There was lively practice of the Randall nine the following week, and Coach Lighton said some things that hurt, but they were needed. Nor was Langridge spared, though he affected not to mind the sharp admonition that he must pitch more consistently.
The nine played a game Saturday with an outside team, more for practice than anything else, and won it “hands down,” as Holly Cross said. But, after all, it was not much credit to the ’varsity, for their opponents were not as good as the college scrub. Holly caught, the period of Kerr’s suspension not being up yet.
Tom kept at his practice, but he was more than glad when he could resume his class work again and take his place on the second nine.
“Now we’ll tackle work together,” said the coach one afternoon to Tom, for Mr. Lighton had not been allowed to give him directions during the suspension weeks. “I hope you haven’t gone stale, Parsons.”
“I hope not. Kerr and I have been sort of practicing together.”
“That’s good. I hope, before the season is over, that you and he will go into a regular game together. If not, you’ll have your ‘innings’ next year, if you progress as you have been doing.”
Tom was glad of the praise, but he would have been more glad of a chance to get on the ’varsity. Still he determined to do his best on the scrub, but it was hard and rather thankless work.
Mr. Lighton put him through a hard course of “sprouts” that afternoon. With some members of the scrub to bat against him, Tom sent in swift and puzzling balls, for all the while his ability to curve was increasing and his control was improving. That afternoon he struck out six men in succession, retiring them without having given any one of them more than two balls. It was very good work, and the fact that the men were not extraordinary good hitters did not detract from it.
“That’s fine!” cried Mr. Lighton enthusiastically. “I’m going to——” But what he was going to do he did not say.
“They ought to make you substitute pitcher on the ’varsity team,” was the opinion of Dutch Housenlager when the practice was over. “Rod Evert isn’t one-two-six with you, and he doesn’t do any practicing to speak of.”
“Maybe he feels that he doesn’t have to, for Langridge seems to make good nearly every time,” spoke Tom.
“Aw, rats! All that keeps Langridge manager is his money. He certainly runs the financial end of the game to perfection. And if he wasn’t manager he wouldn’t be pitcher. But the fellows know he takes a lot of responsibility from them, and they’re just easy enough to let things slide. Some day we’ll be up against it. Langridge will be knocked out of the box, Evert won’t be in form, and we’ll lose the game.”
“Unless they call on ‘yours truly,’” interjected Tom with a laugh.
“Exactly,” agreed Dutch seriously. “That’s my point. I wish they’d name you for sub. I’m going to ask——”
“No, no!” expostulated Tom quickly. “If I can’t get there on my own merits, I don’t want it. No favors, please. I can wait.”
“Well, just as you say, of course. But say, there’s the Grasshopper. Watch me make him jump.”
He pointed to Pete Backus, a tall student, who seemed to be measuring off a certain distance on a grassy stretch down near the river.
“Looks as if he was going to jump without you making him,” observed Tom.
“Oh, he’s always jumping. He thinks he’s great at it. Wants to make the track team, but he can’t seem to do it. He’ll do his distance easily one day and fall down the next. You can’t depend on him. But I’ll make him jump now. Sneak down behind those bushes.”
Tom followed Dutch softly. There were no other students about and they managed to gain the screen of the bushes unobserved by the Grasshopper, who was intent on measuring distances with a pocket tape. The two conspirators could see where he had been practicing the broad jump.
The Grasshopper stood close to a clump of elder bushes, with his back to them. He was preparing for another test. Dutch Housenlager, who was not happy unless he was engaged in some joke or horse play, silently cut a long pole and fastened to it a big pin, which he extracted from some part of his garments. Then, seeing a good opening that gave access to a tender part of the rear elevation of the Grasshopper’s legs, he thrust with no gentle hand just as poor Pete was about to throw himself forward in a standing broad jump.
“Wow!” cried the punctured one.
But it was so sudden that he did not have time to stop his leap, which he was on the verge of making, and he sprang through the air like an animated jumping-jack.
“Fine! fine!” cried Dutch, rising up from his place of concealment. “That’s the time you beat your own record, Grasshopper.”
Pete turned. He looked over the space he had covered. His heels had come down at least a foot beyond where he had previously landed. The look of anger on his face, as he felt of his pricked leg, turned to one of satisfaction.
“By Jove! I believe you’re right,” he exclaimed. “I have done better by—let’s see”—and he measured it—“by fourteen inches.”
“I told you so,” called Dutch, still laughing. “Next time you want to jump, just let me get in the bushes behind you. It’ll be good for an extra foot every time.”
“Um,” murmured the Grasshopper, still rubbing his leg reflectively. “It was an awful jab though, Dutch.”
“What of it? Look at your distance,” and once more Pete looked happy as he again measured the space he had covered.
“Poor old Grasshopper,” commented Dutch as he and Tom strolled along the campus, leaving the jumper still at his practice. “Poor old Grasshopper! He’ll never make the track team.”
The next few days saw Tom putting in all his spare time practicing curves under the watchful eye of Mr. Lighton. The ’varsity played with the scrub and narrowly escaped a good drubbing. Langridge seemed to be asleep part of the time and issued a number of walking papers. It was after the contest, which the regulars had pulled out of the fire with rather scorched fingers, that the coach called Captain Woodhouse and Langridge to him.
“I rather think we’d better make a little shift,” he said.
“In what way?” asked Langridge quickly.
“Well, I think we ought to name Parsons as substitute pitcher on the ’varsity. He’s been doing excellent work, fully equal to yours, Langridge. Of course he’s a little uncertain yet, but one big game would take that out of him. I’d like to see him pitch at least part of the game against Boxer next week.”
