“What sort of hazing do they do?” asked Tom Parsons of Sid Henderson as the two youths followed their companions from the gymnasium.
“Oh, all sorts. It’s hard to tell. Mostly they come in your room and make a rough house, but not too rough, for the proctor doesn’t stand for it. They’ll tumble you about, tear down any ornaments you may have up, pour a pitcher of water in the bed, and make things unpleasant generally.”
“Are we supposed to stand for that?” There was a grim look settling on Tom’s face.
“Well, what can you do when three or four big sophs are holding you?”
“Not much, that’s a fact. But I’m going to fight back.”
“So am I, but that’s all the good it’ll do. If they don’t put enough on you in your room they’ll tackle you outside, when you’re alone, and maybe chuck you into the river or lake, or make you walk Spanish, or force you to parade through town doing the wheelbarrow act. Oh, you’ve got to take some hazing in one form or another.”
“Well, I don’t mind getting my share. So they’re coming to-night, eh?”
“So the twin said.”
“The twin—who’s he?”
“The little fellow that brought word. I don’t know whether he was Jerry or Joe Jackson. I didn’t look closely enough to see.”
“Why, is it hard to tell?”
“Sure. They’re two brothers, Jerry and Joe. They come from some town in New Jersey. We call them the ‘Jersey Twins,’ and they look so much alike it’s hard to tell them apart. The only way you can tell is when they’re playing ball.”
“How then?”
“Why, Jerry plays right field, and Joe left. Then it’s easy to say which is which; but when they come to bat it always happens that some one on the other team makes a kick. They think we’re ringing in the same man twice, and we have to explain. That’s what I’ve heard. Of course, I’ve only been here a week.”
“Oh, then they’ve played here some time?”
“Yes; they’re juniors. It was mighty white of Jerry or Joe, whichever it was, to tip us off. Now we’ll be ready for the sophs.”
“What can you do?”
“Well, if you know in time, as we do now, we can take down the best things in our room, so they won’t get busted, and we can hide the bed clothes, so they won’t get soaked. Then we can put on our old clothes. It’s no fun to have a good suit ruined, especially when you don’t find new clothes growing on trees.”
“That’s right. Let’s go to our room and make ready.”
“Oh, we’ve got plenty of time. I fancy it won’t be until after dark. The only thing is for all of us freshmen to keep together if we go out. For if they catch two or three of us alone they’ll put it all over us. But I guess there won’t be any scrub game now. The sophs would break it up.”
“When do we have any rest from them?”
“In about two weeks. After the pole rush.”
“The pole rush?”
“Yes. It’s an old college custom, as Fenton’s uncle would say. We freshmen form a ring about the big flag-pole on a certain night and the sophs try to pull us away. If they make us leave inside of fifteen minutes it means we can’t wear the class college colors until next term. If we win, why, we sport a hat like Fenton had—the one Morse and Denfield slashed up.”
“I see. But, say, I’d like to know more about the ball team. Does Langridge run it all?”
The two lads by this time were in their room, where they proceeded to hide under the beds and bureaus their choicest possessions against the prospective raid. It was close to the supper hour and they did not have much time.
“No, Langridge doesn’t run everything,” answered Sid. “He’s manager, that’s all.”
“That seems a lot.”
“Well, it is in a way, though it’s only because he has plenty of cash and isn’t afraid to spend it. But he couldn’t be elected captain. He tried, but was defeated his first term, though he made the managership.”
“Who is captain?”
“Bricktop Molloy was last year, but this season we’re going to have a new one. I guess Dan Woodhouse stands as good a show as any one. He’s a senior and a fine player.”
“Woodhouse—that’s an odd name.”
“Yes, we call him Kindlings for short. I’m going to vote for him.”
“So will I then; I’ll depend on your say-so.”
“I fancy you threw a scare into Langridge,” went on Sid as he carefully slid under a mat at the edge of the bed a picture of a football game.
“How so?”
“Telling him you wanted to try for pitcher. It was like stepping on his corns. He thinks he’s got a cinch on that position. Always has ever since he helped win a game last year.”
“Has he?”
“Well, I don’t know. It depends on who is captain. Langridge wants to see Ed Kerr elected captain. If that happens, he and Ed will run things to suit themselves. Ed’s quite a chum of Langridge, though Ed’s a better fellow all around. The only reason some of the fellows won’t vote for Ed is that he’s too thick with Langridge. But if old Kindlings is elected he’ll not take any orders from Langridge.”
“Langridge doesn’t seem to be very popular with you,” observed Tom.
“He isn’t. I don’t like him. Yet he’s all right in a way. You see, he’s pretty well off in his own right. His father died, leaving him quite a sum, and when his mother died he got more. His uncle is his guardian, but he doesn’t look after Fred very closely, and Fred does pretty much as he pleases. Now that isn’t good for a lad, though I don’t mind admitting I wish I had plenty of money. But Langridge is something of a sport. He has good clothes—better than most of us here—he has all he wants to spend, and he’s liberal with it. He has quite a following and lots of fellows like him. He doesn’t care what he does with his money, and that’s the whole thing in a nutshell. That’s why he’s manager and for no other reason. But, as I said, Woodhouse won’t stand for any of his dictation.”
“Maybe I’ll get a chance then,” mused Tom.
“I guess you will. I’d like to see another good pitcher on the nine. Maybe we’d win more games if we had a good one.”
“I don’t know whether I’m a good one or not,” answered Tom. “I want to try, though. Back home they used to say I had a good delivery.”
