“I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Oakes, for your information,” said the head of the college to the farmer, who was still laughing. “Our improvised scarecrow shall be taken down at once.”
“Scarecrow!” exclaimed Professor Tines. “I think——” But wrath choked his utterance. “I demand that my suit be taken down at once!” he went on, after a pause, “and that the guilty ones be punished!”
“They shall be, I assure you,” promised Dr. Churchill, “when I learn who they are. If you hear, professor, let me know.”
“I shall. But I want my suit. Perhaps it is ruined.”
But a new difficulty now arose, for Sid and his fellow conspirators had fastened the halyards high up on the pole, and it was not until Professor Tines had sent Wallops for a ladder that the ropes could be untied and the suit lowered. During this process a group of students gathered at a respectful distance from the flagstaff and looked on interestedly.
But, though a strict inquiry was made, no one was ever punished for the “scarecrow joke” as it came to be called, and it is now one of the traditions of Randall College.
Owing to the fact that Sid had “made good” in Latin he was not barred from the game that day, and there was no chance for Tom to act as substitute. He went with Miss Tyler, and the trip on the river, lake, and in the auto was a delightful one.
There was a big crowd on the bleachers and grandstand when the nines began to play, and rivalry in singing college songs, giving college yells and waving college colors ran high.
Randall got two runs in the first inning, and for three more Fairview secured only zeros. Langridge was pitching fine ball. Then Lem Sellig, who was doing the “twirling” for Fairview, seemed to warm up to his work, and struck out a surprising number of men. In the seventh inning Fairview secured five runs, and in the eighth they reeled off five more, for Langridge grew reckless, and not only gave men their bases on balls in rapid succession, but struck two men, which gave them free passes to first.
“He’s going to pieces!” exclaimed Coach Lighton as he saw the score piling up against his men. “It’s got to stop, or we’ll be the laughing stock of the league.”
Yet he did not like to take Langridge out. Captain Woodhouse was angry clear through, and as for Kerr, he openly insulted the pitcher.
“What’s the matter?” the catcher cried after a particularly bad series of balls and a fumble on the part of Langridge that let in a run. “You’re rotten to-day!”
Langridge flushed, but his face had been rosy-hued before that, and twice he had gone to the dressing rooms, whence he came odorous of cloves.
Then the “rooters” seeing their game took up cries of derision against the pitcher, in an endeavor to “get his goat.”
Langridge bit his lips and threw in a fierce ball. There were two out, but it looked as if it would go on that way indefinitely. Frank Sullivan, a good batter, hit it fairly, but Joe Jackson, out in left field, made a desperate run for it, and got the ball. It was a sensational catch, and was roundly applauded.
When Randall came to the bat for the last time the score was 12 to 2 in favor of their opponents.
“We can’t win,” said Kindlings hopelessly.
“No, but for the love of Mike, don’t let them roll up any bigger score against us, or they’ll put us out of the league,” begged Bricktop Molloy. “Speak to Langridge, and tell him to hold hard.”
“What’s the use speaking to him?” asked Kerr gloomily. “He’ll go off his handle if I do. He told me never to speak to him again, just because I called him down a bit. Land knows he needed it!”
“We’ve got to make a change,” decided the coach. “I’ll not let Langridge pitch next inning. If he does I’ll resign, and I’ll tell him so.”
He walked over to the pitcher, and soon the two were in earnest conversation.
Randall could not make another run, for Sellig was doing his best and they did not get a hit off him.
“Our only chance is to strike them out,” murmured Kerr as he arose from the bench to take his place. “Who’s going to pitch, Mr. Lighton?”
“Tom Parsons.”
“Tom Parsons? What’s the matter with our regular substitute, Evert?”
“His arm is no good and he’s out of practice. I’m going to put Tom in.”
And much to his astonishment Tom was summoned from the grandstand, where he was talking to Miss Tyler about the slump.
“Me pitch? Are you sure Mr. Lighton sent you for me?” he asked Jerry Jackson, who had brought the message.
“Sure. Come on and get into part of a uniform.”
“Yes, do go,” urged Miss Tyler. “I—I hope you beat them.”
“It’s too late for that now,” replied Tom sadly as he walked down from the stand.
A little later he was in the box, facing Roger Barns, one of the best hitters on the Fairview team. Tom was nervous, there is no denying that, but he held himself well in control. It was the goal of his ambition—to pitch on the ’varsity, and he was now realizing it. True, it was almost an empty honor, but he resolved to do his best, and this thought steeled his nerves, even though the crowd hooted at him.
And he struck out the first three men up, at which his college chums went wild, for it was all they had to rejoice over in the game.
They wanted Tom to ride back to the college with the team and the substitutes, but he would not leave Miss Tyler, and, though he was torn between two desires, he went back to the girl.
Moreover, he had an idea that it would not be altogether pleasant riding in the same stage with Langridge, who, he had heard whispered, made strenuous objection when Coach Lighton ordered him to give place to Tom.
“He’ll be down on me more than ever,” thought Tom as he made his way back to the grandstand, which was rapidly emptying. “Well, I can’t help it.”
“Your arm must be much better,” remarked Miss Tyler as Tom came up to her. “You pitched finely.”
“Well, I’ve had plenty of practice,” was his answer. “I fancy Langridge was tired out,” he added generously. “It’s no fun to pitch a losing game.”
“But you did.”
“Oh, well, it was my first chance on the ’varsity, and I would have welcomed it if the score had been a hundred to nothing.”
“Will you pitch regularly now?”
“I don’t know. I hope——”
But Tom stopped. He had almost forgotten that Miss Tyler was very friendly to Langridge, in spite of the little scene at the dance.
For two days after the disastrous game with Fairview Langridge sulked in his room and would not report for practice. He talked somewhat wildly about Tom, the latter heard, and practically accused him of being responsible for his disgrace. He even said Tom was intriguing against him to win away his friends; meaning Kerr especially, for the ’varsity catcher announced that he was done with Langridge as far as sociability was concerned. But Kerr, hearing this, came to Tom’s defense, and stated openly that it was Langridge himself who was to blame.
