“That settles it!” cried Phil Clinton as Tom, with a wildly throbbing heart, walked out of the box, while a hush fell over the assemblage, for the crowd could hardly realize that the game was over and that Randall had won by a score of 13 to 12.
“Good work, Parsons! Oh, pretty work!” yelled a host of supporters, and then such cheering as there was!
“Come, fellows, a cheer for Boxer Hall!” cried Captain Woodhouse, and it was given, followed by the college yell.
Boxer generously retaliated, and as the teams ran for the dressing-rooms Langridge, pale and with trembling hands, stepped out. He was dressed in his street garments, and without a word to his chums, he started across the diamond for the grandstand.
“He’s going over to her,” thought Tom, and the joy of the victory he had helped to win was embittered for him.
“Parsons, you did splendidly!” cried Mr. Lighton. “I congratulate you with all my heart. If it hadn’t been for you, we’d have lost the game.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“Yes, we would. You’re the regular pitcher on this team for the remainder of the season, subject, of course, to the confirmation of Captain Woodhouse.”
“Whatever you say,” assented Kindlings, but he looked a bit uncomfortable.
“There are only two more games,” went on the coach, “one out of town next Saturday, and then comes the final struggle with Fairview. If we win that, we’ll have the pennant.”
“Oh, we’ll win!” cried Holly Cross. “Look who’s going to pitch for us.”
“I don’t know about that,” replied Tom with a laugh, but he was silenced with cheers.
“Well, I want you to win that game,” concluded the coach as he walked off the diamond and the team got ready to go back to Randall.
While the stage coach in which the players had come from Randall was being gotten ready to take the victorious nine back Tom strolled across the diamond toward the grandstand. He wanted to be alone for a moment and think, for he had many ideas in his mind, and they were not all connected with his recent work in the pitcher’s box. A certain bright-eyed girl figured largely in them.
“I thought she’d given him up,” he said to himself. “Well, of course, it’s none of my affair, but——”
There generally was a “but,” Tom felt. The crowd was nearly gone and he was about to turn back and join his chums.
Suddenly he became aware of a girlish figure alone in the big stand. He looked to make sure who it was, for at the first glimpse he had felt that it was she of whom he was thinking. As he did so the girl looked at him. It was Miss Tyler, and Tom noticed that there were tears in her eyes. He saw nothing of Langridge as he hastened toward her.
“Why, Madge—Miss Tyler!” he exclaimed, “what is the matter? Have you lost anything? Are you alone? I thought Fred Langridge was going——”
She stamped her little foot.
“Please don’t speak his name to me!” she exclaimed.
Tom opened his eyes.
“Why—why——” he stammered.
“He came over to me in—in no proper condition to escort me home,” she went on tearfully. “Oh, Tom, I’m—I’m so miserable!”
She acted as though she were going to break down and cry in real earnest, and Tom was on the anxious edge, for he hated to see girls weep. But she mastered herself with an effort.
“May I take you back to Haddonfield?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and she came down from the upper part of the stand to join him. They walked off the field, both silent for a time, and Tom was wondering what would be the safest subject to talk about. But Miss Tyler spoke first.
“You did fine work,” she said. “I’m—I’m glad you got the chance to pitch.”
“So am I,” declared Tom, “but I’m sorry for——” He did not know whether or not to mention his rival’s name. But she understood.
“So am I—I’m very sorry for him. It’s all his horrid money that’s doing it. He wants to be what the boys call a ‘sport.’ But he isn’t. He’s unfair to himself—to me. But I’m done with him! I shall never speak to him again.”
Tom was both glad and sorry.
“Do you think you will win from Fairview?” asked the girl after a pause.
“I think so.”
“I hope you do. I want to see that game, but I don’t——”
“Won’t you let me take you?” asked Tom quickly. “We are going in a number of autos and there’ll be lots of room.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to hint so broadly,” she exclaimed, and her face crimsoned.
“I was going to ask you, anyhow,” declared Tom. “Will you go?”
“Yes,” she replied softly.
“And help me to pitch to win,” added Tom, and he tried to look into her face, but she averted her eyes.
There was great celebrating in Randall that night. Some of the boys wanted to light historic bonfires along the river, which blazes were always kindled on great occasions, but Mr. Lighton reminded the lads that they had still to win the contest with Fairview before they would be champions, and he urged that the game was no easy one. So milder forms of making glad were substituted. Tom was the hero of the hour, and he felt that there had been made up to him everything that he had suffered in being kept so long on the scrub.