Sid did not answer at once. He was thinking that to pitch on a country nine was vastly different from doing the same thing on a good-sized college team. But he did not want to discourage his roommate.
“Well,” he said after a pause, in which he surveyed the somewhat dismantled room, “I don’t know whether it’s pitching, or catching, or fielding, or what it is our team needs, but it’s something. We’re at the bottom of the league and have been for some years.”
“What league is that?”
“Oh, I forgot you didn’t know. Well, it’s the Tonoka Lake League. You see, our college, Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute have a triangular league for the championship. But we haven’t won it in so long that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary, as the legal documents have it. Last year we had a good chance to be second, but Langridge got a glass arm in the final game and we were dumped. That’s why I say we need a new pitcher, and I’m glad you’re going to try for it.”
“Maybe I’ll do worse.”
“Well, Langridge sure does deliver a good ball,” said Sid slowly; “the only trouble is that he——”
He stopped suddenly and seemed embarrassed.
“Well?” asked Tom questioningly.
“Maybe you’ll find it out for yourself,” concluded Sid Henderson. “There’s the supper gong. Come on. There’ll be hot work after a bit.”
Puzzling somewhat over the answer his chum had made to the question regarding Langridge and wondering what it was he might find out for himself, Tom followed Sid to the dining hall, where throngs of students were already gathered.
There was something in the air that told of mischief to come. The sophomores, who dined together, maintained a very grave and decorous air, utterly out of keeping with their usual mood. There was silence instead of talk and laughter at their table.
“They’re almost as dignified as the seniors,” remarked Phil Clinton to Tom as he took a seat next to him. “It means trouble. Look out.”
“Oh, we’re looking out,” replied Tom.
Few lingered over the meal, and, going back to their room, Sid and Tom took their best clothes and hid them in a closet at the end of the long corridor. It was a closet used for the storage of odds and ends.
“There, I don’t believe they’ll find them there,” spoke Sid. “Now we’re ready for them.”
On their way back to their apartment they heard some one preceding them down the long hall.
“Who’s that?” asked Sid.
“I don’t know,” replied Tom. “Let’s take a look. Maybe it was some one spying on us.”
They hastened their steps and saw some one hurry around a corner.
“Did you see him?” asked Tom.
“Yes,” answered Sid slowly.
“Was it a soph?”
“It was Langridge,” came the hesitating answer.
“I wonder what he was doing up here?” inquired Tom.
“I wonder too,” added his chum.
There was a rush of feet in the hall below and the sound of voices in protest.
“Here they come!” cried Sid. “The hazers! Come on!” And he slid into the room, followed by Tom. They slammed the portal shut and bolted it.
The noise below increased, and there was the sound of breaking doors.
“Do they smash in?” asked Tom, to whom a college life was a new experience.
“Sure, if you don’t open.”
“Going to open?”
“I am not. Let ’em break in. They’ll have to pay for the damage.”
In spite of lively scenes on the floor below, the noise was kept within a certain range. Neither the freshmen nor the sophomores desired to have their pranks interrupted by the college authorities, which would be sure to be the case if the fun grew too hilarious.
The noise seemed to be approaching the room of Sid and Tom.
“Here they come,” whispered the country youth.
Sid nodded and there was a grim smile on his face. An instant later the door was tried.
“The beggars have locked it!” some one exclaimed.
“Break it in!” another added.
“Ask ’em to open first,” counseled a third. “We’ve smashed so many now that we’ll have a pretty bill to pay.”
“Oh, blazes, give it your shoulder, Battersby,” exclaimed a loud voice.
“Going to open, fresh?” called out a student on the other side of the portal.
“Nope!” cried Sid.
There was a moment’s pause and then some one hurled himself at the door. The bolt held for a few seconds, but on a second rush there was a splintering of wood, the screws pulled out and the portal flew open, giving admittance to a crowd of sophomores.
“Stripped!” exclaimed a tall sophomore with a broken nose. “The beggars have stripped their den!”
“I told you some one had been giving us away,” added another. “They knew we were coming. Didn’t you, fresh?” and he turned to Sid and Tom.
“Sure,” replied Sid as he looked around the room, which was bare of the articles that usually afforded the second-year men an opportunity for causing annoyance.
“Who tipped you off?” asked he of the broken nose.
“Yes, tell us,” chimed in several others. “We won’t do a thing to him but make him sorry.”
“Oh, we had a dream,” put in Tom with a grin.
“Ha! Here’s a fresh fresh!” exclaimed “Broken-nose.” “Well, fellows, let’s give ’em a shower bath, anyhow.”
“Look under the beds,” suggested a big sophomore.
“Nope; haven’t time, Gladdus. Here, some of you hold ’em while the rest of us douse ’em.”
In an instant Sid and Tom were grasped each by half a dozen hands and pulled to the middle of the room. Then Broken-nose and some others took the two water pitchers and poured the contents over the two freshmen. It was not a pleasant ordeal, but Tom and his chum bore it unflinchingly. It was useless to struggle.
“Oh, this is no fun!” exclaimed Gladdus. “They don’t fight.”
“The odds are too heavy,” retorted Tom quickly. “I’ll take any one of you alone,” he added, and he looked as if he meant it.
“Let me take him on,” pleaded a tall sophomore.
“No—none of that,” declared Broken-nose, who was addressed as Fenmore. “We’ve got lots to do yet. I wonder where their good clothes are. They’ve got on old togs. We’ll give ’em a soaking.”
