“Oh!” screamed Miss Tyler. “He’ll be drowned! Save him, some one!”
There was much commotion on the float. The crowd surged to the edge and it tilted dangerously.
“Get back! get back!” cried Dan Woodhouse. “Get a boathook, some one!”
“We will!” cried the Jersey twins, and together they darted for the place where the rowing craft were stored.
Langridge seemed stupefied at the result of his act. He stood there, peering down into the water beneath which Tom had disappeared.
“Get back, I tell you! Get back!” yelled Woodhouse. “We can’t get him out if you tilt the float so. We’ll all be in the water!”
Understanding this, the crowd of lads and girls moved back. Captain Woodhouse was peering over the edge of the dock, looking for a sight of Tom, and meanwhile was taking off his coat and vest, preparatory to a plunge in.
“There he is! I see his head!” suddenly cried Miss Tyler, and she pointed to a dark object barely visible in the shadows that were settling down over the river.
“I’ll get him!” cried Langridge thickly, but he could not seem to unbutton his coat.
“Look out!” cried a voice, and a tall, lithe figure, clad only in a rowing jersey and trunks, pattered in bare feet down the length of the float.
“It’s Fenmore!” exclaimed several, and the tall sophomore, who had been out in a single shell and who, arriving at the float, had understood what had happened, plunged in. He swam quickly to Tom, who seemed bewildered and unable to help himself. But, if he was dazed, which they later found to be the case, he had sense enough to let Fenmore rescue him in the proper fashion and was soon being lifted out on the float. His face was pale and blood from a cut on his forehead trickled down one cheek.
“Much hurt?” asked Dan Woodhouse as he put his arms about Tom.
“No—not—not much,” gasped the rescued one. “I hit my head on the edge and that dazed me. I couldn’t strike out, and I swallowed some—some water,” he gulped.
“Can you walk?”
“Sure. I’m all right now,” but Tom began to shiver, for the evening had turned cool and the water was not yet right for bathing.
“Here, take my cloak for him!” exclaimed Miss Tyler, impulsively holding out a thin wrap which was more for appearance than utility. “It will keep him warm.”
“It will ruin it,” declared Tom. “I’m as wet as a rat.”
“No matter!” cried the girl imperiously, and she tried to wrap it about Tom’s shoulders.
“Here are some sweaters,” said the more practical Kindlings. “Now run up to the infirmary, Tom, get into a hot bath and throw some hot lemonade into you.”
Tom prepared to start off and Miss Tyler had taken back her cloak. She went closer to Tom.
“I’m awfully sorry. It was all on my account,” she said. “I hope you will be all right.”
“Su—sure I’ll—I’ll be all—all right,” declared Tom, though his teeth chattered in spite of himself, for he had sustained a nervous shock.
“I’ll inquire for you to-morrow,” she added with a smile as she turned aside.
“I say, old man, I’m afraid I pushed you in, but I didn’t mean to—’pon my soul!” exclaimed Langridge earnestly as he edged up to Tom.
“All—all right—it doesn’t matter—now,” answered Tom, and then his chums rushed him up to the college, where a warm bath and drinks were soon effectively administered. No bad results attended the unexpected plunge, and that night Tom was able to join in the celebration that followed the winning of the ball game, when many bonfires blazed and the students were allowed more license than usual.
It was about a week later when, following a rather hard series of games between the scrub and ’varsity teams in which Tom had strained his arm, Coach Lighton advised him to get a new kind of liniment to rub on it. It could only be had in a certain store in town, and, obtaining permission to go there on condition that he return to college before nine o’clock, Tom started off alone one evening. Sid had to make up some lessons he was “shaky” on, and though he wanted to take the walk, he did not feel that he dared spare the time.
On his way to the drug store Tom passed the side entrance of a certain resort much patronized by the “sporty” class of students. Several lads were in there, as Tom could tell by the snatches of college songs that floated out, and as he got opposite the place the door swung open to give entrance to others and Tom saw Langridge sitting at a table with several flashily dressed lads. They were playing cards and glasses of some sort of liquor stood at their elbows, while most of them, including Langridge, were smoking cigarettes.
“He’s broken training with a vengeance!” exclaimed Tom in a low voice as he hurried on. “Cigarettes are the limit!”
Tom tried not to think about what he had seen as he went on to the drug store and had his prescription filled. He had to wait some little time for it and as he came out he noticed by a clock that he would have to hurry if he wanted to get back to college in time.
He started off briskly and just as he got in front of the side door of the resort the portal opened and several lads came out. Langridge was with them, and all were somewhat worse for the lively evening they had spent. The ’varsity pitcher, who seemed strangely hilarious, caught sight of Tom.
“Well, if there ain’t my deadly rival!” he cried in what was intended to be a friendly manner, but which was silly. “Hello, Parsons! Come in and have a cigarette!”
“No,” was the answer in conciliatory tones. “I’m in a hurry to get back to the college. My time’s nearly up.”
“So’s mine—so’s all of us. But what’s the odds? We’ve got to have a good time once in a while, eh, fellows?”
“Sure,” came the chorus.
“I can’t smoke, I’m in training,” spoke Tom, intending it to be a hint, if not to Langridge, at least to his companions.
“So’m I, you old hunk of fried tripe! Have a smoke.”
“No,” and Tom started on.
“Hold on!” cried Langridge. “I’ll go with you. I’m going to shake you fellows,” and he waved his hand to his companions. “I’m going to be virtuous and go to bed with the larks. I wonder if larks do go to bed, anyhow.”
“You mean chickens,” declared one of the others with a laugh. “Come on then, fellows, if Langridge goes back, we’ll stay and have some more fun.”
Tom was not unwilling to play the good Samaritan, so linking his arm in that of Langridge, he led him down the street. The ’varsity pitcher was not as steady on his feet as he should have been.
