
“Yes, but he only has a small sled. I’ll not try it. If you girls want
to----”
“Oh, no indeed!” she hastened to assure him. “This is too much fun. It’s
good of you to ask us.”
The coast soon came to an end, and then came the hard work of dragging
the sled up the hill again.
“I wish they had double acting hills,” remarked Tom as he pulled on the
rope. “Slide down ’em one way, and, when you get to the bottom they’d
tip up, and you could slide back--sort of perpetual motion.”
“You don’t want much,” commented Sid with a laugh.
As the boys reached the top of the slope there dashed up a sled filled
with young people, drawn by two prancing horses. And fastened to the
rear of the sled, was a large bob.
“Now for some fun!” cried a girl’s voice.
“Did you hear that?” asked Tom, of Phil. “It sounded like your sister
Ruth.”
“It is Ruth!” cried Phil, as he caught sight of the girl who had called
out. “It’s a crowd from Fairview,” he added, naming a co-educational
institution not far from Randall, at which college Ruth Clinton attended.
“Hi, Ruth!” called her brother, “how are you?”
“Oh, Phil,” she answered. “So glad to see you! Are the other inseparables
there?”
“All of us!” cried Tom, as he glimpsed Madge Tyler. “Come have a ride on
our bob.”
“Next time,” answered Mabel Harrison with a laugh. “We have a prior
invitation now.”
“Who are with you?” asked Phil of his sister as he reached her side.
“Whose bob is that?” and he pointed to the one back of the sled.
“Hal Burton’s. He’s a new student, rather rich, and sporty I guess. He
made up this little party. Oh, it’s all right,” she hastened to add,
as she saw her brother look at her curiously. “We have permission, a
chaperone and all the fixings. Trust the ogress, Miss Philock, for that.
Isn’t it a glorious night?”
“Fine,” agreed Phil. “But who is this Burton chap?”
“Come on, and I’ll introduce you,” and Ruth presented her brother. Among
the other girls was a Miss Helen Newton, whom Tom and his chums had not
before met. She was also made acquainted with the inseparables.
“And so you won’t ride with us?” asked Tom, looking rather regretfully
at Miss Tyler.
“Not this time, old man,” broke in Burton, with a familiar air that Tom
did not like. “I’m going to pilot ’em.”
“Do you know the hill?” asked Phil quietly. Somehow he did not like this
new student, with his calm air of assurance, and he did not like Ruth to
ride with him.
“Oh, I’ve coasted bigger hills than this,” declared the owner of the big
bob. “This isn’t anything, even if it is a new one. Get on girls and
fellows!” he cried. “We’ll beat everything on the hill.”
“Insolent puppy!” murmured Tom, as he helped swing their own bob around
for another coast.
The sled owned by Burton was a fine one, and larger even than that of
our friends. There were back-rests for each coaster, and a gong as big
as a dinner plate.
“See you later, Phil,” called Ruth, as she and her girl friends,
together with a throng of others, got aboard.
The big bob was pushed off, Tom and his chums watching with critical
eyes. Burton seemed to know his business.
“Well, we might as well go down,” remarked Frank, as he took his place.
There was a moment’s wait, while their bob filled, the same three pretty
girls taking their places. Then they were off, Sid ringing the bell
vigorously.
Hardly had they started, however, almost in the wake of Burton’s sled,
than Frank gave a cry of alarm.
“What is it?” shouted Tom, getting ready to jam on the brake. “Steering
wheel busted?”
“No, but look!” cried Frank. “That chump Burton is headed right for the
hollow cut-off! He’ll never make it at that speed, and there’ll be a
spill!”
For a moment there was a silence, broken only by the scraping of the
runners on the hard snow. Then Frank yelled:
“Keep to the right! Keep to the right, Burton! You can’t make that
turn!”
But Burton either did not hear or did not heed. Straight for the
perilous cut-off he steered, and then, as the girls saw their danger,
they cried shrilly. But it was too late to turn aside now, and Tom and
his chums, coming on like the wind behind the new bob, wondered what
would happen, and if there was any way of preventing the accident that
seemed almost sure to take place.
CHAPTER II
BAD NEWS FROM HOME
Years ago, it was the custom, for a certain style of stories, to begin
something like this:
“Bang! Bang! Seven redskins bit the dust!”
Then, after the sensational opening, came a calm period wherein the
author was privileged to do some explaining. I shall, with your
permission, adopt that method now, with certain modifications, and tell
my new readers something about Randall College, and the lads whom I
propose to make my heroes. It is, perhaps, rather an inopportune time to
do it, but I fear I will find none better, since Tom and his chums are
so constantly on the alert, that it is hard to gain their attention for
a moment, after they are once started.
And so, while the bob containing the girls, in whom our friends are so
much interested, is swinging toward the dangerous hollow, and when Tom
and the others are preparing to execute a risky manœuvre to save them,
may I be granted just a moment? My former readers may skip this part if
they choose.
It was in the initial volume of this “College Sports Series,” that I
introduced Tom Parsons and his chums. The first book was called “The
Rival Pitchers;” and in it I told how Tom, a raw country lad, came to
Randall College with a big ambition as regards baseball, and how he made
good in the box against long odds. In the second book, “A Quarter-back’s
Pluck,” I told how Phil Clinton won the big championship game under
trying conditions, and in “Batting to Win,” there were given the
particulars of how Randall triumphed over her rivals, and how a curious
mystery regarding Sid Henderson was solved.
“The Winning Touchdown,” was another story of college football, and,
incidentally the book tells how Tom and his chums saved the college from
disaster in a peculiar way, and how Frank came to Randall and “made
good.” Frank had roomed elsewhere but was now with Tom, Sid and Phil.
Randall College was situated on the outskirts of the town of Haddonfield,
in the middle west. Near it ran Sunny River, a stream of considerable
importance, emptying into Tonoka Lake. This lake gave the name to the
athletic league--the league made up of Randall, Boxer Hall, Fairview
Institute and some other places of learning in the vicinity. Randall
often met Boxer Hall and Fairview on the gridiron or diamond.
Dr. Albertus Churchill, dubbed “Moses,” was head-master at Randall, Dr.
Emerson Tines, called “Pitchfork,” was the Latin instructor, and Mr.
Andrew Zane was the proctor.
There were other instructors, officials, etc., whom you will meet as the
story goes on. As for the students, besides the four “inseparables” whom
I have already named, I have already told you of some, though I might
mention Sam or “Snail” Looper, much given to night prowling, Peter or
“Grasshopper” Backus, who aspired to be a great jumper, and “Bean”
Perkins, who could always be depended on to “root” for his team in a
contest.
These lads were all friends of our heroes. Truth to tell, the lads had
few enemies. Fred Langridge and his crony Garvey Gerhart, had made
trouble for Tom and his friends, until the two bullies withdrew from
Randall, and went to Boxer Hall.
And now, having read (or skipped) this necessary explanation, you may
proceed with the story.
“He must be crazy!” called Tom to Sid, who, clanging the bell, was
seated not far from the brake-tender. “Clean crazy to try to coast the
hollow on his first trip.”
“He doesn’t know any better,” returned Sid, as he looked ahead at the
big bob which was nearing the dangerous turn.
“What’s Frank up to?” demanded Phil. “He’s steering for the hollow,
too.”
At this there was a scream of terror from some of the girls on the bob
of our heroes.
“Don’t do it! Don’t try it!” begged the one next to Frank.
“Keep quiet, please,” he requested in a tense voice. “I’ve got to save
them if possible.”
“I’m going to jump off!” a girl cried.
“Don’t you dare!” ordered the Big Californian, and there was that in his
voice which made her obey.
From the big bob in front, which was now only a little way ahead of the
Randall sled, came a chorus of shrill screams. There was a movement,
plainly seen in the bright moonlight, as if some of the girls were going
to roll off.
“Sit still! Sit still!” yelled Frank. “Jam on your brakes there,
Burton!” he added. “You’ll never make that turn!”
“All right, I get you!” sang out the newcomer on the hill, and
Phil gritted his teeth as he thought of his sister--and the other
girls--entrusted to a reckless youth like this.
There was a scraping sound, as one of the lads on Burton’s bob
pulled the cord that sent a chisel-like piece of steel down into the
snow-covered roadway. But the speed of the sled was not much checked by
this brake.
By this time the two big bobs were close together, and the dangerous
turn was almost at hand. All the other coasters on the hill, save a few
that were near the bottom, had stopped their sport to see the outcome of
the perilous ride.
“Look out, Frank, you’ll be into them!” yelled Tom, as he saw their bob
coming nearer and nearer to the foremost one. “Shall I jam on the
brakes?”
His hand was on the cord, and, in another moment he would have sent the
scraping steel back of the rear runner, into the frozen surface.
“No! No!” yelled Frank. “Don’t touch that brake, Tom! I want all the
speed I can get!”
“What are you going to do?” cried his chum.
“I’m going to head them away from the cut-off.”
“You can’t do it!”
“I’m going to!” retorted Frank grimly. “Easy on the brake, Tom.”
“All right! She’s off!”
The girls on both bobs were now quiet, but they were none the less in
great fear. The very danger seemed to make them dumb, and they looked
ahead with frightened eyes, waiting for they knew not what.
A moment later Frank’s plan was plain to his chums. Knowing the hill
as he did, familiar with every bump and hollow, he had decided, if
possible, to draw up alongside the foremost bob, between it and the
dangerous turn, which Burton did not seem able to avoid. Then Frank
would hold a straight course, if he could, and fairly force the other
sled out of danger.
It was a risky plan, but none other would serve to prevent the big,
new bob from shooting toward the smaller hill, with the certainty of
overturning.
“Steer to the right--more to the right!” yelled Frank to Burton. “I’m
coming up on your left!”
“I--I can’t!” was the answer. “My steering wheel is jammed!”
“You can never make it, Frank,” called Phil. “There isn’t room between
that bob and the turn to get in. You’ll upset us!”
“No, I won’t! Just sit still! I’m going to do it!”
There was a quiet determination in the voice of the Big Californian, a
comparatively newcomer at Randall.
With a rushing whizz Frank steered his bob up alongside of the other.
It was just this side of the dangerous turn, toward which Burton was
headed. He was unable to do anything toward guiding his sled, and the
brake, though jammed on full, only served partly to slacken the speed.
But this slackening was enough to permit the faster bob from Randall to
creep up, and just in time.
Steering with the utmost skill, Frank sent his bob as close as he dared
to the other. It was on his right, while on his left, dipping down with
dizzying suddenness, was the turning slope that might lead to danger, or
even death.
Frank thrust out his foot, and planted it firmly on the foremost sled of
the new bob. At the same time he twisted his steering wheel to the
right, so as to gain all the leverage he could toward forcing Burton’s
bob away from the turn.
For a moment matters hung in the balance. An inch or two to the left
would send both bobs crashing down the dangerous slope. There was a
shower of ice splinters in the moonlight, a chorus of frightened gasps
from the girls, and sharp breathing by the boys. Then the weight, and
true steering qualities, of the Randall bob told. Slowly but surely she
forced the other away, and, a moment later, as the defective steering
gear on Burton’s sled gave way, there was a mix-up, and both craft
overturned, while there came shrieks of dismay from all the girls.
[Illustration: FOR A MOMENT MATTERS HUNG IN THE BALANCE.]
But the upset had occurred in a soft bank of snow, and, aside from the
discomfort, no one was hurt.
“If it had happened ten feet back though--well, there’d been a different
story to tell,” mused Tom, as he and his companions helped the girls out
of the conglomeration of sleds and drifts.
“What did you want to try anything like that for?” asked Phil of Burton,
when there was some semblance of calmness.
“Well, a fellow dared me to coast into the hollow, and I said I would.”
“You won’t do it again--with _my_ sister aboard,” growled Phil.
“No, indeed!” cried Madge Tyler. “If we’d known he was going to do that
we wouldn’t have ridden with him.”
“Oh, no harm’s done,” spoke Burton with a laugh. “I can soon fix that
steering gear, and we’ll have some fun yet.”
“No, thank you,” replied Miss Harrison. “I think we have had enough for
one night.”
“Come on our bob,” invited Tom eagerly. “It’s early yet.”
“Shall we?” asked Ruth, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. “We’re not
really hurt, you know, and--well----”
“Oh, yes, let’s do it,” begged Miss Newton, and so, leaving Burton to
his damaged bob, the girls went with Tom and his chums. They had several
glorious coasts, under the silver moon, which shone with undiminished
splendor.
Hal Burton got his bob in shape again, and begged the girls to try a
ride, but they would not, and he was forced to content himself with
others.
“Maybe he’ll be unpleasant toward you, going back to Fairview in the
horse sled,” suggested Phil, to his sister.
“He didn’t hire that,” retorted Ruth. “We girls clubbed together and got
that, and invited the boys. But I think we’d better be going; it’s
getting late.”
There was one more last, jolly coast, and then the college girls and
boys wended their way from the hill, calling good-nights to each other.
“When are you coming over, Phil?” asked his sister, as she and the
others climbed in the big horse-drawn sleigh.
“Do you mean our _crowd_?” asked her brother, laughingly.
“Yes--_everybody_!” added Miss Tyler.
“To-morrow,” answered Tom promptly.
“Don’t!” retorted Miss Harrison. “We have an exam. the next day. Make it
Friday, and we’ll have a little dance.”
“Done!” shouted Sid.
“And he’s the old misogynist who used to hate the ladies!” chaffed Tom,
at his chum’s ready acceptance. There was a laugh, and then the four
inseparables, in the midst of groups of their friends, trudged on toward
Randall.
“There was some class to your steering, Frank, old man,” complimented
Tom, after some talk of the near-accident.
“That’s right,” agreed Phil. “I never thought he’d make it.”
“I just _had_ to,” was the response. “There’d have been a bad time, if
that chump had gone down into the hollow.”
“Of course,” put in Sid. “I wonder how he came to get in with our girls,
anyhow?”
“_Our_ girls!” cried Tom. “How many do you own, anyhow?”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” said Sid. Then the students fell to
discussing the matter, speculating as to what sort of a chap Hal Burton
might turn out to be.
“Well, we had a good time,” remarked Tom, a little later, as the four
entered the room they shared in common. “Hello!” he cried, “the clock
has stopped.”
He caught up a nickel-plated alarm timepiece, and began shaking it
vigorously.
“What are you trying to do?” gasped Phil indignantly, as he snatched the
clock from Tom. “Do you want to ruin it?”
“I was trying to make it go.”
“Yes, and get the hair-spring caught up so she’ll do two hours in the
time of one. Handle it gently, you vandal!” and he rocked the clock
easily to and fro, until a loud ticking indicated that it had started
again.
“And now for boning,” remarked Frank, as he sank into one of the twin
armchairs that adorned the room. One was a relic--an heirloom--and the
other had come to the boys in a peculiar manner. Both were old and worn,
but the personification of comfort--so much so that once you had gotten
into one you did not want to get out. Also it was hard work to arise
unassisted, because of the depth.
Tom took the other chair, and Sid and Phil shared the dilapidated sofa
between them. It creaked and groaned with their weight.
“I guess we’ll have to be investing in a new one, soon,” remarked Phil,
as he tenderly felt of the sofa’s ‘bones’. “This won’t last much
longer.”
“It will serve our time,” spoke Sid. “Don’t you dare suggest a new one.
It would be sacrilege.”
Tired, but happy and contented, and in a glorious glow from their
coasting, the boys began looking for their books, to do a last bit of
studying before the signal for “lights out” should sound.
“Where’s my Greek dictionary?” demanded Phil, searching among a litter
of papers on the table. “I’m sure I left it here.”
“The last I saw of it, you fired it at Dutch Housenlager the other day
when he stuck his head in the door,” remarked Tom.
“Oh, here it is,” announced Phil, unearthing the volume from under a big
catching glove. “Hello, Tom, here’s a letter for you! Special delivery,
too! Must have come when you were out, and Wallops, the messenger, left
it in here. Catch!”
He tossed the missive to Tom, who caught it, and ripped it open quickly.
“It’s from home,” he murmured, as he read it. Then a change came over
his face--a change that was instantly apparent to his chums.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sid softly. “No bad news I hope, Tom.”
“Yes--it is--very bad news,” replied Tom softly.
CHAPTER III
WHEN SPRING COMES
There was silence in the room--a silence broken only by the ticking of
the fussy alarm clock, which seemed to be doing its best to distract
attention from the unwelcome letter. It was as if it were chanting over
and over again:
“Come-on! Come-on! All-right! All-right!”
Finally the constant ticking got on the nerves of Sid, and he stopped it
by the simple, but effective means of jamming a toothpick in the back of
the clock, where there is a slot for regulating the hair spring.
Tom read his letter over again.
“Is there--that is, can we--Oh, hang it, you know what I mean, Tom!”
blurted out Phil. “Is there anything we can do to help you? If there
is----”
“I’m afraid not,” replied Tom softly. “It’s some trouble dad is in,
and--well, of course it may affect me.”
“Affect you--how?” asked Frank.
“It’s this way,” went on the Randall pitcher. “Dad, you know, is a
farmer. That’s how he made what little money he has, and, in the last
few years he laid by quite a bit. About a year ago, he was persuaded to
invest it in a Western horse deal. He sunk about all he had, and--well,
those Westerners double-crossed him. They got his money, and froze him
out.”
“That’s like some fellows in the West, but not all,” broke in Frank
Simpson, bound to stick up for his own region. “How did it happen, Tom?”
“I never heard all the particulars, only I know that dad invested his
money, and he never got any return from it. Those Western horse dealers
kept it, and the horses too.”
“But that was a year ago,” spoke Sid. “What’s new about it?”
“This,” replied Tom. “Dad brought suit at law against them to recover
his money, and the case was just decided--against him.”
“Jove! That’s too bad!” exclaimed Sid. “But can’t he----?”
“Oh, dad’s appealed the case,” went on Tom, “but it’s this way, fellows.
If he loses on the appeal I’ve got to quit Randall.”
“Quit Randall!” cried the three in chorus.
“Yes, quit Randall. There won’t be money enough to keep me here. I’ll
have to go to work a year or so earlier than I expected to, and help
support the family. That’s what dad writes to me about. He says I must
not be disappointed if I have to come away at any time, and buckle down
to hard work. He says he’s sorry, of course--but, hang it all, I don’t
blame him a bit!” cried Tom, blowing his nose unnecessarily hard. “I
really ought to go to work I suppose. And, if this suit on appeal goes
against us, I will. It’s up to the judge of the higher court now,
whether dad gets his money or not.”
“But you mustn’t leave Randall,” declared Phil. “We’re depending on you
for the baseball nine.”
“Yes, and for track athletics,” added Sid. “There’s talk of forming a
new league for track athletics, and that will mean a lot to Randall. You
simply can’t go, Tom.”
“Well, I hope I don’t have to,” and the pitcher folded his letter
thoughtfully, and put it in his pocket. “But if it has to be--it has to,
that’s all. Let’s talk of something pleasant. What’s this about track
athletics?”
No one knew very much about it, save that there had been a proposition
that, in addition to having a football and baseball team, as well as
possibly a rowing crew, Randall try for some of the honors in all-around
athletics--broad and high jumping, putting the shot, hurdles, and
hundred yard and other dashes.
“I think it would be a good thing,” declared Tom. “With Spring coming
soon----”
“Spring!” broke in Phil. “It looks a lot like Spring; doesn’t it? with
us just back from a coasting party.”
“Oh, well, this snow fall was out of date,” declared Sid.
“Spring will be here before we know it,” went on Frank, in dreamy tones.
“I can almost hear the frogs croaking in the pond now. Oh, for glorious,
warm and sunny Spring. I----”
“Cut it out!” cried Phil, shying a book at his chum. “You’re as bad as
Tom with your poetry,” and they all looked toward the pitcher, who
seemed unusually downcast.
“Do you think you’ll have to go soon?” asked Sid, after a pause.
“I hope not at all,” answered Tom, “but there is no telling. If the case
goes against dad I’ll leave, of course, and buckle down to hard work. If
he wins it--why, I’ll stay on here.”
“And take part in the athletic contests?” asked Frank.
“Well, if they need me, and I have a show. But I’m not so much good at
that. Did you ever have a try at ’em, Frank?”
“Yes, I used to do some jumping, and occasionally a pole vault.”
“Listen to Mr. Modesty!” blurted out Sid. “Why, fellows, he holds the
Western amateur record for the broad jump! Twenty feet one inch--and
Sheran only did six and a half inches better,” and Sid rapidly turned to
the pages of an athletic almanac, where records were given. “He ran,
too. Beat in the mile contest.”
“Did you?” cried Tom. “And you never told us.”
“Well, it was sort of luck,” spoke Frank modestly. “I did my best, but
that day there weren’t very many contestants. I beat ’em all, but, as I
said it was luck.”
“Luck nothing!” grumbled Phil. “Why don’t you own up to it that broad
jumping is your specialty.”
“Well, it is, in a way. I like to run better, though. I’d be glad if we
did have some track athletics at Randall.”
“How about Pete Backus?” asked Tom with a laugh.
“Oh--Grasshopper,” cried Phil. “I suppose he’ll go in for the jump,
too.”
“The more the merrier,” commented Frank. “But does any one know anything
definite about this?”