“Does that mean you’re dissatisfied with me?” asked Langridge quickly, and his face flushed.
“Not necessarily. But I think it rather risky not to provide better than we have for a substitute pitcher. Evert is available, of course, but as he is a junior his studies are such that he can’t devote the necessary time to practice. Parsons ought to be named.”
“Do you demand that in your official capacity as coach, Mr. Lighton?” asked Kindlings. “Because if you do, I’ll agree to it at once.”
“No, I merely make that suggestion to you.”
The captain looked at the manager. Langridge stood with a supercilious smile on his face.
“I presume I shall have something to say as manager,” he remarked.
“Certainly,” admitted the coach gravely.
“Then I say Parsons shan’t act as substitute pitcher. I’m good for the season, and I’m going to play it out. I see his game. He wants to oust me and he’s taken this means of doing it. He got you to plead for him, Mr. Lighton. I’ll not stand for it.”
“You’re entirely mistaken, Langridge,” said the coach, with the least suspicion of annoyance in his even voice. “It is my own idea. Parsons does not even know that I have spoken to you; in fact, I believe that he would not allow me to.”
Langridge was sneering now.
“I guess he would,” he said.
“Then you, as manager, don’t want Parsons as substitute pitcher?” asked the coach.
“No!” snapped Langridge.
“Of course if you order it, Mr. Lighton,” began honest Kindlings with an uneasy look at the coach—“of course if you make a point of it——”
“No, I don’t,” and Mr. Lighton spoke quietly. “That was not my intention—just yet. Parsons will remain on the scrub then, at least for the present. Later I may—er—I may make a point of it,” and he turned and walked away.
While knowing nothing of the efforts Coach Lighton was making in his behalf, Tom continued hard practice at his pitching. Every day he made some improvement until his friends on the scrub regarded him as a marvel. But, as if some mysterious whisper had come to Langridge, the latter also showed improvement. He spent more time in practice and at one game, when it looked as if the scrub would beat the ’varsity, chiefly due to Tom’s fine pitching, Langridge saved the day by brilliant work in the box. The coach was pleased at this and Tom could not help feeling that his chances were farther away than ever.
There were many other phases of college life, aside from baseball, that appealed to Tom. He liked his studies and he gave them more attention than perhaps any other lad of the sporting set. He was not a “greasy dig,” by which was meant a student who burned midnight oil over his books, but he stood well in his classes, for learning came naturally to him.
Not so, however, to his roommate. Poor Sid had to “bone” away rather hard to get along, and, as he was required to put in a certain amount of time on the diamond, his lessons sometimes suffered. He was warned one day by Professor Tines, in the Latin class, that if he did not show more improvement he would be conditioned and not allowed to play on the team.
“And that mustn’t happen,” declared Captain Woodhouse. “Take a brace, Sid. Don’t go throwing us down now. It’s too late to break in another first baseman.”
Sid promised, and, for a time, stood better in his class. In the meanwhile other sports went on at Randall College. The crew was out every day on the river and the ’varsity eight-oared shell, several doubles and some singles held impromptu races. A freshman eight was formed and Tom was asked to join, but he wisely refused, for he reasoned that he could not give enough time to it to become a member of a racing crew without sacrificing either baseball or his studies, and he would do neither.
“But you’ll never make the ’varsity nine,” argued Captain Bonsell, of the freshman crew. “Much better to train with us, for I’ll promise you a place in the boat when it comes to the championship race. You’ll never be the ’varsity pitcher.”
For Bonsell had looked with envy on Tom’s big muscles.
“Well, I’m not going to give up until the last game,” declared Tom stoutly. “Maybe I’ll get a chance at the tail end. Langridge can’t last forever, though far be it from me to wish him any bad luck.”
“I see,” spoke Bonsell with a laugh, “the survival of the fittest. I wish you luck, old man.”
So Tom practiced and practiced and practiced until on the scrub his name became one to conjure with. But Langridge remained in his place on the ’varsity and Evert was the substitute pitcher. Between Tom and Langridge there was more than ever a coldness. It was not due to the sneaking act of the rich lad in not absolving Tom from blame in the wire episode, but might more properly be ascribed to the incident connected with Miss Tyler, though neither youth was willing to admit this. In spite of himself, Tom found that he was entertaining a certain indescribable feeling toward the girl. Often, at night, he would recall her laughing, tantalizing face as she walked away with Langridge.
“Hang it all!” Tom would exclaim to his pillow. “He’s not fit for her! She ought to know it. I practically told her, yet she went off with him, after all. Confound it all, I can’t understand girls, anyhow.”
But Tom might well have been comforted, for no one else does either, though many believe that they do.
But, though part of Tom’s coldness toward Langridge was based on the latter’s meanness about the wire and though probably the ’varsity pitcher kept aloof from Tom for the same reason, there was no disposition on Tom’s part to complain or “squeal.” As far as the faculty was concerned, Tom was guilty of the prank that had had so nearly a fatal ending. But he did not complain. He had given his word.
“Well, Tom, old man, going along?” asked Sid one day as he came in from a biology lecture and tossed his text-book under the bed, though he knew he would have to crawl for it afterward.
“Going along where?”
“The team’s going to Dodville for a game with a big prep. school there. Not much as regards a game, but it will be fun. It’s a nice trolley trip, and I hear all the subs are going.”
“But I’m not a sub.”
“Well, you’re a scrub, and that’s almost the same. Come along and root for us, anyhow, though I guess we’ll wipe up the earth with the preps.”
“I thought we had a game with Boxer to-morrow.”