“I—I s’pose you’ll tell Kindlings and Lighton about me, eh, what?” he asked brokenly as he walked along.
“No,” said Tom quietly. “But you ought to cut it out, Langridge, if not for your own sake for the sake of the team.”
“That’s right, that’s right, old man, I ought. You’re a good sort of chap, too preachy maybe, but all right. I ought to cut it out, but I like fun.”
“You ought to give up smoking and drinking,” went on Tom boldly. He had determined that this was just the chance he wanted and decided that he would take advantage of it.
“There you go again! there you go again!” cried Langridge fretfully, with a sudden change of manner peculiar to him. “Don’t go to lecturing. I get enough of that from Moses and Pitchfork. Give us a rest. I’m all right. Have another cigarette.”
“No,” and Tom declined the proffered one.
“Oh, I forgot you don’t smoke. That’s right. It’s bad for the heart. I don’t take ’em only once in a while.”
Tom tried to reason with him, but Langridge was not himself and answered pertly or else insulted Tom for his good offices.
“You ought to give up gambling, too,” Tom said, starting on a new tack. They were nearing the college now.
“There you go again! there you go again!” exclaimed Langridge and he was almost crying, silly in his excitement.
He sat down on a stone along the road and lighted another cigarette.
“Now let’s argue this thing out,” he said. “I feel just like arguing, Parsons. Guess we’ll call you ‘dominie,’ you’re so fond of preaching. Let’s argue.”
Tom tried to urge him to come on. It was getting late and only by running could they reach college and report before the prescribed hour, nine o’clock. But Langridge was obstinate and would not come. Tom did not want to leave him, for he had heard that Langridge did not stand any too well with the faculty, and a few more demerits would mean that he would have to give up athletics. So Tom determined that, if possible, he would get the foolish lad within bounds in time.
But it was a useless undertaking, and Tom heard nine strokes boom out on the chapel bell when they were some distance from college.
“That cooks our goose!” he exclaimed. “It doesn’t so much matter for me, as it’s the first time, but Langridge will suffer if he’s caught in this plight.”
He redoubled his persuasive powers and by dint of much talk at length induced Langridge to get up and come on. But it was half-past nine now and it was twenty minutes to ten, when, with his arm linked in that of the lad he was trying to save in spite of himself, Tom walked up the campus to get to the dormitory.
The watchman opened the door at his knock. Langridge had slipped behind Tom and stood in the deep shadow.
“After hours,” said the man simply. “You will report to the proctor to-morrow morning, Mr. Parsons.”
“Yes,” replied Tom simply. Langridge was moving uneasily about in the shadows on the stone steps.
“Any one with you, Mr. Parsons?”
“Well—er—that is——”
The watchman started to go out, thinking to catch several students. At that instant Langridge, with a cunning evidently born of long experience, circled around Tom on the opposite side to that on which the watchman stood and darted down a small areaway that led to the basement.
“Ha! trying to hide!” exclaimed the guardian of the door. “I’ll find out who you are!”
In the darkness he went down into the areaway. A moment later Langridge had roughly upset him there, and before the man could gain his feet, the pitcher had sprinted up the steps and into the open door of the dormitory and thence along the corridor to his room. The watchman had not had a glimpse of his face.
The man came panting up the steps.
“Who—who was that with you, Mr. Parsons?” he demanded sternly as he rubbed his bruised shins.
Tom took a sudden resolve. There might be a chance for Langridge to escape.
“I’m not going to tell,” he said firmly but respectfully.
“Very well,” he replied. “You must report to Mr. Zane in the morning. I’ll inform him of this outrage. He’ll make you tell who was with you.”
“I don’t believe he will,” thought Tom as he went to his room.
“Well, what’s up?” asked Sid as Tom came in. “You’re going the pace, aren’t you, old man?” and he looked anxiously at his chum, whose face was flushed from the experience through which he had just gone.
“I got in late,” admitted Tom.
“Get caught?” asked Sid, as if that was all that mattered.
“Yep, but that’s not the worst of it.”
“What? You don’t mean to say you’ve been caught? Well, of all things. You, one of the ‘grinds,’ falling a victim.”
“It wasn’t altogether my fault.”
“How’s that?”
Tom considered for a moment. Would it be violating the ethical honor of a college boy if he told his chum? Would it be contrary to the spirit of Randall? Tom thought not, merely to let Sid know what had happened. For it would go no further, and, as a matter of fact, several students had seen Tom and Langridge leave town together. Besides, Tom wanted advice. So he told his chum everything from the time of meeting with the sporty students until the sensational retreat of Langridge to his room.
“Now, what would you do?” asked Tom. “Keep still and take what’s coming or tell the proctor and use that as an excuse for coming in late? It really wasn’t my fault.”
Sid scratched his head. It was a new problem for him. He saw the point Tom made, that by informing on a fellow student, Tom would be held blameless, as indeed he had a right to be. Why should Tom suffer for another’s fault? That came plainly to Sid. Yet he only hesitated a moment before answering.
“Of course you can’t squeal,” he said simply.
“That’s what I thought,” agreed Tom, as if that was all there was to it. “I’ll have to take what’s coming, I s’pose.”
“Maybe proc. won’t be hard on you. You’ve got a good record.”
“Fairly. Anyhow, I hope he doesn’t cut me out from baseball. Well, I’m going to bed. I wonder if they’ll find out about Langridge? If the watchman thought to make a tour of the rooms, he’d discover that he just got in.”
“He’ll not do that. Too many of ’em. Besides, trust Langridge for knowing how to take care of himself. He’s getting reckless, though.”
“Of course you won’t say anything to any of the fellows about him playing cards and smoking,” went on Tom, but he did not mention the drinking episode, though probably Sid guessed.