No one did, beyond rumors that the athletic committee was considering
it. Then they fell to talking of what might happen when the Spring came,
of records, past performances, of great baseball and football games won
and lost, and, by degrees, Tom felt less keenly the unpleasant news that
had come to him.
“I do hope your dad wins that case!” exclaimed Phil, as they were
getting ready for bed, on hearing the warning bell ring. “We don’t want
to lose you, Tom.”
“And I don’t want to go, but still, a fellow----”
“I know, he has to do his duty. I sometimes feel that I ought to be
at work helping the family instead of staying here, where it costs
considerable,” interrupted Phil. “But if I ever can I’m going to make it
up to them. Wait until I get my degree, and the law cases come pouring
in on me, with big fees--say, maybe I could give your dad some points!”
he exclaimed, for Phil was considering the law as his profession.
“Well, dad has hired about all the lawyers he can afford,” replied Tom
with a smile.
“Oh, I didn’t mean for a retainer!” cried Phil. “I’d take the case for
practice.”
“I’ll tell dad,” was the pitcher’s smiling answer.
From the easy chairs, and the rickety sofa, the lads arose, amid clouds
of dust. The alarm clock, that served to awaken them in time for first
chapel call, was set going again, and carefully placed under some
cushions that the ticking might not keep them awake, while yet the bell
might summon them in time for worship next morning.
“We surely must do something to that sofa,” remarked Phil, as he pressed
down on the old springs. “We need a new one----”
“Never!” cried Tom.
“Then we’ll have to have this one revamped. It feels like lying on a
pile of bricks to stretch out on it now. I think----”
“Hark!” interrupted Tom.
There were loud voices out in the hall. Voices in dispute.
“I tell you I will go out!” exclaimed someone.
“But the last bell is just going to ring,” expostulated another, whom
the boys recognized as a hall monitor.
“What do I care! I can fool Zane. Stand aside!”
There was a moment of silence, and then the strokes of the retiring bell
peeled out through the dormitories.
“There! I told you!” said the monitor. “You can’t go. If you do, I’ll
have to report you.”
“All right, report and be hanged to you!” and then followed the sound
of a scuffle in the corridor, as if some one was shoving the monitor
aside.
CHAPTER IV
THE NEW FELLOW
“Something’s up,” remarked Tom in a whisper.
“Sure,” assented Phil. “But who is it?”
“I’ll take a look,” volunteered Sid, and, with a quick motion he turned
out the electric light, somewhat of an innovation in Randall. Then he
tiptoed to the door, which he opened on a crack. Through the aperture
came the noise of retreating footsteps, and it was evident to the
strained ears of the four chums that someone was going down the hall,
toward the broad stairway that led out on the campus, while someone else
was proceeding toward the main part of the dormitory, where Proctor Zane
had a sort of auxiliary office.
“Who is it--can you see?” demanded Tom Parsons, in a hoarse whisper.
“No! Keep still, can’t you? Wait until he gets under the hall light,”
was the reply from Sid.
“One of ’em was Franklin, the monitor for this floor; I’m sure of that,”
declared Phil. “I know his voice.”
“And the other----” began Tom.
“It’s that new fellow,” interrupted Sid as he, just then, caught a
glimpse of the youth who had caused the disturbance. “He came in
yesterday, don’t you remember. He’s in the soph. science division.
Gabbler--Rabbler or some such name as that.”
“I know!” exclaimed Tom. “It’s Shambler--Jake Shambler. He introduced
himself to me after first lecture. Rather fresh, I thought him, even if
he did make the soph. class. What’s he doing?”
“Going out, as near as I can tell,” replied Sid. “He must have had a
scuffle with Franklin. Well, it’s none of our funeral. Let’s turn in.
I’m dead tired.”
“What sort of a chap is he?” asked Frank, in rather idle curiosity, as
with the light once more switched on, the four boys proceeded to get
ready for bed.
“Not our sort at all,” replied Tom. “Decent enough appearing, and all
that, but the kind that thinks he knows it all. That was a fair sample,
the way he talked to the monitor just now.”
“Serve him right if he got caught,” murmured Phil.
“Oh, he’ll get it all right,” declared Sid. “Pop Zane isn’t as easy as
he was when we first came here. He’s right up to the mark, and if this
Shambler thinks he can shuffle off the campus, and come back when it
pleases his own sweet will, he’ll have another guess coming. What did he
say to you, Tom?”
“Nothing much.”
“It must have been something.”
“Well, I was in a hurry, and I didn’t pay much attention. He wanted to
know something about athletics, whether we’d have a ball team or not. I
said we probably would, and then he wanted to know what show there was
for track athletics. I didn’t know, so I couldn’t tell him. Then I
thought he was getting too friendly on short notice, so I shook him.”
“Nice way for one of Randall’s old stand-bys to treat a stranger, in a
strange land,” commented Phil.
“Oh, he won’t be a stranger long,” declared Tom. “He has brass enough to
carry him anywhere. He’ll get along. I don’t believe we want him in our
crowd, anyhow.”
“All right,” assented the others and then, as the last bell, for “lights
out” resounded through the dormitory, they leaped into bed.
If Jake Shambler, or any others who tried to “run the guard” that night
were caught, it did not come to the notice of our friends. They awoke
betimes the next morning, and, as usual hastened to chapel, making the
last of their simple toilets on the way, for, somehow, neck scarfs
never did seem to lend themselves to quick tying, in the early hours of
dawn.
“Well, I hear you lads had a grand time last night,” remarked Holly
Cross to the “inseparables,” as they paused on the chapel steps. “Saved
fair maidens in distress, and all that sort of thing.”
“Oh, we were on the job with the bob,” laughed Tom. “Where were you?”
“Doing the virtuous--boning Latin.”
“Like Cæsar!” exploded Sid.
“No, Cicero,” said Holly gravely. “Vandal, to doubt the word of your
betters!”
“Oh cheese it, Holly. You----” began Phil, but the warning bell ushered
them into the sacred precincts of the chapel, over the exercises of
which Dr. Churchill presided with his usual solemnity.
“There’s Shambler,” spoke Tom in a low voice to Sid, as the four filed
out, soon to separate in order to attend different classes.
“Who, that big chap with the red cap?”
“That’s the fellow!”
“Looks as though he had plenty of bone and muscle,” commented Frank.
“He’s coming over here,” went on Tom. “We’ll have to be decent to him, I
s’pose.”
Shambler approached. There was a certain breezy air about him, a
good-natured manner, and a seeming feeling of confidence, that, while
it might be all right, once you had made friends with him, yet was
rather antagonizing at first appearance. It was as if the new student
took too much for granted, and this is never overlooked among college
lads.
Shambler nodded to Tom, in what he meant to be a friendly fashion, and
began to keep step with him. Then he spoke.
“I say, I didn’t know it was the fashion at Randall for everybody to go
to bed with the chickens.”
“It isn’t,” said Tom shortly.
“It seems so,” was the rejoinder. “I was out for a lark last night, and
I couldn’t find anyone from around here to have fun with. I went past
your room and it was as dark as a pocket--you’re on my corridor; aren’t
you--sixty-eight?”
Tom nodded.
“Well, you certainly were sporting your oak. Did you hear the run-in I
had with a monitor? Beastly fresh. I made out all right, fooled the
proc. good and proper. I wish you had been along. Are these your
friends?”
Shambler included Sid, Phil and Frank, in a comprehensive wave of his
hand, and there was no choice but for Tom to introduce them, which he
did with the best grace possible.
“Glad to meet you!” exclaimed Shambler, holding out a muscular hand. “I
hear you’re in the athletic set. That’s where I want to get, too, though
I’m fond of a good time, and not too much training. I had bully fun last
night. Met some fellows from Boxer Hall, and we stayed in town quite
late. Don’t you ever hit it up?”
“Not very often,” replied Sid, a bit coldly. “Well,” he added, “I’m
going to leave you fellows. I’ve got a lecture on.”
“So have I,” added Tom, and, not to his very great pleasure, Shambler
linked his arm in that of the pitcher’s, and walked off with him,
remarking:
“I’m due for the same thing, old man. Do you mind if I sit with you? I’d
be glad if you’d give me a few pointers. They do things a bit differently
at the lectures here than at Harkness, where I came from. The old man’s
business changed, and I had to come here. How about cutting lectures?”
“It can be done,” spoke Tom coldly, for it was not his habit to indulge
in this practice. There were a few other commonplace remarks, and then
the college day fairly began.
Not until that afternoon did Tom meet his three chums again, and then,
in coming from the last lecture of the day, he heard footsteps behind
him, and turned to see Shambler hurrying to catch up to him.
“I say!” began the new student. “I meant to tell you. I met some fine
chaps last night from Boxer Hall. They’re coming over this afternoon to
call for me. I was wondering whether you and your chums wouldn’t like to
come out with us. We’re going to hire a drag and take a ride.”
“I don’t know,” began Tom. He appreciated the spirit in which Shambler
gave the invitation, and yet he did not altogether like the fellow.
Besides, he did not want to break up the pleasant relations so long
existing among the inseparables, and he knew that spirit would vanish if
a fifth member was introduced.
Still he did not quite see how he could “shake” Shambler. Ahead of him
Tom saw Sid, Phil and Frank waiting for him, and on their faces he
detected a look of annoyance, as they beheld his companion. But the
problem was solved for him.
“By Jove! There are the Boxer Hall boys now!” cried Shambler, waving his
hands to some youths who were discernable on the far side of the big
campus. “Come on over, and we’ll have some fun.”
Tom took one look at the two newcomers. In an instant he recognized them
as the enemies of himself and his chums--Fred Langridge and his crony,
Garvey Gerhart.
“I--I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me,” murmured Tom.
“Why--what’s wrong?” asked Shambler, curiously.
“Well, the fact of the matter is that your new friends would hardly
thank you for bringing us together,” answered Tom simply, as he swung
off and joined his chums, leaving a rather mystified student standing
staring after him.
CHAPTER V
IN “PITCHFORK’S” PLACE
“Well I say now! I wonder what’s up? Could I have----” Thus began
Shambler to commune with himself as he watched Tom. “Something’s wrong.
He doesn’t like Langridge and Gerhart, that’s evident. I must find out
about this.”
Which he very soon did, after a short talk with his new chums, and my
readers may be sure that Tom and his friends did not get any of the best
of the showing, in the account Langridge and his crony gave of their
affair, and the reasons for their withdrawal to Boxer Hall, told of in a
previous volume of this series.
“Humph! If that’s the kind of lads they are I don’t want anything to do
with them,” said Shambler, as he gazed after the retreating inseparables,
following the tale of Langridge and Gerhart.
“They’re not our style at all,” declared Langridge with a sneer. “Still,
don’t let us keep you from them, if you’d rather train in their camp.”
“Oh, I’m out for a good time!” declared Shambler boastfully. “I only
tried to get in with them as I heard they were in the athletic crowd,
and----”
“Hot athletes they are!” sneered Gerhart. “Say, if this talked-of an
all-around athletic contest comes off this Spring, and our college goes
in for it, we’ll wipe up the field with Randall, and Fairview too. They
won’t know they started. I don’t see why you didn’t come to Boxer Hall,
Shambler.”
“I wish I had, but it’s too late now. But say, I’m going in for
athletics, even if you fellows think you can do us up. I don’t have to
train with the Parsons crowd to do it though.”
“No,” admitted Langridge. “And so you offered to introduce Tom Parsons
to us. Ha! Ha! No wonder he shied off!” and he laughed sneeringly. “But,
if we’re going to town, come on before it gets too late.” And with that
the trio swung off toward the trolley line that would take them to
Haddonfield.
Meanwhile Tom and his chums tramped over the snow-covered campus, idly
kicking the white flakes aside.
“Doesn’t look much like baseball; does it?” remarked Tom, as he made a
snowball, and tossed it high in the air.
“No, but it can’t last forever,” declared Sid. “I say, did any of you
hear anything more about having a track team, and going in for field
athletics this Spring?”
“Only general talk,” replied Phil.
“There goes Dutch Housenlager,” spoke Frank. “Let’s see if he knows
anything.”
“He’s got his back turned,” whispered Tom. “It’s a good chance to play a
joke on him. Get in front of him, Sid, and be talking to him. I’ll sneak
up, and kneel down in back. Then give him a gentle push and he’ll upset
and turn a somersault over me.”
“Good!” ejaculated Phil. “It will be one that we’ve owed Dutch for a
long time.”
The trick was soon in process of being played. While Sid held the big
lad in earnest conversation, about the possibility of a track team for
Randall, Tom silently knelt down behind him. Then Sid, seeing that all
was in readiness, spoke:
“Have you seen the new style of putting the shot, Dutch?”
“Not that I know of,” replied the unsuspecting one. “How is it done?”
“This way,” answered Sid as, with a quick pressure against the chest
of Dutch, he sent him sprawling over Tom’s bent back, legs and arms
outstretched.
“Here! I say! Wow! What----”
But the rest that Dutch gave expression to was unintelligible, for he
and Tom were rolling over and over in the snow, tightly clenched.
“Event number one. Putting the shot!” cried Sid, after the manner of an
announcer giving a score at track games, “Dutch Housenlager thirty-seven
feet, six and one-quarter inches!”
“Oh, dry up!” commanded Dutch, as he skillfully tripped Tom, who had
arisen to his feet. “That’s one on me all right. Now, if you fellows are
done laughing, I’ve got a bit of news for you.”
“About athletics?” asked Frank eagerly.
“No, but we’re going to have a new teacher in Pitchfork’s place
to-morrow.”
“No!” cried Tom, half disbelieving, as he got up and brushed the snow
from his garments.
“But yes!” insisted Dutch. “Our beloved and respected Professor Emerson
Tines--alias Pitchfork--has been called to deliver a lecture on the
habits of the early Romans contrasted with those of the cave dwellers.
It’s to take place before some high-brow society to-night, and he can’t
get back here to-morrow in time to take his classes. He’s going to
provide a substitute.”
“Oh joy!” cried Phil.
“Wait,” cautioned Frank. “The remedy may be worse than the disease.”
“Who’s the sub?” asked Tom.
“Professor H. A. Broadkins, according to the bulletin board,” replied
Dutch.
“What’s ‘H. A.’ stand for?” Sid wanted to know.
“Ha! Ha! of course,” replied Tom promptly.
“Joke!” spoke Frank solemnly.
“Harold Archibald,” declared Sid. “Oh, say, we won’t do a thing to him.
I’ll wager he’s one of these pink and white little men, who wears a
number twelve collar, and parts his hair in the middle, so he can walk a
crack. Say, will to-morrow ever come?”
“Don’t take too much for granted,” advised Dutch. “I picked out a Harold
Archibald once as an easy mark, and I got left. This may not be the same
one, but--well, come on down the street. I’ve got a quarter that’s
burning a hole in my pocket, and we might as well help Dobbins raise the
mortgage on his drug store, by getting some hot chocolate there.”
“_Pro bono publico!_” ejaculated Tom. “Your deeds will live after you,
Dutch.”
“And if you upset me again, you’ll go to an early grave,” declared the
big lad, as the five strolled off to recuperate after the arduous labors
of the day.
When Tom and his chums filed into Latin recitation the next morning,
there was a feeling of expectancy on all sides, for the word had gone
around that there might be “something doing” in regard to the professor
who had come to temporarily fill the place of “Pitchfork.”
No one had seen him, as yet, but his probable name of “Harold Archibald,”
had been bandied about until it was felt sure that it was an index to his
character and build. Judge then, of the surprise of the lads, when they
found awaiting them a tall man of dark complexion, with a wealth of dark
hair, and a face like that of some football player. He was muscular to a
degree. There was a gasp of distinct surprise, and several lads who had
come “not prepared” began to dip surreptitiously into their Latin books,
while others, who had contemplated various and sundry tricks, at once
gave them over.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” began Professor H. A. Broadkins, in a deep,
but not unpleasant voice. (It developed later that his name was Hannibal
Achilles.) “I am sorry your regular teacher is not here, but I will do
the best I can. You will recite in the usual way.”
Thereupon, much to the surprise of the boys, he began giving them a
little history of the particular lesson for the day, roughly sketching
the events which led up to the happenings, and giving reasons for them.
It was much more interesting than when “Pitchfork” had the class and the
boys did their best.
But Dutch Housenlager had to have his joke.
The lesson had to do with some of the Roman conquests, and, in order to
illustrate how a certain battle was fought the professor, by means of
books constructed a sort of model walled city. The besiegers were
represented by more books, outside the walls.
“This was one of the first battles in which the catapult was used,” went
on the instructor. “You can imagine the surprise of the besieged army
when the Romans wheeled this great engine of war close to the walls, and
began hurling great stones. In a measure the catapult served to cover
the attack on another part of the city.
“For instance we will make a sort of catapult by means of this ruler.
This piece of mineral will do for the stone, and er--I think I will ask
one of you young men to assist me--er--you,” and he pointed to Dutch.
“Just come here, and you may work the catapult when I give the word. I
want to show the class how the other division of the army sapped the
walls.”
There came into the eyes of Dutch a gleam of mischief, as he looked at
the improvised catapult. It consisted of a ruler balanced on a book,
with a piece of mineral, from a cabinet of geological specimens, for the
stone. By tapping the unweighted end of the ruler smartly the rock
could be made to fly over into the midst of the besieged city. But
Dutch also noticed something else.
There was, on the table where the professor had laid out his map of
battle, an inkwell. When he thought the teacher was not looking Dutch
substituted the ink for the stone. A tap on the ruler would now send the
inkwell flying. Mr. Broadkins did not seem to notice this as he went on
with his preparations to sap the city walls.
“Now we are all ready,” he announced. “You may operate the catapult,” he
added, apparently not looking at it, and Dutch, with a grin at his
chums, prepared to hit the ruler a good blow. He calculated that the ink
would be well distributed.
Suddenly the professor changed his plans. Without seemingly looking at
Dutch, or the catapult, he said:
“On second thoughts you may come here--er--Mr. Housenlager. I will work
the catapult, and you may represent the invading division. All ready
now. Stand here.”
Dutch dared not disobey, nor dare he change the inkwell for the innocent
stone. Yet he knew, and all the class could see, that he was standing
where he would get a dusky bath in another minute. And the professor
appeared all unconscious of the inkwell.
“Ready!” called Mr. Broadkins, and he struck the unweighted end of the
ruler a smart blow.
Up into the air rose the bottle of ink. It described a graceful curve,
and then descended. Dutch tried to dodge, but, somehow, he was not quick
enough, and the inkwell hit him on the shoulder. Up splashed the black
fluid, and a moment later Dutch looked like a negro minstrel, while a
new pink tie, of which he was exceedingly proud, took on a new and
wonderful pattern in burnt cork splatter design.
“Wow! Wuff!” spluttered the fun-loving student, as some ink went in his
mouth. And then the class roared.
CHAPTER VI
THE NEW LEAGUE
Professor Broadkins looked up, as if mildly surprised at the merriment
of the students. He glanced over into the walled city that he had
constructed out of books, and then at Dutch. The sight of that worthy,
with ink dripping from him appeared to solve the mystery.
“Why, er--Housenlager--what happened?” inquired the instructor. “Did
some one----?”
“It was the catapult,” explained Dutch. “I--er----” he choked out.
Then the professor seemed to understand.
“Oh--ink!” he said, innocently. “You used the inkwell.”
“Yes,” assented Dutch. “I--er--put the bottle on the ruler, instead of
the rock. I----”
“I understand,” interrupted the substitute Latin instructor. “It is too
bad. How did you come to make that mistake, Housenlager?”
Once more the class laughed, and the lads were not restrained.
“You had better go to the lavatory, and wash,” went on the instructor.
“And I think you all have, by this time, a better idea of a catapult
than you had before, even though the wrong sort of missile was used. We
will now proceed with the lesson.”
It might fairly be presumed that not as much attention was paid to the
following instruction as was needed, but, at the same time, there was an
excuse. Dutch came back to the class toward the end of the recitation,
with a clean collar and a different necktie, and when the lecture was
over he did not join in the mirth of his fellow students.
“Dutch was in bad that time, all right,” remarked Sid with a laugh, as
the lads strolled out on the campus.
“A regular fountain pen,” commented Tom.
“Want a blotter?” asked Phil, offering a bit of paper.
“Or a pen wiper?” added Frank. “Say, how did you come to make such a
mistake, Dutch?”
“Oh, let up, will you?” begged the badgered one. “It wasn’t any mistake.
I thought he’d get the ink instead of me.”
“And he changed places with you,” interposed Tom. “Well, mistakes will
happen, in the best of regulated classes.”
“Oh say!” began Dutch. Then, despairing of changing the subject, unless
he took drastic measures, he added: “How about coasting again
to-night?”
“Say, I believe it would be sport!” chimed in Tom. “It’s getting warm,
and the snow won’t last much longer. Let’s get up a crowd, and go out on
the hill.”
The idea met with favor at once, and soon plans were being made for a
merry time.
“Telephone over to Fairview, and get your sister and her crowd, Phil,”
suggested Sid.
“Listen to the lady-killer!” jeered Tom.
“Oh, let up,” importuned Sid. “I guess I’ve got as much right as you
fellows.”