Mr. Lighton would stand for no nonsense, and ordered Evert into the pitcher’s box, promising that Tom should have the next chance. He would have made Tom the regular substitute but for the fact that Evert, by right of seniority, was entitled to it. Hearing this news, Langridge came out of his sulks and resumed practice.
“I have a large framed picture of Randall winning the league pennant,” announced Sid gloomily one night as he and Tom were sitting in their room. “Our stock is about fifty below par now, and with only a few more games to play, we’ve practically got to win them all in order to top the league.”
“Maybe we’ll do it,” said Tom, in an endeavor to be cheerful.
“We might, if you pitched, but Langridge is that mean that he’ll keep in just good enough form so Mr. Lighton won’t send him to the bench, and that’s all. He won’t do his best—no, I’ll not say that. He is doing his best, but—well, something’s wrong, and I guess I’m not the only one who knows it.”
“No,” said Tom quietly. “I do and have for some time. It’s been a puzzle to know what to do; keep still and let the ’varsity be beaten or squeal on Langridge.”
“Oh, one can’t squeal, you know.”
“No, that’s what I thought, especially in my case. It would look as if I was grinding my own ax.”
“That’s so. No, you can’t say anything. But it’s tough luck. Maybe something will turn up. We’ve got a couple of games on our own grounds next, and we may do better. If we don’t, we may as well order our funeral outfits. Well, I’m going to bone away at this confounded Latin. Ten thousand maledictions be upon the head of the Roman who invented it!”
Sid opened his book, and studied for half an hour. Tom likewise was busily engaged, and only the ticking of the clock was heard, when suddenly there came a gentle tap on the door.
“Who’s there?” demanded Tom.
“Yellow, sky-blue and maroon,” was the reply, which indicated that a freshman was without, that being the password.
“Flagpole,” answered Sid, which being translated meant that it was safe to enter, no member of the faculty nor scout of the proctor’s being nigh.
Dutch Housenlager pushed open the portal and entered. He looked carefully around, and then, coming on tiptoe to the middle of the room, after having carefully shut the door, said in a whisper:
“It’s all arranged!”
“Nay, nay, kind sir,” retorted Sid, with a shake of his head.
“Nay nay what?” demanded Dutch indignantly.
“No tricks to-night,” went on Sid. “We’re two virtuous young men. We belong to the ancient and honorable order of infra digs to-night, Dutch. Too near the exams. Thus did I exclaim ‘nay, nay, kind sir.’ We are not to be tempted, nay, even if it were to take mine ancient enemy, Pitchfork, and drop him into the lake; eh, Tom?”
“Yes. I can’t afford to take any chances. Twice bitten once shy, or words to that effect, you know. I, too, am delving into the hidden paths that lead to the spring of which the poet doth sing.”
“Say, you two give me a sore feeling in the cranium!” exclaimed Dutch as he sank into the easy chair with force enough almost to disrupt it. “Who’s asking you to play any tricks?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Fiat justitia, ruat cœlum!” exclaimed Tom, with mock heroics. “We have done you an injustice, most noble Dutchman. Say on, and we will hear thee.”
“I’ve a good notion not to,” said Housenlager a bit sulkily. “Here I come in to tell you fellows a piece of news, and I find you boning away, and when I start to talk you spout Latin mottoes at me. I’ve a good notion to dig out.”
“Stay! Stay, dear friend!” cried Tom, laughing. “There, we’ll chuck studying for to-night, eh, Sid?”
“Sure. I’m sick of it.”
“Now, say on,” invited Tom.
Somewhat mollified, Dutch took an easier position in the creaking chair, thereby raising a cloud of dust, and remarked:
“Well, the freshman dinner will come off to-morrow night. It’s just been decided.”
“Honest?” cried Sid.
“Sure. Our committee has everything in shape, and we’ll fool the sophs this time. Ford Fenton and I have been going around notifying the fellows. You see, we had to keep it quiet, because those sophs will put it on the blink if they can.”
“Sure they will,” agreed Tom. “Where is it to be——”
He stopped suddenly, for there was the sound of footsteps in the hall outside.
“Some one is spying,” whispered Sid. Softly he opened the door and then he laughed. “It’s Fenton,” he said as the other entered.
“All through?” asked Dutch of his partner.
“Yes. I don’t believe the sophs suspect. A few years ago, when the freshmen had a dinner, the sophs ate it all up, and my uncle says——”
Tom significantly reached for a heavy book, and Ford, with a disappointed look, stopped his reminiscence.
“It’s to be in Cardigan Hall, in town,” explained Dutch, “and we’ll start from here in a——”
He paused in a listening attitude and tiptoed over to the door. Throwing the portal open suddenly, he darted into the hall, the others crowding up close to see what was going on.
“Some one was out there,” declared Dutch as he came back, “but I couldn’t catch him. Maybe it was only one of our boys, though. Now I’ll tell you the plans,” and he proceeded to go into them into detail, telling Tom and Sid where to join the other freshmen the next night, in order to steal away to Haddonfield and hold their banquet undisturbed by the sophomores.
Tom and Sid promised to be on hand, and the two members of the committee departed, Ford Fenton being unable to tell what it was his uncle had said. As Tom saw their guests to the door, something bright and shining in the hall attracted his attention.
“It’s a matchbox,” he remarked as he picked it up. “It’s got initials on, too.”
“What are they?”
“Hum—look like H. E. G.”
“Horace E. Gladdus,” said Sid. “I wonder if he was sneaking around here trying to catch on about the dinner?”
For a moment Tom looked at Sid. The same thought was in both their minds.
“Had we better tell Dutch?” asked Tom.
“It wouldn’t be a bad plan.”
“All right, I’ll let him know. If Gladdus and his crowd find out our plans they’ll spoil ’em.”
So Tom hastened after Dutch Housenlager and related the finding of the matchbox and the suspicion engendered by it—that Gladdus had been listening in the hall.
“All right,” remarked Dutch. “We’ll change our plans a bit. I’ll see you later.”