“Of course not,” came the prompt answer, “but it’s not fair to the rest of the team. However, I’m not going to make a holler. Hope you come out of it all right. By-by.”
“Um,” grunted Tom, for he was rubbing some of the liniment on his arm and the pungent fumes made him keep his eyes and mouth shut.
Sid tumbled into bed, leaving Tom to put out the light, and there was no further talk. Tom undressed slowly. He was in no mood for sleep, for he was much upset over the incident of the night, and he was not a little anxious about the next day and his prospective visit to the proctor. For the first time that he noticed it, the ticking of the alarm clock annoyed him, the fussy, quick strokes making him say over and over again the words of a silly little rhyme as one sometimes, riding in a railroad train, fits to the click of the wheels over the rail joints some bit of doggerel that will not be ousted.
“I must be getting nervous,” thought Tom. “Wonder if I’m over-training?”
This idea gave him such an alarm that it served to change the current of his thoughts, and before he knew it he had fallen asleep over a half-formed resolution to undertake a different sort of gymnasium exercise for a few days.
Tom’s first visit the next morning after chapel was, as the rules required in such cases, to Proctor Zane.
“Well?” inquired that functionary in no pleasant voice as Tom stood before him, for there had been some skylarking in the college the previous night and the proctor had been unable to catch the offenders. “What is it now, Parsons?”
He spoke as though Tom was an habitual offender when, as a matter of fact, though the lad had taken his part in pranks, it was only the second time he had been “on the grill,” as the process was termed.
“I got in after hours last night, sir,” reported Tom quietly, though he resented the man’s manner.
“Ha! So I was informed by the watchman.” He looked at Tom antagonistically. “Well,” he snapped, “why don’t you continue? There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Not that I know of,” replied Tom calmly. “I had permission to go to town, but I got in late, that’s all.”
“Oh, is it? What about the student who was with you? Wasn’t there some one with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And didn’t he engage in a fight with the watchman, and, taking advantage of a mean trick, sneak to his room? Didn’t he, I ask you?”
“I presume the watchman has correctly informed you of what happened.”
Tom’s voice was coldly indifferent now, and the proctor recognized that fact.
“He did,” he snapped. “And you know of it, too. I expected you to tell me that.”
“Since when has it been a college rule,” asked Tom, “to confess to the doings of another student? I thought that all that was required of me was to report my own infraction of the rules.”
Tom knew that he was right and that the proctor had no authority to ask him concerning the doings of Langridge, and the proctor knew that he himself was in the wrong, which knowledge, shared as it was by a student, did not add to his good temper.
“Then you refuse to say who was with you?” he snapped, his eyes fixed on Tom’s face.
“I certainly refuse to inform on a fellow student, Mr. Zane,” was Tom’s answer, “and I don’t think you have any right to ask me to do so.”
If he had stopped with his first half of the reply all might have been well, for certainly the proctor did not expect Tom or any other student to be a tale-bearer, though he always asked them to speak in order to make more easy his own task. But to be practically defied, and by a freshman, was too much for the official, who had a certain dignity of which he was proud.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, “you are impertinent, Parsons.”
“I didn’t so intend, sir.”
“Ha! I don’t have to be informed of my rights by you. I know them. You will write me out two hundred lines of Virgil by to-morrow afternoon and you will stand suspended for two weeks, with absolutely no privileges regarding athletics or going away from college!”
It was a hard sentence under any circumstances. It was an unjust one in Tom’s case, and he knew it. Yet what could he do?
“Very well, sir,” he replied, trying to overcome a certain trembling feeling in his throat, and he turned to go.
“If,” went on the proctor in a slightly more conciliatory voice, “you think better of your resolution and let me know the name of the student who so outrageously assaulted the watchman, I may find it possible to mitigate your punishment. Mind, I am not asking you to inform me in an ordinary case of breaking the rules, but for an extraordinary infraction. The watchman has a badly injured leg. So, if you wish to inform me later, I will be glad to hear from you.”
“I shall not change my mind,” said Tom simply.
“Nor I mine,” added the proctor, jerking out the words quickly.
Tom turned on his heel and left the room.
Sid was waiting for Tom outside the proctor’s office.
“Well?” he asked eagerly as his chum appeared, but it needed only a look at the downcast face to tell that it was not “well” but “ill.”
“Rusticated!” exclaimed Tom.
“For how long?”
“Two weeks.”
“On your own account, or——”
“Mainly because I wouldn’t tell, I guess. Being out late just once isn’t so monstrous.”
“Of course not. Still you couldn’t tell.”
“Certainly not. It’s tough, though. Suspended twice in the first term! I wonder what dad and the girls’ll say.”
“Don’t tell ’em.”
“Oh, I’ll have to, but I guess they’ll understand.”
“It certainly is rocky,” admitted Sid, “but, do you know, I envy you a bit. It’s getting mighty hard in class now. I have to bone away like a Trojan. Pitchfork has it in for me on Latin. I wish I had a vacation.”
“Without baseball?” asked Tom.
“N-o—no, of course not without being on the team. But two weeks are soon over.”
“Not soon enough,” and Tom darted away.
“Where you going?”
“Back and study. I can’t afford to fall behind in my work.”
“My, but aren’t you the grinder, though!” exclaimed Sid, but there was something of envy in his tone for all that. He went into recitation, while Tom continued on to their common room. He was walking along the path that led past Booker Memorial Chapel and paused for a moment to admire the effect of the early sun shining through a stained glass window. The combination of colors was perfect, and Tom, as he stood and looked at a depiction of a biblical scene which represented the Good Samaritan ministering to the stranger, felt somehow that it was a rôle that he himself had had a part in.
Then came a revulsion of feeling.