“We did, but they canceled it, as they have to fill in a postponed game with Fairview, so we’ve shifted our schedule. Will you come?”
“Sure, if there’s room.”
“Of course there is. Langridge has hired two special trolleys. You know he’s not going to play the regular ’varsity team. Only freshmen are to be allowed on it. It’s more for practice than anything else.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Tom. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Sid thought there might be a chance to do some pitching, but he thought better of it.
The Dodville Preparatory School had a good nine and a reputation of putting up a hard game, but Langridge was set on the idea of playing only freshmen against them, and thus it was decided. On the afternoon of the game the team, many supporters and the scrubs and substitutes boarded two trolleys for the trip to the grounds.
It was a jolly crowd, and the way was enlivened by songs and jokes. Tom was in the first car with Sid and some others of his particular chums. Langridge was also there, but he kept rather away from Tom.
Out on the platform with the motorman was an individual with a slouch hat pulled down over his eyes and his coat collar turned up.
“Who’s that, a tramp?” asked Tom as he noticed the man.
“Looks like it,” admitted Sid. “Begging a ride maybe on the strength of this being a special. Well, let him go. If you call attention to him, some of the fellows may make a row and create a rough house. Don’t say anything.”
Tom did not, but he noticed that the tramp appeared to be very friendly to the motorman and talked frequently with him. The electric line to Dodville ran through a stretch of country not thickly populated, and at one point it switched over another trolley road which ran to a distant, thriving village. The boys were so engrossed in their fun, laughing and joking that they paid little attention to matters outside, and the time passed quickly. Holly Cross was giving (by request) an imitation of a well-known vaudeville performer when Sid, who happened to look out of the window, exclaimed:
“Say, fellows, where, for the love of tripe, are we? This isn’t the road to Dodville.”
“Aw, what’s eatin’ you?” demanded Dutch Housenlager. “Could the trolley car go off by itself on a road alone? Answer me that!”
“I don’t know what it could do, it’s what it has done,” retorted Sid. “I know this road. It goes to Fayetmore, which is next door to Squankum Center. Fellows, we’re five miles from Dodville!”
“Get out!” cried Langridge, unwilling to believe it.
“Fact!” asserted Sid. “We’re five miles out of our way, on the wrong road, and the game starts in less than an hour. They’ll call it a forfeit on us and never stop twitting us about this.”
“Ah, you must be wrong,” declared Holly Cross. “Don’t you s’pose the motorman knows the way? It isn’t as if this was an auto.”
Sid pulled open the front door. The tramp, who had been talking to the motorman, had gone.
“I say,” began the first baseman, “is this the road to Dodville? Aren’t you on the wrong line?”
“Why, sir, I don’t rightly know,” replied the motorman somewhat timidly.
“You don’t know?” repeated Sid incredulously.
“No. I—I hope this is the right road.”
“You hope so!” cried Langridge. “Well, I should say yes. Why don’t you know?”
“Well, you see, I’m new on this section of the line. To-day is my first run. I took the turn back there where the gentleman told me to.”
“What gentleman?”
“The one who was out here on the platform with me. He said he was your manager.”
“Manager!” fairly yelled Langridge. “Why, I’m the manager of this team.”
“Can’t help it. That’s what the gentleman said. He said he knew the road to Dodville, and when I got to the switch he told me to come this way.”
“What was his name?” demanded Langridge, who was beginning to “scent a rodent,” as Holly Cross said.
“He gave me his card,” went on the motorman, who had halted his car in the midst of a lonely stretch of woods.
“Let’s see!” cried Sid.
The trolley man fumbled in his pocket for it. Tom looked back, but could not see the other special car. That had probably been some distance behind the first one and had doubtless gone the right road, the motorman not suspecting that his predecessor was not ahead of him.
Sid took the bit of pasteboard which the man held out to him. He looked at it and then uttered an exclamation.
“It’s a trick!” he cried, “a soph trick! Listen to this, fellows. This is Fenmore’s card, and he’s written on it this message: ‘This is only part of what we sophs owe you freshies for the pavilion game. There is more coming. Hope you have a nice picnic in the woods.’ That fellow on the platform was Fenmore,” went on Sid. “No wonder he kept his hat down.”
“And here we are—part of the team—out here in the wilderness, five miles from the game, which starts in half an hour!” cried Langridge in disgust. “Say, those sophs got back at us all right. We’re in a nice pickle!”
There was consternation among the freshmen and their supporters. With a divided team, part of it being so far away from the grounds that it was practically impossible to arrive on time, and on a wrong road at that, the situation was enough to discourage any nine.
“What made you let that fellow tell you where to go?” demanded Sid of the motorman.
“Well, he said he was your manager, and I believed him.”
“Manager!” cried Holly Cross. “Yes, we need a manager. We need a nurse and a governess, that’s what we need. To think that twenty of the brightest freshmen at Randall have been duped by one soph! Wow! I must have blood!” and he began to dance and howl like a stage Indian.
“Well,” said Langridge disgustedly after a few minutes’ thought, which period was occupied on the part of the others by the use of language more strong and rugged than polite, “the only thing to do is to go back. Make the best time you can and see what we can do. Shift the car, motorman.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I got orders not to start back until half-past four. You see, this is a single-track road, and I might run into a car coming in the opposite direction. We’ve got to stay here until four-thirty.”
This was worse than ever, and a howl went up. But suddenly Sid, who had been narrowly looking at the motorman, took a step toward him. He reached up, grabbed his beard and pulled it off.
“Hayden!” he exclaimed as there was revealed to view the features of one of the liveliest of the sophomore class. “By all the gods that on Olympus dwell, it’s Hayden!”