Tom and Sid did not feel like resuming their studies after what had happened. Instead they sat talking of the prospective dinner, Sid stretched lazily at full length on the sofa, while Tom luxuriously sprawled in the easy chair.
“I tell you what it is, old man,” said Sid, “it’s mighty comfortable here, don’t you think?”
“It sure is.”
“And to think that next term we’ll have to go into the west dormitory,” went on Sid. “We’ll be bloomin’ sophs then. At least you will.”
“That’s very nice of you to say so, but what about yourself?”
“I’m not so sure,” and Sid spoke dubiously. “That confounded Latin will be the death of me. I tell you what it is. I was never cut out for a classical scholar. Now, if they had a course of what to do on first base, I’d be able to master it in, say, a four years’ stretch. But I’m afraid I’ll go the way of our mutual acquaintance Langridge, and spend two years as a freshman, at which rate I’ll be eight years getting through college.”
“Oh, I hope not. You stand better than Langridge. He’s smart—not that you aren’t—but he doesn’t get down to it. It’s just like his baseball practice, if he would only——”
Then Tom stopped. He didn’t want to talk about the player whom he was trying to supplant on the nine. “Well,” he finished, “I guess I’ll turn in. We’ll have to see Dutch in the morning and learn what the new plans are.”
Housenlager and his fellow members of the freshman dinner committee found it advisable to make a change after what Sid and Tom had discovered.
“But we can’t alter the time or place of the feed,” explained Dutch. “It’s too late to do that. Anyway, there’s no danger once we get inside the hall, for we’ve arranged to have the doors bolted and braced and guards posted. The only danger is that they’ll get at some of us before we get to the place or that they’ll get at the eating stuff in some way and put it on the blink.”
“I shouldn’t think there’d be much danger of that,” spoke Tom. “Won’t the man who is going to supply it look out for that end?”
“I s’pose he will,” admitted Dutch, “so the main thing for us to do is to see that we get safely to the hall. I think we’d better not meet down near the bridge, as I proposed first. You know, we were all going in a body. I think now the best way will be for us to stroll off by ones and twos. Then there won’t be any suspicion. The sophs will be on the watch for us, of course, but I think we can fool them.”
“Then you mean for each one of us to get to the hall as best he can?” asked Sid.
“That’s it,” replied Dutch.
“Some fellows did that one year,” put in Ford Fenton, “but the sophs caught them just the same. My uncle says——”
He paused, for the group of lads about him, as if by prearranged signal, all put their hands over their ears and all began talking at once loudly.
“Hu!” ejaculated Ford. “You think that’s funny, I guess.”
“Not as funny as what your uncle might have said,” remarked Sid, who some time previously had planned to have his chums give this signal of disapproval the moment Ford mentioned his relative.
“Well, I guess it’s all understood,” went on Dutch. “We’ll have a sort of go-as-you-please affair until we get to the hall in Haddonfield.”
“I hear Langridge isn’t coming,” said Ford.
“Who told you?” asked Sid.
“Why, he did. I asked him if he was going to be on hand, and I told him about a dinner where my uncle said——”
“I guess he doesn’t want to come because he is afraid your uncle will be there,” declared Tom with a good-natured laugh.
“More likely because the dinner isn’t going to be sporty enough for him,” was the opinion of Dutch. “Well, we don’t want anybody that doesn’t want to come. But I’ve got to go and attend to some loose ends. Now mind, mum’s the word, fellows, not only as regards talk, but don’t act so as to give the sophs a clue. See you later,” and he hurried off.
Few in the freshman class did themselves justice in recitations that day from too much thinking about the fun they would have at the dinner that night. Even Tom fell below his usual standard, and as for Sid, his rendering of Virgil was something to make Professor Tines (who was a good classical scholar, whatever else he might be) shudder in anguish. But Sid didn’t mind.
“I tell you what it is, old man,” spoke Sid to Tom that evening as they prepared to leave for the spread, “we’d better go it alone, I think.”
“Just what I was about to propose. If we leave here together, some sneaking soph will be sure to spot us. Will you go first or shall I?”
“You’d better take it first. There’s a hole in one of my socks I’ve got to sew up. I never saw clothes go the way they do when a laundry gets hold of ’em.”
“Can you darn socks?”
“Well, not exactly what you’d call darn,” explained Sid. “I just gather up a little of the sock where the hole is and tie a string around it. It’s just as good as darning and twice as quick. I learned that from a fellow I roomed with at boarding school. But go ahead, if you’re going.”
It was quite dark now and Tom, after a cautious look around the entrance of the dormitory, to see if any sophomores were lurking about, stole silently down toward the river. He intended to take the road along the stream, cross the bridge and board a trolley for Haddonfield, which plan would be followed by a number of the freshmen.
Tom was almost at the bridge when he saw a number of dark shadows moving about near the structure.
“Now, are they sophs or our fellows?” he mused as he cautiously halted. He thought he recognized some of his classmates and went on a little further.
“Here comes one!” he heard in a hoarse whisper.
Tom stopped. It was so dark he could not tell friends from foes. But he knew a test. A countersign had been agreed upon.
“What did the namby-pamby say?” he asked.
Back came the answer in a hoarse whisper:
“Over the fence is out!”
It was the reply that had been arranged among the freshmen. Confident that he was approaching friends, Tom advanced. A moment later he found himself clasped by half a dozen arms.
“We’ve got one!” some one cried, and he recognized the voice of Gladdus. “Take him away, fellows, and wait for the next. I guess the freshies won’t have so many at their spread as they think!”
“Kidnapped!” thought Tom disgustedly as he was hustled away in the darkness. “Now they’ll have the laugh on me and some of the other fellows all right. They have discovered our countersign or else some one gave it away.”
After the first shock of surprise was over Tom struggled against being taken away by his captors. He almost succeeded in breaking loose, but so many came at him, crowding close around him, that by sheer weight of numbers they formed an impassable barrier.
“It’s all right, freshie, you’re hooked good and proper, so don’t try to get away,” advised a tall youth whom he recognized as Battersby.
“All right,” agreed Tom good-naturedly, though he by no means intended to give up trying to escape. But he would bide his time. “Where are you going to take me?” he asked.