“Oh, pshaw! You’re getting sentimental in your old age!” he exclaimed half aloud. “You’ve got to have your share of hard knocks in this world, and you’ve got to take what comes. But it’s queer,” he went on in his self-communing, “how Langridge seems to be getting mixed up with me. This is twice I’ve had to suffer on his account. I’d like—yes, hang it all, what’s the use of pretending to yourself—I’d like to take it out of him—in some way. It’s not fair—that’s what!”
The thought of Langridge brought another sort of musing to Tom. He saw a certain fair face, with pouting lips and bright, dancing eyes, a face framed in a fluffy mass of hair, and he fancied he could hear a little laugh, a mocking little laugh.
“Worse and worse,” growled Tom to himself. “You’re getting dopy. Better go take a long walk.”
He kicked impatiently at a stone in the path and wheeled around just as a voice exclaimed:
“Ah, Parsons, admiring the windows? The color effects are never so beautiful as early morning and the evening. The garish light of day seems to make them common. But—er—are you going to recitation? If so, I’ll walk along with you,” and genial Dr. Churchill, with a friendly nod of his head and a twinkle in his deep-set eyes, came closer to the lad.
Tom wondered if the good doctor knew of the punishment that had just been meted out. If he did not he soon would have the report of the proctor for confirmation.
“I’ve been suspended,” blurted out Tom. “I was going to my room to study.”
“Suspended, Parsons! This is the second time, isn’t it?” There was surprise and dismay in the doctor’s voice.
“Yes, sir, but——” Tom paused. How much should he tell, how much leave unsaid?
“How did it happen?” asked the head of the college, and he placed his arm on Tom’s shoulder in a friendly fashion. Tom said afterward that it was just as if he had been hypnotized. Before he knew it he was telling the whole story.
“But I never mentioned the name of Langridge,” he protested to Sid, to whom later he related all the events. “I never even hinted at it, but for all that I believe Moses knew. He’s a regular corkscrew.”
Dr. Churchill was silent after the recital, a recital rather brokenly made, but containing all the essential facts.
“Suspended for two weeks!” he murmured when Tom had finished.
“With no athletics,” added Tom. “Not even to see the games that are to be played here, and there are to be two.”
“Hum,” mused the doctor. “Well, you know we must have discipline here, Parsons. Without it we would soon have chaos. But—ah—er—hum! Well, come and see me this evening. I will have a talk with Mr. Zane. He has to be strict, you know, very strict under certain circumstances, but—er—um—come and see me to-night.”
“What do you s’pose he wants?” asked Sid when Tom had told him of the meeting.
“Blessed if I know, unless it’s to give me a lecture on my conduct.”
“No, Moses isn’t that kind.”
“He’s going to restore to you all the rights and privileges of a student,” declared Phil Clinton, who, together with some others of Tom’s chums, was in his room.
“My uncle says——” began Ford Fenton, but instantly there was a protesting howl.
“Give me that water pitcher!” demanded Sid of Phil.
“This isn’t fit to drink,” was the remonstrance.
“I know it, but Fenton needs a bath, don’t you, Ford? Your uncle! Say, the next time you say that we’ll make you repeat the first book of Cæsar backward, eh, fellows?”
“That’s right,” came in a chorus.
“Well,” went on Fenton in somewhat aggrieved tones, “he once told me——”
“Write it out,” expostulated Phil.
“Move he be given leave to print,” came from Sid, who had once heard a long debate in Congress.
There was laughter and more chaffing of luckless Fenton, whose uncle, from his own making, was like unto a millstone hung about his neck.
“Well, all the same, I’d like to know what Moses wants of you,” said Phil, and the others agreed with him.
“I’ll let you know when I come back,” said Tom. “It’s early; you can all stay here for a while.”
He returned in half an hour from his call on the head of the college.
“Well?” demanded his chums of him.
“Great!” he cried. “He received me in his study. Say, were you ever there? It’s a fine place. Books, books, books all over. The floor was piled full of them. There was a fire going on the grate and he was sitting there, reading some book with the queerest letters in it.”
“Sanskrit,” ventured Phil.
“I guess so. Well, he brought up a chair for me, and——”
“Oh, for the love of Dionysius! give us some facts,” cried Sid. “What happened?”
“Well, he said he’d had a talk with the proctor and he removed the worst part of my suspension. I can go to the two games here with Boxer Hall and Fairview, but I can’t play. I couldn’t, anyhow, on account of my arm, so that’s all right. And I can attend the special lectures in biology, which I hated to miss. I can’t recite for two weeks, but I don’t mind that. It’s all right. I’ll vote for Moses every time!”
“I should say yes,” agreed Phil. “He’s white, he is. But Zane—ugh! He’s——”
“Treason,” counseled Sid quietly. “The walls may not have ears, but the keyhole has. Better cut it, fellows, the time is almost up, and Zane’s scouts will be sneaking around.”
The other lads departed, leaving Tom and Sid alone.
“What about your pitching?” asked Sid.
“Well, I’ll have to give my arm a rest, Mr. Lighton says, so this comes in the nature of a special providence. It isn’t so bad as it looked at first.”
But, in spite of his philosophy, there were dark days for Tom. It was hard to be deprived of the chance to play on the scrub and he missed the daily recitations. His arm, too, began to trouble him, and he was obliged to go to a doctor for treatment, though the medical man said all it needed was a little massage and rest. Tom, in his eagerness to excel, had overworked the muscles.
Meanwhile the ’varsity nine was kept busy at practice or with league and other games. Word came that both the Boxer and Fairview nines had greatly improved, chiefly by shifting their players about, and the Randall coach and captain wore serious looks as they “sized up” the work of the Randall team.
There came a contest with Fairview Institute on the Randall diamond. It was a “hot” game and Fairview won.
