“Well I say now! I wonder what’s up? Could I have——” Thus began Shambler to commune with himself as he watched Tom. “Something’s wrong. He doesn’t like Langridge and Gerhart, that’s evident. I must find out about this.”
Which he very soon did, after a short talk with his new chums, and my readers may be sure that Tom and his friends did not get any of the best of the showing, in the account Langridge and his crony gave of their affair, and the reasons for their withdrawal to Boxer Hall, told of in a previous volume of this series.
“Humph! If that’s the kind of lads they are I don’t want anything to do with them,” said Shambler, as he gazed after the retreating inseparables, following the tale of Langridge and Gerhart.
“They’re not our style at all,” declared Langridge with a sneer. “Still, don’t let us keep you from them, if you’d rather train in their camp.”
“Oh, I’m out for a good time!” declared Shambler boastfully. “I only tried to get in with them as I heard they were in the athletic crowd, and——”
“Hot athletes they are!” sneered Gerhart. “Say, if this talked-of an all-around athletic contest comes off this Spring, and our college goes in for it, we’ll wipe up the field with Randall, and Fairview too. They won’t know they started. I don’t see why you didn’t come to Boxer Hall, Shambler.”
“I wish I had, but it’s too late now. But say, I’m going in for athletics, even if you fellows think you can do us up. I don’t have to train with the Parsons crowd to do it though.”
“No,” admitted Langridge. “And so you offered to introduce Tom Parsons to us. Ha! Ha! No wonder he shied off!” and he laughed sneeringly. “But, if we’re going to town, come on before it gets too late.” And with that the trio swung off toward the trolley line that would take them to Haddonfield.
Meanwhile Tom and his chums tramped over the snow-covered campus, idly kicking the white flakes aside.
“Doesn’t look much like baseball; does it?” remarked Tom, as he made a snowball, and tossed it high in the air.
“No, but it can’t last forever,” declared Sid. “I say, did any of you hear anything more about having a track team, and going in for field athletics this Spring?”
“Only general talk,” replied Phil.
“There goes Dutch Housenlager,” spoke Frank. “Let’s see if he knows anything.”
“He’s got his back turned,” whispered Tom. “It’s a good chance to play a joke on him. Get in front of him, Sid, and be talking to him. I’ll sneak up, and kneel down in back. Then give him a gentle push and he’ll upset and turn a somersault over me.”
“Good!” ejaculated Phil. “It will be one that we’ve owed Dutch for a long time.”
The trick was soon in process of being played. While Sid held the big lad in earnest conversation, about the possibility of a track team for Randall, Tom silently knelt down behind him. Then Sid, seeing that all was in readiness, spoke:
“Have you seen the new style of putting the shot, Dutch?”
“Not that I know of,” replied the unsuspecting one. “How is it done?”
“This way,” answered Sid as, with a quick pressure against the chest of Dutch, he sent him sprawling over Tom’s bent back, legs and arms outstretched.
“Here! I say! Wow! What——”
But the rest that Dutch gave expression to was unintelligible, for he and Tom were rolling over and over in the snow, tightly clenched.
“Event number one. Putting the shot!” cried Sid, after the manner of an announcer giving a score at track games, “Dutch Housenlager thirty-seven feet, six and one-quarter inches!”
“Oh, dry up!” commanded Dutch, as he skillfully tripped Tom, who had arisen to his feet. “That’s one on me all right. Now, if you fellows are done laughing, I’ve got a bit of news for you.”
“About athletics?” asked Frank eagerly.
“No, but we’re going to have a new teacher in Pitchfork’s place to-morrow.”
“No!” cried Tom, half disbelieving, as he got up and brushed the snow from his garments.
“But yes!” insisted Dutch. “Our beloved and respected Professor Emerson Tines—alias Pitchfork—has been called to deliver a lecture on the habits of the early Romans contrasted with those of the cave dwellers. It’s to take place before some high-brow society to-night, and he can’t get back here to-morrow in time to take his classes. He’s going to provide a substitute.”
“Oh joy!” cried Phil.
“Wait,” cautioned Frank. “The remedy may be worse than the disease.”
“Who’s the sub?” asked Tom.
“Professor H. A. Broadkins, according to the bulletin board,” replied Dutch.
“What’s ‘H. A.’ stand for?” Sid wanted to know.
“Ha! Ha! of course,” replied Tom promptly.
“Joke!” spoke Frank solemnly.
“Harold Archibald,” declared Sid. “Oh, say, we won’t do a thing to him. I’ll wager he’s one of these pink and white little men, who wears a number twelve collar, and parts his hair in the middle, so he can walk a crack. Say, will to-morrow ever come?”
“Don’t take too much for granted,” advised Dutch. “I picked out a Harold Archibald once as an easy mark, and I got left. This may not be the same one, but—well, come on down the street. I’ve got a quarter that’s burning a hole in my pocket, and we might as well help Dobbins raise the mortgage on his drug store, by getting some hot chocolate there.”