It was dark in the apartments of Langridge. No one had seen him since the game and few cared about him.
“He got just what was coming to him,” declared Sid vindictively. “He’d have thrown the game for a drink of liquor and a cigarette. Pah! I’ve no use for such a chap.”
“Well, maybe he didn’t mean to do it,” replied Tom, who could afford to be generous. “He may have taken some to steady his nerves and it went to his head.”
“Rats! It ought to have gone to his pitching arm. But I’ve got to bone away. Exams are getting nearer and nearer every day, and the closer they come the less I seem to know about Latin. From now on I’m going to think, eat, sleep and dream in Latin.”
The following Saturday the team went to the Indian school at Carlisle and played a game with the red men. It was a hard-fought battle and the aborigines made the mistake of putting in a lot of substitutes for the first few innings, for they had a poor opinion of Randall. But the visitors rolled up a good score and Tom was a whirlwind at pitching, holding the red men down to a low score. Then the Indians awakened and sent in some of their best players, but the Randalls had the game “in the refrigerator,” as Holly Cross said, and took it home with them, despite the war cries of the redskins and their efforts to annex the scalp-locks of the palefaces.
The winning of this game against what was generally considered to be a much stronger team than that of Randall did much to infuse an aggressive spirit into the latter players. The trip, too, acted as a sort of tonic.
“Boys, I think we’re fit to make the fight of our lives a week from to-day,” declared Captain Woodhouse as he and the team were on their way back to college. “We’ll wipe the diamond up with Fairview and then maybe that banner won’t look fine at the top of our flagstaff.”
“That’s what!” cried Phil Clinton. “I’m ready to play ’em now.”
“Same here!” cried Pete Backus, giving a great jump up into the air, seemingly to justify his title of “Grasshopper.”
“My uncle says——” began Ford Fenton, but Holly Cross gave such an imitation of an Indian war whoop that what the former coach had said was lost “in the shuffle.”
“Great work, old man!” cried Phil Clinton to Tom as he linked his arm in that of the new ’varsity pitcher.
“That was a fine catch of yours, to return the compliment,” said Tom with a laugh.
“Don’t go forming a mutual admiration society,” advised Mr. Lighton. “Play ball—that’s the thing to do.”
“It’s queer what’s become of Langridge,” remarked Tom to Sid when they were in their room a few nights later, talking over the approaching final game with Fairview. “He seems to have dropped out of sight.”
“That’s where he’d better stay,” declared Sid. “He’ll never be any more account to the team. We’ll have a new manager when we whip Fairview.”
“If we only do!”
“Oh, we will. I only hope I can play.”
“Why, is there any chance that you won’t?”
“Well, I’m pretty shaky in Latin, and Pitchfork has warned me that if I slump, it’s me to the bench for the rest of this term. I’m going over and see Bricktop Molloy. He’s a fiend at Latin. Rather study it than eat. He’s been coaching me lately, and I want to get the benefit of it. So I’ll just go and bone with him a bit.”
“Go ahead, old man. Wish I could help you, but I’ve got to look after my own rations. I’m none too safe.”
Sid went out and Tom was left alone with his books. But somehow he could not study. He took no sense of the printed page. There was an uneasiness in his mind and he could not put his thoughts into form.
“Hang it all!” he exclaimed. “I guess I’m thinking too much of baseball.”
He got up to take a turn in the corridors to change the current of his thoughts when there came a knock at the door.
“Come!” he cried, thinking it would prove to be some of his chums. The portal slowly swung and Tom, looking at the widening crack, saw the pale face of Langridge.
“May I come in?” asked the former pitcher, and his voice trembled.
“Of course,” answered Tom heartily. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”
“It doesn’t much matter. I—I’ve come to ask a favor of you, Parsons.”
“A favor of me?”
“Yes, and it’s a mighty big one.”
There was a dogged, determined air about him as he stood there facing his rival who had supplanted him, and Tom wondered what was coming next.
“Why, I’ll do anything I can for you, Langridge, of course.”
“Wait until you hear what I want. There’s no use beating about the bush, Parsons. I’ve been mighty mean to you. I’ve played a low-down hand against you, but I’m not going to apologize—not now. I thought it was fair—in war, you know. I didn’t want you to pitch in my place, but you’ve done me out of it.”