There was anguish of heart among the Randall students and it was not assuaged when, the next week, Boxer, playing on the Randall grounds, took away a game with them, the score being 8 to 2.
“Two drubbings in two successive weeks,” exclaimed Kindlings. “What are we going to do?”
“One thing we’ve got to do is to improve in pitching,” declared the coach, and when some one brought word of this to Tom his heart, that had been heavy during the two weeks of suspension, grew lighter.
“Maybe I’ll get a chance,” he said to Sid. “It would make up for everything if I did.”
“No one wants to see you in the box any more than I do, old chap,” spoke Sid fervently.
It was the night of the junior dance, an annual affair second only in importance to commencement and a function attended, as Holly Cross used to say, “by all the beauty and chivalry of Haddonfield and all points north, south, east and west.” On this occasion all strictly partisan college feelings were laid aside. Forgotten were the grudges engendered by hazings or the rivalries of the field. It was an evening devoted to pleasure, and, on the part of the juniors at least, to seeing that their girl friends and acquaintances danced to their hearts’ content.
“Tom,” cried Sid as they were dressing in their room, “does this dress suit seem to fit?”
“Well, it might be a little larger across the shoulders,” was Tom’s answer as he turned around from an attempt to get his tie just right and surveyed his chum.
“That’s what I thought. I’m outgrowing it. I’m afraid it will split when I’m dancing, and I’ll be a pretty sight, won’t I? I’ll disgrace the girl. Hang it all, I hate a dress suit. I always remind myself of some new specimen of a bug, and I think some entomological professor will come along, run a pin through me and impale me on a cork. In fact I’d just as soon he would as to go through this agony again.”
“Nonsense. You’ll enjoy it,” ventured Tom.
“Maybe—after it’s all over.”
But he managed somehow to wiggle himself into the garments and then, having asked a girl to the affair, he set off after her in a coach he had hired. Tom had not invited any one, but he heard that Miss Tyler was to be there and from the same source of information he knew that Langridge was to escort her.
“In which case,” reflected Tom, “I shall probably not have a chance to dance with her.”
The gymnasium had been turned into a ballroom. Around the gallery, which contained the indoor running track, flags and bunting had been festooned, the colors of Randall being prominent. From the center electric chandelier long streamers of ribbon of the mingled hues of each class were draped to the boxes that had been constructed on two sides of the room. There was a profusion of flowers and with the soft glow of the shaded lights the big apartment that was wont to resound to the blows of the punching bag, the bound of the medicine ball or the patter of running feet was most magically transformed.
Over in one corner, screened by a bank of palms, was the orchestra, the musicians of which were tuning their instruments in thrilling chords which always tell of joys to come.
The guests were arriving. Bewildering bevies of pretty girls floated in with their escorts, who showed the tan and bronze of the sporting field or the whiter hue of a “dig” who spent most of his time over his books. Then came the chaperons, grave, dignified, in rustling silks, a strange contrast to the light, fluffy garments worn by the younger set.
Tom felt rather lonesome as he strolled out on the waxed floor, for most of his chums had girls to whom they were attentive, and of course they could not be expected to look after him.
“Hello, Parsons!” called a voice, and he turned to see one of the Jersey twins. Which one it was he could not determine, for if Jerry and Joe Jackson looked alike when in their ball suits or ordinary clothes, there was even less of difference when they wore formal black, with the expanse of shirt showing.
“Hello!” responded Tom.
“I’m Jerry,” went on the twin. “I thought I’d tell you. My brother and I are going to play a joke to-night.”
“What is it?”
“Joe’s going to get talking to a girl and then he’s going to excuse himself for a moment. I’ll take his place and I’ll pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about when the girl tries to continue the conversation. I’ll make believe I’ve come back to the wrong girl. Great, isn’t it?”
“Yes, except maybe for the girl.”
“Oh, we’ll beg her pardon afterward. Got to have some fun. I’m on the arrangement committee and I’m nearly crazy seeing that every one has a good time. Got your name down on all the cards you want?”
“I haven’t it on any yet.”
“No? That’s a shame! Come on and I’ll fix you up,” and the good-natured Jerry dragged Tom about, introducing him to an entrancing quartet of pretty girls and then Tom knew enough to do the rest, which included scribbling his name down for a whole or a half dance as the case might be.
He had just finished this very satisfactory work when he heard his name called and turned to see Miss Tyler smiling at him.
“I’m awfully glad to see you,” he exclaimed, starting impulsively toward her with outstretched hand. “May I have a dance?”
“Only one?” she asked with a laugh.
“All of them, if you can spare them,” he said boldly.
“Greedy boy! I’m afraid you’re too late. You may look,” and she held out her card.
Tom, with regret, saw that it contained the initials “F. L.” in many places. There was only one two-step vacant.
“Some one else has been greedy, too,” he said as he filled in the space.
“Let me see,” she demanded, and she made a little pout. “How dare he think I’m going to give all those to him!” she exclaimed. “Here, Tom, let me have your pencil. I never can write with the ridiculous affairs they attach to dance programs.”
She used the lead vigorously on the card and then let Tom see it again. His name was in three places, and, to his surprise, on the last waltz he saw that the girl had written his initials under those of Langridge.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“It means that I’m going to share the last dance with you,” she almost whispered, “in memory of old times,” and she nodded. “Don’t forget now,” and she shook her finger at him.
“As if I would!” exclaimed Tom.
The music began a march as the opening of the dance and the couples took their places, Langridge coming up almost on the run to claim Miss Tyler. He looked sharply at Tom.
“How are you, dominie?” he asked with a nod, intended to be friendly, and then he led the girl away.
Tom had no partner for the march and he stood about disconsolately until the first dance. Then he went to claim his partner, whom Jerry Jackson had secured for him, a pretty little girl in a yellow dress who was a fine dancer.