Tom and Sid were glad that they had hidden their garments in the hall closet. There was a hasty search on the part of the sophomores, but as nothing was disclosed the second-year men prepared to leave.
“Come on,” ordered Fenmore. “There’s no water left in their pitchers, anyhow.”
“Oh, we could get more H2O if we could find their togs,” spoke another.
Just then another second-year youth came along.
“I know where their clothes are,” he said. “In the closet at the end of the hall. Langridge——”
“Shut up!” cried Gladdus.
“Come on, fellows!” called Fenmore. “We’ll soak ’em good.”
Sid groaned as the sophomores released him and Tom and made a run for the closet.
“We’d ought to have scattered ’em,” he said. “Now we’ll have to wear wet duds to chapel to-morrow. We can’t go in these,” and he looked at his dripping garments—clothes in which he did cross-country running and played tennis—old and somewhat ragged and muddy habiliments.
“Did you hear what that soph said?” demanded Tom.
“You mean——”
“I mean about Langridge. He gave us away. He told them where our clothes were; the mean sneak!”
“That’s right,” chimed in Sid. “That’s what he was doing up here—spying on us. Oh, I’ll pay him back all right!”
“So will I!” declared Tom fervently as a triumphant shout down the corridor announced that their clothes had been discovered. The garments, dripping wet and all out of shape, were thrown into their room a little later.
“Well, wouldn’t that put your nerves on the gazabo!” exclaimed Sid disgustedly. “Oh, Langridge, I’ll have it in for you!”
The hazing went on until after midnight and then the dormitory quieted down. Scarcely a freshman escaped and those who absented themselves from their rooms were due to be put on the grill later.
Tom and Sid sat up late, wringing as much of the water as they could from their clothes and drying them somewhat by inserting an electric light bulb in the arms of the coats and the legs of the trousers. Fortunately their bedding was not wet or the boys would have passed a miserable night. As it was they did not have a good one, and they arose early to hang their moist clothes out of the window to let the morning sun finish the work of drying.
But they were not the only ones in this plight, and it was a bedraggled lot of freshmen who appeared at chapel—that is, all but Langridge. He was spick and span as he always was, dressed in expensive clothes.
“Didn’t they get at you?” asked Sid as he and Tom caught up to the wealthy youth on the way to class.
“Get at me?”
“Yes, your clothes don’t seem to have suffered.”
“Oh, this is another suit. They wet one for me, but I had this put away.”
“And no sneak went and told the sophs where you put it, did they?” asked Tom.
“What’s that?” asked Langridge quickly, and he turned a bit pale.
“I say no sneak gave you away?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” and Langridge turned aside.
“Oh, yes, you do,” said Sid quickly. “You know all right and we know, and what’s more, you’ll get what’s coming to you all right. That’s all from yours truly, but look out—that’s all—look out, Fred Langridge!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” was the cool retort, and then the students passed into the class room.
It was two days later that the miniature clappers, which had been made from the tongue of the big bell, were received, and a proud lot of freshmen they were, including Tom Parsons, who attached them to their watch chains.
“Now, if we win the pole rush, we’ll be all to the merry,” exclaimed Phil Clinton as he walked along the campus toward the gymnasium. “I’m just aching for a chance to pummel some of those sophs. They certainly made a rough house of my room the other night.”
“Oh, we’ll get the chance all right,” remarked Sid. “The rush is a week from to-night. But say, how about the baseball election? Isn’t Langridge taking his own time calling it?”
“He sure is. He’s trying to work up votes for Kerr for captain, but he can’t do it. The fellows haven’t anything against Ed, but he’s too thick with Langridge. I’m for old Kindlings.”
“So are we,” put in Tom.
“They’ve got to hold the election to-morrow,” said Phil. “That’s the last day, according to the rules. Why, we haven’t had a bit of practice yet. We don’t know who’s going on the scrub and who has a chance for the ’varsity. I hope I can get center field.”
“Had you rather play there?” asked Tom.
“I always have. I fancy I know that position better than I do any other. But, to tell you the truth, I like football better than baseball. I’m going to try for the eleven this fall.”
“I hope you make it. But what’s going on?” asked Tom as he saw a little commotion about the gymnasium.
“It’s a scrub game,” exclaimed Sid. “That’s the stuff. Come on. Maybe we’ll get a chance. Langridge sees that he’s got to get things going.”
They hurried to the gymnasium and found that preparations were under way for a scrub game. There was also a notice on the bulletin board stating that the election for captain would be held the following day.
“I wonder if he’s got enough votes for Kerr?” mused Sid. “I hope not—for the sake of the team.”
The crowd, including students from all four classes of the college, moved off toward the diamond. Rivalries were forgotten in the interest in the game. The lads were not in uniform, but had on old clothes. Langridge was issuing orders and two temporary captains were chosen, they selecting their men. Bob, or “Bricktop” Molloy, the captain of last year, had one scrub team, and Pete Backus, who rejoiced in the nickname “Grasshopper” from the fact that he was always trying to see how far and how high he could jump, had another. Langridge assumed the rôle of manager, though there was little to manage.
“Now play lively, boys,” he urged. “I want to arrange for some other games this season besides those in the league, and we want to win some of ’em.”
To his delight Tom found himself chosen by Bricktop, together with Sid and Phil Clinton. Langridge held a whispered conversation with Backus, the other captain, and was promptly chosen on that hastily formed nine.