“That’s the stuff! Stick up for your rights!” cried Frank.
Though the moon was not as glorious as on the previous evening, the
night was a fine one, and a merry party of young men and maidens
gathered on the hill with big bobs, the gongs of which made clamorous
music, amid the shouts and laughter.
There were several cliques of students, but Tom and his crowd, with
Phil’s sister and the girls who were her chums, clung together and had
many a swift coast. It was when several were thinking of starting for
home that a party of lads, with a fine, big bob appeared on the hill.
“Who wants a ride?” challenged the leader, whom Tom recognized as
Shambler. “Come on, girls,” he went on, addressing Ruth Clinton, with
easy familiarity. “Get on, we’ll give you a good coast.”
“We don’t care to,” said Ruth, turning aside.
“Oh, it’s perfectly safe,” insisted Shambler. “Come on! Be sports. Here,
Gerhart--Langridge, help the girls on!”
“They don’t need any help!” suddenly exclaimed Tom, stepping between
Shambler and Ruth.
“How do you know--are you their manager?” asked the new student with a
sneer.
“No--but I’m her brother,” interposed Phil. “Come on, Ruth, we’ll walk
part way with you.” He linked his arm in hers, Phil and his chums began
dragging their bob away, followed by Madge Tyler, Mabel Harrison and
Helen Newton.
“Humph!” sneered Shambler, audibly. “I guess we got in wrong with that
bunch, fellows.”
“Forget it,” advised Langridge. “There are other girls on the hill, and
it’s early yet.”
And that night, as the four chums tumbled into bed, though they did not
speak of it, each one had an uneasy feeling about Shambler. It was as if
a disrupting spirit had, somehow, crept into Randall.
If further evidence was needed of the pushing, and self-interested
spirit of Shambler the four chums had it supplied to them a little
later, at an informal dance to which they were bidden at Fairview.
Tom and Phil came in from a walk one afternoon, to find Sid and Frank
eagerly waiting for them in the room. No sooner had the two entered,
than Frank burst out with:
“Come on, fellows, open yours, and see if they are the same as ours.”
“Open what?” asked Tom, looking about the room. “You don’t mean to say
some one has sent me a prize package; do you?”
“Or maybe Moses has sent in to say that I don’t need to study any more;
that I’ve done so well that I’m to be excused from all lectures, and
that my diploma is waiting for me,” spoke Phil mockingly. “Don’t tell me
that, fellows; remember I have a weak heart.”
“It’s the invitations!” exclaimed Sid. “At least I think that’s what
they are. We got ’em, and here are two letters--one for you, Tom, and
one for Phil. Come on, open ’em, and we’ll answer, and go together.”
“Go where?” demanded Tom. “Say, what’s this all about, anyhow? What’s
going on?”
“They’re all excited over it,” added Phil. “Like children.”
“Oh! for cats’ sake open ’em, and don’t keep us waiting,” begged Frank,
as he reached for two envelopes that lay on the table. The missives
unmistakably bore evidence of being “party bids,” but Tom kept up the
tantalizing tactics a little longer, by turning his over from side to
side, pretending to scrutinize the postmark, and then ended by gently
smelling of the delicate perfume that emanated from it.
“Smells good enough to eat,” he said, while Phil was tearing his open.
“It’s an invitation all right,” remarked Ruth’s brother. “The girls are
to give a little dance to-morrow night. Shall we go?”
“Well, rather!” exclaimed Sid quickly.
“Listen to him,” mocked Tom. “About a year ago he would no more think of
going where the girls were than he would of taking in a lecture on the
dead Romans. But now. Oh shades of Apollo! You can’t keep him home!”
“Oh, dry up!” exclaimed Sid.
“Humph!” mused Phil. “I suppose we _can_ go.”
“Sure; it’ll be fun,” agreed Frank.
“How about you, Tom?” asked Sid. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”
“Sure. I was only joking,” and then Tom went over to his bureau and
began rummaging among the contents of a certain drawer--contents which
were in all sorts of a hodge-podge.
“By Jove!” cried Tom. “It’s gone!”
“What?” inquired Frank.
“That new tan-colored tie I bought last week. It just matched my vest.
Who took it?” and he faced his chums.
“How dare you?” burst out Phil, with pretended anger. “To accuse us,
when there are so many other guilty ones in Randall! How dare you?”
“Come on, fork it over, whoever took it!” demanded Tom. “Some of you
have it. Caesar’s side-saddles! A fellow can’t have anything decent here
any more! I’m going to have locks put on my bureau!”
“What do you want of that tan-colored tie, anyhow?” asked Sid.
“Oh, so you’re the guilty one!” cried Tom. “I’ll get it,” and he strode
over to his chum’s bureau, where, from a drawer, after a short search,
he pulled the missing tie.
“All crumpled up, too!” he exclaimed, as he looked at it ruefully. “I’ll
fix you for this, Sid.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to muss it so. I just borrowed it to wear the other
night, and we got to skylarking, and----”
“Skylarking with a girl!” cried Frank aghast. “Say, you are going some,
Sid.”
“Oh, I only tried to----”
“Kiss her--I know,” went on Frank relentlessly. “You ought to be given
the ‘silence.’ But in view of the fact that there are mitigating
circumstances, and that you wore another fellow’s tie, we will suspend
sentence. But don’t let it occur again. Now about this glad-rag affair.”
“That’s it,” broke in Phil. “I don’t see why Tom made such a fuss about
that tie. He can’t wear it to the dance, anyhow.”
“Why not? Is it a full-dress affair?” asked the owner of the tan scarf,
as he carefully smoothed it out.
“Sure it is.”
“Oh, then that’s different. I didn’t know.”
“And you bully-ragging me the way you did!” reproached Sid. “Never mind.
I still have some friends left. But I’ll pay for having your little new
tie put in shape again, Tommy my boy. I’ll buy you new inner tubes for
it, and a shoe, and you can have all the gasolene you want to make it
go.”
“Oh, shut up!” retorted Tom, and he began to rummage in his drawer once
more.
“What now?” asked Phil.
“My studs. I suppose some one has pinched them.”
But no one had, and Tom’s sudden energy in looking to see if he had all
things needful for the dance suggested to the others that they might
profitably do the same thing.
The invitations, which had come by special delivery, were put away with
similar ones, and other relics of good times in the past, and then the
boys began talking about the coming affair. Lessons for the next day
were not as well prepared as usual, as might easily be imagined.
And the night of the dance! For the preserving of the reputations of my
heroes in particular, and all young men in general I am not going to
give the details of the “primping” that went on in the rooms of the four
inseparables.
“It is simply disgraceful to see decent, well-behaved and seemingly
intelligent human beings behave so,” Holly Cross remarked as he dropped
in when the four were getting into their “glad rags.” He went on: “I
never would have believed it--never, if I had not seen it with my own
eyes.”
“Get out! You’re mad because you’re not going,” said Tom, as he made up
his white tie for about the fifth time.
“I wouldn’t so lower myself!” shot back Holly, as he went out.
But at last the boys were ready, and, talk about girls taking a long
time to--well, but there, I promised to say nothing about it. Anyhow, at
last they were off.
The dances at Fairview were always enjoyable affairs, and this one was
no exception. The girl friends of our heroes were awaiting them.
“I hope your cards aren’t all filled,” greeted Tom.
“There is _one_ dance left for each of you,” spoke Madge Tyler, but her
laughing eyes stopped the protest that arose to Tom’s lips.
“You don’t mean it!” he burst out, as he took the program from her. Then
a look showed him that there were many vacant spaces which he proceeded
to fill. Madge laughed mischievously.
“Whose name was down here, that you rubbed off?” demanded Tom
suspiciously. Miss Tyler blushed.
“Oh, that’s some of your Randall manners,” she burst out.
“Randall manners! What do you mean?” asked Tom.
“A little while ago,” she explained, “just before you boys came, I was
standing near a pillar. Someone came up behind me, and snatched my
program from my hand. Before I could stop him he had scribbled his name
down. But I rubbed it out.”
“Do you mean a Randall man did that?”
“He did.”
“Who was he?”
“Mr. Shambler.”
“That lout again!” murmured Tom. “I’ll teach him a lesson.”
“No, don’t,” begged Madge. “I told him what I thought of him myself.”
“Good!” exclaimed Tom, and then he detailed the circumstances to his
chums. They agreed that Jake Shambler would have to be taught a severe
lesson if his “freshness” did not subside soon.
Not at all rebuffed by what had happened, however, Shambler asked some
of the other girls in Miss Tyler’s set to dance with him, but they
refused. However he managed to find some partners, including the girl
who had invited him. He greeted our heroes with breezy familiarity, and
they could do no less than bow coldly. But Shambler did not seem to
mind.
The dance went on, and the inseparables had a fine time. Doubtless their
girl friends did also, and it was not until an early hour that the
affair ended.
“And to think that we won’t have another for at least a month!” groaned
Tom, as he and his chums wended their way Randallward.
“And you’re the chap that was making such a fuss about a tan tie,”
murmured Sid. “Look at yours now. There’s nothing left of it.”
“No, nor my collar either,” replied Tom, feeling of his wilted linen,
for he had danced much.
A week, in the early Spring, can work wonders. One day there may be snow
covering everything. Then a few hours of warm sun, a warm South wind,
and it seems as if the buds were just ready to burst forth.
So it was at Randall. The brown grass on the campus began taking on a
little hue of green. There was a spirit of unrest in the air. Lectures
were cut in the most unaccountable way. Several lads were seen out on
the diamond wherefrom the frost was hardly yet drawn. Balls began to be
tossed back and forth.
Down by the river, where, because of the sloping land, it was dryer than
elsewhere a little group of lads were gathered about one of their
number.
“Now for a good one, Grasshopper!” someone cried.
“I’m going to do seventeen or bust a leg!” came the answer.
“What’s going on over there?” asked Tom of his three chums, who were
strolling about.
“Pete Backus is doing his annual Spring hop,” said Phil.
“Let’s go watch him,” suggested Sid.
“He’s getting in training for the games,” declared Frank. “I think I’ll
enter myself if they hold ’em.”
“Well, there’s been a lot of talk lately,” put in Tom. “Exter Academy is
hot for ’em, and I understand Boxer Hall and Fairview would come in
with us, on a quadruple league for the all-around championship. But
let’s look at Backus.”
“How much?” cried the long-legged lad as he made his jump. “Did I beat
my record?”
“Sixteen-nine,” announced a lad with a measuring tape.
“I’ll make it seventeen!” declared Grasshopper. “Oh, hello, Tom!” he
cried. “Say, are you going in for it?”
“For what?”
“The games--new league--didn’t you hear about it?”
“No!” cried the quartette in a chorus.
“Oh, it’s going to be great,” went on the lad who imagined he was a
jumper. “I’m going in for the running broad, and maybe the high. I’m
practicing now.”
“Say, tell us about it,” begged Phil.
“Oh, there’s nothing settled,” interposed Jerry Jackson. “Some of the
fellows are talking of getting up a league for all-around athletics, and
I think it would be a good thing.”
“Is it only talk so far?” asked Tom.
“That’s all,” replied Joe Jackson, the other Jersey twin. “But there is
going to be a preliminary meeting in a few nights, and then it will be
decided. Are you fellows in for it?”
“We sure are!” cried the four friends.
The idea spread rapidly, and a few nights later there was a preliminary
meeting in the Randall gymnasium concerning the new league.
Representatives were present from Fairview, Boxer Hall and Exter, and
one and all declared themselves in favor of something to open the season
before the baseball schedule had the call.
“What will you go in for, Tom?” asked Sid, as the four inseparables were
in their room after the committee session.
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I won’t do much. I’m going to save myself for
the diamond. There’s enough others to uphold the honor of Randall. There
are Frank, and Phil and you.”
“But we want a good representation. How about the mile run for you?”
“Nothing doing. Frank, you ought to go in for the hammer throw, the shot
put, and for the weight throwing.”
“Maybe I will. I understand there are some good lads at those sports at
Boxer and Fairview.”
“Yes, and some here.”
“Shambler’s going to enter, I hear,” added Phil.
“What for?” queried Sid.
“The mile run, and some jumping.”
“Well, he looks good, though I don’t exactly cotton to him. Say, things
will be lively here soon,” commented Frank. “I guess I’ll begin
training.”
“Better come in, Tom,” advised Sid.
“No, I’ll wait a while.”
“It isn’t about that trouble at home; is it?” asked Sid in a low voice.
“Well, in a way, yes,” admitted Tom. “You see I don’t know when I may
have to leave here, and it wouldn’t be just right to enter for a contest
and then have to drop out.”
“Do you think it would be as bad as that?”
“It might be--there’s no telling.”
“Tom,” said Sid, and his voice took on a new tone. “I think you ought to
enter, and practice up to the last minute. If you have to drop out, of
course, that’s a different matter. But I think you ought to do your
best.”
“Why? There are plenty of others. Why should I?”
“Why? For the honor of Randall, of course. You never were a quitter,
and----”
“And I’m not going to begin now,” finished Tom with a smile. “I’ll enter
the games, Sid.”
“I thought you would,” was the quiet answer.
CHAPTER VII
THROUGH THE ICE
“Shove over, Tom.”
“Say, what do you want, the whole sofa?”
“No, but give a fellow his share, can’t you?” and Phil looked down on
his chum, who was sprawled over a goodly part of the ancient and
honorable article of furniture. “Sid has one armchair, and Frank the
other, and I want some place to rest my weary bones,” declared Phil.
“I’ve been out with the natural history class after bugs, and other
specimens, and I’ll wager we walked ten miles. Give me a place to rest.”
“Try the floor,” grunted Tom, who was too comfortable to move. “What do
you want to come in for raising a row, just as we’re nice and cozy?”
“Say, haven’t I a right here?” demanded Phil. “Who helped fix that old
sofa, I’d like to know, when all its bones were showing? Give me a whack
at it, Tom.”
But Tom refused to budge, and presently, in the room of the four
inseparables, there was a scuffling sound, and the tall pitcher felt
himself being suddenly slewed around by the feet, until there was room
enough for another on the sofa. But Phil did the gymnastic act too well,
for he shoved Tom a bit too far, and, a moment later one hundred and
fifty pounds more or less, slumped to the floor with a jar.
“There, now you have done it!” cried Sid, as he sprang from one of the
easy chairs, and made a grab for the fussy little alarm clock, that had
been jarred from its place on the table by the concussion of Tom’s fall.
“Grab it!” yelled Frank.
“Safe!” ejaculated Sid, holding it up. “But it was a close call. The
next time you fellows want to do the catch-as-catch-can, go out in the
hall. This is a gentleman’s resort, mind.”
“I’ll punch your head--if I think of it to-morrow,” grumbled Tom, who
had been half asleep when Phil so unceremoniously awakened him. “Remind
me of it--somebody.”
“On your peril,” laughed Phil, as he grabbed up some of the cushions
which had fallen under his chum, and made an easy place for himself on
the now vacant sofa. Tom continued to lie on the floor.
“Anything doing outside when you came in?” asked Frank.
“Not much. I stopped in the gym, and a lot of the fellows were talking
track athletics, and Grasshopper was jumping.”
“It looks as if there’d be something doing this Spring,” commented
Frank. “I was talking to Holly Cross, Kindlings and some of the others,
and there’s a good show for the new league. All the other teams are hot
for it. We’ve got to have several more meetings though, and see if we
can get enough cash to buy the prizes, and arrange for the meet.”
“Would it be held here on our grounds?” asked Tom, showing a sudden
interest.
“Well, some of the fellows want it here, and Boxer Hall is going to make
a strong bid for it,” said Sid. “I think, and so does Kindlings, that it
ought to be on some neutral field.”
“I agree with Dan Woodhouse,” remarked Frank, giving “Kindlings” his
right name. “A neutral field will be fair to all. Well, if this weather
keeps on we’ll be out practicing in a few weeks.”
But, though the weather did not bear out the promise of the first few
warm days of Spring, there was still plenty of practice. The enthusiasm
over a track meet grew, and many more lads than were expected put in an
appearance at the gymnasium, to try out their skill over the hurdles,
vaulting the bar, in hundred yard dashes, putting the weight, shot and
hammer, while any number said they were going to try to qualify for the
mile run, and the broad and high jumps.
Meanwhile, more or less correspondence went on among the athletic
committees of the four institutions that naturally would form the new
league, if matters came to a head. Exter was comparatively a new
college, but she stood well to the fore in athletics.
The end of the Winter was at hand, when one night there came an
unprecedented freeze. Tom and his chums awakened shivering in their
quarters, for the window had been left open, and the thermometer was
away down.
“Wow! Somebody turn on the heat!” cried Tom, poking his nose out from
under the covers.
“It’s Phil’s turn,” declared Sid.
“It is not,” was the answer.
“I’ll toss you for it, Sid,” put in Frank, leaping out of bed, and
reaching for his trousers to get a coin. “Call!”
“Heads!” shouted Sid.
“It’s tails,” declared the big Californian.
“Oh, well, turn it on, like a good fellow, now that you’re up,” advised
Tom.
“Well, I like your nerve!” ejaculated Frank with a laugh, but, good
naturedly, he did as he was asked, and soon the radiator was thumping
and pounding away, while the boys waited a few minutes longer before
venturing out from under the warm covers.
“There’ll be skating all right!” declared Tom, as he breathed on the
frosty window. “We’ll have a last glide on Sunny River. Who’s for a spin
before breakfast?”
“Not for mine!” cried Phil, and none of the others showed an inclination
to stroll out in the frosty air until necessary. Before chapel, however,
several of the lads paid a visit to the stream, coming back with glowing
reports of the smooth ice.
“A hockey game this afternoon!” cried Tom, after lectures, and scores of
others agreed with him.
“Not until some of you blue-jays do your turn in the gym!” declared
Kindlings and Holly Cross, who had constituted themselves a sort of
coaching pair, pending the selection of a regular trainer for the track
games.
Mr. Lighton, the professional coach was temporarily absent, and it was
not known whether he would be back in time to take charge of the various
squads or not.
“Do you mean to say you’re going to make us practice, when it may be the
last chance for a skate?” asked Tom.
“I sure am,” replied Holly. “But we’ll cut it short. Come on now,
fellows, no backing out. We got to the top of the heap at football and
baseball, and we don’t want to slump on the track. Randall must be kept
to the fore.”
“That’s right!” came the cry, and the lads piled off for the gymnasium,
where they indulged in some hard practice.
“That new fellow, Shambler, seems to be doing some good jumping,”
remarked Phil to Tom, as the two were doing a little jog around the
track.
“Yes, I wonder where’s he from, anyhow? I never heard much about him
while he was at Harkness--I wonder if he really is from that college?”
“Give it up. What difference does it make, anyhow? Harkness was a small
college, and her records didn’t count. But Shambler sure can jump. He’s
as good at the high as he is at the broad. There he goes for another
try, and they’ve got it up to the four-foot-ten mark I guess.”
“Four eleven,” remarked Phil, who could read the marks on the standards.
“If he does that he’s a good one. The record is five feet seven.”
“There--he did it and a couple of inches over,” cried Tom, as Shambler
made a magnificent leap. “Say, we need him all right.”
“That’s so. I only wish he was a little more companionable. He trains
too much in with that Boxer Hall sporting set, to suit me.”
“Yes, too bad. But it can’t be helped. Now he’s going to try the broad.
Let’s watch him.”
Shambler came up to the take-off on the run, and shot into the air.
Forward like a stone from a catapult he went and unable to recover
himself he crashed full into Tom, who was standing watching.
“Look out!” cried Shambler, as he hung on to Tom to avoid falling. “What
are you trying to do, anyhow? Queer my jump? I’d have broken my record,
only for you!” He spoke in angry tones.
“I’m sorry,” began Tom, “I didn’t----”
“Looks as though you got there on purpose,” interrupted the jumper,
flashing a black look at Tom. “Isn’t the gym big enough for you?”
“Look here!” cried Tom, nettled at the tone. “I said I was sorry for
what I couldn’t help, and that ought to be enough. I didn’t mean to get
in your way, and if I spoiled your jump----”
“You spoiled it all right,” broke out Shambler. “Now I’ve got to try
over again. Get back out of the way!” he ordered to Tom and Phil, as
though they were the veriest freshmen, instead of being upper-classmen.
“You----” spluttered Tom, but Phil caught him by the sleeve.
“Don’t say it,” he advised. “Let the cad alone. If he’s like that, the
sooner Randall knows it the better.”
“All right,” answered Tom in a low voice, swallowing his just wrath,
and he swung aside. Shambler tried the jump again, and, though he did
exceedingly well there was little applause for him from the watching
throng, for many of the lads had heard what he said to Tom.
“There, I guess we’ve done our share!” exclaimed Tom, after a bit. “Come
on out on the ice now, Phil, Sid and Frank have gone, and we don’t want
to get left on a hockey game.”
Sunny River was thronged with students, and soon several games were in
progress. A number of the girls and boys from Fairview Institute skated
down, and among them was Phil’s sister Ruth, and her three girl chums.
Naturally Tom and his three friends soon deserted the hockey game to
skate with the girls, not heeding the entreaties of their companions.
“Let the lady killers go!” sneered Shambler, who had taken his place in
one of the games. “We want sports in our crowd.”