“I wish you had another open date—I—er—I mean that you could give me another dance,” he corrected himself quickly from the language of the ball field.
“I can,” she said simply, and she gave him a quick glance, for Tom was a fine dancer.
He scribbled his name down and then had to relinquish her to another partner. Two dances after that, however, Tom was privileged to claim Miss Tyler. As he was leading her into the waltz Langridge came hurrying up.
“I thought this was my dance, Madge—Miss Tyler,” he stammered.
“I wanted to vary the monotony,” she said with a little laugh that had no malice in it.
“How is your arm, dominie?” she asked of Tom, looking up into his face and smiling as she gave him the nickname conferred on him by Langridge.
“Oh, much better,” he answered. “How did you hear?”
“Oh, the proverbial bird, I suppose. You had to stay away from class two weeks on account of it, didn’t you?”
“No,” exclaimed Tom quickly, “not on that account.”
“Oh!” she cried, struck by the change in Tom’s voice. “I—I heard so.”
“Did Langridge tell you that?”
“Yes,” was her answer.
“Well, it was partly on that account,” and Tom turned the conversation away from what he considered a dangerous subject.
If Langridge cherished any ill will toward Tom for taking away Miss Tyler the ’varsity pitcher did not show it. But Tom noticed that he was not far from the girl’s side the remainder of the evening.
“I wonder if she doesn’t believe what I told her about him,” thought Tom. “Well, I’m not going to say anything more. Let her find out for herself. Only—well, what’s the use?” and he went to claim another dance elsewhere.
It was the last waltz. Around the brilliant, gaily decorated room swung the dancers to the strains of the enthralling music. Langridge skilfully led Miss Tyler in and out among the maze of couples. The music turned into another melody.
“I think this is about half,” she said.
“About half? What do you mean?”
“Well, you were so greedy,” she explained, laughter in her eyes, “that I had to punish you. I gave half this last dance to—to the dominie,” and her lips parted in a smile.
“Well, I like that!” spluttered Langridge, but just then Tom, who had been summoned from the “side lines” by a signal from Miss Tyler, came to claim her.
“I like your nerve, Parsons!” snapped Langridge, glad to be able to transfer his wrath to a foeman more worthy of it.
“It was my doing, Mr. Langridge,” said the girl with some dignity.
“You had no right——” began the ’varsity pitcher.
“I fancy Miss Tyler is the best judge of that,” spoke Tom coolly as he took the girl’s hand.
“Is she?” sneered Langridge. “Maybe she knows who brought her to this affair then! If she does, she can find some one else to take her away,” and he swung off.
For an instant Miss Tyler stood looking at him. The dancers whirled around the couple standing there and the music sounded sweetly. There was the suspicion of tears in her eyes.
“He had no right to say that!” she burst out.
“Indeed, no,” agreed Tom. “But, since he has, may I have the honor of being your escort?”
“Yes,” she said, and then, with a revulsion of feeling, she added, “Oh, Tom, I don’t feel like dancing now. Take me home, please!”
So after all, Tom did not get the last half of the last waltz with Miss Tyler. He did not much care, however, for, as matters turned out, he had a longer time in her company. The girl soon recovered her usual spirits and the walk to where she was stopping with relatives in Haddonfield seemed all too short to Tom.
“Will you be at the game Saturday?” he asked as they were about to part.
“What game?”
“Over at Fairview. Our team is going to try and run up a big score against them.”
“I hadn’t thought of going.”
“Then won’t you please think now?” pleaded Tom, with an odd air of patheticness, at which Miss Tyler laughed gaily.
“Well, perhaps I shan’t find that so very difficult,” she replied.
“And if you think real hard, can you get a mental picture of your humble servant taking you to that game?” Tom was very much in earnest, though his air was bantering.
“Well,” she answered tantalizingly, “I do seem to see a sort of hazy painting to that effect.”
“Good! It will grow more distinct with time. I’ll call for you, then. A number of the boys are going to charter a little steamer and sail down the river, and into the lake. We’ll land at a point about four miles from Fairview, and go over in some automobiles.”
“That will be jolly!”
“I’m glad you think so. Is the picture any clearer?”
“Oh, yes, much so. I think the autos have cleared away the mist. Aren’t we silly, though?” she asked.
“Not a bit of it,” declared Tom stoutly. “I’ll be on hand here for you, then, shortly after lunch on Saturday.”
“Is the nine going that way?”
Tom felt a sudden suspicion. Was she asking because she wanted to know whether Langridge would be in the party of merrymakers?
“No, I think they’re going in a big stage.”
“I thought maybe you might want to be with the nine,” she went on, and Tom saw that he had misunderstood. “You might get a chance to pitch,” and she looked at him.
“No such luck,” replied Tom, trying to speak cheerfully, but finding it hard work. “Well, I’ll say good-night, or, rather, good-morning. When I write home I must tell my folks about meeting you here.”
“Yes, do. I’ve already written to mine, telling what a fine time I’m having.”
Tom was rather thoughtful on his way home. He stumbled into his dark room, nearly falling over something.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sid, who was in bed.
“That’s what I want to know,” replied Tom, striking a match. “Why don’t you keep your patent leathers out of the middle of the floor?” he demanded.
“I did, Tommy, me lad, as Bricktop Molloy would say, but I had to throw them out there later.”
“How’s that?”
“Mice. Two of the cute little chaps sitting in the middle of the floor, eating some nuts that dropped out of my pocket. I stretched out on the bed without undressing when I came in from the dance, and must have fallen asleep, with the light burning. When I woke up I saw the mice staring at me, and I heaved my shoes at the beggars, for I’d taken ’em off—my shoes, I mean—when I came in, as my feet hurt from dancing so much. Then I doused the glim and turned in, for I knew you wouldn’t be along until daylight.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I saw you going off with her. I admire your taste, old man, but it must be hard on Langridge.”