“At your service, gentlemen,” exclaimed Hayden with a mocking bow. “This is a little pleasure trip that Fenmore and I arranged for you. I hope you enjoy it,” and with another mocking bow he slipped off the controller handle and leaped over the dashboard of the car.
“We hired the regular motorman to let us take his place,” he went on. “I guess you don’t play ball to-day,” and he disappeared in the woods with a tantalizing laugh.
“Let’s catch him!” cried Holly Cross.
“Sure! Let’s scalp him and tie him to a tree,” proposed Dutch Housenlager.
“What’s the use?” asked Sid. “He knows this part of the country like a book, for he’s been hunting in it. Better let him go. He’ll only laugh the more at us.”
“But what are we to do?” demanded Langridge. “We don’t want to lose the game.” He was very vexed, for he knew it would reflect on him as manager.
“The only thing I see to do is to walk back until we meet another car and then send on word of this abandoned one,” said Sid. “It’s a long walk, but——”
“Hark!” cried Tom Parsons suddenly. “An auto is coming along the road.”
“Maybe some of us can get a ride,” proposed Phil Clinton. “We can go to town and hire a rig for the rest of you.”
Along the road rumbled some big vehicle. There came in sight a big auto truck, ponderous and heavy. It was one of several used by a milk concern to transport cans to the railroad depot.
“That’s the stuff!” cried Tom. “Maybe he’ll take us to Dodville if we pay him.”
The man was hailed and the situation explained to him. He looked dubious and shook his head.
“Why can’t you take us?” asked Phil. “You say you have no load on your truck, and it isn’t much out of your way. We’ll pay you well.”
“Maybe you would,” admitted the man, “but I’ve heard of you students. If some of you ran off with a trolley car, there’s no tellin’ but what you’d take this truck away from me at some lonely spot and go cruisin’ off like Captain Kidd.”
“No, no,” promised the lads eagerly. “We won’t cut up a bit.”
They had some difficulty in convincing the man of this, but did so finally, and he allowed them to pile in. They had to stand up and the road was rough. They were jolted about, for the truck was not built for easy riding, but they did not mind that, for they felt that there was a chance to play the game, and they urged the man to put on all speed.
They reached Dodville just as the game was about to be awarded to the preparatory school on a forfeit. The members of the Randall nine who had arrived in the second trolley car, which safely made the trip, could not explain the absence of their companions.
The game was started, but it was not remarkable for any brilliant work on the part of the college freshmen. In fact the other students played all around them. Possibly this was due to the episode that had occurred, for Langridge was nervous and threw wild, giving a number of men their bases on balls. Kerr asked him to let Tom pitch, but Langridge refused arrogantly and with bitter words against the scrub twirler. Nor would he consent that Evert should fill the box.
“I’ll pitch!” he cried excitedly. “I’ll strike ’em out next inning. You watch.”
Tom happened to be in the dressing-room when it was the turn of Randall to bat, and Langridge came in. The ’varsity pitcher did not see his rival, but going to where his valise was containing his clothing, he took something from it. Tom saw Langridge put a bottle to his lips.
“I wonder if he’s taking medicine,” he thought.
A moment later the pitcher hurried from the room as his name was called to bat. Tom walked to a window that gave a view of the grounds. As he passed Langridge’s valise he smelled a pungent, alcoholic odor. He started and for a moment could not tell what it was. Then it came to him.
“Liquor! He’s been drinking liquor!” he almost exclaimed aloud. “He’s broken the training rules. I wonder—I wonder if this is what Sid hinted at—if this is what Mr. Lighton meant!”
From the diamond there came a sharp crack. It was a bat meeting a swiftly pitched ball with that inspiring sound that indicates a fair hit. Tom saw Langridge speeding for first base, while Randall lads were yelling at the top of their voices.
“It’s a three-bagger!” cried Tom delightedly, and so it proved, Langridge bringing in a run a moment later on a sacrifice hit by Holly Cross.
“Now we’ll do ’em up!” cried Langridge, dancing about in a strange enthusiasm as he crossed the home plate. “Knock a home run, Kerr, and we’ll roll up a score. Then I’ll strike out the next six men.”
There were but two more innings to play, and the run Langridge brought in had reduced the lead against the Randall freshmen from 6 to 5. But five runs are a big handicap, especially when you can’t depend on your pitcher. Kerr struck out and so did Sid, who was up next. Langridge was disappointed, though not discouraged, and he made wild promises about what he was going to do. But he did not fulfil them and got careless in his pitching.
The game degenerated almost into a farce in the last inning, when Dodville piled up four runs, making the total score 17 to 5, it being the worst drubbing the Randalls had received in many years. The only consolation was that it was not the ’varsity team, but, as Kerr said, that was no excuse. There were almost jeers mingled with the cheers of the preparatory school lads, and it was a sore and sorrowful lot of freshmen who made their way to the special trolley cars, the stalled one having been brought up in the meanwhile.
“Who’s eating cloves?” asked Sid Henderson as he piled into the electric and threw his big mitt on the seat beside him.
“Have some?” asked Langridge, holding out a quantity. “I had toothache and I took a few.”
“No, thanks, don’t use ’em,” replied Sid with a quick look at the pitcher, whose eyes were unnaturally bright. “But if you have any ginger about you, it might come in handy.”
“Ginger—how?”
“For this team. We need it. To be beaten by a bunch of schoolboys!”
“Well, we didn’t have our regular team,” explained Langridge. “Besides, I didn’t have any support. I pitched well, but you fellows didn’t back me up.”
There was an arrogant look on his face.