“We must go home early,” said Ruth after a bit. “We are to have a class
meeting to-night, and I’m one of the hostesses.”
“Strictly a girls’ party?” asked Tom.
“No boys allowed,” was the laughing answer, and after some pleasantries
the four girls started up the frozen surface of the stream, their
escorts going down. The hockey games were over, and many of the players
had taken off their skates. Turning to wave a farewell to Ruth and the
others, Tom saw a solitary lad skating near them.
“There’s Shambler,” he thought. “I guess he’d like to do some
lady-killing on his own account. I hope the girls don’t get skating with
him.”
Tom, who had lingered a few moments, now spurted ahead to catch up to
his companions, who were some distance in advance. He had almost reached
them when he was aware of some one skating rapidly up behind him. He
wheeled about to behold Shambler, with a white, set face, coming on like
the wind. And, a second later, Tom heard the screams of the girls and
saw but two where, a moment before, there had been four.
“What--what happened?” he gasped.
“They--they went through the ice I guess!” panted Shambler. “They were
near me, and I heard it crack. I--I skated away--I wanted to get help.
I--I----”
“You skated away!” thundered Tom. “Sid--Phil--fellows! The girls are
through the ice--an air hole I guess--come on back! Shambler--Shambler
skated away!” he murmured under his breath as he looked unutterable
things at the new lad. “Come on, boys!”
There was a ring of steel on ice. Four figures turned and like the wind
shot up the river, while Tom, in the lead, shouted:
“We’re coming--we’re coming. To the rescue! Keep away from the edge,
girls!” He wanted to warn back the two who had not fallen in.
“I--I can’t swim,” murmured the white-faced Shambler, as he kept on down
the river. “I--I’ll get a doctor.”
CHAPTER VIII
TOM KEEPS SILENT
“Who is it? Who fell in?” gasped Phil, as he gained a place at Tom’s
side.
“I don’t know,” was the strained answer, as Tom gazed eagerly ahead to
make out the figures of the two girls, who, clinging together, stood
near the hole through which their companions had disappeared.
“Can’t you see who they are?” went on Phil, half piteously, appealing to
his chums. “Is--is----”
They knew what he meant, though he did not finish the sentence.
“It can’t be Ruth,” said Tom softly. “Ruth is standing there--with Madge
Tyler.”
Yet, even as he spoke, he knew that it was not so. For the two girls on
the ice, frantically turning to note the progress of the rescuing lads,
disclosed their faces to the hurrying quartette, and it was seen that
they were Mabel Harrison and Helen Newton.
“Ruth--Ruth is in the water!” gasped Phil, for he too saw now that his
sister was missing.
“And Miss Tyler!” added Frank.
Then, without another word, the four boys skated on as they had never
skated before, not even when a race was to be won--or lost. Tom gave a
glance back, and saw Shambler heading for the shore. A fierce wave of
anger swept over him, but he said nothing to his chums of the apparent
act of cowardice.
“Is she there? Holding on to the ice? Are they both there, girls?”
gasped Phil, as he covered the intervening distance between himself and
the two frightened girls.
“Oh, boys, hurry!” called Mabel. “They are both holding on to the ice,
but they can’t last much longer. It’s cracking all the while. We tried
to go near, but it bends with us!”
“Keep back! Keep back!” shouted Tom. “Don’t you two go in. Fence rails,
fellows! Fence rails are what we need!”
He and the others skated near enough to see the two girlish figures in
the water, clinging to the ragged edges of the icy hole.
“Ruth! Ruth! Can you hold on a little longer?” gasped Phil.
“Ye-e-e-s!” was the shivering answer.
“And you, Madge?” cried Tom.
“Yes, but be quick--as you can,” she said, and her voice was faint.
“Off with our skates! Lay the rails on the ice and they’ll support our
weight!” cried Sid, catching Tom’s idea, and leaping toward a fence on
shore.
It was done in a trice, and, a moment later several long rails were
stretched over the gaping hole. This gave firm support, and willing
hands and sturdy arms soon raised the two dripping figures from the
ice-cold water. The girls all but collapsed as they were dragged to
safety.
“What shall we do with ’em?” asked Frank, who, truth to tell, had
hitherto had little to do with girls.
“We must get them to some warm place at once!” cried Tom. “There’s a
house over there. Mabel, you and Helen run over and tell ’em to get the
fires good and hot, and have plenty of hot water. We’ll bring the girls
over. Come boys, off with our coats and wrap ’em up.”
“Oh, but you’ll get c-c-c-cold!” protested Madge.
“What of it?” cried Sid sharply, as he peeled off his thick jacket and
wrapped it around the shivering girl. His companions covered Ruth, and
then Tom had an idea.
“Make a chair, fellows!” he cried. “A chair with our hands, and two of
us can carry each girl. It’s the quickest way. Their dresses are
freezing now.”
The tall pitcher’s plan was at once adopted. Wrapped in the boys’ coats,
the girls were lifted up on the hands of the lads in the old familiar
fashion, and then the journey to the farmhouse was begun, Mabel and
Helen having preceded the little party.
“Come right in!” invited an elderly woman as she stood in the doorway.
“We’ll soon have you as warm as toast. You boys bring in some more wood.
Oh, it’s too bad! I’ll soon have some hot lemonade for ’em. You must get
your wet things off, dearies.”
She was a motherly old soul, and with the assistance of her daughter,
and Mabel and Helen, the half-drowned ones were soon fairly comfortable,
while generous potions of hot lemonade warded off possible colds.
“It all happened so suddenly,” said Ruth when, some little time later,
her brother and his chums were admitted to the room where the two girls
were wrapped in blankets, and sitting in big chairs before a roaring
fire. “We were skating on when, all of a sudden, the ice gave way, and
Madge and I found ourselves in the water. Oh, I thought we would come up
under the ice, and have to stay there until----” She stopped with a
shudder.
“Don’t talk about it, Ruth dear,” begged her chum.
“It’s a good thing the boys were so close,” spoke Mabel. “They came like
the wind, but, even then, I thought they would never get there.”
“I wonder if we can go back to school?” ventured Ruth.
“Certainly not,” decided her brother. “You must be kept good and warm,
and----”
“But, Phil dear, perhaps they haven’t room here for us, and----”
“Yes we have,” interrupted the woman. “I’ve plenty of spare beds. You
just make yourselves comfortable. Well, I declare, here comes Dr. Nash,”
and she looked out of the window as the medical man, who had been
summoned by Shambler, walked in the front yard. The physician continued
the treatment already so well begun, and said, with a good night’s
sleep, the young ladies would be none the worse off for the affair.
It was arranged that Mabel and Helen should go back to Fairview, to
report the accident, and that Madge and Ruth should remain at the
farmhouse over night. The boys, after making sure there was nothing more
they could do, took their leave.
“Whew! That was a mighty close call!” gasped Phil, when they were once
more skating toward Randall. “It gave me the cold shivers.”
“Same here,” added Tom.
“How’d you come to see ’em fall in?” asked Frank.
“I didn’t,” replied Tom. “I--er--some one told me.”
“Oh, yes, Shambler,” interposed Sid. “I wonder why he didn’t----”
Tom took a sudden resolve. It was within his power then to break
Shambler--utterly to destroy his reputation among his fellow-students,
for there was no doubt but that the new lad had acted the part of a
coward. And, as Tom thought of the mean actions of the fellow in the
gymnasium that afternoon, he was tempted to tell what he knew. Randall
was no place for cowards.
And yet----
Tom seemed to see himself back in the room with his chums. He saw them
lolling on the old sofa, or in the big chairs. He heard the ticking of
the fussy little alarm clock, and with that there seemed to come to him
a still, small voice, urging him to choose the better way--the more
noble way.
“Shambler,” repeated Frank, “he----”
“He saw us going to the rescue I guess,” put in Tom quietly. “He saw
that we could beat him skating and he--he ran for the doctor. It
was--the wisest thing he could do.”
“That’s so,” agreed Phil. “I didn’t think of that. I must thank Shambler
when I see him.”
Tom kept silent, but he thought deeply, and he knew that Phil’s thanks
would be as dead-sea apples to Shambler.
“Come on, let’s hit it up,” proposed Frank. “I’m cold.” And they skated
on rapidly.
They were soon at Randall, where the story of the rescue had preceded
them, and they were in for no end of congratulations and hearty claps on
the back.
“You fellows have all the luck,” complained Holly Cross. “I never
rescued a pretty girl yet.”
“No, Holly’s too bashful,” added Dutch Housenlager! “He’d want to be
introduced before he saved her life.”
“Or else he’d pass over his card, to introduce himself,” added Jerry
Jackson. “Then he’d tell her what college he was from, and want to know
whether she would have any serious objection to being pulled from the
icy H2O by the aforesaid Holly.”
“You get out!” cried the badgered one. “I can save girls as well as
anyone, only I never get the chance.”
“You’re not quick enough,” suggested Dutch. “You should be on the
lookout to get a life-saving medal. But, all joking aside, Tom, was it
at all serious?”
“It sure was,” came the reply. “It looked to be touch and go for a few
minutes.”
On his way to the library that evening, to get a book he needed in
preparing his lessons, Tom met Shambler. The athlete looked at our hero,
half shamefacedly, and asked:
“Are the--the girls all right?”
“Yes,” answered Tom shortly.
“I say, Parsons,” and Shambler’s voice had a note of pleading in it.
“I--I lost my head, I guess. I was a coward, I know it. I--er--are you
going to tell?”
“Of course not!” snapped Tom. “We--we don’t tell--at Randall.”
He hurried on, not stopping to hear what Shambler had to say--if
anything--in the way of thanks.
CHAPTER IX
IN THE ICE BOAT
“What can we do to have some fun?”
“Stand on your head.”
“Go off by yourself to a moving picture show.”
“You’re a whole circus yourself.”
It was Dutch Housenlager who had asked the question, and it was Tom
Parsons and his chums who had made answers, for Dutch had invaded the
precinct of their room in search of amusement, to the detriment of the
studious habits of our friends.
“Oh, say now, be decent, can’t you?” pleaded Dutch. “I’m in earnest.”
“So are we,” declared Tom. “We aren’t all geniuses like you, Dutch. We
have to study in order to know anything, but we can’t if you come here,
begging to be amused.”
“I’ve got to do something--or bust,” declared the fun-loving lad in
desperation.
“If you’re going to blow up, please go outside,” invited the big
Californian solemnly. “It messes up a room horribly to have a fellow
like you scattered all over it. Get outside!”
“You brute,” murmured Dutch. “After all I’ve done to add to the gaiety
of Randall.”
“Work off another ink catapult on a new teacher,” advised Tom. “That’s
always good for a laugh.”
“Oh, forget it,” urged Dutch, for that was a sore point with him yet,
though it had happened some weeks before.
It was now several days since the rescue of the girls, and they had
suffered no permanent ill effects from their break through the ice. Phil
and his chums had seized on the excuse of asking about them, to pay
several visits to Fairview, until Miss Philock, the aged preceptress
“smelled a mouse,” as Sid said, and curtailed the visits of all but
Phil, who, by virtue of being a brother, was allowed to see Ruth for a
few minutes.
“But what’s the fun of going to see your own sister?” asked Phil.
“What indeed?” echoed the others, though some of them wished they were
Phil.
And, as the days wore on the cold did not diminish, and the ice on the
river held.
“A slim outlook for Spring games,” growled Dutch, as he sat in the
chums’ room, vainly begging a suggestion for fun.
“Oh, well, warm weather will come, sooner or later,” declared Tom with
a yawn, flinging a book behind the ancient couch. “How are things
working out?”
“Pretty good, I guess,” replied Dutch. “Holly and Kindlings have charge
of the arrangements. It’s practically decided that we’ll be one of a
four-sided league. The only point is that of deciding what events to put
on the program. Some want one, and some another.”
“Think Randall has any chance?” asked Phil.
“Sure,” declared Dutch. “Shambler is showing up well in the runs, and
Frank here is jumping his head off, and going some with the shot and
hammer. You fellows want to perk-up.”
“Oh, there’s time enough,” remarked Tom. “So Shambler is doing good
work; eh?”
“Fine. I didn’t think he could. Some of the fellows seemed to think he
had a yellow streak in him, but it isn’t showing, and I don’t believe it
will.”
And then, it came to Tom, more forcibly than ever, that Shambler did
have a yellow streak in him--the yellow streak of cowardice.
“And if it comes out at the last minute, it will be bad for Randall,”
thought Tom. “But I promised to keep still, and I will. If anything
happens--well, the rest of us will have to make it up, and cover it--for
the honor of Randall.”
“Oh I say. I can’t stand this!” cried Dutch at length. “I’m getting the
blues. Come on out, fellows. I’ve got a surprise for you. I’ve been
holding it up my sleeve, thinking you’d suggest something, but, as long
as you haven’t, I’m going to spring something. Chuck the books!”
“What is it?” asked Sid, glancing up in anticipation.
“Come on out on the river,” urged Dutch. “It’s early yet, and I guess
Zane won’t make a fuss if we ask him for a little time off. We’re all
standing well in classes, thank fortune.”
“The river!” yawned Frank. “I’ve had enough of skating for to-day.”
“It isn’t skating,” declared Dutch. “Come on. I’ll guarantee you a
surprise and some fun, or you need never trust me again. It’s a fine
moonlight night--as nice as when we went coasting that time. Come on!”
“What’s up?” demanded Tom. “No skylarking with the Spring exams so
near.”
“Nothing worse than usual,” guaranteed Dutch. “Be sports, and come on
before the wind dies out.”
“Wind! Are you going to fly kites?” asked Sid.
“Something like it. Listen. A fellow up the river has built a home-made
ice boat. I saw him at it when he started, and gave him a pointer or
two.”
“That’s the first I knew you were an expert on ice boats,” chimed in
Phil.
“I’m not,” admitted Dutch frankly, “but he thought I was, and it was all
the same. He adopted my ideas, and the fun of it is that the boat goes
like a charm. He said I could take it any night I wanted to, and I’m
going to borrow it now. We’ll have a sail under the moon, and blow some
of the cobwebs out of our brain.”
“Say, that’s all to the ham sandwich!” cried Tom. “I’m with you.”
“If Zane will let us go,” added Sid.
The proctor, after a show of hesitation, yielded and soon the five
students were walking along the edge of the frozen river.
The owner of the home-made ice yacht readily gave Dutch permission to
use it, and soon the boys had slid it out on the frozen stream and
prepared to hoist the sail.
“Do you know how to run it?” asked Tom of Dutch.
“Of course I do. Didn’t I help build it? All you have to do is to hoist
the sail and steer. You can’t go wrong.”
“All right, you do it then,” directed Sid. “I’d be sure to have an
upset.”
“Oh, it’s easy,” boasted Dutch. “Pile on.”
“Well, stop it. Wait for a fellow!” cried Phil, for the craft was even
now moving slowly off before the breeze.
“Hop on!” ordered Dutch. “You can’t stop this like an auto, you know.
Pile on while it’s moving.”
They managed to, somehow, and then, with Dutch at the helm, and to
manage the sail, they darted off.
Now, if the truth is to be told, Dutch knew about as much of how to
manage an ice boat as a Hottentot would about running a locomotive, but
the Randallite was not going to admit that.
“I can sure sail up the river, for the wind is blowing that way,” he
reasoned with himself. “And if it doesn’t switch around, and blow us
back again, we can walk, and I’ll tell the fellows something has
busted.”
Soon the ice boat began to move faster and faster.
“How’s this?” demanded Dutch proudly.
“Fine!” cried Sid. “I never knew you could sail one of these things.”
“Oh, I don’t go about telling all I know,” remarked Dutch modestly.
“How do you steer?” asked Tom.
“Same as in a sailboat,” replied the helmsman. “When you want to go to
the left you shove this handle over this way, and the opposite way to
go to the right. See,” and he moved the tiller to one side.
Instantly there was a mix-up, the boat suddenly overturned and five
figures sprawled out on the ice, while the craft turned around as if on
a point, the sail banging in the wind.
“Is--is that the way you always steer?” asked Phil sarcastically, “or
was this just a special method, invented for our amusement?”
“This is his regular way,” declared Tom, rubbing his elbows. “It must
be.”
“I--er--I turned too short,” stammered Dutch. “I can do better next
time. Let’s right the boat.”
“Don’t have any ‘next time,’” urged Frank. “Just sail straight away, if
it’s all the same to you. Hold on there!” he cried as the boat showed an
inclination to go off by herself. “Whoa!”
“That’s no way to talk to an ice boat,” insisted Sid. “You should say
‘Gee-haw!’”
“Say, I know how to manage her all right,” declared Dutch. “Come on now,
get on, and we’ll go on up the river.”
Somewhat less confident of their friend’s ability than at first, the
boys piled on, and once more they were off. For a time all went well.
The ice was smooth and hard, and the breeze powerful enough to send them
along at a kiting pace. Then, as they came opposite Fairview institute,
Tom had an idea.
“Let’s take a chance, and call for the girls,” he said. “The ogress
can’t do more than turn us down, and she may let them come out for a
spin.”
“Come on,” agreed Phil and the others.
“Can you stop this shebang?” asked Frank, of Dutch.
“Stop it? Of course I can. I’ll land you on shore at any spot you say.”
“Then put us up by the boat dock, and you can wait there until we come
back. Shall we bring you a girl?”
“Not much,” was the indignant answer. “I’ve got troubles enough to
manage this boat. It’s crankier than I thought it was.”
Dutch put the helm over, with the intention of steering for the shore.
At that moment two figures were seen walking along on the surface of the
frozen river, and the form of one of the figures was vaguely familiar to
the boys.
“Look out! Don’t run into them,” cautioned Tom.
“No danger,” declared Dutch. “I----”
“You’re heading right for ’em!” declared Sid.
“Oh, I’ll clear ’em all right,” asserted the steersman. “Just you
fellows sit steady and watch your uncle.”
But, in spite of his efforts, the ice boat seemed to be bearing down
straight on the two figures. They halted, hesitated for a moment, and
then prepared to run out of danger.
“It’s a lady!” cried Sid.
A scream bore out his assertion.
“Miss Philock, or I’m a sinner!” ejaculated Tom.
The moon came out from behind a rift of clouds, throwing the figures
into bold relief.
“Look out where you’re going!” warned a man’s voice.
“Pitchfork!” gasped Sid in a hoarse whisper. “Our Latin professor!”
“And look who he’s with!” added Frank.
Down bore the ice boat on the two, like a juggernaut of fate.
“Oh! Oh mercy!” screamed Miss Philock, as she saw the danger.
“Don’t you dare to run us down!” cautioned Mr. Tines imperiously.
“Tom--Sid, lend me a hand with this rudder!” cried Dutch. “It’s jammed!”
The three students tried in vain to change the course of the craft.
Nearer and nearer it came to the luckless two, who were on the frozen
river. There was a scream of fear, a chorus of angry cautions, and then
the ice boat struck.
The feet of Professor Tines went gracefully from under him, and he sat
down on the very bow of the ice boat, clinging to a mast stay. As for
Miss Philock, she was struck by one of the runners, tossed into the air,
and came down in the blanket-padded cockpit, fortunately striking none
of the boys.
Then, with a lurch the boat slewed around, and headed for shore. A
moment later, being unguided, she seemed to change her mind, and did a
sort of waltz and two-step combined. Next, with a sharp swing, the craft
turned gracefully on her side, and there was a splintering sound as the
mast snapped, and the sail came down, like a blanket over all.
CHAPTER X
A MISSING PICTURE
“This is an outrage! It was done purposely! I shall demand severe
punishment for the perpetrators of it!”
Thus exclaimed Professor Emerson Tines, his voice half smothered under
the sail of the ice boat.
“Oh, what has happened? Are we sinking? Are we going through the ice?”
cried Miss Philock.
It was almost beyond the power of the lads to give any adequate
description of what had happened, so rapidly had events shaped
themselves. Tom managed to crawl out of the tilted cockpit.
“Allow me,” he said, in his best manner, as he extended his hand to help
up Miss Philock.
“Oh! Are you sure there’s no danger?” she asked, hesitating to trust
herself to him. “Is there a hole in the ice?”
“None whatever,” Tom assured her. “Unfortunately we ran you down with
the ice boat, but I trust you are not hurt.”
Just then Phil managed to scramble out of the tangle of sail and mast,
and his face was revealed in the moonlight. Miss Philock knew him for
the brother of one of her charges.
“Oh, Mr. Clinton!” she cried. “I never would have believed it of you!”
“An accident, I do assure you,” interposed Phil. “It could not be
helped. I hope you are not hurt, Professor Tines.”
“Hurt! Humph! Little you care whether I am or not. I shall report you to
Dr. Churchill as soon as I reach college. It is scandalous!”
The Latin teacher managed to scramble to his feet, ignoring the
proffered hand of Phil. Sid, Frank and Dutch managed to crawl out from
under the ice boat.
“Whew!” whistled Dutch, looking at the broken mast.
“I thought you said you could steer,” growled Frank.
“I could, only the rudder got jammed. It wasn’t my fault. Wow! This is
tough!”
By this time Tom had assisted Miss Philock to the shore, and Professor
Tines, seeing the lady, whom it developed later, he had been escorting
from a lecture, hastened to join her.