“I think I acted square,” said Tom quietly.
“Yes, you did. You were white. I wasn’t. I didn’t play fair about that wire nor yet about sneaking in the dormitory that night. You did. I suppose you know—about the night you were captured—the night of the freshman dinner.”
“I think you knew it was I before you——” began Tom.
“Yes, I knew it was you before I kicked you,” went on Langridge, and he spoke as if he was getting through a disagreeable confession. “I—I didn’t mean to boot you so hard, though. I thought maybe you’d give up pitching if you got a good crack on the arm, but you didn’t.”
“No, I’m not that kind.”
“So I see. Well, you’ve got what you wanted and I got what I never expected. Now I want you to do me a favor.”
“What is it?”
“I want you to refuse to pitch in the Fairview game.”
Tom wondered whether he had heard aright.
“You want me to refuse——” he began.
“That’s it,” went on Langridge eagerly. “Tell Kindlings—tell Lighton you can’t pitch—that your arm has given out.”
“But it hasn’t.”
“Never mind. Tell them. Tell them anything, as long as you don’t pitch.”
“And why don’t you want me to pitch? Do you want to see your college lose? Not because I’m the best pitcher that ever happened, but you know there’s no one else they can put in at this late day.”
“Yes, there is.”
“Who?”
“Me! I’ll pitch. I want to pitch. I’ve just got to. You don’t know what it means to me. Let me pitch this last game. Please, Parsons! It won’t mean much to you and it means everything to me. I can do it. See, I—I haven’t touched a drop since—since the Boxer game. I’ve been getting in shape. I’m as steady as a rock. I can pitch the game of my life. Come, do! Say you won’t pitch. They’ll give me a chance then. I want to get in the last game—and win. Will you? Will you let me get in this last game in your place?”
He was leaning forward, his hands held out to Tom, his rival, begging a boon of him.
“Will you resign in my favor?” he asked. “I know it’s a big request, but will you, Parsons?”
Tom did not know what to answer.
Langridge stood before his rival, waiting. It was quiet in the little room, so quiet that the ticking of the alarm clock sounded loud. Outside could be heard the tramp of feet in the corridor, students going to and fro. Langridge glanced nervously at the door. He was plainly afraid lest some one should enter and find him there.
It was a hard problem for Tom to solve. The appeal of the lad who had done much to injure him moved him strongly. He knew what it would mean to Langridge not to pitch—that he would be out of athletics for the rest of his college course. If Tom gave way in his favor, it would mean his rehabilitation and for Tom only a temporary loss of prestige.
“Will you do it?” asked Langridge softly.
Tom did not answer. He paced up and down the room. What ought he to say? He felt that he could afford to sacrifice his own interests—could even forego the high honor of pitching in what was the greatest game of the college year—for the sake of Langridge. If he did not and if Langridge went away disheartened, it might mean that he would plunge deeper into dissipation. Then there came to Tom the thought of the nine. Was it fair to the others, to the college?
Something told him it was not, that it was his duty to pitch—to do his best—to win for the sake of the college and the nine. Langridge might possibly do it, but it was doubtful. The former pitcher could not be sure of himself, sure that he had mastered his desire for stimulant. Then Tom decided, not on his own account but for the sake of the team and the college.
“I can’t do it, Langridge,” he replied, and his voice showed the anguish he felt at the pain he inflicted.
“Then you’ll pitch?” asked his rival.
“Yes, I feel that I must. The team depends on me, and—and I can’t go back on them.”
Langridge must have seen that Tom’s answer was final, for without a word he turned and left the room.
Then Tom felt a wave of remorse sweep over him. After all, had he done right? Had he done the best thing? He was almost on the point of rushing after Langridge and telling him he could pitch in the final game, for the memory of his face haunted Tom. But when his hand was on the knob of the door Sid entered.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom’s chum, looking curiously at him.
“Nothing. Why?”
“You look as if you had been seeing ghosts.”
“Well, I have—a sort of one,” answered Tom with an uneasy laugh. “How’d you make out with the Latin?”
“Pretty punk, I guess. Bricktop says I’ve got to put in all my spare time boning. If I slump and can’t play that last game, I’ll—I’ll——”
“Don’t you dare slump!” cried Tom earnestly. “We can’t put a new man on first at this late day. Don’t you dare slump, Sid.”