“Yes, you pitched well, you did,” exclaimed Kerr with an unconcealed sneer in his voice. “You did hot work, you did.”
“What about my three-bagger?”
“That didn’t make up for your rotten pitching!”
The others looked at Kerr in surprise. It was something new for him to find fault openly with Langridge. The latter felt it, too, and hardly knew what to say.
“Well, I—er—I——”
“Yes, make some excuse,” went on the catcher bitterly. “We got dumped, and that’s all there is to it. I’m not saying I did such brilliant work—none of us did—but you did rotten, Langridge, and you know it. It isn’t as if you couldn’t do better, for we all know you can. You’ve gone stale—or—or something!”
Tom had an idea what it was that had made the pitcher go “stale.” His brilliant hit and run had been followed by a reaction, the result of the stimulant he took. It is always thus.
Langridge stared at Kerr, his most particular chum, and then, as if not understanding it, went off by himself in a corner of the car. It was not a jolly party that rode back to Randall College. Nor were matters much better when they arrived. The freshmen had to endure the taunts of the sophomores concerning the trolley episode, as well as their own unexpressed disappointment at the result of the game.
“Sid,” said Tom in their room that night, when his roommate was stretched out on the old creaking sofa—“Sid, if you knew some member of—er—well, the crew who didn’t train properly—that is to say, did sneaking things on the sly—didn’t keep in form for a race, what would you do?”
“How’s that? Is some member of the crew trying to throw the college?” cried Sid, suddenly sitting up.
“No, no. Of course not. I’m just supposing a case. You know we have to suppose cases in our psychology class. I’m just taking one for the sake of argument.”
“Oh,” replied Sid sleepily. “If it’s only a supposititious case, all right. I thought you meant you knew of some chap who was doing a dirty trick.”
“Well, suppose I did know of one—or you did—what would you do? Would you tell the coach or the captain?”
“What good would it do?”
“That’s not the point. Would you?”
“Well, you must have a reason for telling. Don’t you learn that in psychology?”
“Of course. Well, my reason might be that I wanted to see the crew do good work and not lose on account of some fellow who couldn’t last out a race because he broke training rules on the sly. Or it might be that I wanted to see the fellow himself take a brace.”
“Both good reasons, son. Both good. As the Romans say, Mens sana in corpore sano. You would do it for his own physical good. Very nice. For his mental improvement also.”
“I’m serious,” declared Tom.
“So am I, you conscientious old wind-ammer! I know it. The trouble is you’re too serious. Why don’t you let things slide sometimes?”
“I can’t.”
“No, I s’pose not. Well, then, fire away, old chap. Wait until I get more comfortable, though,” and Sid turned and wiggled on the decrepit sofa until it threatened to collapse.
“You haven’t answered my question yet,” persisted Tom when his chum had been silent for two minutes.
“What question? Oh, blazes, Tom, I thought you’d gone to sleep. But say, why don’t you come right out and say what you mean? Do you know any member of the crew who’s doing that?”
“No, I don’t. I told you this was a supposititious case. But, if there was one, what would you do?”
“Well, I’ll give you a supposititious answer.”
Sid closed his eyes. The fussy little alarm clock seemed to be counting time for him while he made up his mind.
“Why don’t you tell the fellow yourself?” asked Sid so suddenly that Tom jumped.
“Would you?” he asked.
Sid arose. He came and stood close to his chum. Then he spoke.
“There be certain things, son,” he said with an assumed serious air which was more than half real, “certain things that, in college, one might better ignore. If, perchance, however, one is so constituted morally that one can’t; if the laws of the Medes and the Persians are so immutable that one can’t rest—why, my young philosopher, take the easiest course so long as you are true to your own motto, Dulce et decorum est pro alma mater mori. There, I don’t know whether I’ve got the Latin right, but it says what I mean—tell the other fellow first—Tom,” and with that he went over, picked up his trigonometry and fell to studying.
It was not an easy fight that Tom had with himself that night. He went all over the ground: the arrogance of Langridge, the scene in the dressing-room, the pungent odor of liquor and then his knowledge of it. Was it fair to the team to let the members be in ignorance of the fact that their pitcher took stimulants secretly—that he had done it before? For Tom was sure it was not the first time. Would it not mean, in the end, that Randall would lose some deciding game and the championship? Tom thought so and determined that it was his duty to do something. The question was, what? In a measure Sid had solved this for him, and before he fell asleep that night Tom determined to expostulate with Langridge the first chance he got.
It came sooner than he expected. There was a game with Boxer Hall on the grounds of the latter university and it was expected to be a hard one, which expectation was not unfulfilled.
For the first few innings Randall seemed to have the contest well in hand. Then, during a few minutes when his side was at bat, Langridge disappeared into the dressing-room. With a heart that beat harder than usual Tom quietly followed. He was just in time to see Langridge putting away a bottle that gave out the characteristic odor.
“Don’t do that!” cried Tom quickly, but in a low voice. He was hardly conscious of what he was saying.
Langridge wheeled around and faced him.
“Don’t do what?” he asked sharply, his face flushed.
“Take that liquor to brace you up. You’ll only pitch the worse for it, and it’s not fair to the team.”
Langridge took a step toward Tom.
“What right have you got to speak so to me?” he demanded. “You’re a dirty sneak, that’s what you are, following in here to spy on me! I guess I know what I’m doing. Can’t I take a little toothache medicine without being insulted by you? Liquor! Supposing it is? The doctor ordered it for me.”
“Not in the middle of a game,” said Tom quietly. “Besides, it’s against training rules, and you know it. It’s not fair.”