“Oh, a good place. You’ll have plenty of company. Take him along, fellows. I’ll go back and help capture some more. The idea of these freshies thinking they could pull off a dinner without us getting on to it. The very idea!” and Battersby laughed sarcastically. He and Gladdus had fully recovered from the electric shocks and were probably glad of a chance to make trouble for the freshmen.
Tom, in the midst of half a dozen sophomores, was half led, half pushed along a dark path, over the bridge and then down a walk which extended through the woods. He recognized that he was being taken toward a little summer resort on the shores of the lake.
Once he thought he saw a chance to break loose as the grips on his arms loosened slightly, but when he attempted it he was handled so roughly that he knew the sophomores had made up their minds to hold on to him at any cost.
“You’re our first prisoner,” explained one lad, “and for the moral effect of it we can’t let you get away. You’ll have company soon.”
A little later Tom was thrust into a small shanty. He recognized the place as one that had been used for a soda water and candy booth at the picnic grounds, but which shack had not been opened this season yet, though others near it were in use. There was nothing doing at the grounds on this night and the resort was deserted.
“Lock the door,” exclaimed some one as Tom was thrust inside. “Then a few of us will have to stand guard and the others can go back and help bring up the rest.”
Tom staggered against some tables and chairs in the dark interior of the shack. He managed to find a place to sit down.
“We’re a bright lot of lads,” thought the scrub pitcher, “to be taken in after this fashion. We should have stuck together and then we could have fought off the sophs. But it’s too late now. I wonder if Sid was caught?”
He listened and could hear the retreating steps of his captors. That all had not gone and that some were left on guard was indicated by the low talk that went on outside and by the tramping about the shack of several lads.
“Can he get out?” Tom heard some one ask.
“No. The place is nailed up tight.”
“Maybe I can’t and maybe I can,” mused Tom. “Anyhow I’m going to have a look. Wait until I strike a match.”
Holding his hat as a protection, so that no gleams would penetrate possible cracks in the door, Tom struck a light and examined the walls of his prison. The shack consisted of only one room and was cluttered up with chairs, tables, benches, counters and other things. Tom at once eliminated from his plan of escape the front, as there he knew the sophomores would remain on guard. He must try either the sides or the back. The sides, he saw, were out of the question, as they contained only small windows, hardly big enough for him to get through. In addition the casements were closed by heavy wooden shutters, nailed fast.
“No use trying them,” thought Tom. “The back is the only place.”
This he examined with care, and to his delight he saw what he thought would enable him to get out. This was an opening near the top, and it was closed by a thin wooden shutter swinging on a hinge.
“It’s nailed fast,” Tom remarked when, by dint of lighting many matches inside his hat, he had examined the shutter. “But I can reach it by standing on two chairs, and if I can get it open, I can crawl out and drop to the ground. But how am I going to pull out those big nails?”
Indeed it did seem impossible, but Tom was ingenious. His fingers, when he had thrust his hands into his pockets, had touched his keen-bladed knife, the one that had gotten him into trouble about the wire and which had been returned to him by the proctor.
“I can cut away the wood around the nails,” he thought, and at once he put his plan into operation. He managed to get two chairs, one on top of the other, and mounting upon this perch, he attacked the shutter. Fortunately the wood was soft, and working in the darkness by means of feeling with his fingers around the nails, Tom soon had one spike cut free of the shutter. Then he began on the others, and in half an hour he could raise the solid piece of wood. A breath of the fresh night air came to him.
“No glass in it,” he exclaimed softly. “That’s good. Now to get away and show up at the dinner. I hope they didn’t get any other fellows. They haven’t brought any more here, that’s sure.”
He listened at the door a moment.
“I wish some of our fellows would come back,” he heard one of the guards saying.
“Yes, it’s lonesome here. I wonder if Parsons is still there?”
“Sure he is. How could he get away?”
“That’s so. He couldn’t.”
“Wait a bit,” whispered Tom.
He again mounted the chairs, and pulling himself up by the edge of the opening, after fastening up the shutter, he prepared to crawl through and drop down outside.
“I hope it isn’t much of a fall and that the ground is soft,” he murmured.
Just then he heard a commotion in front of the shack.
“They’re bringing up some more of our class,” he reasoned. “Maybe I can help ’em. Had I better stay in?” He was undecided, and he remained on the edge of the window, partly inside and partly outside the shanty. He heard the door open, and looking back in the semi-darkness, saw that a struggle was going on. He guessed that the sophomores were trying to thrust inside one or more freshmen. Then another shout told Tom that his escape was discovered.
“I’ll drop down outside,” he decided, “and see what I can do toward a rescue.”
He looked down. In the gloom below the high window was a figure.
“Look out, soph, I’m going to drop on you!” cried Tom warningly. He heard a half-smothered exclamation and then he let go, prepared to defend himself against recapture.
The fall was longer than he anticipated, for there was a depression at the back of the cabin. He toppled in a heap, and before he could straighten up, he saw some one rushing toward him. Then around the corner of a shack came two figures, one carrying a lantern.
“What’s up?” they cried together.
Tom was aware that the dark figure which he had seen underneath the window was jumping toward him. The light of the lantern shone full on Tom’s face. He was in the act of struggling to his feet when he felt some one kick him in the side, and as the toe of a heavy shoe came against his right elbow with crushing force the pain made Tom cry out.
The lantern swung in a circle and by the light of it Tom, glancing up, saw Langridge standing over him. It was he who had administered the kick. Then the light appeared to fade away, and Tom felt a strangely dizzy feeling. He seemed to be sinking into a bottomless pit.
Tom became dimly aware that he was climbing up from some great depth. It was hard work, and he felt as if he was lifting the whole world on his shoulders. No, it was all on one arm—his right—and the pain of it made him wince.
Then he realized that some one was calling him, shaking him, and he felt as if he had tumbled, head first, into some snow drift.
“Wake up, Tom! Are you all right, old man? What happened? Here, swallow some more water.”
He opened his eyes. He saw in the darkness some one bending over him.