“I trust you have suffered no injuries,” he said.
“No. And you, Professor Tines?” she asked, and Tom fancied there was a
note of anxiety in her voice.
“Oh I am all right, except that I am very much upset over this
annoyance.”
“I fancy we all were,” said Miss Philock, with better grace than Tom had
dared hoped she would show. “It was an accident.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said the Latin teacher grimly.
“Oh, it was, I assure you!” broke in Dutch earnestly. “I couldn’t work
the rudder. We--we didn’t mean to do it.”
There was silence for a moment, during which the boys looked first at
the damaged and overturned ice boat, and then at the figures of the
professor, and the lady teacher of Fairview.
“I--er--I think we had better be getting on, Mr. Tines,” the lady said,
at length. “It is getting late.”
It was a gentle hint, and he took it.
“I shall see you young gentlemen later,” said the professor
significantly, as he started up the river bank with Miss Philock.
“And it’s us for a walk back,” spoke Tom slowly, when they had remained
in silence for about a minute. “Dutch, we are much obliged for your
evening of pleasure,” he added sarcastically.
“Oh, hang it all, I didn’t mean----” began the fun-loving lad.
“Oh, forget it! Of course it wasn’t your fault,” broke in Sid. “Come
on. Let’s haul the boat up on shore, and hoof it back. We can explain to
Zane.”
Fortunately for themselves our friends had held good records of late,
and the proctor did not question them too closely, as they drifted in
some time after the locking-up hour. They told of the accident, but did
not mention Mr. Tines and his companion.
“We’ll just hold that in reserve,” decided Tom. “Fancy him being out
with Miss Philock!”
Probably the walk back to Randall from Fairview gave Professor Tines a
chance to change his views regarding the happening of the night. For,
though he looked rather grimly at our heroes in chapel the next morning,
he said nothing, and there was no official report of the occurrence, for
which Tom and his chums were duly thankful.
“Pitchfork is more of a gentleman than we gave him credit for,” he
declared. “We each have something to hold over him in reserve, for I
don’t believe he’d like the story told broadcast.”
Dutch and the others clubbed together to pay for the damage to the ice
boat, and the owner said they could use it as often as they wished. But
there was no more chance that Winter for Spring came with a rush after
that last big freeze, and there were no more cold weather sports.
Now indeed did the talk turn to ball games, and track athletics. The
latter had the call, for it was something new for Randall, and the other
institutions of learning that formed the four-sided league.
Several committee meetings were held, and a more or less tentative
program was made up. Available material was talked of, and every day saw
more and more candidates in the gymnasium, out on the cinder path, or in
the hammer circle.
“Have you any line of what Boxer Hall is doing?” asked Tom of Dan
Woodhouse one afternoon, when a number of the lads were gathered in the
reading room of the gymnasium after some hard practice.
“Well, they’re going strong,” replied Kindlings. “But if we all keep on
the job here at Randall, and do our best, I think we can win. But every
fellow has got to do his best.”
“Sure,” assented Sid.
“Are Langridge and Gerhart entered?” Frank wanted to know.
“Yes; both of ’em. But don’t let that worry you. There are others at
Boxer Hall more to be feared than those two. I tell you we’re not going
to have a walkover. Exter is going to show up strong, too, for a new
college.”
A group of lads were gathered about a table on which were several
sporting papers, containing a number of photographs of athletes, and
showing scenes at various meets.
“I tell you fellows what it is,” put in Shambler, who seemed to have
gotten very much at home in the few weeks he had been at Randall,
“practice is the only thing that will help us win the championship. I
know, for I’ve been through the mill. We’ve got to practice more.”
“Did you do it at Harkness?” asked Phil.
“Yes, some, but I’ve trained by myself a lot,” and there was a trace of
boastfulness in his voice. “I’m going to make the mile run,” he added.
“And win?” asked Sid, half sarcastically, turning over a pile of papers.
“Sure,” assented Shambler. “I--er--” Suddenly he reached out and picked
a paper from amid the pile. He seemed to be nervously folding it in his
hands. “I used to be a good runner,” he went on, “and there’s no reason
why I can’t do as well again. I think I’d rather do that than be in the
high or broad jump. But of course----”
“All the candidates will have a try-out,” put in Kindlings. “The best
one wins, and he ought to be willing to do the best that’s in him for
Randall.”
“Of course,” assented Shambler, and he seemed glad of the interruption,
still nervously folding the paper.
A few minutes later he left the room rather hurriedly, and, some time
after that, Phil began looking through the pile of illustrated papers
for a certain one.
“It was here a while ago,” he said to Kindlings. “I wanted to show you
how they had the hurdles arranged at the last intercollegiate meet in
New York. It’s a good idea I think. Where the mischief is that paper?”
“Which one?” asked Tom, who was reading a book on training rules.
“The one Shambler was looking at. Oh, here he comes now. What’d you do
with that sporting paper, Shambler?” asked Phil.
“Oh--er--that paper--here it is,” and he pulled it from his pocket.
“Guess I stuck it there by mistake.”
He tossed it over, and turned into the billiard room, with a backward
glance at the lads who were now bending over the pages of the journal.
“That’s what I mean,” went on Phil, pointing to an illustration. “Hello,
the page is torn. It wasn’t a while ago.”
“What’s on the other side?” asked Kindlings half curiously.
“Some baseball nine--I can’t read all the name--it’s some professional
team,” replied Phil, “and one of the players is missing--torn off.
Well, never mind, you can see the hurdles, though. I think we might use
that kind at our meet.”
Then the two fell to talking of various forms of athletic apparatus,
eventually tossing the paper aside. Tom picked it up when his two
friends had gone in to have a game of pool.
“That page wasn’t torn before Shambler picked this paper up,” mused our
hero. “I wonder what his object was?”
CHAPTER XI
THE WAY OF A MAID
“Who’s it from, Phil?”
“Let’s read it; will you?”
“He doesn’t dare?”
These comments greeted the advent of Phil into the room of the
inseparables, after a late lecture, one day about a week following the
events narrated in the last chapter. The cause was a pink envelope that
was exposed in a prominent place on Phil’s bureau--an envelope flanked
by a comb, brush, a handkerchief box and a red tie, to be thus rendered
all the more conspicuous. Tom, Sid and Frank, having entered the room
ahead of their chum, and seeing the missive, had thus called his
attention to it.
“What’s all the excitement?” asked Phil innocently enough.
“As if he didn’t know!” jeered Tom.
“I’ll give you a quarter if you let me read it first,” offered Frank.
“Double it!” cried Sid promptly.
“Oh, it’s a letter,” spoke Phil, as he strode over to his bureau and
picked up the missive. Then, with provoking slowness, he turned it over,
scrutinized the postmark, looked at the dainty seal in wax, and made as
if to place the letter back on the bureau.
“Open it you rascal!” ordered Tom.
“What for?” asked Phil slowly. “It’s only a letter from sis. It will
keep until I get my coat off, I guess.”
“A letter from your sister--not!” declared Sid. “I--er--I know----”
“Oh, you know her writing as well as all that, do you?” asked Phil
quickly. “I congratulate you. Maybe I’m wrong.”
Once more he scrutinized the address. It bore his name in big, and
rather sprawling characters.
“On second thoughts I guess it isn’t from sis,” he went on. “At least
she didn’t direct the envelope. It’s from Madge Tyler, if I’m any
judge.”
“What’s she writing about?” Tom wanted to know quickly, so quickly that
the others glanced at him, and Tom had the grace to blush.
“We’ll see,” went on Phil. Then, with exasperating slowness he proceeded
to read the letter. Next he carefully folded it, placed it back in the
envelope, and proceeded to get into his lounging garments.
“Well?” snapped Tom, unable to keep silent longer.
“Oh, I don’t know whether you fellows will be interested or not,” said
Phil slowly. “The letter was from my sister, just as I guessed, but she
got Madge to direct the envelope.”
“But what’s it about?” demanded Sid.
“Oh, the annual May walk, which takes place the last of April, is about
to be held at Fairview,” went on Phil, “and sis thought maybe I’d like
to go with her.”
“You?” cried Tom.
“Take your own sister?” added Sid.
“Well, unless some one else relieves me----”
“I will!” cried Frank and Sid together.
“Thanks,” laughed Phil. “Then I guess I can help some other brother out.
But, say, do you fellows want to go? Sis said I could ask you all. It’s
the usual affair, you know. The young ladies of Fairview, under the
eagle eye of Miss Philock and her aides, will go for a May walk, to
gather flowers and look on nature as she is supposed to be. There will
be a little basket lunch, and the usual screams when the girls think
they see a snake. Want to go?”
“Sure!” cried Tom, and the others chorused an eager assent.
“It will be a good time then, to ask the girls to come to the athletic
meet,” said Sid. “They will come; won’t they?”
“Oh, I guess so,” replied Phil. “They won’t root for Randall, though,
when there’s going to be a team from their own school.”
“Oh, we couldn’t expect it,” said Tom. “But we’ll have a good time on
the May walk.” And forthwith he proceeded to look over his stock of
neckties.
Not many at Randall were favored as were our four heroes in the matter
of invitations to the May walk, and when it became known that Tom and
his chums had one of the coveted screeds, their good offices were
bespoken on all sides, that they might use their influence for others.
“Nothing doing,” replied Tom to Holly Cross, Kindlings, and a few other
kindred spirits. “Sorry, but we can’t do it.”
“And the nerve of Shambler,” said Sid one afternoon, as he joined his
chums. “He wanted to know if we couldn’t introduce him to some new girl
at Fairview. The one he did know, shook him.”
“He’s getting worse all the while,” declared Tom. “There is something
about that fellow that I can’t cotton to.”
“But he’s a good runner and jumper,” declared Phil.
“Altogether too good,” declared Tom. “If he did as well at Harkness, as
he’s doing here in practice, why did he leave?”
“Maybe he wanted to get in a bigger college.”
“Harkness isn’t much smaller than Randall, and it’s got a heap sight
more money. He could have stayed on if he had wanted to,” and Tom shook
his head. Two or three things in regard to Shambler recurred to him, and
he found himself seriously wondering whether or not there was not some
mystery about the new student.
“Oh, pshaw! I guess I’m getting too fussy,” decided Tom. “I must see
about getting my trousers pressed for that walk.”
Somewhat informally among themselves, the four lads had apportioned the
four girls. Tom was to take Madge, Phil would escort Helen Newton, Sid
would take Ruth Clinton, and Frank Simpson would look after Mabel
Harrison. This pleased the lads, but they had yet to ask the girls if
this arrangement suited. To Tom was delegated this task, and one
afternoon he set off with three notes, his own to be a verbal message.
The choice had fallen on his shoulders as he had the last lecture period
free, and could make time to go to Fairview. It was with rather
pleasant feelings that our hero took the trolley to the co-educational
institution, and, when he neared the place, as it was such a fine day,
he got out about a mile from his destination, deciding to walk the rest
of the way.
As Tom turned down a grassy lane, that was rich in a carpet of green, he
heard, coming from a clump of bushes just ahead of him, a cry of pain--a
cry in a girl’s voice.
“Some one’s in trouble!” Tom decided at once, and, naturally he hurried
to the rescue. He saw, reaching up that she might pull a large cocoon
from a high bush, a pretty girl, a stranger, but who bore unmistakably
the air of a Fairview student. In an instant Tom saw what the trouble
was.
The bush was one containing big thorns, and, in reaching for the cocoon,
the girl’s arm had caught on a sharp point. She was held by her sleeve
in such a way that either to advance her arm, or withdraw it, meant to
further pierce her flesh with the thorn.
“Oh!” she cried, and then Tom came on the scene.
“Perhaps I can help you,” he said, with a lifting of his hat. “Do you
want the cocoon?”
“Yes. Oh, but don’t mind that now! If you can break off the thorn, so I
can get my arm out----”
A spasm of pain passed over her face, and Tom acted quickly. He wore
heavy gloves, but the thorns pierced even through them. But he did not
mind, and soon had broken away the offending branch, not before,
however, the girl, in moving her arm, had inflicted a long scratch that
bled freely.
“Oh!” she murmured, and she reeled a bit as she stepped back. “I--I
can’t bear the sight of blood!” she added.
Tom caught her, or she might have fainted, and then, being a lad of
promptness, he quickly bound his handkerchief around the scratch.
“If you will sit down here, I think I can get some water over at that
house,” he went on. “It will make you feel better.”
“Oh,” she began, “it is such a bother--I’m so sorry.”
“Not at all,” Tom hastened to assure her, and in a little while he was
back with a glass of water. It did make the girl feel better, and,
presently, she arose.
“I’m all right, now, thank you,” she murmured, as she walked along. Tom
watched her narrowly. “I ought to have worn gloves, or else have brought
along a pair of scissors,” she went on. “We have to do some work in the
natural history class, and that’s why I wanted the cocoon. I’m at
Fairview,” she needlessly added.
“I’m on my way there,” spoke Tom. “My name is Parsons. Ruth Clinton’s
brother and I----”
“Oh, I’ve heard about you,” the girl interrupted with a smile that Tom
thought was very attractive. “Ruth was telling me about you.”
“That’s nice,” laughed Tom, and then he caught sight of the cocoon that
had been the cause of all the trouble. “Wait, I’ll get it for you,” he
volunteered, and he did though he scratched himself grievously on the
thorns.
“I’ll walk on with you,” he said, as he rejoined the girl. “I have a
note for Ruth.”
“I’m Miss Benson,” said the girl, simply. “I am sure I can’t thank you
enough, and I feel as if I already knew you.”
“Good!” cried Tom, wondering how it was he got along so well with girls,
when he never before had been used to them.
They walked on, talking of many things--and the May outing. The main
entrance of Fairview loomed in sight.
“What shall I do about your handkerchief, Mr. Parsons?” asked Miss
Benson. “I’m afraid if I take it off now----”
She started to do so, but at the sight of a little blood trickling down
her wrist she shuddered.
“Keep it on,” advised Tom. “You can send it to me later. Perhaps you had
better have a doctor look at the scratch. It may need treatment. Some of
those thorns are poisonous.”
Instinctively he leaned over and began tightening the handkerchief on
the girl’s wrist. He was engaged in this rather delicate task when, from
behind a clump of shrubbery, stepped four maids. In an instant Tom knew
them for Phil’s sister and her three chums. They regarded him and his
companion curiously.
“Why--it’s Tom!” exclaimed Ruth impulsively.
“Yes. He--he helped me out of a bad predicament,” explained Miss Benson.
“I was caught on a thorn bush. I’ve scratched my wrist dreadfully,
girls.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Tyler, rather blankly, and Tom thought it was
strange that none of the girls seemed to take much interest in Miss
Benson’s injury. She herself smiled at Tom, and then said:
“I’ll go along now, to the infirmary. I’m _so_ much obliged to you. I’ll
send the handkerchief back. It was so fortunate for me that I met you.”
“She generally manages to meet _somebody_,” murmured Miss Harrison, and
Tom wondered more than ever as he lifted his hat in farewell.
“How are you?” greeted Tom, to Ruth and the others. “I’m a sort of
special messenger to-day.”
He pulled out his letters--one for Ruth, one for Mabel, and one for
Helen.
“None for me?” asked Madge, in mock distress.
“I--er--I came in person,” spoke Tom in a low voice, as he saw that the
others were perusing the epistles that formally besought the company of
the young ladies on the May walk.
“Oh----” began Miss Tyler.
“May I have the honor of escorting you on the outing?” asked Tom,
laughing to take out the formality of his request.
Miss Madge Tyler looked at him a moment. Then her gaze seemed to wander
toward the retreating form of Miss Benson. Tom waited, wonderingly.
“I thank you,” said Madge, a bit stiffly, “but I--am already engaged,”
and she turned aside, while Tom swallowed hard.
Clearly he was but beginning to know the way of a maid.
CHAPTER XII
IN BITTER SPIRITS
“Come on, Tom, aren’t you going to tog up?”
“Yes, get a move on, we don’t want to be late.”
“Let’s see the new tie you bought.”
Thus did the tall pitcher’s chums address him as they circled about the
all too small room when it came to the pinch of all four dressing at
once, and that in their best outfits, which indicated an occasion of
more than usual importance.
But Tom was not dressing. In his most comfortable, which is to say his
oldest garments, he lounged on the rickety old sofa, with a book in his
hand, and a novel at that.
But he was not reading, a fact which a close observer could have at once
detected, only there were no close observers in evidence that pleasant
afternoon--the afternoon of the May walk of Fairview.
Tom glanced from time to time at the printed page but he saw nothing of
the words. Instead, there came between him and the types, the vision of
a girl’s face--an imperious face now, with eyes that looked coldly at
him.
“Say, you’ll be late!” warned Phil, “and we’re not going to wait for
you. You’ll have to save your own bacon.”
“Oh--all right,” grumbled Tom, in tones he meant to be deceiving. “No
use of any more trying to dress in this bandbox. I can throw my things
on in a jiffy when you fellows get out of the way.”
“Listen to him,” taunted Sid.
“I’ll bet he’s got a whole new outfit,” declared Frank, “and he daren’t
show ’em. Come on--be a sport!”
“Um,” mumbled Tom, as he turned once more to the book--but not to read.
“Where’s my hair brush?” demanded Phil. “If any of you fellows--Well the
nerve of you, Sid!” he cried. “Using it on your shoes!”
“They’re patent leathers, and I only wanted to get a little dust off
’em,” pleaded the guilty one.
“Hand it over!” sternly ordered Phil. “And don’t you take it again. Use
your pocket handkerchief.”
“Who’s seen my purple cuff buttons?” asked Frank.
“Haven’t got ’em. I saw Wallops the messenger with a pair like ’em the
other day, though,” spoke Sid. “Wear the blue ones.”
“I will not! I got the purple ones to match my tie. Oh, here they are. I
put ’em in my Latin grammar to mark a page. Say, it’s lucky I
remembered.”
“It’s lucky some of you remember you’ve got heads,” half growled Tom. “I
never saw such old maids! Don’t some of you want me to dab a little red
on your cheeks?”
“Cut it out, and come on, you old Iambus,” grunted Phil--grunted because
he was stooping over to lace his shoes. “Aren’t you coming, Tom?”
“Of course. But I want room to dress. You fellows clear out, and I’ll
follow soon enough.”
“Where’s the clothes brush?” demanded Frank, who was the nearest ready.
“Say, there’s enough dust in this room to stock a vacuum cleaner. Whew!”
“The rug needs taking up and beating,” commented Sid.
“Never!” cried Phil. “If we got it up it would fall apart, and we’d
never get it down again. Let well enough alone. There, I guess I’m
finished. How do I look?”
“Like one of the advertisements of college-built clothes from a
back-woods tailor,” said Tom. “You’re too sweet to live! You’ll have all
the girls crazy about you.”
“You’re jealous,” was the retort. “Get a move on, fellows.”
“Oh, sit down and take it easy,” advised Sid, who was struggling with a
new tie in a stiff collar. “Whew! This is fierce. I can’t make it
slide.”
“Put it out on first then,” advised Tom with a grin.
Finally the three were arrayed to their own satisfaction, and prepared
to depart.
“Shall we wait for you outside?” asked Phil of Tom.
“No, go on, get a car. I’ll follow. I want to finish this chapter.
There’s loads of time. You’re too early. Sit down and cool off.”
“What, and get all dust! I guess not!” cried Sid. “Come on, fellows.”
“See you later?” asked Phil, as he went out.
“Later--yes,” replied Tom, pretending to yawn and stretch, as though the
whole affair bored him. And then, as the door closed, and he heard his
chums walking down the corridor, he threw the book across the room,
leaned forward with his head between his hands, his elbows on his knees,
and gave way to bitter thoughts.
For Tom Parsons was not going on the May walk.
Many besides our three friends had fearfully, and more or less
wonderfully, arrayed themselves that afternoon for the annual outing,
and soon all roads seemed to be leading to Fairview. Sid, Phil and
Frank were among the earliest arrivals, and soon found Ruth, Mabel and
Helen, who were waiting for them.
“Where’s Tom?” asked Ruth of her brother.
“Oh, he’s coming later. He didn’t want to tog up with us in the room.
Guess he’s got a new suit. But where’s Madge?”
There was an embarrassed silence among the girls, and then Mabel said:
“She started out early, and wouldn’t say where she was going. I thought
she acted very strangely.”
“Say, she and Tom are up to some joke!” declared Phil. “I thought there
was something queer about Tom.”
“Then we’ll see ’em later,” suggested Sid. “Come on, it’s too nice to
stand still.”
They strolled on toward the clump of woods where the lunch was to be
eaten--happy lads and gay lassies with Springtime in their hearts.
And, back in the room of the four chums, sat a solitary figure--a figure
on the old rickety sofa--a figure that stared moodily down at the faded
rug--a figure that did not stir as the minutes were ticked off on the
fussy little alarm clock.
Out on the campus sounded the calls of a crowd of lads at ball practice.
Farther off could be heard the cries of those who were leaping, running
or throwing weights in anticipation of the track games. But the figure
in the room gave no heed to this.
Not moving, Tom continued to stare at nothing, and the bitterness of his
spirit grew on him.