“Oh, I’ll try not to,” and Sid dumped himself down in the easy chair and with an air of dogged determination began devouring Latin verbs.
The ’varsity had had its final practice against the scrub, with Tom in the box for the first team. He was beginning to take it as a matter of course and acquiring that which he needed most—confidence in himself. The scrub pitcher who had replaced him was good, but he was pretty well batted, while very few hits, and these only one-baggers, were secured off Tom.
“Boys,” said Mr. Lighton two days before the game, “I think I can see our way clear to the Tonoka Lake League pennant. Now take it easy to-morrow, a little light exercise, be careful of what you eat, don’t get nervous, go to bed early and sleep well. Then Saturday afternoon we’ll go to Fairview and bring back the banner.”
“Three cheers for our coach!” called Kerr, and Mr. Lighton, veteran that he was, blushed with pleasure.
“I hope we win,” remarked Ford Fenton as the team walked to the dressing-rooms. “My uncle says——”
But Kerr threw his big catching mitt with such good aim that it struck Fenton full in the face.
“Here—huh! ho! What’d you do that for?” he demanded.
“I didn’t want you to wear out that uncle of yours,” was the cool answer. “It’s getting warm weather now and you’d better can him so he’ll keep until next year.”
Ford scowled and then laughed, for he was good-natured in spite of his one failing.
Sid entered the room where Tom was late that afternoon with a worried look on his face.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom in alarm.
“Pitchfork has decided to have a special Latin exam to-morrow for my class. Wow! I was counting on it going over, but it won’t, and I’ve got to take it to-morrow.”
“Well?”
“No, not well—bad. If I slump, do you know what it means?”
“You can’t play against Fairview?”
“Exactly. Oh, Tom, I’m as nervous as a girl before her first big party. Here, coach me a bit,” and Tom, taking the books, gave Sid what help he could until they were both so tired and sleepy that Tom insisted that bed was the only place for them.
The news spread the next day. Sid was the only member of the team who was in the special Latin class, and consequently the only one who had to go through the ordeal. When he went into recitation his mates on the team gathered in silent conclave on the diamond.
“If Sid slumps,” spoke Captain Woodhouse, “I don’t——”
“Don’t talk about it,” pleaded Bricktop Molloy.
“If he does, couldn’t we play Langridge on first?” suggested Phil Clinton. “He used to practice there.”
“Langridge is down and out,” declared Kerr. “I don’t know what’s come over him. He won’t speak to me any more. I guess he knows he’s got to do a lot of studying to pass, and he must be tutoring with some grind. He keeps himself mighty scarce. I don’t believe he’d play.”
“No, we couldn’t use him,” said Kindlings. “It all depends on Sid. I wish the exam was over. It’s like waiting for a jury to come in.”
The whole team was on tenterhooks. No one felt like talking, and some one would start a topic only to witness it die a natural death. The members of the nine paced to and fro on the diamond. They were waiting for news from Sid. If he did not pass he could not play, and it practically meant a lowering of their chances for the pennant.
An hour went by. A few lads began coming from the recitation room where the examination was being held.
“Some of them have finished,” commented Tom. “Let’s ask ’em how Sid’s making out.”
One of the Latin students strolled over toward where the ball players were.
“How’s Henderson doing?” asked Kindlings.
“Sweating like a cart horse,” was the characteristic answer. “It’s a stiff exam all right.”
There was a groan in concert and the anxious waiting was resumed. Fifteen minutes passed. Several more students had come from the room.
“Where can he be?” murmured Tom.
“There he comes!” cried Phil Clinton as Sid appeared, coming slowly toward the group.
“I’ll bet he failed,” said Kindlings solemnly. Certainly in Sid’s approach there was not the air of a conqueror.
All at once he stopped, bent down to the ground and appeared to be tearing something to pieces.
“What’s he doing?” asked Tom.
“Let’s go see,” proposed Kerr.
They advanced and beheld a curious sight. Sid was tearing up a book and making a little heap of the leaves. A moment later he touched a match to the pile, and the paper began to burn.
“What in the world are you doing?” called Tom.
“Did you pass?” fairly roared Kindlings.