“What’s the—where am——” he began, and he was again seized with a feeling of weakness.
“You’re all right, old chap,” he heard some one saying. “You had a bad fall, that’s all.”
“Phil!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, it’s me, Clinton. They tried to put me in there, but I fought ’em, and then there came a yell for help for the sophs who were bringing up a lot of our fellows, and the ones who had me and those on guard cut for it. I guess our lads got away. I heard a row back here and came to see what it was. Are you all right now? Can you walk? If you can, we’ll go on to the dinner. We’ve beaten out the sophs. Can you manage?”
“I—I guess so,” replied Tom, who was feeling stronger every moment. If only that terrible pain in his arm would cease. “Where’s Langridge?” he asked.
“Langridge? He isn’t around. I haven’t seen him to-night at all,” answered Clinton. “Feeling better?”
“Yes, I’m all right. Only my arm.”
“Is it broken?”
“No, only bruised. Some one kicked—I guess I must have fallen on it,” Tom corrected himself quickly. His mind was in a tumult over what had happened. He had seen Langridge plainly in the light of a lantern carried by one of the sophomores, and he felt that Langridge must have seen him, for the gleam struck full on his face. Yet why had the ’varsity pitcher attacked Tom? Could he have mistaken him for a sophomore? Tom hardly thought so, yet the kick had been a savage one. His arm was swelling from it.
“Are you sure they didn’t catch Langridge?” asked Tom as he stumbled on beside Phil.
“Sure. He said he wasn’t going to the dinner at all. Had a date in town with some girl, I believe.” Tom winced, not altogether with pain. “Why are you so anxious about Langridge?” went on Phil.
“Nothing, only—only I thought I saw him around the shack.”
“Must have been mistaken. You and I were the only ones they managed to get this far, and they wouldn’t have had me, only about a dozen of them tackled me at once.”
“That’s what they did to me,” admitted Tom.
“Our fellows made a mistake,” declared Phil. “We should have been more foxy. However, I think we all got away. The last bunch the sophs tackled were too much for them, and they had to call for help. That’s why those at the shack left it. But come on, we’ll get to Haddonfield. It isn’t very late.”
Tom did not feel much like going to a dinner, but he repressed his disinclination and bit his lips to keep back little exclamations of pain.
Phil and Tom, eluding the sophomores who prowled about in scattered parties, found most of their chums gathered in the hall where the spread was arranged. They were greeted with cheers on their entrance and made to tell their adventures, but Tom did not mention Langridge. He explained his injured arm by saying he had twisted it in his fall.
“Hope it doesn’t knock you out from pitching, old man,” spoke Sid sympathetically.
“It would if I had a chance to pitch,” responded Tom, “but, as it is, I guess it isn’t going to make much difference.”
Several other freshmen who had been caught by the sophomores, but who managed to escape, came straggling in, filled with excitement, and the dinner was soon under way, with many a toast imbibed in cider, ginger ale or water, to the confusion of the sophomores and the success of the freshmen.
“We fooled ’em good and proper!” cried Sid, who had been elected toastmaster. “We put ’em to rout, and now let us eat, drink and make a big noise!”
Which they proceeded to do, undisturbed by any further attack of their traditional enemies.
Tom’s arm pained him so before the dinner was over that he whispered to Phil that he was going to leave. The big center fielder agreed to accompany Tom back to college, and without saying anything to the others to break up the fun, they slipped quietly away. Dr. Marshall, of the faculty, who was a physician as well as an instructor in physics and chemistry, looked critically at Tom’s arm when Phil insisted that his chum get medical aid.
“You say you got that in a fall?” asked Dr. Marshall, examining Tom’s elbow, which was red and much swollen.
“In a sort of a fall—yes, sir.”
“Humph! It was a queer fall that caused that,” said the physician. “More like a blow or a kick, I should say. You haven’t been trying to ride a horse, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“Ha—hum!” ejaculated the doctor, but he asked no more questions, for he had been a college lad in his day and he knew the ethics of such matters. “You can’t play ball for a couple of weeks,” he went on, “and you’ll have to carry that arm in a sling part of the time.”
“Can’t I pitch on the scrub?” asked Tom in dismay.
“Not unless you want to have an operation later,” replied Dr. Marshall grimly.
Tom sighed, but said no more.
Healthy blood in healthy bodies has a marvelous way of recuperating one from injuries, and in a little over a week Tom’s arm was so much improved that the doctor allowed him to dispense with the sling. In the middle of the second week Tom started in on light practice at pitching, his place meanwhile on the scrub having been filled by another player.
“Now go slow, young man,” advised Dr. Marshall as Tom one day sought and obtained permission to take part in a game against the ’varsity nine. “You’re only human, you know, but”—he added to himself as Tom hurried away—“you’re like a young colt. A fine physique! I wish I were young again,” and the good doctor sighed for the lost days of his youth.
In the meanwhile Tom had said nothing to Langridge. He reasoned it all out—that the ’varsity pitcher might have been captured as he was, and, in breaking loose, he might have mistaken Tom for one of the sophomores. Nor did Tom communicate in any way his suspicions to his chums. He knew if he began asking questions intended to disclose whether or not Langridge had been among those captured some one would want to know his object.
“I might be mistaken,” thought Tom, and he honestly hoped that he was. “Anyhow, my arm is better, and I can pitch—at least on the scrub.”
The game between the first and second teams that day was a “hot” one. Langridge seemed to have recovered mastery of himself and he pitched surprisingly well. Tom, because of his hurt, was not at his best. The ’varsity lads were joyful when they beat the scrub by a big score.
“Well, now, if we do as well as that Saturday against Boxer Hall,” said Kindlings Woodhouse, “we’ll be all to the pepper hash, poetically speaking.”
“We’ve got to do a great deal better than this against Boxer,” declared Coach Lighton with a shake of his head.
“Why?” asked Langridge.
“Because much depends on this game. I don’t know whether you boys have figured it out, but we have a mighty slim chance for the pennant this year.”
“Have we any?” asked Sid.
“Yes,” replied the coach, “and it’s just this. If we win the game against Boxer——”
“Which we will,” declared Langridge confidently.