“I’ll pitch and Ed Kerr’ll catch,” Langridge announced, as if that settled it. And it was noticeable that Backus did not make a protest, though he was as good a catcher as was Kerr.
“Will you pitch for us, Parsons, me lad?” asked Bricktop with just a trace of rich Irish brogue. “Sure and I heard what ye did, me lad, the night of the clapper.”
“Well, that was mostly luck, I guess,” replied Tom modestly, “though I’d like the chance to pitch now.”
“Sure, then, an’ you’ll have it,” replied the Irish lad with a twinkle in his honest blue eyes. “Come on, fellows. We’re last at the bat.”
“Hold me down, somebody!” exclaimed Dutch Housenlager as he turned a hand spring and came down so close to Molloy that the former captain was nearly sent over. “I’m feeling like a two-year-old.”
“That’s all right, Dutch, me lad,” exclaimed Bricktop, relapsing into a broader brogue as his feelings came uppermost. “This isn’t a stable, though, and we can dispense with the horse play until after the game if you can accommodate yourself to the exigencies of the occasion,” and he spoke much after the manner of Dr. Churchill, for Bricktop, in spite of the fact that he was a senior, “grave and reverend,” liked fun and his joke. “If you will kindly resume the upright stature befitting a human being,” he went on, “you may try to stop whatever balls come in the direction of shortstop, for there’s where ye’ll play.”
“All right,” answered Dutch good naturedly. “I’m agreeable, my fair captain. But would you mind keeping your hat on? When the sun strikes your red-gold locks it dazzles my eyes.”
“Go on wit’ your blarney!” exclaimed Molloy, making a punch at Housenlager, who skilfully ducked it.
The diamond was in fine shape, for it had been cut and rolled and the base lines marked off in readiness for the opening of the season. The grass was like velvet and the clean, fresh green, contrasted with the brown earth of the diamond proper, the long white lines, the new bases and the level field made a picture that rejoiced the heart of every lad.
“Wow! isn’t it great?” cried Tom. “And the smell! Do you smell the green grass, Sid, and the earth, and—and the baseball smell? Isn’t it great?”
“Cheese it!” cried Phil Clinton with a laugh. “You’ll be spouting poetry next.”
“I wish I could,” returned Tom a little more soberly. “I never get out on a ball field but I want to orate something like Thermopylæ or Horatius at the Bridge. The fever of the game gets in my blood.”
“There is something in that,” admitted Phil. “Oh, it’s a great game. There’s none greater except football, and when I see the gridiron marked off and hear the ‘ping’ of somebody’s boot against the pigskin my heart begins to thump and I catch my breath and want to take the ball to batter down a stone fence and make a touchdown.”
“Bravo!” cried Sid. “You’re as bad as Tom.”
“Quit talking and get to practice!” exclaimed a voice at the rear of the lads, and they turned to see Langridge.
“Say, who told you to give orders?” asked Sid quickly. “Bricktop is our captain.”
“Well, we’re going to have a little warm-up practice first,” remarked Langridge. Then he turned to Tom and said: “So you’re going to pitch against me?”
“It seems so.”
“Humph!” was all Langridge said as he walked away.
Two or three good batters on each side began knocking flies for the others to catch and Tom and his chums soon found themselves warming up in earnest. The country lad discovered that he could judge the balls quite accurately and he made some good throws from a long distance.
“Play ball!” suddenly called Bricktop Molloy. “Come on, fellows! Out in the field. Parsons, let’s see what sort of a twirler you are.”
Tom went to the box. He was a trifle nervous, but he controlled himself as well as he could. The first man up was Langridge, and there was an unpleasant look on the face of the rich youth as he faced his rival.
Tom sent in an out curve and he was pretty sure it was going over the plate. But he heard the umpire cry: “One ball!” and he was much surprised. There was a mocking smile on the face of Langridge. Tom held the next ball rather longer. He threw in a peculiar little drop. Langridge saw it coming and struck savagely at it, but a resounding “thump” told Tom that the horsehide had landed safe in Molloy’s mitt.
“One strike!” yelled the umpire, and Tom’s heart was glad.
“That’s the way to do it!” cried Phil Clinton, from center field. “Strike him out!”
Langridge hit the next ball, though it was only a weak liner, which Tom stopped and threw over to first, but there was no need, for Langridge had seen the uselessness of running.
“One out. Go on with the game,” sang out Bricktop.
Tom managed to strike out the next man, but the third batter knocked a two-bagger, and Kerr, who followed, sent a beautiful long fly to right field, where Jerry Jackson muffed it. There was wild delight on the part of Pete Backus and his men when they got in three runs before Tom managed to strike out another player, retiring the side.
“Well, that’s not so bad,” spoke Bricktop, but there was some dubiousness in his tone.
“My pitching was bum,” acknowledged Tom, “but I’ll do better next inning.”
“Of course you will, me lad,” said Captain Molloy kindly. “It’s a new ground to you.”
There was a confident air about Langridge when he took his position in the box and it was somewhat justified when he struck out the first two men in quick succession.
“He’s doing better than I thought he would,” said Sid.
“He’s a good pitcher,” admitted Tom honestly, for he saw that his rival had something that he himself lacked—a better control of the ball, though Tom could pitch a swifter curve.
Tom was third at the bat. Now a good pitcher is usually a notoriously bad hitter. Tom proved an exception to the rule, though perhaps he had not developed into such a good pitcher yet that it applied in his case. He faced Langridge confidently and even smiled mockingly as a swift ball came in. Tom was a good judge of it and saw that it was going wild, so he did not attempt to strike it. His judgment was confirmed when the umpire sang out:
“Ball one!”