“Sure,” replied Sid as calmly as if he had always expected to. “I passed with honors, and now I’m destroying the evidence. I’m applying the torch to Cæsar’s Commentaries and I’ll never open a book like it again in my life. Come on, fellows, join the festive throng. Tra la la! Merrily do we sing.”
He began prancing about and the others, with yells of joy, joined in. Sid would cover first base for them in the big game.
With a tooting of auto horns, the waving of many flags, shouts, cheers, yells of encouragement, laughter from many pretty girls, the waving of handkerchiefs, renditions of the college yell the ball nine and its supporters started the next day in a long cavalcade for Fairview.
Several automobiles had been provided for the use of the team, and in one of these rode Tom and Miss Tyler, whom he had called for at her home that morning. A number of ladies went along as chaperones for the girls of Haddonfield.
Dr. Churchill and most of the faculty also went to the game.
“Aren’t you coming, Professor Tines?” asked the head of the college as he and the other instructors were about to start.
“No, I don’t care much for baseball. I shall remain here and arrange for another Latin examination for some of the students.”
Sid groaned and his chums laughed, whereat Professor Tines frowned.
“Do you think you’ll win?” asked Miss Tyler as she sat next to Tom.
“I’m sure of it,” he answered promptly.
When the Randall team and its supporters arrived they found a big throng present to greet them. Even their opponents sent out a ringing cheer of welcome. The Fairview nine was out on the diamond practicing.
“Snappy work,” observed Tom critically as the batting and catching was under way.
“Oh, we can do just as good,” asserted Kindlings. “Don’t get nervous now. You’ve got to pitch your head off.”
Some one started the Randall college song, “Aut vincere aut mori,” and as the beautiful strains floated over the diamond when the players poured out from the dressing-rooms the team came to a sudden halt.
“That’s it, fellows,” said Kindlings solemnly, “‘Either we conquer or we die!’ Play for all that’s in you and then some more,” and he laughed.
Auto horns tooted blatantly, girls cried in their clear, shrill voices, the lady contingent of Fairview rendering some weird yells. Then there were the hoarse voices of the boys, to which answered the cheers of Randall. The grandstand and bleachers were waving geometrical figures of brilliant hues. It was an inspiring sight. No wonder that the players felt nerved to do their best, for on the result of the game depended much.
Kindlings missed the call when the coin was spun, and he and his men had to start the hitting. But they did not mind this, and when, in the revised batting order, Kerr went up first, he “poked his stick into the horsehide for a two-bagger,” as Holly Cross said. There was a yell that could have been heard a mile and every Randall lad was on his feet shouting:
“Go on! go on! go on!”
But Kerr stopped at second prudently, for he would have been nabbed at third. This opened the game and the play at once became hot. Randall scored two runs that inning and Tom, giving walking papers to a particularly heavy hitter, managed to come out of the initial ordeal without a hit being registered against him.
The Randall boys went wild then and began the song, “When Fairview awoke from her sweet dream of peace,” which was repeated again and again.
But the next three innings saw only the negative sign chalked up in the frame on the scoreboard given over to Randall, while in the last half of the fourth Fairview secured a run, for one of the players “got the Indian sign” on Tom, to quote Holly Cross, who was an expert in diamond slang, and “bit his initials in the spheroid for a three-bagger.” The run would not have been scored, for there were two men out, only Joe Jackson made what seemed to be an inexcusable fumble, and the runner came in. Still it looked safe for Randall until the fatal seventh inning.
For some teams this is held to be a lucky one, but it was not for Randall. Tom was doing his best, but in delivering one ball he gave his arm a peculiar wrench, and a sharp twinge of pain in the region where Langridge had kicked him made him wince. After that he could not control his curves so well, and three men made safeties off him, a trio of runs being registered. The score was 4 to 2 in favor of Fairview at the close of the seventh. Kindlings looked grave and Coach Lighton paced nervously to and fro.
“What’s the matter, old man?” the captain asked Tom.
“Nothing much,” was the answer. “I gave my arm a little twist, that’s all.”
“Come inside and we’ll massage it,” proposed Mr. Lighton, who was always ready for emergencies, and he and Kindlings rubbed some liniment on Tom’s joint. It felt a little better, and Tom said so, though when he went into the box, following an inning when Bricktop Molloy brought in one run, the pitcher was in considerable misery. He shut his teeth grimly, however, and resolved to do his best, though to deliver his most effective curves meant to give himself much pain.