“Pro bono publico!” ejaculated Tom. “Your deeds will live after you, Dutch.”
“And if you upset me again, you’ll go to an early grave,” declared the big lad, as the five strolled off to recuperate after the arduous labors of the day.
When Tom and his chums filed into Latin recitation the next morning, there was a feeling of expectancy on all sides, for the word had gone around that there might be “something doing” in regard to the professor who had come to temporarily fill the place of “Pitchfork.”
No one had seen him, as yet, but his probable name of “Harold Archibald,” had been bandied about until it was felt sure that it was an index to his character and build. Judge then, of the surprise of the lads, when they found awaiting them a tall man of dark complexion, with a wealth of dark hair, and a face like that of some football player. He was muscular to a degree. There was a gasp of distinct surprise, and several lads who had come “not prepared” began to dip surreptitiously into their Latin books, while others, who had contemplated various and sundry tricks, at once gave them over.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” began Professor H. A. Broadkins, in a deep, but not unpleasant voice. (It developed later that his name was Hannibal Achilles.) “I am sorry your regular teacher is not here, but I will do the best I can. You will recite in the usual way.”
Thereupon, much to the surprise of the boys, he began giving them a little history of the particular lesson for the day, roughly sketching the events which led up to the happenings, and giving reasons for them. It was much more interesting than when “Pitchfork” had the class and the boys did their best.
But Dutch Housenlager had to have his joke.
The lesson had to do with some of the Roman conquests, and, in order to illustrate how a certain battle was fought the professor, by means of books constructed a sort of model walled city. The besiegers were represented by more books, outside the walls.
“This was one of the first battles in which the catapult was used,” went on the instructor. “You can imagine the surprise of the besieged army when the Romans wheeled this great engine of war close to the walls, and began hurling great stones. In a measure the catapult served to cover the attack on another part of the city.
“For instance we will make a sort of catapult by means of this ruler. This piece of mineral will do for the stone, and er—I think I will ask one of you young men to assist me—er—you,” and he pointed to Dutch. “Just come here, and you may work the catapult when I give the word. I want to show the class how the other division of the army sapped the walls.”
There came into the eyes of Dutch a gleam of mischief, as he looked at the improvised catapult. It consisted of a ruler balanced on a book, with a piece of mineral, from a cabinet of geological specimens, for the stone. By tapping the unweighted end of the ruler smartly the rock could be made to fly over into the midst of the besieged city. But Dutch also noticed something else.
There was, on the table where the professor had laid out his map of battle, an inkwell. When he thought the teacher was not looking Dutch substituted the ink for the stone. A tap on the ruler would now send the inkwell flying. Mr. Broadkins did not seem to notice this as he went on with his preparations to sap the city walls.
“Now we are all ready,” he announced. “You may operate the catapult,” he added, apparently not looking at it, and Dutch, with a grin at his chums, prepared to hit the ruler a good blow. He calculated that the ink would be well distributed.
Suddenly the professor changed his plans. Without seemingly looking at Dutch, or the catapult, he said:
“On second thoughts you may come here—er—Mr. Housenlager. I will work the catapult, and you may represent the invading division. All ready now. Stand here.”
Dutch dared not disobey, nor dare he change the inkwell for the innocent stone. Yet he knew, and all the class could see, that he was standing where he would get a dusky bath in another minute. And the professor appeared all unconscious of the inkwell.
“Ready!” called Mr. Broadkins, and he struck the unweighted end of the ruler a smart blow.
Up into the air rose the bottle of ink. It described a graceful curve, and then descended. Dutch tried to dodge, but, somehow, he was not quick enough, and the inkwell hit him on the shoulder. Up splashed the black fluid, and a moment later Dutch looked like a negro minstrel, while a new pink tie, of which he was exceedingly proud, took on a new and wonderful pattern in burnt cork splatter design.
“Wow! Wuff!” spluttered the fun-loving student, as some ink went in his mouth. And then the class roared.
Professor Broadkins looked up, as if mildly surprised at the merriment of the students. He glanced over into the walled city that he had constructed out of books, and then at Dutch. The sight of that worthy, with ink dripping from him appeared to solve the mystery.
“Why, er—Housenlager—what happened?” inquired the instructor. “Did some one——?”
“It was the catapult,” explained Dutch. “I—er——” he choked out.
Then the professor seemed to understand.
“Oh—ink!” he said, innocently. “You used the inkwell.”
“Yes,” assented Dutch. “I—er—put the bottle on the ruler, instead of the rock. I——”
“I understand,” interrupted the substitute Latin instructor. “It is too bad. How did you come to make that mistake, Housenlager?”
Once more the class laughed, and the lads were not restrained.