“I can’t understand--I can’t understand,” he murmured, over and over
again.
CHAPTER XIII
TOM SEES SOMETHING
“What do you suppose keeps him?” asked Sid.
“Who?” inquired Phil, as he strolled beside Helen Newton.
“Tom, of course. He ought to be here by this time.”
“Maybe he missed a car,” suggested Ruth.
“He’s had time to get three or four,” declared Frank. “I believe he’s
playing some joke on us.”
“Then Madge Tyler is also,” spoke Mabel Harrison. “I wonder if she----”
“There she is now!” suddenly exclaimed Helen.
“And someone is with her. It isn’t----” began Ruth.
She stopped in sudden confusion, and all eyes were turned toward a
little open place in the grove of trees, where two figures were seen--a
youth and a maiden. And, though the girl was undoubtedly Madge, the
youth was not Tom Parsons, and that fact held a world of meaning to all
of them.
“It isn’t Tom,” finished Phil, after a moment of scrutiny. “Who is it!
He’s got his back turned this way.”
“Looks like Roger Barnes,” remarked Sid.
“No, I saw Roger with Clare Hopkins,” remarked Mabel, naming two of the
students at the co-educational institution. “He tried to get up a ball
game for to-day, but none of the other boys would agree to play. It
isn’t Roger.”
“It can’t be Lem Sellig,” ventured Helen.
“Oh, come on, let’s find a good place to eat lunch,” proposed Ruth, with
a laudable desire to change the embarrassing subject. “Maybe Tom will
come along later. We must save him some.”
“Not too much,” objected Phil. “We’re hungry, and he could just as well
have been here on time as not.”
“Phil, haven’t you any sense?” his sister managed to whisper to him.
“Can’t you see that something has happened?”
“What?” asked Phil, innocently enough. Phil never was strong on
intrigue.
“Oh! Stupid, I’ll tell you later!” whispered Ruth. “Don’t say anything
more now.”
“That’s right,” admitted Phil good-naturedly. “Every time I open my
mouth I put my foot in it, as the poet says.”
They all laughed--rather constrainedly it is true, and more than one
glance was directed toward Madge Tyler and her companion ere they
disappeared amid the trees whence came the shouts and laughter of the
parties that had come on the May walk.
“And that’s why Tom didn’t want to get dressed, and come with us,”
murmured Phil in Sid’s ear when he got a chance. “He and Madge had a
quarrel.”
“I guess so. But who’s she with?”
“Give it up. Pass the pickles; will you?”
Thus Phil got rid of his friend’s worriment.
“Oh!” suddenly screamed Ruth, as she made a quick movement away from
where the table cloth was spread out. “Oh, take it away, somebody! Do!”
“What is it?” asked Sid solicitously. “A snake?”
“I don’t know, but it’s something big and black. I just saw it moving
under the edge of that plate of cocoanut macaroons. Oh!”
“I don’t know what it is,” spoke Sid, as he reached his hand out toward
the plate, “but be it a veritable salamander I’ll take it away. Those
macaroons are too good to let a creeping or crawling thing make off
with them. Come out, you villain!” he shouted, and lifted up the plate.
Something black, with whirring wings flew out from its hiding place
under the plate. It made straight for Phil who, not exactly from fear,
but from instinct, dodged. It was a fatal error for he lunged over
toward the glass jar of lemonade and, a moment later, the beverage had
upset, some of it flying over into the lap of Ruth.
“There, look what you’ve done!” she cried to her brother. “And this was
my best dress, too! It’s ruined!”
She began wiping up the spots of lemonade with her handkerchief.
“It’ll come out,” consoled Phil, as he turned to look at the flight of
the fluttering insect. “Take a little vinegar, or--er--something like
that.”
“Lemonade’s an acid, and it needs an alkali to take it out,” declared
Frank. “Vinegar is an acid too. It isn’t a case of like curing like in
this case.”
“How do you know?” demanded Sid. “Did you ever take spots out of
dresses?”
“No, but I did out of a pair of white trousers that had the same sort of
a bath as Ruth’s dress got,” declared the Big Californian. “It worked
fine, too.”
“I think lemonade is neutral,” put in Phil. “At least this is, for
there’s none left. Sorry I spoiled the party.”
“Oh, there’s more,” spoke Helen. “I brought along a jar in my basket.
Pass it over, will you please, Phil.”
The additional supply of lemonade was broached and they fell to talking
merrily again, though there was an undercurrent of suspense noticeable.
It was clear that the girls did not know what to make of the absence of
Madge, and they tried to cover it up by gay laughter.
“Well, you didn’t happen to bring along any more sandwiches; did you
Helen?” asked Phil with a sigh, as he finished his--well, but what’s
the use in telling on a fellow, and keeping track of the number of
sandwiches he eats? Suppose Phil did have a good appetite?
“Oh, Phil!” cried his sister. “You don’t mean to say you’re going to eat
more; are you?”
“I am if I can get ’em to eat,” was his cool answer. “Some olives, too.
You didn’t, by any chance, I suppose, Helen, put another bottle in that
never-failing basket of yours; did you?”
“I certainly did,” she answered with a laugh. “I knew you boys would be
hungry.”
“They’re never otherwise,” declared Ruth.
“Cruel sister, to treat her little brother so,” commented Phil, as he
used the corkscrew on the bottle of olives, while Helen got out more
sandwiches.
There was a sudden pop, and the olive bottle cork came out so
unexpectedly that Phil, who was kneeling down to perform that delicate
operation, went over backward, while Frank let out a cry of dismay.
“My eye! Oh, my eye!” he exclaimed, holding his hand to his face.
“What’s the matter with it?” demanded Sid anxiously. “Did a piece of
cork get in it?”
“No, but about a gallon of that olive juice did!” retorted the afflicted
one, as he used his handkerchief vigorously. “You did that on purpose,
Phil.”
“I did not. The cork came out before I was ready for it. I don’t see why
they put ’em in so tight.”
“All right, only don’t do it again,” begged Frank. “Say, but it smarts!
I wonder what olive juice is made of, anyhow. I mean the stuff they swim
the green fruit in.”
“Nothing but salt and water,” declared Phil.
“Nonsense. It’s sulphuric acid, to say the least,” declared Frank. “It
feels so in my eye, anyhow. I wonder if they’re French or Italian
olives?”
“What difference does it make?” asked Sid.
“Lots. I never can bear French olives, and I wouldn’t have the juice of
them in my eye for anything.”
“Oh get out!” laughed Phil. “They’re Italian all right. Pass the mustard
for the sandwiches, and let’s get this over with.”
“I thought you liked it,” spoke his sister.
“So I do, but if any more accidents happen I’ll lose my appetite.” And
so the merry lunch went on.
The May walk was a great success--at least so nearly every one voted.
If there were some who had little heart-burnings it was but natural
perhaps, and they would not last long. Miss Philock was at her best, and
allowed the girls under her charge more than the usual liberties.
There was more or less formality connected with the affair, and some
note-taking in regard to the flora encountered along the way was
required. But it was, in most cases, the very smallest minimum that
would serve to get the necessary class marks.
The lunches had been eaten, and the boys and girls strolled about the
grove. Madge had not been near her chums all day, and they felt it
keenly, though from a distance she had gaily waved her hand to them. The
boys had rather lost interest in the identity of her companion.
“Oh, Phil,” called Helen to her escort as she saw a pretty flower
growing on a woodland bank. “Get that for me, please. Look out for
thorns, though.”
“A-la-Miss Benson?” asked Phil, referring to Tom’s escapade with the
pretty girl.
“Yes,” assented Helen with a laugh and a blush. And then, as she looked
at a stone at her feet she screamed.
“What is it?” cried Phil, scrambling down the bank with such haste that
he slipped, and rolled nearly half the distance. “Did you sprain your
ankle?”
“No, but it’s a horrid snake!”
She pointed to a little one, not bigger than an angle worm.
“Pooh!” sneered Phil. “It’s lost its mamma, that’s all. You shouldn’t
scare the poor thing so by screaming.”
“Ugh! The horrid thing!” said Helen with a shudder, as Phil tossed the
snake gently into the bushes. “I can’t bear anything that crawls.”
Then Phil, brushing the dirt from his new trousers, made another and
successful attempt to get the flower. And so the day went on.
Back in his room Tom straightened up, and looked from the window. The
afternoon was waning, and already long shadows athwart the campus told
of the setting sun.
“Well!” he said aloud. “I might as well go out and walk about. They’ll
be back pretty soon, and then----” he shrugged his shoulders. “What’s
the use?” he asked himself, apropos of nothing in particular.
Some whim prompted him to board a car going in the direction of
Fairview. The May walk he knew would be over by this time, save perhaps
for a few stragglers. And he hoped--yet what did he hope?
Tom found himself walking through the little grove where the boys and
girls of the college had eaten lunch a few hours before. The place
seemed deserted now, though now and then a distant laugh told of some
late-staying couple. The sun was almost down, sending golden-red shafts
of light slanting through the newly-leafing trees.
Tom turned down a deserted path of beach trees. He walked on, not
heeding his course until, as he neared a cross-trail, he heard voices.
There was the soft tones of a girl, and the deeper rumble of a youth.
Tom stepped back behind a sheltering trunk, and only just in time, for
the couple suddenly stepped into view.
“Hasn’t it been a perfect day?” asked the youth.
“Yes--almost,” was his companion’s rather indifferent answer.
“Why not altogether, Miss Tyler?”
Tom started at this. He peered from behind the big beach.
“Oh, nothing is perfect in this world,” was the laughing answer.
The sun, suddenly dipping down, struck clearly on the faces of the
couple. Tom saw them, and his lips formed a name.
“Shambler! That’s whom she meant when she said she could not go with me.
Shambler!”
The couple passed on, and Tom stood there looking at them, his hands
clenched so that the nails deeply indented his palms.
“Shambler!” he murmured. “Shambler!”
CHAPTER XIV
SHAMBLER’S VISITOR
Tom Parsons’s chums had the common sense--or shall we say grace--not to
mention his non-appearance at the May walk. As they came into the room
at the close of the day that had meant so much to them, and which had
been fraught with incidents that would be long remembered, Sid, Phil and
Frank acted just as though, all along, they had not expected Tom to go,
or as if he would be on hand to meet them on their return. For he was
back ahead of them. He had fairly rushed for a car after seeing Madge
with Shambler.
“Did you finish your book?” asked Frank, as he slumped down into an easy
chair.
“No,” replied Tom quietly. “I went for a walk.”
“It was a fine day,” remarked Sid, taking the companion chair to the one
Frank had selected, and with such violence did he fling himself into it
that the joints creaked and groaned in protest. “I’m tired,” added Sid,
in explanation.
“No reason for killing the chair though,” objected Phil. “That’s the old
original, too, not the one we got from Rosencranz. Treat it gently.”
Tom was stretched out on the sofa, his arms up over his head, staring at
the ceiling. He moved his feet to make room for Phil, who settled down
beside his chum.
For a space there was silence in the room, a deep silence, for no one
knew just what to say to relieve the somewhat embarrassing situation.
The three did not just know what to make of Tom, though they had heard,
just before coming home, that Madge Tyler was with Shambler, and that
explained much.
“Great Scott! The clock!” suddenly exclaimed Sid, as the silence, which
was beginning to make itself felt, became so oppressive that they were
all aware that the clock had stopped. “Have you been doing anything to
it, Tom?”
“Who? Me? No, it was going when I went out. Maybe it needs winding.”
“That’s it,” declared Sid with an air of relief as, by testing the thumb
screw that operated the main spring, he found the time piece had indeed
run down. Soon its cheerful, if somewhat monotonous ticking, filled the
room.
“Well, now for some boning,” remarked Phil, with half a sigh, as he
took off his stiff collar, and made himself comfortable. “I understand
the Spring exams are going to be pretty stiff,” he added.
“Well, they ought to be,” remarked Frank. “We’re getting up in the
world. We’re not in the kindergarten class any more. But it will soon be
Summer, and then for a long rest. I’m going out on a ranch, I think.”
“Me for the mountains,” declared Sid.
“And a lake and a motor-boat for me,” chimed in Phil. “How about you,
Tom?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t made any plans. It depends on how dad’s lawsuit
comes out. I may be a waiter in a hotel where some of you fellows are
sporting.”
“If you are, I’ll sit at your table and give you big enough tips so you
can come back to Randall in the Fall,” spoke Sid with a laugh, in which
the others joined. And then, with minds that probably dwelt more on the
happenings of the day than on their books, the three fell to studying.
But Tom remained stretched out on the sofa, with his arms up over his
head, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Everybody out for practice to-day!” ordered Holly Cross the following
afternoon, as a crowd of lads poured forth from Randall at the close of
the last lecture of the day. “Shot-putters, weight throwers, runners,
jumpers, hurdlers--everybody on the job!”
“What’s the rush?” asked Phil. “Anything new?”
“Well, yes, in a way. The committee from the four colleges met last
night, and we’ve practically decided to hold the meet. All the
objectionable points were done away with, and it only remains to decide
on the events and the date.”
“That’s the stuff!” cried the Big Californian.
“Wow! Something doing all right!” yelled Shambler. “I’m going to get
into my running togs.”
“You’d think the whole college depended on him,” remarked Sid, with a
half sneer, as the new student hastened toward the gymnasium.
“Well, we’re counting on him to win the mile run for us,” said Holly.
“He’s the best we’ve struck yet, even if he is loaded to the muzzle with
conceit. Come on, now, you fellows, get busy.”
“Did those new hurdles come?” asked Frank Simpson, who was much
interested in the proposed one hundred and twenty yard hurdle race.
“Yes, I’ll have them out on the path pretty soon,” replied Holly.
“They’re fine, and it only takes a few seconds to change from one height
to another. See how you like ’em.”
Soon the athletic field at Randall presented a busy scene. Lads in all
sorts of undress uniform, from running trunks to jerseys and sweaters,
were at practice.
[Illustration: SOON THE ATHLETIC FIELD AT RANDALL PRESENTED A BUSY
SCENE.]
Here, in the seven-foot circle, Phil was balancing himself for the
hammer throw, while off to one side Tom was adjusting the toe board in
order to put the sixteen pound shot. Frank Simpson was assisting one of
the janitors in setting up the new hurdles, and Sid was testing his
vaulting pole.
Dutch Housenlager, whose big frame and mighty muscles gave him an
advantage few others enjoyed, was juggling with the fifty-six pound
weight.
“I’m going to do better than twenty-five feet to-day,” he declared, and
forthwith he swung up the big iron ball with its triangular handle and
heaved it.
“Twenty-five feet eight inches!” announced a measurer.
“Hurray!” yelled Sid.
“Oh, I’ll beat that yet,” predicted Dutch with a laugh.
Shambler came running from the gymnasium attired in his new suit. He
presented an attractive figure; Tom could not help admitting that, much
as he disliked the newcomer. And certainly Shambler could run. He had a
certain confident air, and a manner about him that counted for much.
The practice went on, and Holly Cross and Kindlings, who had been
voted into permanent trainers and managers interchangeably, watched with
keen eyes the performances of all the lads.
“There’s some good stuff here,” remarked Holly.
“Yes,” agreed Kindlings, “if they’ll only practice and keep at it. It’s
quite a while to the games though, and any one of them may go stale.
This isn’t like baseball or football. If we don’t win one game on
the diamond or gridiron, we have another chance. But we won’t in the
all-around contests. It’s do or die the first time.”
“Why, you aren’t worried, are you?”
“No, but Boxer Hall would give her head to beat us, and we can’t take
any chances. Say, just hold the watch on Shambler, will you? I think
he’s hitting it up to-day.”
Holly walked over to the cinder track, where Shambler was about to
finish his mile run. As he breasted the tape Holly pressed his stop
watch.
“Time!” panted Shambler.
“Six minutes, fifty-six seconds,” reported Holly.
“Well, I’m going to get it down to six and a half before I’m done,” went
on the new student. “I can do it.”
“Better take it easy,” advised the trainer. As he spoke he saw a change
come over Shambler’s face, and there was a light in his eyes that told
of someone approaching to speak to him. Holly wheeled about to confront
a rather shabbily dressed man--a stranger, walking toward Shambler.
“Hello, Shambler,” greeted the newcomer. “At your old game, I see. I
thought I’d find you.”
The change that came over Shambler was surprising. Even as he turned
away, to look after some of the other contestants, Holly was aware of
it. It seemed, he said afterward, as though Shambler was afraid, or
ashamed of being spoken to by the shabby visitor.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” went on the man. “I came a long way to see
you, and----”
“Of course,” broke in the runner. “Come on over here where we can talk.
I didn’t expect you.”
“You never can tell when I’m going to show up,” was the answer, and
Holly, hurrying away, thought that the words contained a half threat.
CHAPTER XV
TOM IS SUSPICIOUS
Tom Parsons, who was one of the best all-around athletes at Randall,
believed in doing a variety of things in order to keep himself in form.
He realized that if he devoted himself exclusively to one thing he might
excel in that, to the detriment of some other form of sport. He was one
of the best pitchers Randall had ever sent into the box, and it had been
said of him that had he devoted more time to running, pole vaulting,
broad or high jumping, he could have made fine records at either. But he
preferred to be a little better than the average at either one, and yet
he did not want to strain himself to be a top-notcher.
“I’m just sort of going to hold myself in reserve,” he said to Holly,
“and you can fill me in wherever you need me.”
“Not a bad idea,” the young manager had agreed, and so to-day Tom was
practicing with the sixteen pound shot. In order to be out of the way of
the others, and so that he might not be too closely watched, Tom had
set the toe board some distance off. There he was heaving the shot to
his heart’s content.
He was not far from a corner of the gymnasium, which building was now
pretty well emptied, since nearly every lad who intended to try for a
place in the games was out on the field.
As Tom went to recover the shot, after a “put” that gave him considerable
satisfaction from the distance covered, he saw two figures passing behind
the angle of the building. One he knew at once for that of Shambler. The
other--that of a shabbily dressed man--was not familiar to him.
Since the little episode of the May walk, Tom had had no occasion to
speak to Shambler, and the latter, whether or not he was aware of
anything unusual, did not show any curiosity over Tom’s behavior.
As Tom heaved the shot again, the toe of his tennis shoe caught on the
board, and part of the sole was ripped off.
“Serves me right for using that old pair,” mused the lad. “I’ve got
another pair in my locker, I’ll put them on.”
He was rummaging among his things in the gymnasium, when he became aware
of voices outside, directly under an open ventilating window. And it did
not take very sharp ears to know that one of the voices was Shambler’s.
Without in the least meaning to be an eavesdropper, Tom could not help
hearing something of what was said.
“You don’t seem at all glad to see me,” spoke the voice of the shabby
man.
“Well, maybe not. I wish you hadn’t come here. Why didn’t you send me
word, and I could have met you in the village? It doesn’t look good, you
coming here on the college grounds.”
“I suppose I’m not dressed well enough,” was the sneering retort.
“Well, never mind about that. Only some of the fellows may be
suspicious.”
“Oh, they’ll never guess. You’ve changed your name; haven’t you?”
“Hush! Not so loud! Of course I have, but I can’t change my face, and
I’m afraid every day of getting found out. But what do you want,
Nelson?”
“What do I always want, but money? Did you think I came here to pass the
time of day?”
“I wish you had.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the man, sharply.
“I mean that I haven’t any money for you.”
“Why, look here--er--Shambler--you’ve just got to have money for me.”
“Got to is a strong word, Nelson.”
“I know it, and I mean it. I’m broke I tell you.”
“Then get it from someone else. I haven’t any.”
“Why, what have you been doing here all this while, I’d like to know?”
and the man’s voice took on a whine.
“I haven’t been picking up gold dollars, if that’s what you mean,
Nelson. I’ve been bucking down and studying hard. It is isn’t as easy at
Randall as it was at Harkness.”
“What’d you come here for then?”
“Because athletics are better managed. Now look here. You know the games
won’t take place for some time yet, and I can’t get any cash until
they’re run off. I have just enough to get along on as it is, but if
things go right I’ll have plenty later on.”
“Backing yourself, I suppose?”
“Hush! You can’t tell who may hear you. I tell you it was a big risk for
you to come here to-day. I wish you hadn’t. You had better go away now.
Go out this way, where no one will notice you.”
“I will when I get some money--not before,” growled the man.
“Oh, hang it, Nelson! Do you want to spoil everything? I tell you I
can’t give you any money. Why don’t you go see some of the others?”
“They’re broke too. I was counting on you, and I’ve just got to have it.
Come now, fork over. You can cut out some of your fancy business, and
make it up.”
“Fancy business? I’m living plainer than any one else in college. I
haven’t given a spread, and I don’t go to ’em when I can help it, for I
can’t return the compliment.”
“So that’s why he hasn’t been around much,” mused Tom. “He hasn’t the
money. Well, that’s nothing against him, but I must say I’m suspicious
of this talk. I--I wish I hadn’t heard it.”
Tom had on his other shoes now, and was preparing to leave the gymnasium.
Then the voices resumed.
“Well, I’ll spare you a little,” said Shambler, “though it’s a hard
pull. Now don’t you come back here until after the games. If all goes
right you’ll get your share.”