“Oh, I see your game,” sneered Langridge. “I know what you’re after. You want to tell some story about me, thinking that I’ll be dropped and you can have my place. But you can’t. I’ll do you yet. I’ll show ’em how I can pitch!” He was boasting now, for he was not himself. “Get out of my way, you dirty sneak!” he cried. “I’m going to bat out a home run,” and he put some cloves in his mouth.
He almost knocked Tom over as he rushed past him and went out in time to take his place at the home plate. He did knock a home run to the delirious delight of the team, but it was short-lived joy, for, just as in the other games, Langridge went to pieces in the box, and Boxer Hall won the game by a score of 8 to 5. But the home run of Langridge so shone out that even Kerr did not have the heart to decry his friend’s ragged pitching. Coach Lighton, however, shook his head, as the championship chances for Randall College seemed fading away.
“Well,” thought Tom as he accompanied the defeated team back that afternoon, “I did my duty, anyhow. I expostulated with him and was insulted for my pains. I did all I could.”
But that night there came to him something like a voice asking, “Did you?” Tom tossed restlessly on his bed. “What shall I do next?” he thought.
“What’s the matter, old man?” inquired Sid the next morning as he rolled over in bed and looked at Tom.
“Matter? Why?”
“You look as if you’d been drawn through a knot hole, and a small one at that. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” and Tom tried to laugh it off. “I didn’t sleep very well, that’s all.”
“For that matter, neither did I.”
“Get out! I heard you snoring away like a boiler blowing off steam.”
“Then I must have been tired. I never snore unless I am. Wow! ouch! Decameron’s Prothonotary!”
Sid made a face that indicated intense anguish and put his hand to his side as he turned over in bed.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom anxiously.
“Strained my side when I slid for second base that time. I didn’t notice it yesterday, but it hurts like sin now. Guess I’ll have to cut lectures to-day and stay in bed.”
“What excuse will you give?”
“Oh, I’ll say—no, I won’t, either,” declared Sid with a sudden change of decision. “I can’t say it was playing baseball that laid me up or Moses will ask me to cut out the ball. I’ve got to suffer. I know what I’ll do. I’ll limp in chapel and on my way to lectures. I’m not prepared in trig, anyhow, and maybe they’ll let me off easy. I’m sure to slump in Latin, but maybe Pitchfork will have mercy on a gladiator who was willing to die for Cæsar.”
Tom felt like laughing, but he restrained himself as he saw that Sid was really suffering. The first baseman crawled out of bed with many a groan and made wry faces. He limped across the room.
“How’s that?” he asked Tom. “Do I do it naturally?”
“Sure. It would deceive anybody.”
“I don’t want to deceive ’em. It’s gospel truth. I’m as lame as a sore horse. But I’ll go down.”
“Let me rub it,” suggested Tom, and he forgot part of his troubles in giving vigorous massage to Sid’s strained side.
“It feels better. Thanks, old man,” declared the hurt one as he began to dress.
“But you’re limping worse than ever.”
“Sure. No use losing any of the advantages of my limp. It may save me from a discredit in Latin. Oh, if you want to know how to limp come to your Uncle Dudley.”
Tom laughed and prepared for chapel. He himself was in no very jolly mood, however, for he could not help thinking of the problem connected with the discovery about Langridge. That it was a problem, and no small one, Tom was ready to admit. He felt himself in a peculiar position. He had spoken to the ’varsity pitcher and had been insulted. To let him go on in his course, breaking training and endangering the success of the nine, Tom felt would not be right. Yet if he spoke to the coach or captain about it there would be but one construction put upon his action.
Tom could fancy Mr. Lighton thanking him for the information about Langridge and could even imagine the coach acting on it and warning the pitcher. Tom could see the look on the face of Kindlings when he was told. It would be a revelation. Yet for all the service that he rendered to the team there would be but one construction put upon Tom’s act by his classmates—he would be accused of informing in order to oust Langridge so that he might have the pitcher’s place.
“And I can’t do that,” declared Tom to himself. “I’ll have to find some other way. I’ll make one more try with Langridge.”
Sid’s limp did not save him in Latin, for he “slumped” most ungracefully, and with a black look Professor Tines marked a failure against him, accompanying it with words of warning. As for Tom, his worry over the secret caused him to pay too scant attention in his geography class, and he was caught napping, whereat the instructor looked surprised, for Tom was one of the best students.
The next day the scrub team went on a little trip to Morriston to play a small semi-professional nine, and Tom had a chance to show what he could do in the box. He gave a fine exhibition of pitching, so much so that the other nine was held down to a goose-egg score, and there were very few hits secured off Tom. The scrubs were wild about it and held a celebration, for it was the best victory they had scored yet.
During the next few days Tom saw little of Langridge. In fact the ’varsity pitcher seemed to be keeping out of the way of the lad who had remonstrated with him.
“I’ll see him at the Boxer game Saturday,” thought Tom. “If I get a chance, I’ll make one more attempt, though I’m afraid it won’t do any good.”
The next Boxer contest was a sort of annual mid-season affair. It was a game which members of the alumnæ of both colleges made it a point to attend in even greater numbers than at the contests deciding the championship. In fact of late years there had been no chance for such exhibitions, for Randall did not have a “look in” at the pennant, as Holly Cross used to say.
The game was to take place on the Randall grounds, and before the hour when it was to be played the stands and bleachers began filling up. It was a beautiful afternoon about the middle of May and a better one for a game could not have been had, even if made to order.
Oh, how Tom wanted to play! But he could only look on. The regular team came out for practice, with the substitutes waiting for a chance to go in. Then out trotted the Boxer Hall lads, to be received with a cheer. There were pretty girls galore, each one waving the flag of her particular college. Tom moved about in the grandstand, trying to pretend to himself that he was not looking for any one, but all the same his heart gave a great thump when he heard some one call:
“Tom! Mr. Parsons!”