“If we do,” went on Mr. Lighton, “and also win the one the following Saturday from Fairview, we will capture the pennant by a narrow margin.”
“Hurrah!” cried Kindlings.
“Not so fast,” admonished Mr. Lighton. “You boys will have to play ball as you never played it before and against rather heavy odds.”
“How’s that?” inquired Sid.
“Well, both games are away from your own grounds. You are to play Boxer Hall on their diamond and the Fairview game takes place over at the co-ed institution. That means that they’ll have a big crowd of rooters out, and you know what an incentive that is.”
“We’ll take a lot too!” cried Holly Cross.
“Sure, we’ll organize a cheering club,” added Bricktop Molloy.
“And bring megaphones,” declared Jerry Jackson.
“And phonographs,” echoed his twin brother.
“Win the games, that’s what you want to do!” said Mr. Lighton. “Win the games! Play ball! Bat your best, you hard hitters. You that aren’t so sure, practice. Fielders, get on to every fly as if you had glue on your gloves. Kerr, play close up to the bat. Henderson, you want to practice jumping for high ones, for they do come high when the boys get excited. Langridge——”
“Yes, what about me?” drawled the pitcher.
“Pitch your very best,” said Mr. Lighton, and there was a different meaning in his admonition than before. “Now don’t let any chance go by without practice,” he added as he turned toward the other members of the nine. “We’ve got our work cut out for us. I want to see Randall win the pennant.”
“So do we!” shouted the others in a chorus as the coach left them.
And the days that followed were filled with anxiety and anticipation for the members of the nine and those substitutes who hoped for a chance to play. As for Tom Parsons, he felt that if he could pitch in one of the games he would ask for nothing more. But he had small hopes.
Sid Henderson fairly burst into the room where Tom Parsons was studying. The first baseman strode over to the window, looked out as though he was glaring at some attacking force and then throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed:
“It’s rotten, that’s what it is!”
“What?” asked Tom, looking up from his book. “Has Pitchfork been at you again about the Latin?”
“No, this is worse. I don’t see how we’re going to win the game to-morrow. And if we lose!”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Tom, for he had seldom seen his chum so excited.
“Matter enough. Langridge is pitching fierce ball. We just had some light work and arranged a code of signals for him and Kerr. Why, you’d think our pitcher didn’t have to practice! He seemed to think that all he had to do was to stand up in front of the Boxer players and they’d strike out just to please him. It makes me sick! But that’s not the worst of it.”
“Well, what is?” asked Tom, smiling at Sid’s vehemence. “Might as well get it out of your system and you’ll feel better.”
“Oh, you know what it is as well as I do,” went on Sid. “There’s no use trying to ignore it any longer. I’ve tried to fight shy of it and so have some of the other fellows, but what’s the use? It’s enough to make a fellow disgusted so he’ll never play on the nine again.”
“You mean——” began Tom.
“I mean that Langridge isn’t playing fair. He doesn’t train. He’s been drinking and smoking on the sly and staying up nights gambling. There’s no use mincing words now. I caught him drinking in his dressing-room to-day, and he was in a blue funk for fear I’d tell. Said he had a weak heart and the doctor had told him to take it. Weak heart! Rats! He drinks because he likes it. I tell you if we don’t look out, we’ll be the laughing stock of the Tonoka Lake League. Langridge can put himself on edge with a drink of that vile stuff and do good work for one or two innings, maybe. Then he’ll go all to pieces and where will we be? I know. We’ll be tailenders, and it will be his fault. It’s a shame! Some one ought to tell Lighton.”
“Why don’t you?” asked Tom quietly.
“Oh, you know I can’t. No one could go peach like that.”
“I know. I asked you about it once when I discovered what ailed Langridge. You remember what you said?”
“Yes, and I almost wish I’d told you to go and tell. The team would be better off now, even if it was against tradition and ethics and all that rot. It makes me sick! Here we are to go up against a hard proposition to-morrow and every other fellow on the team is as fit as a fiddle except Langridge. He seems to think it’s a joke.”
“What do the other fellows say?”
“Well, they don’t know as much about him as you and I do. But they are grumbling because Langridge doesn’t put enough ginger into his work.”
“What about Mr. Lighton?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think he suspects and then again I’m not sure. If he really knew what Langridge was doing, I don’t believe he’d let him pitch. But you know Langridge has plenty of money and he hasn’t any one like a father or mother to keep tabs on him, so he does as he pleases. He’s practically supported the team this year, for we haven’t made much money. I suppose that’s why Kindlings stands for him as he does. Maybe that’s why Mr. Lighton doesn’t send him to the bench. Langridge’s money will do a great deal.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t like to think that because of it he is kept on the team when there’s a chance of our losing the pennant.”
“Neither would I. Maybe I’m wrong about the coach, but what’s the use of saying anything? Langridge will pitch for us against Boxer Hall, and—no, I’ll not say what I was going to. I believe if we lose that game there’ll be such a howl that he won’t dare pitch against Fairview. That will give you a chance, Tom, for the last game of the season.”
“What about Evert?”
“Oh, he’s practically out of it. He hasn’t had any practice to speak of and wouldn’t last two minutes. You’re in good trim. You did some great work on the scrub yesterday.”
“Yes, but it’s not likely to amount to anything. However, I’m going along and root for you to-morrow.”
“Yes, we’ll need all the support we can get. I declare I’m as nervous as a girl, and I’ve got to buckle down and prepare for a Latin exam, too.”
“Can’t you let it go?”
“No, it’s too risky. I’m only on the team now by the epidermis of my molars, as the poet says. If I flunk in Latin it will mean that I can’t play against Fairview.”
“Then don’t flunk, for the team needs you.”
“It needs more than me, but I’m going to try and forget it now and bone away.”
Tom hoped to have the pleasure of taking Miss Tyler to the game with Boxer Hall, which was to take place on the grounds of that institution, but the girl sent back a regretful little note, saying she had arranged to go with Langridge or, at least, he was to bring her home.
“Hang it!” exclaimed Tom. “I thought she was done with him.”