“I should think I would, after what I’ve done for you,” retorted the
other. “Come on now, fork over. I’m in a hurry.”
“I’ll have to get it. It’s in my clothes in the gym. Wait here for me.”
Tom changed his mind about going out just then, as he felt that he might
meet Shambler. He slipped into one of the shower bath compartments and
waited there until he heard the runner enter and leave again. Then came
the jingle of coins through the open window, and the sound of retreating
footsteps.
“That sure was queer,” mused Tom, as he slipped from the gymnasium, and
went back at his shot putting. “I wonder what sort of a hold that fellow
had on Shambler, to get money out of him? It looks bad, and yet I can’t
say anything.”
“I didn’t mean to listen, but, since I did, I can’t tell anyone that I
did. But it sure is queer. I wonder how he expects to make any money off
the games, unless he bets on Randall? Of course, that’s legitimate
enough, if one believes in betting.”
Tom shook his head. It was too much for him. And, as he thought of how
Shambler had, of late, crossed his path in more ways than one, the tall
pitcher was more and more puzzled over the growing mystery.
“I wish I could tell the fellows, and talk it over with them,” he went
on, as he made an extraordinary good put. “But it’s out of the question.
I’ll have to puzzle it out by myself. But I’ll keep my eyes open for
that shabby looking man.”
The fellow was not in sight when Tom came out of the gymnasium, and
Shambler had resumed his training, while Tom went back to the seven
foot circle.
“Well, I guess we’ve had enough for to-day,” called Holly Cross to the
various contestants, a little later. “No use overdoing the thing, and
going stale. Knock off, everybody!”
“And glad enough we are to do it, too!” gasped Dutch, who was in a
perspiration from his efforts. Everyone was in a healthy glow, and as
Holly and Kindlings looked at the notes of some of the records made that
day there was a look of satisfaction between them.
“If this keeps up we’ll be all right,” remarked Holly.
“That’s right. Everything seems to be going well, but, of course,
we want all the points we can get. I think the new hurdles are an
improvement. There’s no danger of a fellow getting hurt, and it gives
him more confidence as he approaches them. We must insist on them in the
games.”
“Think the others will agree to ’em.”
“Oh, yes. We’ve given in to them on lots of points, and it’s no more
than fair that they should concede something to us.”
“Do you think they’ll all decide on Tonoka Park as the place to hold the
games?”
“I’m almost sure of it. It’s big enough, and will hold a good crowd.
That’s what we want so we can get plenty of admission money. Boxer and
Fairview are in favor of Tonoka, and so are we. Exter will have to agree
with three against her.”
“They had rather stiff nerve to want the contests to come off on their
grounds.”
“Yes, but I don’t anticipate trouble there.”
And the two managers walked on, talking over many points yet to be
settled.
“Well, Tom, how goes it?” asked Sid as the four chums entered the
gymnasium for showers.
“Pretty good. I didn’t strain myself to-day, but I’m coming on.”
“That’s good. Say, I hear that Shambler is doing well on the mile run.”
“Yes,” admitted Tom shortly. “He’s a good runner.”
“Tom’s still sore,” murmured Sid to Frank.
“Can’t blame him. You’d be too.”
Then conversation was interrupted by the splashing of water, to be
succeeded by various grunts and puffings, as the boys vigorously rubbed
down after their practice.
“Telegram for you, Mr. Parsons,” announced one of the messengers about
the college, as he met our hero coming from the gymnasium. “I’ve been up
to your room, but you weren’t there.”
“Thanks,” murmured Tom, as he ripped off the end of the yellow envelope.
His companions watched his face curiously as he read the message.
“Hum, I’ve got to go home,” announced Tom, a moment later.
CHAPTER XVI
FRANK’S SURPRISE
“Home!” exclaimed Sid.
“Going to leave?” inquired Phil.
“For good?” demanded the Big Californian. “Say now, that’s tough! I was
hoping this thing would at least hold off until after the games, Tom.
What’s the row?”
“Oh, that lawsuit business, I suppose. Dad doesn’t give any particulars.
He just says: ‘Come home at once.’”
There was a silence among the inseparables for a moment or two, and then
Sid said:
“Say, let’s go to our room and talk this over. Maybe it isn’t so bad as
it seems.”
“What do you mean?” asked Phil, as they walked on.
“Well, maybe Tom is only called home temporarily. His dad may want some
help, or something like that, and he can come back in a short time. Let’s
think that, anyhow, and don’t go to getting up a farewell banquet.”
“Oh, come now!” objected Tom. “None of that farewell-feed business, even
if I do have to go.”
“You dry up!” commanded Frank. “I guess we’ll give you a banquet if we
want to, if you’re going to leave. But you’re not. I believe, as Sid
does, that it’s only temporary. You’ll start right away, of course?”
“As soon as Moses lets me. I can catch the midnight train, and be at
home in the morning. I guess it must be that dad needs my testimony, or
an affidavit or something in connection with the lawsuit. It will be
tried over again soon, and I helped dad on some of his books and papers,
when he went into that horse deal. I’ll go see Moses now, and get a
permit.”
“You’ll have to break training,” remarked Phil a bit regretfully, as Tom
walked toward the residence of Dr. Churchill. “You’ll have to work
doubly hard when you come back.”
“Oh, I guess Randall won’t lose much by my absence for a few days,”
answered Tom with a laugh. “There are enough fellows to hold her end
up.”
“What’s that?” cried Holly Cross, coming along at that moment. “No
treason, Parsons. Randall wants every loyal son to stand up for her
honor.”
“Oh, of course,” replied the pitcher. “I’ll be on the job later,” and
he explained about the telegram.
Holly was sorry, and expressed the hope that Tom would quickly be back.
Soon, having secured the necessary permission from the venerable
president, Tom was in his room with his chums.
“We’ll help you pack,” volunteered Phil. “You won’t need much but a pair
of pajamas and a toothbrush.”
“I guess that’s right,” agreed Tom. “If I have to stay home for good I
can send for the rest of my things.”
“Perish the thought!” exclaimed Sid, and, for the first time since the
receipt of the telegram, there came over the spirit of gaiety that had
existed, a cloud of apprehension and sorrow. For, though they all hoped
that Tom would not have to leave Randall, there was the ever-present
possibility that events would so shape themselves.
“Well, you’ll let us know, as soon as you hear, what the worst news is;
won’t you?” asked Frank, as he fairly threw himself on the old couch.
“We want----”
But the rest of Frank’s sentence was lost in a momentous cracking sound,
a splintering of wood and a tearing of cloth. Then a cloud of dust
filled the room, and following the crash, there came a melancholy voice,
saying:
“Oh sweet spirits of nitre! Now I have gone and done it! She’s busted!”
“What?” cried Sid.
“Who?” demanded Tom.
“The old couch. I--I sat down too hard on it. The back is broken, I
guess. Lend me a hand, somebody!”
Frank tried to struggle to his feet, but he had been pinned fast between
the collapsed parts of the couch, and had to be fairly pulled out.
“Well, I should say you had done it,” remarked Sid mournfully, as he
surveyed the wreck of the old sofa.
“Can’t it be mended?” asked Tom, trying to raise the two ends. The couch
was like a ship with a broken back.
“Sure it can be fixed,” put in Frank, rubbing his hips where he had been
pinched. “It’s only those extra boards that were nailed on last term. We
can put fresh ones on--stronger ones, or, if we can’t----”
Frank hesitated, and a cunning look came over his face.
“Well, what?” asked Tom suspiciously.
“Oh, nothing,” answered Frank vaguely. “I--er--I guess it can be fixed
all right.” He bent over the sofa, and began propping up the ends on
piles of books. “It’ll do to sit on, if you do it carefully, until I
can nail it up in the morning,” he added.
“Well, don’t _you_ sit on it,” warned Phil significantly.
“And for cats’ sake, don’t let him wind the clock, or he’ll bust the
spring of that,” added Tom.
“Keep out of that chair!” cried Sid, as Frank was about to sink into one
of the big pieces of furniture. “You’re a regular vandal. Everything you
touch you bust.”
“No, don’t sit there, either,” put in Phil, as Frank turned toward the
other chair.
“Where will I sit then?”
“On the floor. That’s solid enough,” spoke Tom.
By turns they examined the couch, the three shaking their heads
mournfully at the author of the mischief, until, when the joke had been
carried far enough, they turned their attention to Tom, and assisted him
in his rather limited preparations for the trip. They escorted him to
the station shortly before train time, their prayer for a special
dispensation in regard to being out late, having been granted.
“Don’t forget to wire as soon as you have any news,” begged Sid as they
left their chum, and Tom promised. He kept his word, for there was a
message for the three before noon the next day.
The general surmise was correct. Tom’s presence was only needed in order
to sign some affidavits in relation to the lawsuit, and he stated that
he would be back at Randall the next day.
“Then we’ve got to get up a sort of celebration!” cried Frank, dancing
about with the telegram in his hand.
“Surest thing you know!” agreed Sid. “We’ll have a spread in our room,
Zane or no Zane.”
“And to-night let’s take in a theatre,” suggested Frank. “I’m in funds.
Just got my allowance. I’ll blow you fellows.”
“Wow! You are a sport!” declared Phil, clapping the Big Californian on
the back.
They took a chance on “running the guard,” in going to the theatre that
evening, and, later Phil and Sid both agreed that Frank had acted rather
strangely. After buying the theatre tickets the big lad offered to treat
his chums to sodas, and, while these were being consumed, he made an
excuse to slip out of the drug store.
“I just want to go next door to telephone,” he said. “I’ll be right
back.”
“There’s a telephone here,” suggested the drug clerk, as Frank started
out.
“I never can hear good over that ’phone,” the Californian said. “I’ll
go in the furniture shop next door. I’ll be right back.”
“What’s he got up his sleeve now, I wonder?” spoke Phil.
“Give it up,” was his chum’s reply. “Maybe something about Tom’s
spread.”
The boys enjoyed the play, and were fortunate enough to get back to
college unobserved. Frank offered no explanation of his telephone
message, and Sid and Phil did not think to ask questions.
The next day, when Phil and Sid were practicing on the field, a
messenger came to summon Frank. The big lad hurried off, unheeding the
calls of his chums.
“What in the world is up?” asked Phil wonderingly.
Sid could not guess, but when Frank returned, about an hour later, they
both “put it to him straight.”
“Why, there’s no mystery about it,” said Frank calmly. “I just went in
to fix the old sofa. I got a new kind of brace for the back and seat and
I wanted to glue ’em on in daylight. Don’t any of you fellows sit on it,
if you get to the room before I do, or you’ll bust it worse than ever.”
They promised, but Frank took good care that they did not precede him
to the room. As the three entered together, having surreptitiously
arranged for the spread, Phil and Sid saw the sofa was covered with a
winding sheet.
“For cats’ sake!” cried Sid. “What’s that for?”
“Is anybody dead?” demanded Phil.
“No, it’s--er--the sofa,” explained Frank. “I just put that on so nobody
would sit on it by mistake until it was dry. Come on, now, Tom will be
here pretty soon. Let’s get ready for him. Have we got enough to eat?”
“I should hope so,” replied Sid, looking at the numerous packages, and
then rather suspiciously at the sofa.
Tom was due to arrive about eight o’clock, and a little crowd of his
friends was at the station to meet the train.
“Everything all right?” greeted Frank, as the tall pitcher stepped to
the platform.
“Yes, we’re all ready for the lawsuit now, though I can’t say how it’s
coming out. How are things here?”
“Fine,” replied Holly Cross. “We’re going to blow you--it’s Frank’s
surprise.” And forthwith they escorted the returned one to college.
It required no little ingenuity on the part of the lads to get to the
room of the inseparables unchallenged, but it was finally accomplished.
“For the love of mustard, what’s that?” demanded Tom, as he saw the
sheeted sofa.
“Oh, that’s Frank’s work of reparation,” answered Phil. “He’s fixed the
sofa. Isn’t it dry yet, you old Mugwump?”
“Yes, I think it is,” answered Frank. Then, taking his position near the
article of furniture, he began cutting the string that held the sheet in
place. He had tied it securely, a measure of precaution that alone had
prevented Phil and Sid from lifting the veil to see what sort of a
repair job the Big Californian had done.
“Boys,” went on Frank, as at last he was ready to pull off the sheet, “I
have a little surprise for you.”
“Surprise!” repeated Tom blankly.
“Spring it!” ordered Dutch Housenlager.
CHAPTER XVII
THE AUCTION
There was an eager pressing forward on the part of all in the room.
Frank stood facing his chums and companions, a curious look on his face.
“So this is what he’s been up to all this while,” murmured Phil.
“He gave us the double cross,” commented Sid.
“Oh, go ahead, unveil the statue,” suggested Holly. “This suspense is
terrible!”
With a sudden pull Frank whisked the sheet to one side, and there
followed a gasp of astonishment. For a moment no one spoke. Surprise
held them dumb. Then Tom found his voice.
“Oh mudlarks!” he cried feebly.
“Paregoric!” came faintly from Sid.
“Catch me, somebody, before I faint!” gasped Phil, as he staggered back
into the arms of Dutch Housenlager, who promptly deposited him on the
floor.
And well might the three chums give vent to ejaculations of surprise,
dismay and anguish.
For there, in place of the old sofa that had served them in calm and
storm, in stress of disaster and in the joys of victories, there stood a
new and shining piece of furniture--spick and span in bright green
plush, with a glossy mahogany frame--a davenport, large, roomy,
comfortable--the acme of luxury. The old sofa had been metamorphosed--it
had suffered a “sea change into something new and strange,” as Holly
quoted afterward.
“Wha--what has happened?” asked Phil weakly, rubbing his eyes to make
sure it was not a vision of the night.
“Can I believe my senses?” asked Sid.
“He told us he had a surprise,” murmured Tom slowly, “and it sure is.”
“Well, how do you like it, fellows?” asked Frank, after a momentous
pause. “I thought, as long as I had broken the other sofa, that it was
up to me to get a new one. We’ve been needing one a long time, and when
I found that the other couldn’t be fixed very well, I just had the
furniture man bring in this new one. It’s my treat. That’s what I
telephoned about the night we went to the show. How do you like it?”
For a moment no one answered. Then Tom went slowly over to the new
davenport, and softly felt of the springy seat.
“It--it’s real,” he murmured, in disappointed tones.
Phil wet one finger, cautiously applied it to the green plush, and then
pretended to taste of his digit, as though he was a doctor, sampling
some new and rare kind of drug.
“Yes, it--it’s real,” he emitted with a sigh.
Sid carefully rubbed his handkerchief on the shining mahogany frame.
“I--I’m afraid so,” he agreed.
“Why, you mutts! of course it’s real,” gasped Frank. “It’s a new one in
place of the old sofa. That isn’t any good any more. This is a dandy.
Four of us can sit on it at once, the man said, and it won’t sag or
break. Don’t you like it?”
“What--what did you do with our old one?” asked Tom solemnly. “Be
careful now. Think well before you answer, and remember that whatever
admissions you make may be used in court against you.”
“Why--why----” stammered Frank.
“Answer the question!” demanded Sid sternly.
“Where’s our old sofa?” asked Phil.
“The janitor took it away, when you were out,” replied the conspirator.
“Why--why, don’t you like this one?”
The three shook their heads. Then Tom said softly:
“Can’t you see, Frank? It doesn’t fit in. It doesn’t go with the rest
of the things in the room? It’s too new--too shiny. It’s like a modern
among the ancients. They clash!”
“Horribly!” shuddered Sid.
“It won’t do--it won’t do at all,” added Phil.
“I leave it to Holly--to Dutch--anybody,” burst out Frank. “It’s the
best I could buy.”
“Of course it is, old chap,” admitted Tom. “That’s just the trouble.
It’s too good--too nice--too new. It makes our rug, and the old
armchairs--to say nothing of the clock--look like a second-hand store in
the presence of a Louis the Fourteenth drawing room. It won’t do, old
man.”
For a moment Frank stared at the new piece of furniture. Then he sat
down on it, sinking low in its luxurious depths.
“It’s mighty comfortable,” he murmured.
“Where did you say the old one was?” asked Tom softly.
“I had the janitor carry it down to the cellar.”
“I wonder,” began Phil gently, “I wonder if we could get it up again
to-night, without making too much of a row? Somehow, I don’t like the
idea of eating a spread in here with that new davenport staring us in
the face. It’s like a stranger that hasn’t been properly introduced.”
“Oh, yes, I guess we can get the old one back,” agreed Frank, and,
somehow his voice did not show much disappointment that his surprise
had proved a boomerang. “I fixed it up, after a fashion, or, rather, I
had the janitor do it. I was thinking we might give it to him.”
“Give away our old sofa!” cried Phil, Tom and Sid in a chorus. “Never!”
“This one surely doesn’t fit in this room--not with your other antiques,”
ventured Holly Cross.
Frank got up, walked across the apartment, and took a survey of his
surprise. Then he slowly shook his head.
“Fellows, I guess you’re right,” he admitted. “It clashes--doesn’t fill
in right.”
“Then you won’t mind if we get the old one back?” asked Tom.
“No,” answered Frank softly. “I’ll go tell the janitor now. I--I guess
this can stay here for--er--well a day or two; can’t it?”
“Sure,” assented Tom.
With a more cheerful air than his friends supposed he could assume under
the circumstances, Frank threw the sheet back over the new sofa. Then he
went to summon the janitor.
Presently, while the crowd in the room was beginning to open the
packages of smuggled food, a noise was heard out in the corridor. Tom
threw open the door.
“Welcome home, wanderer!” he greeted, as the old sofa was brought in.
“Dear old friend,” murmured Phil, while Sid gently pushed with his hand
on the seat to ascertain if it would hold his weight.
“Wait,” Frank requested of the janitor. “I’ll help you carry this new
one out. There isn’t room for the two in here.”
“Ah, but sure it’s a shame to put that one down cellar,” objected the
janitor. “It’ll get all mildew.”
“It won’t be there long,” remarked Frank significantly, and when he came
back, after having helped dispose of the new davenport, he carried a
hammer and some tacks. He went to a desk and scribbled something on a
sheet of paper.
Then he went out in the hall, and, presently his friends heard a gentle
tapping on the door.
“What’s Frank up to now?” asked Tom. “Another surprise?”
Sid swung wide the portal, and disclosed the Big Californian in the act
of affixing a notice to the panels.
“What is it?” asked Phil.
“Read,” invited Frank.
And they read this:
AUCTION SALE
The undersigned will dispose of, at auction in the gymnasium
to-morrow afternoon, one brand new davenport, upholstered in
green plush. Same has never been used, but the present owners
desire to dispose of it. It will be sold, without reservation,
to the highest bidder.
FRANK SIMPSON.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” gasped Tom, as he read the notice.
Then they overwhelmed Frank with questions as they began to eat.
CHAPTER XVIII
TOM’S TEMPTATION
“Are you really going to sell it, Frank?”
“Is this a fake?”
“What’s the upset price?”
“Honor bright, now! It isn’t a joke; is it?”
These were only a few of the questions that were put to the Big
Californian, as a crowd of boys filed into the gymnasium the next day
after the auction notice had been posted.
“Oh, it’s straight all right,” answered Frank. “The davenport, which
is as new as heart could wish, will be sold to the highest bidder.
We--er--that is I--bought it by mistake. We didn’t need it. Our old sofa
has been fixed up.”
“Oh, but I say Frank,” expostulated Tom, when he got a chance to speak
to his chum privately. “You could send this back to the store, and get
nearly all you paid for it. You won’t get half what it’s worth, at
auction.”
“I don’t give a hang. I’m going to sell it this way. It will be fun.
Besides, whatever is realized is going into the athletic fund, anyhow.
That’ll make bidding higher.”
“Maybe it will. But say, you must have struck it rich to blow in all
that cash.”
“Oh, not so much. I got the davenport at a bargain, anyhow, and I
thought it would be just the thing for our room. But I can see, now,
that it isn’t. Say, there’s a good crowd coming, all right.”
“There sure is. Have you got it here.”
“Yes, I saw Prexy, and explained how it was. He said I could auction it
off. Proc. Zane put up a stiff kick, though, but Moses overruled him,
and it’s going on. I guess the janitor has the old shebang on hand.”
“Yes, there it is,” answered Tom, as he and his friend entered the
gymnasium, and caught sight of the new davenport, supported on two
leathered-covered “horses.”
The crowd, laughing, talking, chaffing each other and the inseparables,
filed into the big room, until it scarce could hold any more. Frank took
his place in front of the piece of furniture, and soon the bidding was
under way.
It began low, but was spirited enough. Sid, Tom and Phil refrained from
raising the bids, but there was no lack of others. By small advances the
price crept up to seven dollars. There it hung for a while.
“Seven-fifty!” sung out Shambler.
“Seventy-five!” came from Joe Jackson.
“Eighty,” put in another voice, and Phil whispered to Tom:
“The Jersey twins are bidding against each other, and they don’t know
it. This is rich! Frank will get more than he paid if this keeps on!”
The bidding became more spirited, being confined chiefly to Shambler,
and the two twins, the latter, being in separate parts of the big
auditorium, not knowing that they were whip-sawing one another.
Finally, when the price reached fourteen dollars and thirty-five cents,
the davenport was knocked down to Shambler, who ordered the piece of
furniture taken to his room.