Tom only allowed two hits and one run came in, making the score at the ending of the eighth inning 5 to 3 in favor of Fairview.
How the co-eds shouted and cheered then and there was corresponding gloom among the Randallites until once more that grand old song, “Aut vincere aut mori,” welled forth and gave confidence to an almost despairing nine.
“It’s about our last chance, fellows,” said Kindlings grimly as he walked to the bat.
He waited for a good ball, though two strikes were called on him, and then, with a mighty sweep of his strong arms, he sent the sphere away out into the field.
“A good hit! Oh, a pretty hit!” yelled Phil Clinton. “Run, old man! Run!”
And how Kindlings could run! On and on he leaped, around first base, speeding toward second, while the stands were in a frenzy of excitement.
“Third! third!” cried the coach, for the left fielder was still after the ball.
Kindlings was running strong, and he had now started home. Would he reach it? The fielder had the ball now. With a terrific heave he sent it to the third baseman, but Kindlings was half way home. Then ensued a curious scene. The baseman was afraid to throw the ball to the catcher, for Kindlings, who was tall and was running upright, was in the way. The baseman started to trail the captain down. There was a race. Kindlings looked back and decided to keep on to home. The catcher was leaping about excitedly.
“Throw the ball! throw the ball!” he yelled. But the baseman thought he could outrun Kindlings. He almost succeeded and then, when he saw it was too late, he tossed the ball over the captain’s head to the catcher. Kindlings dropped and, amid a cloud of dust, slid home.
Like a flash the hand of the catcher holding the ball shot toward him. There was a moment of suspense.
“Safe!” howled the umpire, and one more run went to the credit of Randall.
Tom brought in another not so sensational, but it counted. He knocked a pretty fly, which sailed over the second baseman’s head and the pitcher got to first, stole second and came in with a rush on a swift grounder bunt that Phil Clinton sacrificed on under orders.
“The score is tie! the score is tie!” came the yells. And so it was—5 to 5 in the last half of the ninth inning. From the Randall stand came the chorus of the song, “We have their measure, we’ll beat them at pleasure!”
The game, however, was far from won. There were a bunch of heavy hitters to come to the bat, and Tom’s arm was in poor shape. But he said nothing and walked to the box with a step as light as though he knew he was to win.
When he gave two men their bases on balls there was some groaning among the Randallites, but Tom knew what he was doing. Lem Sellig and Frank Sullivan were generally good for safeties, and he could afford to take no chances. He had the measure of the next three men and he took it.
Seldom had the devotees of the diamond witnessed such pitching as the exhibition which Tom gave after he had allowed the heavy hitters to walk. No one ever knew what he suffered as he delivered his most effective curves, but the cheering that resulted when he had struck his third man out, without allowing a player to get to third base, must have warmed his heart.
“A ten-inning game!” was the cry, for the score still stood tie. Over in the grandstand Ford Fenton, who was cheer leader, called for the “Brace, brace, brace” song and it came in a mighty chorus.
“Only one run! only one!” pleaded hundreds of Randall lads. “One run to beat ’em, and then Tom Parsons will strike ’em out!”
Tom heard it and smiled. His arm had been given another rubbing, and though it pained him, he went to the bat first in the tenth inning with a confident step. Somewhere on the grandstand he knew a girl was watching him, and he tried to single her out. Could that be she standing up and waving a yellow and maroon flag at him? He hoped so, and he gritted his teeth, resolving to hit the ball for all that was in him.
There was a steely look in the pitcher’s eye as he delivered a vicious ball to Tom. Tom saw it coming and stepped up to it. He remembered a former experience. His bat got under it and he lifted and hit it outwardly in a long, upward curve.
“Too high! too high! He’s gone!” murmured Kindlings sadly, but Tom was off for first like a deer. In some unaccountable manner the right fielder muffed the ball and there were groans of anguish. Tom started for second, but was warned back. Later he did manage to “purloin the bag like a second-story man getting away with a diamond necklace,” to quote Holly Cross, and went to third on a pop fly by Housenlager, who never got to first. Then, on a sacrifice hit by Kerr, Tom slid home, the dust cloud being so thick that the spectators could not witness the play.
“Safe!” declared the umpire, and this meant that a run had been added to the score for Randall, making the tally 6 to 5 in their favor. Tom was pale when he arose.
“Hurt?” asked Kindlings anxiously.