“You had better go to the lavatory, and wash,” went on the instructor. “And I think you all have, by this time, a better idea of a catapult than you had before, even though the wrong sort of missile was used. We will now proceed with the lesson.”
It might fairly be presumed that not as much attention was paid to the following instruction as was needed, but, at the same time, there was an excuse. Dutch came back to the class toward the end of the recitation, with a clean collar and a different necktie, and when the lecture was over he did not join in the mirth of his fellow students.
“Dutch was in bad that time, all right,” remarked Sid with a laugh, as the lads strolled out on the campus.
“A regular fountain pen,” commented Tom.
“Want a blotter?” asked Phil, offering a bit of paper.
“Or a pen wiper?” added Frank. “Say, how did you come to make such a mistake, Dutch?”
“Oh, let up, will you?” begged the badgered one. “It wasn’t any mistake. I thought he’d get the ink instead of me.”
“And he changed places with you,” interposed Tom. “Well, mistakes will happen, in the best of regulated classes.”
“Oh say!” began Dutch. Then, despairing of changing the subject, unless he took drastic measures, he added: “How about coasting again to-night?”
“Say, I believe it would be sport!” chimed in Tom. “It’s getting warm, and the snow won’t last much longer. Let’s get up a crowd, and go out on the hill.”
The idea met with favor at once, and soon plans were being made for a merry time.
“Telephone over to Fairview, and get your sister and her crowd, Phil,” suggested Sid.
“Listen to the lady-killer!” jeered Tom.
“Oh, let up,” importuned Sid. “I guess I’ve got as much right as you fellows.”
“That’s the stuff! Stick up for your rights!” cried Frank.
Though the moon was not as glorious as on the previous evening, the night was a fine one, and a merry party of young men and maidens gathered on the hill with big bobs, the gongs of which made clamorous music, amid the shouts and laughter.
There were several cliques of students, but Tom and his crowd, with Phil’s sister and the girls who were her chums, clung together and had many a swift coast. It was when several were thinking of starting for home that a party of lads, with a fine, big bob appeared on the hill.
“Who wants a ride?” challenged the leader, whom Tom recognized as Shambler. “Come on, girls,” he went on, addressing Ruth Clinton, with easy familiarity. “Get on, we’ll give you a good coast.”
“We don’t care to,” said Ruth, turning aside.
“Oh, it’s perfectly safe,” insisted Shambler. “Come on! Be sports. Here, Gerhart—Langridge, help the girls on!”
“They don’t need any help!” suddenly exclaimed Tom, stepping between Shambler and Ruth.
“How do you know—are you their manager?” asked the new student with a sneer.
“No—but I’m her brother,” interposed Phil. “Come on, Ruth, we’ll walk part way with you.” He linked his arm in hers, Phil and his chums began dragging their bob away, followed by Madge Tyler, Mabel Harrison and Helen Newton.
“Humph!” sneered Shambler, audibly. “I guess we got in wrong with that bunch, fellows.”
“Forget it,” advised Langridge. “There are other girls on the hill, and it’s early yet.”
And that night, as the four chums tumbled into bed, though they did not speak of it, each one had an uneasy feeling about Shambler. It was as if a disrupting spirit had, somehow, crept into Randall.
If further evidence was needed of the pushing, and self-interested spirit of Shambler the four chums had it supplied to them a little later, at an informal dance to which they were bidden at Fairview.
Tom and Phil came in from a walk one afternoon, to find Sid and Frank eagerly waiting for them in the room. No sooner had the two entered, than Frank burst out with:
“Come on, fellows, open yours, and see if they are the same as ours.”
“Open what?” asked Tom, looking about the room. “You don’t mean to say some one has sent me a prize package; do you?”
“Or maybe Moses has sent in to say that I don’t need to study any more; that I’ve done so well that I’m to be excused from all lectures, and that my diploma is waiting for me,” spoke Phil mockingly. “Don’t tell me that, fellows; remember I have a weak heart.”
“It’s the invitations!” exclaimed Sid. “At least I think that’s what they are. We got ’em, and here are two letters—one for you, Tom, and one for Phil. Come on, open ’em, and we’ll answer, and go together.”
“Go where?” demanded Tom. “Say, what’s this all about, anyhow? What’s going on?”
“They’re all excited over it,” added Phil. “Like children.”
“Oh! for cats’ sake open ’em, and don’t keep us waiting,” begged Frank, as he reached for two envelopes that lay on the table. The missives unmistakably bore evidence of being “party bids,” but Tom kept up the tantalizing tactics a little longer, by turning his over from side to side, pretending to scrutinize the postmark, and then ended by gently smelling of the delicate perfume that emanated from it.
“Smells good enough to eat,” he said, while Phil was tearing his open.
“It’s an invitation all right,” remarked Ruth’s brother. “The girls are to give a little dance to-morrow night. Shall we go?”