And, somehow, there was a rather bitter feeling in his heart as he prepared to accompany the other fellows to the great game that Saturday afternoon. He almost made up his mind that he would not bother to speak to Miss Tyler again and then he thought such a course would be silly and he tried to be more philosophical about it, though it was difficult.
Never had there been such a crowd out to witness a game on the Boxer diamond. The grandstand was packed long before the teams trotted out for practice and the bleachers were overflowing. A fringe of spectators packed the side lines, and what with the yelling and cheering of the rival factions, the waving of the colors, the tooting of the auto horns in the throng of machines that had brought parties to the contest, there was an air of excitement that might have excused even more veteran players from getting nervous, for the game meant much to both colleges. If Boxer won, it would have a chance to play Fairview for the championship, but if Randall won the privilege would fall to that college. And that both teams had determined to win goes without saying.
Almost at the last minute Coach Lighton had told Tom to get ready to go as a substitute, and it was in his field uniform then instead of his ordinary clothes that Tom went to the game. But he had slender hopes of pitching, for Langridge seemed in unusually fine form and that morning at Randall had done some good work. But the orders of the coach could not be disobeyed. So Tom took his place on the bench with the other Randall lads, and, after some practice on the field, his eyes roved over the grandstand in search of a certain face. He fancied he saw where Miss Tyler sat, but he could not be sure.
“Langridge will probably go home with her,” thought Tom. “He didn’t bring her here, for he came in with us.”
He had little more time for thought, however, as the umpire was getting the new ball from the foil cover and was about to call the game.
Boxer had won the toss and elected to bat last, so it was the turn of the visitors to get up first and show what they could do. Langridge was greeted with a cheer from a crowd in the Randall section of the grandstand as he went to the bat. He was popular with the large mass of students in spite of his ways. He seemed in good form and there was a confident air about him as he swung his willow stock to and fro.
“Play ball!” called the umpire.
Dave Ogden, with a calculating glance at the batsman, tied himself into rather a complicated knot and threw the horsehide. It was right over the plate and Langridge struck viciously at it, but made a clean miss. There was a groan from the Randall supporters and the team looked glum. Langridge, however, was not disconcerted. He was as confident as ever. Once more the ball was hurled toward him. He stepped right up to it, for he knew a pitcher’s tricks and there was a resonant crack that made the hearts of his chums leap. He had lined out a “beaut.”
“Go on! go on! go on!” yelled Coach Lighton. “Leg it, Langridge, leg it!”
Langridge was running low and well. The Boxer right fielder had muffed the ball, but made a quick recovery and threw to first. It seemed that Langridge was safe, but the umpire, who had run down toward the bag, called him out.
A groan went up from the Randall sympathizers and the team joined in.
“That’ll do!” cried Captain Woodhouse sharply to his men. “Don’t dispute any decisions. Leave that to me. We’ll accept it. You’re up, Kerr.”
Kerr was a notoriously good hitter and Ogden gave him his walking papers. Sid Henderson was next at the bat and he knocked a little pop fly, which the second baseman neatly caught, and Sid, shaking his head over his hard luck, went to the bench.
Captain Woodhouse himself was next to try, and there was a grim look on his face as he went into the box. It was justified, for he made a safe hit and went to second on a swift grounder that Dutch Housenlager knocked, the ball rolling between the shortstop’s fingers. The Randalls would have scored if Bricktop Molloy had hit harder or higher, but the shortstop made as pretty a catch as was seen on the grounds that day, leaping high for the ball, and with Bricktop out it was all over, and a goose egg went up on the scoreboard as the result of the first half of the initial inning.
“Now, Langridge, don’t let them get any hits off you,” implored Kindlings as he and his men went to the field.
“Of course not,” promised the pitcher easily.
His first ball was wild and there was an anxious feeling in the hearts of his chums. But he steadied almost at once and his next two deliveries were called strikes.
“Here’s where you fan!” he called to Pinky Davenport, who was up.
“Do I? Watch me,” replied Pinky, but he only hit the wind.
“That’s the way to do it!” called a shrill voice from the grandstand. “Fine, Langridge!”
“All right, don’t tell us what your uncle said,” retorted the pitcher. “Keep that back, Fenton,” for it was the boy with the ever-present relative who had yelled, and there was laughter at the pitcher’s jibe.
Langridge had never done better work than in that first inning when, after passing the hardest hitter of the Boxers to first purposely, in order to make sure of one of their weakest stick-wielders, the Randall twirler struck him neatly out, and the rivals of Randall were rewarded with a neat little white circle.
In the next inning Jerry Jackson was first up and he ingloriously fanned, but Phil Clinton earned fame for himself in the annals of his alma mater by bringing in a home run—the only one of the game. Langridge kept up his phenomenal work and another pale zero went up for Boxer, while Randall had a single mark that loomed big before the eyes of the cheering throng.
But the hopes of those who wanted to see Randall win suffered a severe setback, for in the next two innings they could not score, while in each frame for the Boxers there were two runs chalked.
“Four to one,” remarked Tom to Phil Clinton. “They’re crawling up. I wonder if we have any show?”
“The game is young yet,” answered Phil. “I think we will do them.”
Randall got one run in the fifth and Langridge was the lucky player who brought it in. He showed his elation.
“Oh, we’ve got ’em on the run!” he cried, and then he went into the dressing-room. There was a queer look on Tom’s face as his eyes sought those of Sid, and the latter shook his head. Coach Lighton, too, seemed anxious. He watched for the reappearance of Langridge, but his attention was occupied for a moment when Woodhouse knocked a neat fly. The captain was steaming away for first, but the ball was also on its way there and both arrived about the same time.
“Out!” cried the umpire, and a dispute at once arose. The Randalls had to give in, though it was manifestly unfair. When Langridge came out of the dressing-room there was a noticeable change in his manner. His breath smelled of cloves, and Sid, who noticed it, made a despairing gesture. A little later Housenlager hit the breeze strongly and went out, the score at the ending of the fifth inning being 4 to 2 in favor of the Boxer team.