“It’s his own fault.”
“So I understand. I heard about it.”
“Um,” murmured Tom, for he did not want to talk about Miss Tyler and her affairs—at least not yet. There are some things that one likes to ponder over, and think about—all alone.
The game with Fairview was looked forward to with more than ordinary interest, for the season was about half over, and a partial estimate could be made of the chances for the championship. Up to this time the three teams in the league had been running nearly even, with Randall, if anything, a trifle in the lead, not so much regarding the number of games won, but counting form. In the last two weeks, however, Fairview and Boxer had been doing some hard work, and in games between those colleges Fairview had some the best of it. If, on the occasion that was approaching, Randall won, it would put her nine in the lead, and if, on the contrary, she lost it would mean that she would be the “tail-ender,” though only a few points behind Boxer, which would be second.
“We’ve just got to win!” declared Sid, one afternoon, following a severe game with the scrub, who had played the ’varsity to a tie in eleven innings.
“That’s right,” admitted the coach. “But I think we will. We have improved all around lately.”
This was true, more especially in the case of Langridge. Since the affair of the junior dance he had not spoken to Tom, and had taken pains to avoid him. But the ’varsity pitcher was certainly doing better work.
The day before the game with Fairview, Coach Lighton called Tom to one side.
“I think you had better prepare to go as a sub to-morrow,” he said.
“Why, is Langridge——” burst out Tom, a wild hope filling his heart.
“No, it isn’t our pitcher. But I understand Sid is falling back in his Latin, and he may not be allowed to play. In that case I’ll have to do some shifting, and I may be able to give you a place in the field.”
“Well, I don’t want to see Sid left, but I would like a chance.”
Tom was in rather a quandary. He had arranged to take Miss Tyler, and he could not, if he went with the team as a sub. He hardly knew what to do about it, and was on the point of going over to see her, and explain, when Sid came bursting into the room.
“Blood! blood! I want blood!” he cried as he threw his Latin grammar against the wall with such force that the covers came off.
“What ho! most worthy knight!” replied Tom gently. “In sooth, gentle sir, what hath befallen thee?”
“Heaps!” replied Sid. “Oh, Pitchfork, would I had thee here!” and he wadded up the table cover, and pretended to choke it.
“What now?” asked Tom.
“Oh, he put me through a course of sprouts for further orders this afternoon,” explained Sid. “Thought he’d catch me, but I managed to wiggle through. Nearly gave me heart disease, though, for fear I’d have to be out of the game to-morrow. But I managed to save myself, much to the surprise of Pitchfork. Now I want my revenge on him.”
“What can you do?”
“I don’t know—nothing, I guess. I wish—hold on!” Sid struck a thoughtful attitude, looked fixedly at the floor, then at the ceiling, and finally cried: “Eureka!”
“Has some one been playing hob with your crown?” asked Tom, referring to the exclamation said to have been made by the ancient king, when he discovered, in his bath, a means of finding out if his jeweler had cheated him.
“No, but I’ve found a way to get even with Pitchfork.”
“How?”
“Listen, and I will a tale unfold—a spike-tail at that. When I was coming in from recitation, disgusted with life in general, and with the Roman view of it, particularly, I met Wallops the messenger. He had a bundle under his arm, and you know what a talker he is. Confided to me that he was taking Pitchfork’s best suit to the tailor’s to be pressed, and his dress-suit to have new buttons put on, and some other fixings done. Pitchfork is going to a swell reception to-night, and will wear his glad rags. All he has now is his classroom suit, and you know what that is—all chalk and chemical stains when he goes into the laboratory once in a while on the relief shift.”
“I don’t seem to follow you.”
“You will soon. See, as it stands now Pitchfork is without a decent suit he can wear, and he’s such a peculiar build that no other professor’s garments will fit him.”
“Well?”
“Well, when he wants his dress-suit to go to the blow-out to-night, he’s going to learn something new.”
“What’s that?”
“Just this. That dress-suits come high this time of the year! It’s going to be the best joke yet. Now, ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission and attention I will endeavor to give you a correct imitation of Professor Pitchfork hunting high and low for his glad rags—particularly high. I will roll back my cuffs, to show you that I have nothing concealed up my sleeves. Now, commodore, a little slow music, please,” and Sid, who had assumed the rôle of a vaudeville performer, pretended to nod to an imaginary leader of an orchestra.
“Want any help?” asked Tom, when Sid had outlined his scheme of “revenge.”
“No, I guess not, until I get ready to pull the strings. Then you can give me a hand. We’ll have to do it after dark, and be mighty careful not to be caught, though.”
“But how are you going to get the suit?”
“I have a plan. Watch your Uncle Dudley.”
Sid spent the rest of the afternoon in making up a bundle to look like one that contained two suits just from the tailor shop. Only, in place of clothes he used old newspapers. It was toward dusk when he went out with it under his arm.
“It’s about time Wallops was coming back,” he said to Tom. “I’ll meet him in the clump of elms, where it’s good and dark, and he can’t tell who I am.”
“Be careful,” warned his roommate.
“Sure. But I know what I’m about. Revenge is sweet! Wow! Wait until you see the face of Pitchfork!”
Sid stole carefully along to a spot near the edge of the river, where a clump of big elm trees grew. This was near the bridge on the road to Haddonfield. The spot was lonely and deserted enough at this hour to suit his purpose, and the dusk of the evening, being added to by clouds, and by the shadows of the trees, made concealment easy.
“I guess that’s Wallops,” murmured Sid as he peered out from behind a tree. “That walks like Wallops, and he’s got a bundle under his arm. Now for a grand transformation scene.”