“No,” was the answer, but Tom had to bite his lips to keep back a groan of pain. He had jarred his sore arm badly.
Though Randall tried desperately to better the score, it was not to be. Their only hope now lay in keeping their opponents from making a run, and, if they did, they would have the game and the championship.
Tom felt as if he would collapse, and his first ball, instead of being a puzzling drop as he intended, went straight over the plate distressingly slow, so that Ted Puder, captain of the Fairview team, hit it mightily. Up and up it went, a black speck against the blue sky, while the youths and maidens of the institute were yelling encouragingly to the runner, who had started for first.
“Oh, if he only gets it! If he only can get it!” murmured Kindlings as he watched Phil Clinton race after the ball.
It was a long, high fly, and Phil had to sprint well toward the back field to even get under it. He had turned and was racing with all his might. Would he judge it properly? Could he hold it after he got it?
He had turned again, and with his eye on the ball was running backward now. He stumbled over a stone and seemed about to fall. There was a groan from the Randallites, but Phil recovered himself. The ball was almost over his head when he saw that he had not gone far enough back. It was too late to take another step, but Phil did the next best thing. He leaped up, and, with his right hand extended as far as it would stretch, he caught the ball. It was a mighty fine play and the yells and applause that followed testified to it.
“Runner’s out!” decided the umpire.
Tom breathed easier. His heart had been in his throat when he saw what had happened to the first ball he delivered. But Phil had made good.
“What a magnificent catch!” exclaimed Dr. Churchill as he adjusted his glasses, that had been knocked off in the excitement.
“Yes,” admitted another member of the faculty who sat near him. “And how Clinton can run! I’d like to see him on the gridiron.”
“Perhaps you will,” went on Dr. Churchill. “The boys will soon organize the eleven.”
Tom’s nerve came back to him. Now he didn’t mind the pain in his arm. There was one man out and Tom’s team was a run ahead. If he could only strike out two more men the championship would be safe.
The next batter was easy, for he was a poor hitter, and Tom soon sent him to the bench. The following player was one of the best stick-wielders Fairview had.
“If I can only get him,” thought the pitcher.
Warily Tom delivered to him an inshoot. It was missed cleanly, but a look in the batter’s eye warned the pitcher that another such curve would not fool him. Tom sent in a puzzling drop and the batter struck over it.
“Two strikes!” called the umpire, amid almost breathless silence.
Kerr signaled for another incurve, but Tom shook his head. He was going to deliver a style of ball he had used but once before that day because it twisted his arm fiercely. It was a sort of “fade-away” ball, made famous by a great professional player.
Tom drew his arm back, having gripped the ball strongly. The action made him wince with pain, but there was no time now to stop for that. Out straightened his muscles and the horsehide left his hand swiftly. He knew it was a good ball, but in spite of that he almost feared lest he should hear the fatal “ping” as the bat hit it or listen to the umpire’s “ball one.” Tom felt that he could not toss another curve. His arm was numb and tingled away up to his shoulder. He saw a black wall looming up before his eyes and there was a ringing in his ears.
But above the tumult he heard a voice shouting:
“Three strikes! Batter’s out!”
Oh, what yelling there was! How the handkerchiefs and banners fluttered! How the girls’ shrill voices mingled with the deep cheering of the boys! What a stamping of feet on the grandstand!
Then out from the tumult came booming that heart-stirring song of Randall: “We have come and we have conquered!”
Tom staggered as he pulled off his glove and walked toward the bench. His mouth was parched and dry.
“Oh, good old man!” yelled Kindlings, rushing up and embracing him. “Oh, fine! Oh, great! Oh, oh, oh! Wow!”
“Up with him, fellows!” called Sid Henderson. “On our shoulders!”
“No, no!” protested Tom.
But he might as well have talked to the wind. They lifted him up and marched with him around the field, singing again: “We have come and we have conquered!”
“Now, fellows, a good round of cheers for Fairview,” proposed Kindlings, and the team, gathering in a circle about Tom, who had managed to descend to the ground, raised their voices in a tribute to those over whom they had been victorious.
From where they were gathered, downcast but not disheartened at their defeat, the Fairview team sent back an answering cheer. Then came more songs from the contingent of Randall students, and many an “old grad” walked with a prouder step that day, for once more, after many seasons, the bird of victory had come back to hover over the college on the river and the championship banner would float from the flagstaff on the campus.