Langridge looked annoyed and sent in a swift one. Tom’s bat met it squarely and it went well over the center fielder’s head.
“Go on! go on, me brave lad!” yelled Molloy, his brogue very pronounced. “That’s the stuff!”
“Take two bases! take two!” cried Phil.
“Make it three! make it three!” begged Sid, and three Tom made it, for he was a swift runner, and the ball rolled provokingly away from the fielder who raced after it.
“Well, you can bat, anyway, me lad,” observed Molloy as Tom came in on a safe hit made by Sid a little later.
“Does that mean I can’t pitch?” asked Tom with a smile.
“Not a bit of it. It only accentuates it, so to speak. You’re all right—facile princeps as the old Romans have it—which, being interpreted, means you can come in and sit at our training table.”
Tom’s side only gathered in two runs, however, and from then on up to the eighth inning the team Langridge was on held the lead, the score at the beginning of the ninth inning being 10 to 8 in favor of Backus’ men. That inning Tom and his chums rather went to pieces as regarded fielding, nor did Tom shine brilliantly in the box. He struck out two men and then he seemed to lose control of the ball. The bases were filled, two men knocking a one and two bagger respectively and another getting his walking papers. Then Tom got nervous, and just when he should have held himself well in hand to keep the score down, he gave another man a chance to amble easily to first on four balls and forced in a run.
There were cries of derision from the opposing players and an ominous silence on the part of Captain Molloy and his men. The next man got a one-bagger and the player who followed him knocked a pop fly, which Molloy, who was on third, missed. The inning ended with three more runs in favor of Langridge and his mates, making the score 13 to 8.
“Six runs to win and five to tie,” murmured Molloy. “Can we do it, boys?”
“Sure,” said Phil Clinton confidently. Phil always fought to the last ditch. But it was not to be. Tom made one run and Sid another, but that was all. Langridge struck out his last man with the bases full and the game ended.
“I thought you were a pitcher,” sneered Langridge as the teams filed off the field, and there were several laughs at Tom’s expense, for he had not made a good showing in the box.
“Sure he can pitch,” cried Molloy, coming to Tom’s defense. “The ground was new to him, that’s all.”
“Rats!” retorted Langridge, and Tom was too humiliated to make a reply.
“Just the same he’ll make a good pitcher,” said Mr. James Lighton, the coach of the ’varsity, who had strolled out to watch the practice. “He has a swift ball, but he lacks control. We can make a first-class pitcher of him, Molloy.”
“I’m sure I hope so,” murmured the red-haired youth. “We didn’t do very well last year with Langridge, though he seems to have improved to-day.”
“So will young Parsons,” declared the coach. “You watch him. I’ll take him in hand as soon as the team is in shape. He’ll probably have to go on the scrub first, but he won’t stay there long.”
But Tom did not hear these comforting words, and it was with rather a bitter feeling in his heart that he went to his room to dress for supper.
“You’ll be better next game,” said Sid, trying to console him.
“Maybe there won’t be any next game for me,” was Tom’s reply. “I saw Kerr and Langridge talking together, and I’m sure it was about me.”
“That’s all right. Kerr isn’t going to be captain of the ’varsity.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure. I’ve got a straight tip. We’ve votes enough to elect old Kindlings Woodhouse.”
And so it proved the next day, when the election was held. Dan Woodhouse received forty more ballots than did Kerr and his election, after the first test, was made unanimous, a compliment always paid. Then baseball matters began in earnest. Candidates were chosen, Coach Lighton ordered regular practice and established a training table. Tom was much chagrined when he found that he was named for pitcher on the scrub, while Langridge got the coveted place as pitcher on the ’varsity, but Sid told his chum that the scrub was but a stepping stone to the final goal. And when the coach began to take Tom in hand and give him some much-needed instruction about control Tom began to feel that, after all, perhaps he had a chance.
It was about a week later, following some rather hard practice on the diamond, that a hurried knock was heard on the door of the room occupied by Sid and Tom.
“Come,” called Sid, looking up from his Latin book.
“Pole rush to-night!” cried Dutch Housenlager, poking his head in and rapidly withdrawing it, as though he feared a book would be hurled at him. “Meet on the campus at eight o’clock. Old clothes—it’s going to be a hard fight.”
“That’s the stuff!” exclaimed Sid, throwing his book across the room. “Come on, Tom. We’ll have a battle royal with our traditional enemies, the sophs.”
The pole rush was like the cane or cannon rushes held in other colleges. Half a dozen of the strongest of the freshmen formed a circle, with linked arms about the big flag pole on the campus. About them in concentric circles their chums formed a series of defensive rings. Then the sophomores came at them with a rush, seeking to displace the first-year lads and arrange themselves in a circle about the pole. If they succeeded in doing this inside of fifteen minutes it meant that the freshmen could wear no college colors their first term. It was to this rush that Tom, Sid and their friends hurried when Dutch and some others went about to the various rooms sounding the rallying cry.
Out on the campus that soft spring evening was a motley crowd of students. On one side were gathered the sophomores and on the other the freshmen.
“My, there are a lot of ’em,” remarked Phil Clinton. “I shouldn’t wonder but they’ve rung in some seniors on us.”
“No, they wouldn’t do that,” declared Sid. “They’re a big class.”