“It will do to stretch out on when I come in from a run,” he remarked to
some of his intimate friends. And, though Tom had no special interest in
what became of Frank’s “surprise,” as it had been dubbed, still the
pitcher felt himself wishing that someone else besides Shambler had
secured it.
The new student seemed to feel that the purchasing of the davenport from
one of the inseparables entitled him to a closer acquaintanceship with
them. For, a few days after the auction, he called at their room, and
made himself rather at home.
“Cosy place you’ve got here,” he remarked, blowing cigarette smoke about
in clouds. “Quite a collection of antiques.”
“Yes, we like old things best,” remarked Tom significantly, wondering
whether the lines about “old books, and old friends,” would recur to
Shambler. But it did not seem to.
“Well, it won’t be long before we have the Spring games,” went on the
visitor. “I’ll be glad of it, too, for I’m training hard, too hard, I
guess. I’m going to have a little recreation to-night. Some friends and
I are going in to town. Don’t some of you want to come along?”
None of the inseparables accepted the invitation.
“I’m taking chances, too,” went on Shambler. “I’ve been caught two or
three times, lately, and Zane warned me that the next time would mean
suspension. But I’ll chance it. A fellow has to have some fun. Any of
you smoke?” and he extended his box of cigarettes.
“It’s bad--when you’re in training,” remarked Phil. “Count us out.”
“You, too, Parsons?” asked Shambler. “Say, by the way,” he went on, “I
met a friend of yours the other night. Miss Tyler, of Fairview. At least
she said she knew you. Fine girl.”
“Yes,” half growled Tom, the blood flushing his face. “I’m going to see
if there’s any mail,” he added quickly, as he left the room.
“Anything wrong?” asked Shambler of the others. “Have I been poaching on
his preserves?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” replied Phil, with significant glances at his
chums.
“Not much!” exclaimed the visitor. “I have a notion he has a hasty
temper. But aren’t any of you coming to town for a lark?”
No one was, evidently, and Shambler soon took his leave. It was some
time before Tom returned, and he had no letters. His chums did not bring
up the subject of his going out.
Tom, in preparation for the examinations, had permission that night to
spend some time in the rooms of a senior who had volunteered to coach
him on some points wherein our hero was a bit behind in his class. The
senior’s room was in another dormitory from where Tom and his chums
roomed, being across the campus.
It was after midnight when the tall pitcher was on his way back to his
own particular part of the college, and, as he was about to open the
dormitory main door, with a pass key with which he had been provided, a
dark figure hurried up the steps from the shadow of a statue on the
campus, and stood at his side.
“I say!” came in a cautious whisper. “Let me in with you, will you? I
overstayed in town, and I don’t want to be caught.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Tom, wondering for a moment who was speaking, and then
he recognized Shambler’s voice.
“It’s Parsons!” whispered the new student, evidently much relieved. “I’m
in luck! I’ve been waiting here half an hour hoping Zane’s light would
go out, and that I could bribe one of the janitors, or a monitor, to let
me in. But the old Proc. is staying up infernally late. But it’s all
right now. You have a key; haven’t you.”
“Yes,” answered Tom shortly, as he inserted it in the lock.
“Talk about luck!” exulted Shambler, as he slipped in ahead of Tom, who
stood back to let him pass in first. “It’s great, isn’t it?”
Tom did not answer. A wave of revulsion against this lad seemed to sweep
over him, and he recalled a certain day in the woods when he had seen
the fellow with Madge Tyler.
Shambler, not seeming to notice the grouchiness of his companion, passed
hurriedly along the dark corridor toward his room. Tom walked more
slowly, having made sure that the door was locked after him. He had not
gone half a dozen steps, before the door of the proctor’s office opened,
and Mr. Zane stepped out.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Parsons,” replied our hero. “I had permission. I was studying with
Morrison.”
“Oh, yes, I recollect. Who came in with you, Parsons?”
“In with me?” repeated Tom, for he had hoped that this question would
not be asked.
“Yes, I heard the footsteps of two, and you were the only one in this
dormitory who had permission to be out to-night. Who came in with you?”
“I--er--that is--I don’t wish to tell, Mr. Zane.”
“I demand to know,” said the proctor sternly. “You let someone in; did
you not?”
“Yes, sir, but----”
“And you won’t tell who it was?”
Tom hesitated for a moment, but it was only a moment. There came an
instant of temptation. He recalled what Shambler had said about the
probability of suspension if he was caught again.
“And it would be a good thing if he did go,” thought Tom bitterly. “Good
for Randall--good. But then the games! We need him!”
Then he knew that it was a selfish motive that was urging him to take
advantage of the chance thrown in his way.
“No! No! I--I can’t do it!” he cried within himself.
“Well,” asked the proctor sharply.
“I--I can’t tell you,” answered Tom simply.
“You mean you won’t?”
“If you prefer to put it that way--yes, sir.”
“Very well. I will see you in the morning,” and, turning on his heel,
the proctor went back into his office.
CHAPTER XIX
THE TRY-OUTS
There must have been rather a strenuous time between Dr. Churchill and
Proctor Zane early the next morning--a discussion concerning college
ethics that, as Tom learned later, had a bearing on his own case. But
nothing came of it, and though at chapel Dr. Churchill spoke rather
solemnly on “duty” he made no direct reference to anyone.
Tom was not summoned to the proctor’s office, for which he was duly
thankful, not that he felt that he would have betrayed Shambler, but he
did not like to be cross-questioned.
Just how the news leaked out no one could say, but such things do become
known, more or less, in all colleges, and it was common rumor that the
proctor and the president had differed materially on the point of making
Tom tell. But Dr. Churchill won his contention, and the episode became a
closed one.
As the days of Spring wore on, with the grass growing greener, and the
weather more and more mild, there came over all a spirit of unrest, and
yet not so much unrest as it was a desire to be up and doing.
The diamond was being put in shape. The line-up of the nine was already
much talked of, but, overshadowing all this, was the prospect of the
track games. Several meetings had been held of the committees in charge
of the proposed big meet, and final details were being gradually worked
out.
It had been practically decided that the affair would be held in Tonoka
Park. This was a sort of summer resort near Tonoka Lake, which gave the
name to the football and baseball leagues, of which I have written
elsewhere.
Exter, the new member of the league, showed a disposition to have the
meet held on their own athletic grounds, which a millionaire had
presented to the institution, with much display of black type in the
newspapers. But the contentions of Randall, Boxer Hall and Fairview were
heeded. They were to the effect that a neutral field was fairer for all
concerned.
But there was much else to be done. While, naturally, I have dwelt
mostly on the doings at Randall in this volume, of course much the same
things were being done at the other three institutions.
There was practice, practice and still more practice, on all sides.
Trainers and coachers were busy at each college, and the gymnasiums and
fields presented animated scenes every day. Everyone was training hard,
for this was the first holding of the quadruple meet, and each college
wanted to win.
It had been decided that the total number of points scored should decide
the winner. And, to this end, the rules of the Amateur Athletic Union
had been adopted.
“How many events are going to be run off?” asked Tom one afternoon, as
Holly Cross and Kindlings were holding a consultation. “When are we
going to know ’em?”
“We can tell you now what events will likely be the main ones,” answered
Holly. “Of course, more may be added after we have the final try-outs
and pick those who are to hold up the honor of Randall.
“There’ll be a mile run, a hurdle race, high jumping, broad jumping,
putting the fifty-six pound weight, the sixteen pound shot, and the
hammer-throw. Then there’ll be a pole-vaulting contest, and probably a
hundred-yard dash. Oh, there’s to be honor and glory enough for all who
make good.”
“And the try-outs?” asked Sid. “I’d like to know if I’ve got to train to
the minute.”
“We all have!” exclaimed Holly. “Not a man at Randall can afford to grow
stale. Hello, there comes Shambler. I’m hoping a lot from him. If he
pulls down the mile run for us it will help a lot. Then we’re depending
on Dutch in the weight contest, and--well, but what’s the use of
talking--we’re counting on every man in Randall. We want to win all the
events if we can.”
“And we’ll be there with the goods!” declared Frank Simpson.
“Well, everybody on his mark!” went on Holly. “I think the final
try-outs will be held in a few days, and then we’ll know who we’ll have
to depend on specially. Of course there may be changes later on, but we
want to get a line on where we stand.”
For the next few days practice went on unceasingly. From early morning
until dusk fell some of the boys were out on the field, running,
leaping, springing, using the pole, testing themselves in the broad or
high jump, taking hurdles or throwing weights or hammers. And the four
inseparables did their share.
Shambler, too, was active. He was rapidly forging to the front as one of
the best athletes that had ever worn the “R” of Randall, and though many
did not care much for him, even his enemies had to admit that he was
likely to bring honor to the college.
“That was mighty white of you, old man, not to give me away,” he said to
Tom, one day, after the rumor of the demand made by the proctor had
become quite well known. “I’ll not forget it, either, I assure you.”
“All right--don’t get caught--that’s all,” was Tom’s not very gracious
reply.
“No more chances for me,” declared Shambler. “Too much depends on it.”
Tom wondered whether he meant his own fortunes, or those of Randall, and
he could not help thinking of the shabby man who had been so eager to
get money from the new student.
“Come on! Come on! Everybody on the job!” cried Holly Cross one fine
afternoon. “This is the last chance! Final try-outs this afternoon!”
The crowd of athletes poured from the gymnasium, where the notice had
been posted for some time, and flocked out on the field, ready to do
their best to win the coveted places of defending the honor of Randall.
“We’ll have the mile run first,” decided Kindlings, after a talk with
Holly. “We’ll pick the three best men to go in the games against Boxer
Hall, Fairview and Exter. Come on now, you fellows who are going to
run.”
An eager crowd watched the preparations and warm-up practice. Then came
the crack of the pistol, and the field was off.
It is not my purpose here to describe the preliminary trials in detail,
so I will merely state that Shambler came out first in the mile run,
with Tom Parsons second and Jerry Jackson third.
“They’ll go in for Randall,” announced Holly, as he jotted down the
names. “Now for the broad jump.”
In this Frank Simpson came out ahead, with Sid Henderson second and Pete
Backus third.
“But I’m going to win when it comes to the final,” declared Pete
earnestly. “I haven’t had enough practice yet.”
“And you’ll never get it, I’m afraid,” said Kindlings under his breath.
Still he could not help but admire the persistency of “the grasshopper.”
There was much interest in the one hundred and twenty yard hurdle race,
and this promised to be one of the best events on the card.
The new pieces of apparatus were used, and worked well. Phil Clinton
came out ahead, but Joe Jackson was a close second. When it came to
picking third there was hard work, for Sam Looper, Dan Woodhouse,
Kindlings and Sid Henderson were so well bunched that it was hard to
decide, and the six were put down as possible starters against the rival
colleges.
In the high jump Berry Foster was first, with Jim Weston second and Paul
Hughes third. Dutch Housenlager, with his big bunches of muscles easily
won the palm at throwing the fifty-six pound weight, Dan Woodhouse being
second and Bean Perkins, who said it would not interfere with his
shouting abilities, coming out third.
Phil Clinton easily distanced the others at the pole vaulting contest,
Red Warren being second and Holly Cross third; while at putting the
sixteen pound shot, Dan Woodhouse won, with Frank Simpson second and Sid
as a good third.
“Now that we’ve got this much settled we can come somewhere knowing
where we’re at,” declared Holly, after the final try-outs. “This doesn’t
mean that none of you fellows haven’t a chance,” he hastened to add,
“for we may need any one of you yet, so keep in training.”
“Well, I’m glad this much is over,” remarked Tom, as he joined his three
chums, who were walking toward the gymnasium for a welcome shower bath.
“Same here!” cried a voice behind them, and Shambler came running up.
“Say,” he cried, “I wish the games were to-morrow, instead of a week or
more off. I’m as fit as a fiddle!”
In what was probably the exuberance of his animal spirits he came
running up, and, with a leap landed on Frank’s back.
“Look out!” cried the Big Californian. “You’ll upset me!”
“It’ll do you good!” cried Shambler. “Here we go!”
But Frank, who was rather tired, was in no mood for horse-play of this
character. He slewed around, slumped over and fairly dumped Shambler off
his shoulders.
A moment later the new student came down heavily on Frank’s foot
with his spiked running shoes. There was a cry of pain from Frank, a
well-meant gasp of apology from the offender, and then the lad from the
state of the Golden Gate limped painfully to one side.
“What’s the matter?” cried Tom.
“My foot! My foot!” murmured Frank. “I’m afraid----”
He would have fallen had not Phil caught him, while the others gathered
about Shambler with a look of concern on his face.
CHAPTER XX
“WE NEED EVERY POINT”
“Say, old man, I’m mighty sorry about that!” cried the lad who had
caused the mischief, as he put his arm about Frank. “I wouldn’t have
done it for the world--I slipped. Are you badly hurt?”
It needed but a glance at Frank’s shoe, whence came a few drops of
blood, to show that he was painfully hurt, if not seriously crippled.
“The spikes have gone clear through!” gasped Sid.
“No, it’s not as bad as that,” said Frank. “Get my shoe off, fellows,
and----”
A spasm of pain prevented him from finishing the sentence and he sat
down on the ground. Tom had the shoe off quickly.
It was seen that two of the spikes on Shambler’s sole had gone through
the outer, fleshy part of Frank’s foot. There was a little bleeding, but
it soon stopped.
“That’s got to be looked at at once!” decided Holly Cross when he saw
it. “You’re likely to go lame, old man.”
“Jove! That’s bad,” murmured Phil, and several black looks were cast at
Shambler, for all the lads knew how much depended on Frank in the broad
jumping contest.
“Oh, I guess I’ll be all right,” spoke the injured lad, whose pain was
abated somewhat with the removal of the shoe, for his foot had begun to
swell. “It’s all right, Shambler. I know you didn’t mean to do it. I’ll
be in shape for the meet all right.”
“I hope so, old man,” spoke the new lad sincerely, and his former joyous
spirits seemed to have slipped from him like a garment. Tom felt himself
disliking Shambler with a feeling that was akin to hate, and he had to
fight hard to keep control of his temper. As it was he murmured under
his breath:
“The cad! I wish he’d never come to Randall!”
“Come on, boys, we’ll have to give Frank a hand up,” suggested Holly.
“Help him to his room, and we’ll get the Doc to look at him.”
Willing hands assisted Frank along, so that he did not have to bear any
weight on his injured foot. Shambler wanted to help, but Tom, Sid and
Phil insisted on giving “first aid,” and they were sufficient.
The physician looked grave when he saw the injury, not so much at the
nature of the hurt itself, for it was comparatively slight, but he was
concerned for what might develop.
“I don’t see how you’re going to do any jumping for the next month,”
said the physician, when told that Frank was expected to hold up
Randall’s end of the big events.
“Oh, but I’ve got to!” declared the Big Californian. “To paraphrase the
old saying, ‘Randall expects every lad to do his duty.’ I’ve got to
jump.”
“Then I have to tell you that if you do, you may lame yourself for the
rest of your life,” went on the doctor seriously. “Some of the tendons
are cut, and unless they heal properly you are liable to tear them loose
if you put too much strain on them. You’ve got to be careful.”
Frank groaned, and his chums looked anxious. Holly Cross and Kindlings,
who were at the conference, shook their heads.
“We’ll just have to make other arrangements then,” said Holly, as he
walked out with his companion manager. “If Frank can’t jump he may be
able to help out in the hammer, or weight-throwing contests.”
“We’ll try that, as soon as he’s able to be up,” decided Kindlings.
“This is bad business. I’ll give Shambler a call down. He’s too fresh.”
“No, I wouldn’t say anything,” said Holly. “He feels badly enough as
it is, and we don’t want any more disruption among the fellows than
possible. We aren’t going to have any walkover in these games.”
“I guess you’re right. Well, we’ll do our best, but I wish this hadn’t
happened.”
Frank’s foot was very painful the next day, and much swollen, but the
doctor said there was no special cause for alarm, as it had been treated
with antiseptics.
But the Big Californian had to keep in bed, and this was irksome to him,
as he was naturally active. Phil, Tom and Sid did all they could to make
his imprisonment cheerful, and Shambler called several times, to express
over and over again his regret at his carelessness. The others took
rather a liking to him, but Tom could not bring himself to be friendly.
He was sure Shambler had some secret that he was afraid would be
discovered.
Tom had not seen Madge Tyler since the memorable day of the May walk,
but from his chums, who paid several visits to the co-educational
institution, the pitcher learned that Madge had not been out with
Shambler since.
“I believe she did it just to spite me, because of that little incident
with Miss Benson,” reasoned Tom.
A week after the accident Frank was able to step on his foot, but the
doctor strictly forbade any violent exercise. However he did not
prohibit practice at weight throwing, and Frank soon proved himself an
expert at this, almost equaling Dutch, so that Holly and Kindlings made
a temporary shift in their list of entrants.
“But I’ll be in the jump all right,” asserted Frank, and rather to the
surprise of the doctor the injured foot healed so well and rapidly that
there was a prospect, after all, that the Big Californian could take the
place originally assigned to him.
“I hope he can,” said Holly. “For we need him, and Sid Henderson, while
he’s good, isn’t quite up to Frank’s mark.”
Sid knew this himself, but he was, by constant work, gradually improving.
Meanwhile hard practice went on among the various track squads.
The grounds at Tonoka Park were being put in shape for the big quadruple
meet, and there was every prospect of success. The various committees
held frequent meetings, and it was said that many tickets were being
disposed of, so that there was a prospect of well-filled treasuries.
Many of the lads against whom Tom and his chums had played football or
baseball were to uphold the colors of Boxer Hall and Fairview. As
regarded Exter little was known, though it was rumored that a number of
well-known amateurs were enrolled under her banner.
“Exter is the only one we haven’t a good line on,” said Holly Cross one
afternoon, as he called at the room of the inseparables to inquire about
Frank, who was almost himself again.
“Why, you don’t have any fear about her fellows; do you?” asked Tom,
taking the call as an excuse to stop studying.
“Yes, I do, in a way. I tell you, boys, Randall will need every point
she can pile up. You know how we score, with a thousand points as the
maximum for the best in each class of events. Seconds and fractions of
inches count, so don’t forget that, and go for every last ounce of
strength or wind that you have. A point in any event may make or break
us.”
“Will it be as close as that?” asked Sid.
“Indeed it will. Every man of Randall will have to be strictly on the
job, as I’ve said before. This isn’t a football match, where, if you
don’t make a touchdown one quarter, you may the next.” Holly spoke
seriously.
“Oh, well, we’ll be there with the goods,” declared Phil.
“I’m sure I hope so,” spoke the young trainer, as he took his leave,
warning Frank to take care of himself, and get in the best possible
condition.
“Do you really think you’ll jump?” asked Holly.
“Sure I will. I saw the doctor, and while he said I must be careful,
still, he didn’t absolutely forbid me as he did at first. I’ll do my
best.”
“Yes, we know that,” declared Tom clapping his big chum on the shoulder.
There followed a period of silence in the room, after Holly had left.
The four tried to study, but their thoughts were plainly more on the
coming games than on their books. Finally Tom, tossing aside his Latin
book, gave a big yawn and said:
“I’m going for a row. It’s too nice to stay in, and there isn’t any
practice ordered for this afternoon. Who’s coming out on the river with
me?”
“Not I,” spoke Sid. “I can’t spare the time.”
“Oh come on, you old misanthrope,” urged the pitcher.
“Nope. Take Frank, he needs the air.”
“Then you come too, Phil.”
“No, I’m back in my work, and I’ve just got to make it up, or I’ll be
conditioned, and you know what that means. You and Frank are the brainy
pair; you go.”
“Will you?” asked Tom; and Frank consented.
CHAPTER XXI
ON THE RIVER
The afternoon was warm--almost too warm for that time of year, and Tom
and Frank, as they neared the river, felt the breeze sweeping up from
the water.
“That’s something like,” remarked Frank, who now walked with scarcely
the semblance of a limp.
“Yes, it’ll do us good to get cooled off,” said Tom. “I hope there’s a
decent boat left.”
There were several rowing craft, owned by the college, which were used
in common by the students, it being a case of first come first served.
In addition a number of the lads had boats of their own, but Tom was not
one of the lucky ones.
“There’s Holly’s skiff,” remarked the Big Californian, as the two came
near the boat house. “He won’t use it to-day, as he’s gone to a meeting
of the athletic committee over at Exter. Let’s pinch that.”
“All right, I guess he won’t mind. It’s the only decent one left,
anyhow.”
“I wonder why Randall never did much shell racing?” mused Frank, as he
and his chum were floating idly down the river. “I should think the
fellows would. There’s a good course here, and with Boxer Hall, and
Fairview, so close by, and near the river, there ought to be more
interest in the sport.”
“That’s right, there had,” agreed Tom, casting a glance over his
shoulder to see if the course was clear. “Maybe we will have a good
crew, after we see how these games come out. What we need is some one
to stir things up. Randall, from what I hear, didn’t use to take any
interest in sports. It’s only of late years that she’s come to the
front. Of course there has been some rowing here, and one or two good
races, but nothing to boast of. What do you say if we start something?”
“I’m wil
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