Tom and his chums dispersed to dress. A crowd surrounded the victorious pitcher.
“Let me congratulate you, Parsons,” said Dr. Churchill, making his way through the throng. “You have brought honor to the college,” and he shook Tom’s hand heartily.
“The rest of them did as much as I,” replied Tom modestly. “If it hadn’t been for Clinton’s run, I’m afraid we’d have lost after all.”
“You get out!” cried Phil.
“May I also congratulate you?” asked a voice at Tom’s elbow, and he turned to see Miss Tyler. His face, which was pale from pain, flushed, and as she held out her hand he hesitated, for his was all stained from the dirt of the ball, while hers was daintily gloved.
“As if I minded that!” she cried as she saw him hesitate, and she took his hand in both hers, to the no small damage of the new gloves.
“I knew you’d do it,” she said, while she smiled happily. “Oh, Tom, I’m so glad!”
“So am I,” he answered, and after that the pain in his arm did not seem so bad.
What a triumphant procession it was that wended its way toward Randall that afternoon! How song followed song and cheer was piled upon cheer! Tom sat in the corner of a big auto, with Miss Tyler at his side. He had to put his arm in a sling and he was overwhelmed with questions as to how he felt, while the number of sweaters offered him as cushions would have stocked a furnishing store.
“Oh, boy, but you’re a daisy!” exclaimed Sid a few hours later when he and Tom, after a good bath, were resting in their room.
“As if you didn’t cover first base as it never has been covered before,” declared Tom.
“Oh, well, that was easy for me after I passed that Latin exam. But you and your arm—I don’t see how you did it.”
“And don’t forget Phil Clinton. That was one of the greatest runs and catches I ever saw.”
“Oh, yes, it certainly was great. But did you hear the news? Phil isn’t going to play any more, at least for the present.”
“Why not?”
“He is going into training for our football eleven this fall. Some of the older heads think he’ll make a great player.”
“I’ve no doubt he will,” said Tom. “He’s built for it.” And what Tom said was true, as we shall learn in our next tale, to be called “A Quarter-back’s Pluck.” In that story we shall meet Tom and Sid and all the boys of Randall College again and also Miss Madge Tyler, and learn the particulars of several fiercely contested games on the gridiron.
“No, sir, I don’t really see how you did it,” repeated Sid, “with such a sore arm as that.”
“I don’t see, either,” answered Tom, but he knew that the memory of a certain girl had done as much to keep him up as had his desire to make his team win.
Some one knocked at the door.
“More congratulatory calls,” said Sid as he went to open it.
“May I come in?” asked a voice, and Langridge stood in the corridor. Tom arose from the couch where he was lying.
“Come on in,” he said quietly.
“I—I just want to congratulate you, dominie,” he said, and he smiled a little, but there was a curious note in his voice. “You did magnificent work. I could never have equaled it in a thousand years. Will you shake hands?”
Sid wondered at the queer air of restraint about Langridge, but Tom understood, and there was heartiness and forgiveness in the grip that followed.
“I’ve resigned as manager,” went on Langridge. “I—I hope they’ll elect you, dominie. We won’t be rivals any more.”
“Are you going to leave college?” asked Sid curiously.
“No. I’m going to give up athletics for a while, though, and become a grind. I’ve been beaten two ways lately,” he went on. “Parsons is a better pitcher than I am, and—and——” but he did not finish, though Tom knew he referred to Miss Tyler. Then Langridge went out and Sid and Tom played the game all over again in talk.
Suddenly there was a shout out on the campus. Tom looked from the window.
“What is it?” asked Sid.
“They’re getting ready for the procession and the bonfires along the river. Come on.”
The two chums rushed downstairs, Phil Clinton joining them on the way. Out on the green was a throng of students, every one in the college.
“Three cheers for Tom Parsons, the best pitcher that ever tossed a ball!” called some one.
How the yells resounded again and again, with innumerable tigers and other wild and ferocious beasts added!
“Fall in! fall in! Down to the fires along the river!” commanded Captain Woodhouse. “Oh, but this is a great day!”
“That’s what,” added Ford Fenton. “My uncle says——”
But his voice was drowned in the shout that followed, and then came that inspiring song, “Aut vincere aut mori.”
And many fires of victory blazed along Sunny River that night.
THE END
THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES
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