Langridge and some others were going about selecting the men who were to form the first circle about the pole. Tom and Phil, who were both sturdy lads, were chosen for this honor.
“In place! in place!” cried the impatient sophomores.
“Line up! line up, fellows!” shouted Langridge.
Tom and his chums took their positions. The protectors formed about them.
“Hold fast, everybody!” cautioned Phil as he grasped Tom’s arm.
“Here they come! here they come!” was the warning cry, and with a rush the sophomores hurled themselves against the mass of lads about the pole.
It seemed for a moment as if the first-year boys would be quickly shoved aside and their places taken by the sophomores, for so heavy was the impact that the outer and second lines of defense were broken through and the attackers were in the midst of the defenders.
“Throw ’em back! throw ’em back!” yelled Phil Clinton. “Tackle low!”
“Think you’re playing football?” panted Tom, for some of his mates had been pushed against him and he almost lost his grip on Phil’s arm.
“It’s like a scrimmage,” replied Phil. “That’s the stuff, boys!” he added as the lines of defense formed again.
The freshmen by a fierce effort succeeded in blocking the advance of their enemies, and those who had penetrated part way into the circles were hurled back. But the battle had only just begun.
Once more came the rush of sophomores, the members of the class calling to each other encouragingly. There were more of them than there were of freshmen, but the latter had the advantage of a firm base of support, for the lads nearest the pole clung to that and those adjoining them locked their arms or legs about those of their comrades, thus forming a compact mass.
“Pick ’em off one by one!” yelled Gladdus, one of the leading sophomores. “Bore a way in there, Fenmore, and some of you fellows. We ought to get them away.”
“Hold fast! Hold fast, everybody!” cried Tom, for the joy of battle was upon him and his heart exulted in the struggle that was going on about him, in the pressure of bodies against his, the labored breathing, the panting, the fierce grips that were broken only to be made anew.
The sophomores now began other tactics. Several of them would grab a freshman in the outer circle. They would pluck him from the restraining grasp of his companions, and then, when a hole was thus made, other sophomores would bore their way in to repeat the process. So quickly was this done and so strong was the peculiar attack that, almost before the freshmen knew it, Gladdus and Fenmore, two of the most aggressive attackers, had reached the circle that was about the pole. The two boldly grabbed at Tom, at the same time calling out:
“Sophs this way! Sophs this way! Here’s meat for us!”
Tom suddenly felt himself being pulled away from the pole. The grips of Phil Clinton on one side and Sid Henderson on the other were slipping from his arms.
“Hold fast! Don’t let them take you!” cried Phil.
“I won’t!” gasped Tom.
He thought of a trick he had acquired in wrestling. Quickly arching his back like a bow, he suddenly straightened it with a snap, and the holds of Gladdus and Fenmore were broken. They were hurled back and then other freshmen took them up bodily, thrusting them beyond the outer line of defense.
Then the whole body of sophomores quickly threw themselves against the freshmen, as if to force them away from the pole by weight of numbers. They nearly succeeded, and Tom and his fellow defenders of the flag staff thought their arms would be pulled out of the sockets. But, as if it was a second down in a fierce football game, the freshmen held their opponents and thrust the wave of sophomores back.
So it went on, the attack becoming fiercer until, when the timekeepers announced that there were but two more minutes left in which to hold or gain the pole, the second-year men seemed fairly to overwhelm the others.
“Tear ’em up! tear ’em up!” pleaded Gladdus.
“Hold, boys, hold!” begged Langridge. And hold they did, for when time was called the defenders were found with their arms still locked about the flag staff.
“We win, fellows!” yelled Tom, capering about, with his hands grasping those of Sid and Phil.
Then followed an impromptu war dance, while the vanquished sophomores filed away in the darkness, the exultant freshmen sending cheer after cheer out on the air.
“Here’s where we wear ribbons on our hats!” cried Ford Fenton. “Now, I’d like to see any soph make me take it off.”
He pulled from his pocket a band and fixed it to a new hat he had bought to replace the slashed one.
“You came prepared, didn’t you?” asked Holly Cross. “Here, let me give you an imitation of a soph,” and he held out the decorated hat, though the gaily decorated band could not be seen in the darkness, and pretending to regard it with horror, minced along like some grotesque dancer on the stage.
“Good! good!” cried his fellows.
“That’s the stuff, Holly, old chap!” remarked Phil. “We’ll have you in the next play.”
“Why don’t you fellows run the colors up on the flag pole?” proposed a lad who had stood watching the fun.
“That’s it, Jerry Jackson!” exclaimed Sid. “Good idea.”
“I’m not Jerry, I’m Joe,” replied the Jersey twin.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” went on Sid. “Say, you two ought to wear labels. We’re always getting you mixed up.”
Amid much laughter and joking a long streamer of yellow and maroon was fastened to the halyards and run up to the truck. Langridge had the colors with him, anticipating a victory.
“We ought to have a parade now,” suggested Fenton. “My uncle says——”
“If you say uncle again inside of a week, we’ll duck you!” cried Sid as he jostled Ford to one side. “We know him by heart by this time.”
“I don’t believe he ever had an uncle,” declared Kerr. “But come on, fellows, let’s have a parade.”
The idea took at once, and the victorious freshmen formed in line and marched about the college buildings, singing songs and yelling joyfully, for it had been a good, fair, clean fight, and they had won.
“Let’s go to Haddonfield and get out hat bands,” proposed Langridge. “We’ll all be wearing them in the morning.”