“Why, how do you do, Miss Tyler?” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Oh, yes, I wouldn’t miss this for anything. I just love to see the old graduates. They are so interesting, just as if they were boys again.”
She made room for Tom beside her, and he gladly availed himself of the chance.
“Yes, there are quite a few of the old boys on hand to-day,” he remarked. “Look at those two,” and he pointed to two well-dressed men, each attired in a tall silk hat and a frock coat. They each had a gold-headed cane and they were very staid in looks, yet at the sight of each other they rose in their seats, clasped hands across the heads of intervening persons and one, the elder, cried out:
“Well, well! If it isn’t old Skeeziks! How are you? I haven’t seen you since I graduated in ’73!”
“Nor me you, you old fish-pedler! How are things? Do you remember the day we kidnaped Mrs. Maguire and took all her chickens?”
“Hush! Not so loud!” cautioned the other, his face breaking into smiles. “The faculty never found out who did that, and there’s no use telling now. But I am glad to see you. Do you think our boys will win?”
“I hope so, though I see by the papers they haven’t been playing as good ball as when we went to school. They need a little ginger.”
“That’s right. I wish I was young again. We certainly had some great games.”
On all sides similar scenes were being enacted and like reminiscences were being exchanged. It was a great day for the “old grads,” and they took advantage of it. Many there were also from Boxer, though they occupied a different part of the grandstand. However, they exchanged visits with their former rivals during the practice.
Ford Fenton was in his element. His uncle, who had been a coach at Randall, was on hand, and Ford was showing him off as if he was a prize animal at a county fair.
Ford wanted to take his uncle around and introduce him to his classmates, but Mr. Fenton declined, as he wanted to meet some of his old friends. But this did not deter Ford from going about telling the news, and about all he could be heard to say was:
“My uncle, the former coach, is here. He came to see the game. My uncle says——”
Then the long-suffering ones would turn away, or if they were lads who had no particular regard for Ford’s feelings, they would guy him unmercifully.
“Hi, Ford!” cried Holly Cross after about half an hour of this sort of thing, “have you heard the latest?”
“No. What is it?”
“Why, ‘my uncle’ says that if you don’t stop talking about him, he’s going to leave and take you with him. He says he’s being ‘uncled’ to death.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Dutch Housenlager. “That’s right, Ford, that’s right,” and he pretended to collide accidentally with the lad, knocking him against Holly, who promptly pushed him back.
But now practice was over. The rival captains were in conference, the umpire was taking the new ball from the tinfoil wrapping and the spectators were settling back for the contest.
“Boxer has improved since the other game,” said Tom, who had been critically watching the teams at practice.
“That’s what I heard,” replied Miss Tyler. “Oh, I do hope our boys will win!”
“So do I,” exclaimed Tom as he watched Langridge, who was first to go to the bat, in this game the visitors winning the privilege of being last up. Tom tried to notice the ’varsity pitcher, to see if he was in good form, but he could not judge then.
“Play ball!” called the umpire, and Dave Ogden, the Boxer pitcher, drew back his arm to deliver a swift curve.
Langridge at the first effort sent out a hot liner, which flew just over the pitcher’s head. The second baseman made a jump for it and the ball began to roll along in front of the center fielder. Amid a wild burst of yells Langridge raced for first and got there safely, not daring to go on to second, as Ogden had run down to help cover it.
“That’s the stuff! that’s the stuff! That’s the way to line ’em out!” chanted an excited voice, and Tom looked around to see the two silk-hatted “old grads” embracing each other and doing an impromptu dance in their seats.
“Aren’t they jolly!” exclaimed Miss Tyler.
“Very, but they’re crowing too soon. The game has only just begun. Boxer Hall will play strong.”
And Tom’s prediction came true, for in spite of the auspicious opening by Langridge, not a man crossed home plate for the Randalls that inning, the pitcher dying on third. Then it came the turn of the home team to show what they could do in holding down the visitors. It looked as if they were going to do it, too, for Langridge struck out the first two men. But he gave the next one a pass to first and was batted for a two-bagger by the following player, the inning ending with one run for Boxer. The Randall College boys and their girl supporters began to look anxious and so did some of the “old grads.” On the other side there was laughter, cheers and jollity, while some of the aged former students of Boxer began to chant oldtime college songs.
“Oh, I do hope our fellows win,” exclaimed Miss Tyler, and there was an anxious look on her pretty face, while she tapped her flag of colors impatiently against her little foot.
“Have you a bet on the game?” asked Tom. “A box of candy or some gloves?”
“No, but I want to see Randall win. Besides, Fred—I mean Mr. Langridge—he told me he was going to work hard for success, and I never like to see any one disappointed—do you?”
“No,” said Tom rather shortly. He really did not care to hear his rival’s praises sung by this fair damsel.
“Do you know,” she went on, “I’ve been thinking of what you started to tell me about him the other day. Is it really true?”
“Well,” began Tom slowly, “if you will excuse the privilege of a friend who has known you for some time, I would say that I don’t believe your people would like you to go with him.”
“Why, mamma knows his uncle, who is his guardian, and she says he is very nice—I mean the uncle,” and she laughed a little.
“I have no doubt of it. I only——”
But Tom did not say what he was going to, for just then Pinky Davenport, captain of the Boxers, knocked what Holly Cross described later as a “lalapoolassa” fly, which went clear over the center fielder’s head and netted a home run for the captain of the visitors.