Awaiting the psychological moment, Sid hurried out, and bumped into the college messenger. Wallops’ bundle was knocked from under his arm, and, by a strange coincidence, so was Sid’s.
“I beg your pardon!” exclaimed the student in an assumed voice. “Awfully careless of me, I’m sure. I beg a thousand pardons! I was in a hurry, and I didn’t notice you. Is this the road to Haddonfield?”
“That’s all right,” replied Wallops good naturedly as his pardon was begged again. “Yes, keep straight on, and you’ll come to the trolley that runs to Haddonfield.”
“Let me restore your bundle to you,” went on Sid, picking up both parcels.
He handed one to the messenger, and kept one himself.
“’Twas yours, ’tis mine; ’twas his, ’tis ours,” he paraphrased. “Again let me express my sincere sorrow at this happening. I trust there was nothing in your package that could be damaged when I knocked it from your grasp.”
“No, nothing but some clothes of one of the college professors. It’s all right.”
“And I’m sure my package isn’t damaged,” said Sid, in a queer voice, as he hurried away.
A little later he was telling Tom, with much mirth, how it all came about. The two, in the seclusion of their room, opened the bundle, and saw two suits, one full dress.
“Won’t he howl when he finds nothing but a lot of newspapers!” exclaimed Sid. “Now for the rest of the trick.”
“Maybe he’ll borrow a dress suit from some student,” said Tom.
“Not much he won’t,” replied Sid. “I thought of that, and I forwarded a message by wireless to all the dormitories that if Pitchfork sent around to borrow some glad rags, he was to be refused on some pretext or other.”
Sid’s precaution was well taken. A little later it was evident that something unusual had occurred. Wallops and several other college messengers were seen hurrying first to the rooms of one professor, then to the apartments of another. Each time the scouts came back empty-handed to that part of the faculty residence where Professor Tines dwelt.
“I knew they had no spike-tails that would fit him,” exulted Sid. “Besides, most of them are going to the reception themselves.”
There was consternation in the apartments of Professor Tines. Wallops had delivered to him the bundle of papers, and when the astonished instructor had threatened and questioned him, the unfortunate messenger could only say it was the package he had received from the tailor. That worthy, on being appealed to by telephone, declared that he had sent home the professor’s garments. Wallops had no idea that the stranger he met in the wood had played a transformation trick on him, and Professor Tines, in his anxiety to get dressed, and go to the reception, did not dream that it was a student prank. Rather he blamed the tailor, and made up his mind to sue the man for heavy damages.
Then, just as Sid had expected, the instructor endeavored to borrow a dress-suit from one of the students. But they had been warned, and were either going to wear their suits themselves, or had just sent them to the tailor.
“What shall I do?” wailed Professor Tines. “I can’t go in this suit,” and he looked at his acid-and-chalk-marked classroom garments. “Yet I was to read a paper on early Roman life at this reception. It is too provoking. I can’t understand why none of the students have a suit available.”
“You could have one of mine, only——” began Dr. Churchill as he looked first at the figure of the professor, and then at himself. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t fit,” he added.
“No—no, of course not!” exclaimed Mr. Tines distractedly. “I will telephone that rascally tailor again. Never, never shall he press another suit of mine!”
But the knight of the goose and needle insisted that the professor’s clothes had been sent home, and that was all there was to it. Mr. Tines could not go to the reception, and, as it was an important affair, where nearly all of the faculty was expected to be present, he was grievously disappointed.
When all was quiet that night a party of students, including Sid and Tom, stole out to the campus. They worked quickly and silently.
“There!” exclaimed Sid, when all was finished. “I rather guess that will astonish him!”
In the morning the attention of most of the college students, and several of the faculty, was attracted to a throng of passersby staring up at the flagstaff. They would halt, point upward, make some remarks, and then, laughing, pass on. Some one called the attention of Dr. Churchill to it.
“Why, bless my soul!” he exclaimed as he prepared to go out. “I hope none of the students have put the flag at half mast or upside down.”
He put on his far-seeing spectacles, and walked out on the campus. There, at the top of the pole, was a figure which looked like a man, with outstretched arms.
“What student has dared climb up there?” exclaimed the head of the college. “Send for Mr. Zane at once,” he added to Professor Newton, who had accompanied him. “He must be severely punished—the venturesome student, I mean.”
“I hardly think that is a student,” replied Mr. Newton.
“Do you mean to say it is some outsider?”
“I think it is no one at all, Dr. Churchill. I believe it is an effigy. See how stiff the arms and legs are.”
“I believe you are right,” admitted the venerable doctor.
His belief was confirmed a moment later, for a farmer, who was driving along the river road, left his team, and came up the campus, a broad smile covering his face.
“Good-morning, Dr. Churchill,” he said. “Is this a new course in eddercation you’re givin’ the boys?”
“Ah, good-morning, Mr. Oakes. What do you mean?”
“Why, I see you’ve got a scarecrow up on that liberty pole. I thought maybe you was addin’ a course in agriculture to your studies. Only if I was you I wouldn’t put a scarecrow up so high. There ain’t no need of it. One low down will do jest as well. And another thing, I allers uses old clothes. There ain’t no sense in puttin’ a swallertail coat an’ a low-cut vest on a scarecrow. Them birds will be jest as skeert of an old coat and a pair of pants stuffed with straw as they will of a dress-suit. That’s carryin’ things a leetle too fur!” and the farmer laughed heartily.
“Dress-suit! Scarecrow!” exclaimed Dr. Churchill, and then he got a glimpse of the figure on top of the pole. It was arrayed in a full-dress suit, and Professor Tines, coming out a moment later, beheld his missing garments.
“This is an outrage!” he declared. “I demand the instant dismissal of the student or students responsible for this, Dr. Churchill!”
Dr. Churchill tried hard not to smile, but he had to turn his face away.