“Now, Langridge,” said the coach earnestly, “it depends on you. If you can hold them down, we are pretty sure of winning, even if we have to go ten innings, for some of our batters have Ogden’s measure.”
“I’ll do it!” cried Langridge. “You watch me!”
But he failed miserably. He did manage to strike out two men, for there was snap and vicious vim in the way he delivered the balls, but suddenly, when the influence of the stimulant he had taken wore off, he went to pieces and the Boxers piled in five runs before they were stopped by a remarkable brace in the Randall fielding contingent.
There was a steely look in the eyes of Coach Lighton as the Randalls came in for their turn to bat in the sixth inning.
“I’ll do better next time,” promised Langridge, but he spoke rather languidly.
“No, you’ll not!” exclaimed the coach.
“Why not?” and the pitcher seemed suddenly awakened.
“Because you’re not going to pitch next inning!”
“I’m not?”
“No, you’re not.”
“I guess I’m manager of this team.”
“And I’m the coach. I say you shan’t pitch any more in this game, or, if you do, I’ll resign here and now. Captain Woodhouse, are you with me in this?”
“Oh, well, can’t you take a rest for a couple of innings, Fred, and pitch the last one?” asked the captain, adding: “if the Boxers will allow us to suspend the rules for you.”
“If I pitch at all, I’ll pitch the whole game!” cried Langridge fiercely.
“If you do I resign,” was the decision of Mr. Lighton.
“Well, it’s up to you,” said Woodhouse with a shrug of his shoulders, as if ridding himself of the burden. “Whatever you say goes.”
“All right, then I say Langridge goes to the bench. He’s not fit to pitch and he knows it.”
“What’s the matter with me?” demanded the youth haughtily.
“Do you want me to tell?” asked Mr. Lighton quickly, with a sharp look.
Langridge, without a word, walked into the dressing-rooms.
“Parsons will pitch the remainder of the game,” went on the coach to the Randall players and he made the necessary announcement to the game officials. “Tom,” he called, “come on; you’re up in place of Langridge.”
Tom Parsons’ heart gave a great throb. At last he had the chance for which he had waited so long. He was to pitch in a big game!
Tom was a good batter. He was also acquainted with many pitchers’ tricks, for Mr. Lighton had given him good instruction. Tom was ready for whatever came. The first ball Ogden delivered was an incurve. Tom instinctively stepped back to avoid it, but it went neatly over the plate and a strike was called on him. He shut his teeth hard. He reasoned that Ogden would expect him to be on the lookout the second time for an outcurve, for it might naturally be supposed that the pitcher would vary his delivery.
“But he thinks I’m looking for an out,” thought Tom. “Therefore he’ll give me another in. I’ll be ready for it.”
He was. He stepped right into the next ball, which was an incurve, and with a mighty sweep sent it sailing far over the right fielder’s head. It was good for three bases and Tom took them.
“Go on! Keep running! That’s a beaut! Take another! Make it a homer!” yelled the crowd, which was on its feet shouting like mad, waving hats, hands, handkerchiefs and college colors.
“Stay there!” cautioned Coach Lighton, for the ball was being relayed home.
Tom’s sensational hit seemed to put new life into the team and Bricktop Molloy also brought in a run. That, however, ended the good work.
Then came Tom’s turn in the box. That he was a little nervous was natural, but he kept control of himself and only allowed one hit, though it was good eventually for a run. There was a noticeable stiffening in the work of the team and the coach congratulated Tom as he came in with his chums to take their turn at the bat again.
The seventh inning saw four runs safely laid away for Randall, while the marker put up a neat little ring in the square for Boxer, for Tom struck out two of the three men who were up, one going out on a pop fly, the pitcher having misjudged his batter. Neither side scored in the eighth, and when Randall got three runs in the ninth, and, in spite of strenuous work on the part of Tom, the Boxers got one run that same inning, the score was tied—11 to 11.
“Ten innings! They’ve got to play ten innings!” went the cry around the field. Then came more cheers. It was a game of games and it began to look as if the hoodoo against Randall was broken and that the college had a chance for the pennant.
“Three cheers for Tom Parsons!” yelled Ford Fenton, and what a shout there was!
“What would your uncle think of him?” asked a student.
“He’d say he was all right!” rejoined Ford good-naturedly.
Randall got one run in the tenth, putting them ahead, and then came a supreme struggle for Tom. Coolly and calculatingly he delivered the balls. He struck out the first man, who viciously threw down his bat so hard that it splintered. The second man also went the same way, and there was a salvo of cheers that shook the stands, while the stamping of feet of the anxious ones threatened to bring down the structures.
Tom measured his next man and sent in a neat little drop. But the batter was a veteran and got under it in time. He sent it well out into the field.
“Take it, Jerry! Take it!” cried the coach, for the horsehide seemed about to fall into the right fielder’s hands. But he muffed it, and what a howl there was! George Stoddard, who had knocked it, kept on to second, for which he had to slide, but he was called safe. Then Tom was obliged to pass the next man to first, for he was an excellent hitter, while the one who followed him was not. But just then one of those “accidents” that are always cropping up in sport happened and the poor hitter made good, knocking a curious little twisting fly that the first baseman misjudged, and the run came in, again tieing the score. But no more Boxer players crossed home plate.
It was with a “do or die” expression on all the faces of the Randalls that they came to bat in the eleventh inning. The story of that game is college history now, and how Tom brought in a run after a magnificent hit that would have been a “homer” but for the fleetness of the opposing center fielder’s feet is told to many a freshman. They could do no more, though, after getting one ahead.
It needed but a single run on the part of the Boxers to tie the score and two to win. But Tom resolved that they should not get even that one tally. He went to his box, his teeth clenched, making his jaw look firm and square. He resolved to try a new sort of twisting curve that he had used several times against the ’varsity. Each time it had proved deceptive. He worked it on the first man and sent him ingloriously to the bench. Then the second batter fell for it, but Tom dared not try it on the third. He felt himself getting nervous, and his next delivery was a bit wild. A ball was called on him, but that was all. The next three deliveries were strikes, and the batter, though he fanned desperately at them, missed each time.