As discipline was rather relaxed during the first two weeks of the term and as it was the custom for the victorious class to celebrate in some way the idea was adopted and the joyous lads made for the town, which at their advent at once awakened from a sort of evening nap. They went to a dealer who made a specialty of college goods and soon all were decked out in the gay hat bands, all save a few who, like Fenton, had already provided themselves with the articles.
“I suppose you aren’t used to such things as this down on the farm, are you?” asked Langridge of Tom sneeringly as they were about ready to depart for the college. “Corn husking bees and quilting parties are more in your line.”
“Wa’al, thet’s what they be!” retorted Tom quickly, imitating the nasal drawl of the typical farmer. “We folks down Northville way is some pumpkins when it comes t’ huskin’ corn. Was you ever there, sonny?”
His manner was so patronizing and the effect of his words and assumed mannerisms so odd that the lads about him burst out laughing, much to the annoyance of Langridge.
“Going to the post-office for the mail and meeting the pretty country girls was about the height of your enjoyment, wasn’t it?” persisted the rich youth, who seemed bound to pick a quarrel with Tom.
“Wa’al, now you’re talkin’,” came the quick answer in the same drawl.
There was something rather strange about Langridge. His eyes seemed very bright and his cheeks were flushed. He evidently took Tom’s acquiescence as an indication that the country lad was willing to have fun poked at him.
“I suppose you got lots of letters from the pretty country lasses, enclosing locks of their red hair,” sneered Langridge.
“You bet I did,” exclaimed Tom, still imitating a farmer’s peculiarities, “but I want to tell ye suthin’, an’ when you come out Northville way, mebby you’ll remember it.” Then, suddenly becoming serious and with a change in his manner, he added: “I also used to get letters from gentlemen, but I don’t believe you could write me one!” There was a snap in his words.
“What—what’s that?” cried Langridge, taking a step toward Tom.
“You heard what I said,” was the retort.
“That’s the time you got yours all right, Langridge,” exclaimed Phil Clinton. “You can’t tell by the looks of a haystack how far a cow can jump, you know.”
Langridge fairly glared at Tom. He seemed to want to make some reply, but the words stuck in his throat.
“I’ll—I’ll get——” he stammered, and then, turning on his heel, he linked his arm in that of Kerr and the two started off down the street.
“You held you own that time, Tom,” said Sid as a little later they followed.
“Yes, I don’t mind a joke, but he went a little too far. My people live in the country, and I’m proud of it, and proud of all my friends in Northville. But come on, let’s get back to our room. I’ve got some studying to do.”
Following the exciting scenes of the pole rush it was rather difficult for any of the lads to settle down to study that night, but for some it was a necessity, and Tom and Sid were in this number. Tom, by reason of missing the first week of the term, was a little behind his class, but he was a fine student, and the instructor saw that there would be no trouble for the lad in covering the lost ground. With Sid it was another matter. Though faithful and earnest, studying did not come easy for him, and, as he expressed it, he had to “bone away like a ground hog” to get facts and dates fixed in his mind. Consequently, because of the evening of fun, ten o’clock saw Sid and Tom busy in their room over their books.
For an hour or more nothing was heard but the occasional turning of the pages or the noise of a pencil being rapidly pushed across the paper. At length Tom, with a sigh of relief, closed his chemistry and remarked:
“There, I guess that will do for to-night. My eyes are tired.”
“So are mine,” added Sid. “I’m going to kiss this Latin prose good-night and put it to bed,” and he threw the book under his cot. “Pleasant dreams,” he added sarcastically. “Gee! but I hate Latin,” he exclaimed.
“Why do you take it?”
“Oh, dad thinks I’ll need it. I’d a heap sight rather learn to play the banjo.”
“Not much comparison there, Sid.”
“No, but don’t mention comparison. That reminds me of grammar, and grammar reminds me of verbs, and verbs naturally bring to mind declension, and—there you are. Let’s talk about something pleasant.”
“What do you call pleasant?”
“Well, baseball, for instance, though maybe that isn’t very pleasant for you, since you didn’t make the first team.”
“No,” admitted Tom frankly, “it isn’t pleasant to think about. I did want to get on the first team and I may yet. But I’ve learned one thing since coming here.”
“That’s good. Maybe I’d better call up Moses and tell him. He’ll feel encouraged that some of the students are progressing.”
“No, I wouldn’t advise you to do that,” spoke Tom with a laugh that showed his white, even teeth. “In fact, what I’ve learned didn’t have much to do with books.”
“What was it?”
“Well, it’s been made very clear to me that it’s something different from being a big fish in a little puddle than acting the part of a small-sized finny resident in a more extended body of water, to put it scientifically.”
“Meaning what, if you don’t mind translating?” came from Sid as he stretched out on the rather worn and springless sofa.
“Meaning that I had an idea that I was about as good as the next one in the pitching line, but I find I’m not.”
“Proceed,” came calmly from Sid, who had his eyes shut.
“No, I’m afraid I might disturb your slumbers,” said Tom quickly, and there was a curious change in his voice.
Sid sat up quickly.
“I beg your pardon, old man,” he exclaimed. “I was listening all right and I’m interested, honest I am. Only my eyes hurt to-night. But it must be quite different, coming from a small village to a fairly large college. Did you have a good nine at Northville?”
“Well,” went on Tom, somewhat mollified at his chum’s interest, “we cleaned up all the other nines around there. I was considered a crackajack pitcher, but I guess now the reason for that may have been that the others were rotten batsmen.”