What yelling and shouting there was then! It seemed to put new life into the opponents of Randall, if such was needed, for they began piling up the score until they were six runs in the lead.
Then Randall “took a brace,” encouraged by the yells of the “old grads” and others, and by the eighth inning had cut it down even. In the close of the eighth they held their opponents down to one run, making it necessary to gather in two to win the game, but with that it meant holding the visitors hitless in the last half of the final inning.
The first part of the program was carried out all right. By some phenomenal playing Randall managed to get the lead by one run. They would have had another but for a miscalculation on the part of Ed Kerr, who was caught napping between third and home, where he was run down and put out.
“Now, fellows, we have them on the hip!” exclaimed Captain Woodhouse as he called his players together for a little talk before the final struggle was made. “If we can hold them down this inning we have them. Langridge, it’s up to you!”
“I know it. But don’t worry, I’ll do it.”
It sounded well, and there was a determined look in the pitcher’s face, but his eyes were unnaturally bright. His pitching had been ragged during the last three innings and the sudden decline of the abilities of the Boxer players had done as much as anything to give Randall her chance.
“Oh, I hope Fred strikes three out, one right after the other!” exclaimed Miss Tyler as she shifted nervously in her seat. “He must be under a dreadful strain.”
“Probably he is,” said Tom. “But if he takes a brace now he’ll be all right.”
“He’s been taking too many bracers—that’s what’s the matter with him,” said a voice back of Tom, and he knew it was one of the former graduates speaking. Tom looked at the girl beside him. Either she had not heard or she took no notice of the remark.
It was a tense moment when Langridge sent in the first ball. It was called a strike and the batsman looked surprised. The next was a ball, but two more strikes were called without the player getting a chance to swing at the horsehide. Langridge smiled at the cheers which greeted him. Then he did what few other pitchers could have done under the circumstances. He struck out the next two men, though one did manage to hit a high foul, which Kerr missed. Langridge had saved the game by holding the other team hitless.
Such a cheer as went up then when it was seen that Randall had won! The stamping of feet on the stands sounded like thunder. Back of Tom and Miss Tyler two old men began yelling like Indians, hugging each other and whirling about. They were the two “old grads” of ’73. They were waving their hats in the air and yelling “Randall! Randall! Randall!” until their faces were the color of raw beef.
“Wow!” cried the taller of the two. “This does my heart good! I’m forty years young again. Wow! Whoop-la!”
Suddenly he drew back his hand and his silk hat went sailing over the edge of the grandstand to the grass of the outfield. It was caught by some Randall players and quickly kicked out of shape.
“Why, that was a new hat!” exclaimed the man’s companion.
“I know it, but there’s more where that came from. I can buy a new hat every day, but I can’t see my old college win such a game as this. Wow! Whoop!”
“That’s right. I’m with you,” and a second hat went the way of the first, while the old men capered about like boys. They were given a round of cheers on their own account by the team when the players understood what had happened. Ford Fenton was running about, all excited, trying to find his relative.
“Have you seen my uncle?” he asked several.
“No!” cried Holly Cross. “And if I do, I’ll shoot him on sight! Get out or I’ll eat you up,” and with a roar of simulated wrath he rushed at poor Fenton, who beat a hasty retreat.
Tom was jubilant at the success of his college, nor did he withhold unstinted praise for Langridge. He had been surprised at the sudden improvement shown. Tom and Miss Tyler walked across the grounds toward the campus, the girl looking back several times. Suddenly Langridge appeared from amid a group of players.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he called to Miss Tyler, “as soon as I change my duds. Wait for me.”
There was an air of proprietorship in the words and the girl must have felt them, for she turned away without speaking.
“Perhaps I’d better say good-afternoon,” spoke Tom, a trifle piqued.
“Not unless you want to,” she replied with a quick look at him.
“Of course I don’t want to, but I thought——”
“Don’t bother to think,” she added with a little laugh. “It’s tiresome. Come and show me the river. Not that I haven’t seen it before, but it’s so beautiful to-day, I want some one to enjoy it with me.”
“How would you like to go for a little row?” asked Tom. “I can get a boat and we’ll go to Crest Island.”
“That will be lovely. The water is like glass.”
They were soon afloat. Tom was a good oarsman and sent the light craft ahead with powerful strokes. They spent some little time on the island, where other pleasure seekers were, and when the shadows began to lengthen started back.
“I’ve enjoyed it ever so much,” said Miss Tyler gratefully as the craft neared the float adjoining the college boathouse.
“That’s good,” said Tom heartily. “Perhaps you will go again.”
“I probably shall—if any one asks me,” she replied archly, and then he helped her out, whispering as he did so, for there were quite a number on the float, “I’ll be sure to ask you, Madge.” Tom may have imagined it, but he thought there was just a little return of the pressure when he pressed the hand he held.
“Well, I thought you were going to wait for me,” exclaimed a voice, and Langridge pushed his way through the throng and came close to where Miss Tyler was standing, waiting for Tom to tie the boat.
“I didn’t say so,” she answered.
“But you—you——” Langridge did not know what to say.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me now,” said the girl calmly, though she smiled at Langridge in no unfriendly fashion.
“Come and take a walk,” he almost ordered. “I want to say something to you.”
Before she could answer Tom was at her side. He looked keenly at Langridge and was about to make some reply when the ’varsity pitcher reached out as though to link his arm in that of the girl. Miss Tyler drew back and Langridge edged himself forward. He may have been merely eager or it may have been the result of intention. At any rate, he jostled Tom to one side and the next minute the pitcher of the scrub, vainly endeavoring to retain his balance, toppled into the cold water of the river.