“There’s something in that,” admitted Sid judicially. “You see, things are peculiar here. Now take Langridge. Nobody, unless it’s Kerr and a few others, cares much about him. Yet he’s a fairly consistent pitcher, and he’s the best they’ve had in some years, they tell me. Now our college has had rather hard luck on the diamond, especially in the Tonoka Lake League. There was a better chance of winning the championship last year than in any previous one, but we didn’t make good. It wasn’t altogether Langridge’s fault. He didn’t have very good support, I’m told. Now they’ve decided to keep him on, or, rather he’s engineered things so that, as manager, he keeps himself on. And there are some hopes of pulling out somewhere in the lead of the league this season. But Langridge is his own best friend.”
“And he keeps me from pitching on the ’varsity,” said Tom somewhat bitterly.
“Can you blame him?”
“No, I don’t know that I can,” was the frank answer. “I s’pose I’d do the same thing. But I hope in time to be a better pitcher than he is.”
“How are you coming on with the coach?”
“Fine. Mr. Lighton has given me some good pointers, and I needed them. My curves are all right and so is my speed. It’s my control that’s weak, and I’m getting rid of some of my faults.”
“We’re going to have a practice game with you scrubs to-morrow or next day,” said Sid. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to show what you can do then.”
“I hope so. I want to show Langridge that he isn’t the only bean in the pot, to put it poetically.”
“Very poetically,” murmured Sid, who seemed to be dozing off.
“Say, Sid,” exclaimed Tom suddenly, “do you remember what you started to say about Langridge the other day and stopped?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“I’d rather not tell. You’ll probably find out for yourself before long. I did, though not many know it.”
“You mean——”
“I’m not going to say what I mean. Only,” and Sid suddenly sat up, “it may increase your chances of pitching on the ’varsity.”
“I think I know,” said Tom slowly, and he began to get ready for bed.
A practice game between the ’varsity and the scrub was called for the next afternoon. The first team was in rather disorganized shape yet. That is to say, not all the players were in permanent positions and shifts were likely to be made at any time as practice brought out defects or merits. It was even said that some now on the ’varsity might be relegated to the scrub and some from the second team advanced. Tom secretly hoped so in his case, but his common sense told him he stood a slim chance. Langridge, of course, was pitcher on the first team and Kerr was the catcher. Kindlings Woodhouse played on third, where he could direct the efforts of his men.
When the scrub and regular teams were out on the diamond ready for the practice game Kindlings looked over his players.
“Where’s Sid Henderson?” he asked.
“He got turned back in Latin at last class,” volunteered Jerry Jackson.
“Here he comes now,” added Joe Jackson, as if he was an echo to his brother.
Sid came running up, all out of breath, buttoning his blouse as he advanced.
“What’s the matter, son?” asked the captain.
“That rotten Latin.”
“Be careful,” warned Kindlings. “Don’t slump too often or you may put us in a hole. You aren’t the only first baseman that ever lived, but you’re pretty good, and I don’t want to go to work training you in and have you fired off the team by the faculty for not keeping up your studies.”
“Oh, I’ll be careful,” promised Sid confidently, and then the game started.
The ’varsity played snappy ball and the scrub seemed a bit ragged, naturally perhaps as there was less incentive for them to play hard.
“Brace up, fellows,” implored Tom toward the close of the game. “They’re only four runs ahead of us, and if we can knock out a couple of three-baggers we’ll throw a scare into them. They’re weak in right and left field. Soak the horsehide toward either of the twins, but don’t get it near Phil Clinton. If he gets it within a foot of his mitt, it’s a goner.”
“It’s a wonder you wouldn’t strike out more men,” said Fenton. “My uncle says that when he was a coach——”
“Play ball!” yelled the umpire, and the reminiscence was cut short.
The scrubs did “take a brace” and began finding the curves of Langridge, much to that pitcher’s annoyance. Tom made a neat two-bagger, but died on third, though the score was bettered in favor of the scrub by two more runs.
Tom went to his box with a firm step and a more certain feeling about his ability than he had ever experienced before. He was sure he could strike out at least two men, and he did so, including Langridge and Holly Cross.
Holly, who was a good batter, was laughed at by his chums.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” warned Langridge.
“Do better yourself,” retorted Holly. “I didn’t want to hit it, anyhow. I was giving you an imitation of how close I could come to it and miss it.”
“Those imitations don’t do on this circuit,” added the tall Kindlings. “It’s mighty risky in a game.”
“Oh, yes, in a game,” admitted Holly with a laugh.
Tom gave one man a chance to walk and the next popped out a fly that Dutch Housenlager neatly gathered in. The game ended with no runs for the ’varsity in the last inning and they had beaten the scrub by only two runs.
“It might be worse,” said Mr. Lighton grimly as the teams filed off the diamond. “It might be worse, Woodhouse, but I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” admitted the captain gloomily. “We tackle Boxer Hall in the first of the league series next week, and I think I’ll have to make some more shifts. What do you think of Langridge?”
“Well, he’s all right—yet. If he doesn’t——” The coach stopped suddenly, seemed about to say something and then evidently thought better of it. “At any rate,” he finished, “if worst comes to worst, we can put Parsons in. He’s improving every day, and with a little more coaching so that he isn’t quite so awkward and can run better, he’ll make a star player. He’ll be on the first team next year.”
“He wants to get on this year.”
“Perhaps he will,” and with that the coach walked off rather abruptly.