“Well, rather!” exclaimed Sid quickly.
“Listen to him,” mocked Tom. “About a year ago he would no more think of going where the girls were than he would of taking in a lecture on the dead Romans. But now. Oh shades of Apollo! You can’t keep him home!”
“Oh, dry up!” exclaimed Sid.
“Humph!” mused Phil. “I suppose we can go.”
“Sure; it’ll be fun,” agreed Frank.
“How about you, Tom?” asked Sid. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”
“Sure. I was only joking,” and then Tom went over to his bureau and began rummaging among the contents of a certain drawer—contents which were in all sorts of a hodge-podge.
“By Jove!” cried Tom. “It’s gone!”
“What?” inquired Frank.
“That new tan-colored tie I bought last week. It just matched my vest. Who took it?” and he faced his chums.
“How dare you?” burst out Phil, with pretended anger. “To accuse us, when there are so many other guilty ones in Randall! How dare you?”
“Come on, fork it over, whoever took it!” demanded Tom. “Some of you have it. Caesar’s side-saddles! A fellow can’t have anything decent here any more! I’m going to have locks put on my bureau!”
“What do you want of that tan-colored tie, anyhow?” asked Sid.
“Oh, so you’re the guilty one!” cried Tom. “I’ll get it,” and he strode over to his chum’s bureau, where, from a drawer, after a short search, he pulled the missing tie.
“All crumpled up, too!” he exclaimed, as he looked at it ruefully. “I’ll fix you for this, Sid.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to muss it so. I just borrowed it to wear the other night, and we got to skylarking, and——”
“Skylarking with a girl!” cried Frank aghast. “Say, you are going some, Sid.”
“Oh, I only tried to——”
“Kiss her—I know,” went on Frank relentlessly. “You ought to be given the ‘silence.’ But in view of the fact that there are mitigating circumstances, and that you wore another fellow’s tie, we will suspend sentence. But don’t let it occur again. Now about this glad-rag affair.”
“That’s it,” broke in Phil. “I don’t see why Tom made such a fuss about that tie. He can’t wear it to the dance, anyhow.”
“Why not? Is it a full-dress affair?” asked the owner of the tan scarf, as he carefully smoothed it out.
“Sure it is.”
“Oh, then that’s different. I didn’t know.”
“And you bully-ragging me the way you did!” reproached Sid. “Never mind. I still have some friends left. But I’ll pay for having your little new tie put in shape again, Tommy my boy. I’ll buy you new inner tubes for it, and a shoe, and you can have all the gasolene you want to make it go.”
“Oh, shut up!” retorted Tom, and he began to rummage in his drawer once more.
“What now?” asked Phil.
“My studs. I suppose some one has pinched them.”
But no one had, and Tom’s sudden energy in looking to see if he had all things needful for the dance suggested to the others that they might profitably do the same thing.
The invitations, which had come by special delivery, were put away with similar ones, and other relics of good times in the past, and then the boys began talking about the coming affair. Lessons for the next day were not as well prepared as usual, as might easily be imagined.
And the night of the dance! For the preserving of the reputations of my heroes in particular, and all young men in general I am not going to give the details of the “primping” that went on in the rooms of the four inseparables.
“It is simply disgraceful to see decent, well-behaved and seemingly intelligent human beings behave so,” Holly Cross remarked as he dropped in when the four were getting into their “glad rags.” He went on: “I never would have believed it—never, if I had not seen it with my own eyes.”
“Get out! You’re mad because you’re not going,” said Tom, as he made up his white tie for about the fifth time.
“I wouldn’t so lower myself!” shot back Holly, as he went out.
But at last the boys were ready, and, talk about girls taking a long time to—well, but there, I promised to say nothing about it. Anyhow, at last they were off.
The dances at Fairview were always enjoyable affairs, and this one was no exception. The girl friends of our heroes were awaiting them.
“I hope your cards aren’t all filled,” greeted Tom.
“There is one dance left for each of you,” spoke Madge Tyler, but her laughing eyes stopped the protest that arose to Tom’s lips.
“You don’t mean it!” he burst out, as he took the program from her. Then a look showed him that there were many vacant spaces which he proceeded to fill. Madge laughed mischievously.
“Whose name was down here, that you rubbed off?” demanded Tom suspiciously. Miss Tyler blushed.
“Oh, that’s some of your Randall manners,” she burst out.
“Randall manners! What do you mean?” asked Tom.
“A little while ago,” she explained, “just before you boys came, I was standing near a pillar. Someone came up behind me, and snatched my program from my hand. Before I could stop him he had scribbled his name down. But I rubbed it out.”
“Do you mean a Randall man did that?”
“He did.”
“Who was he?”
“Mr. Shambler.”
“That lout again!” murmured Tom. “I’ll teach him a lesson.”
“No, don’t,” begged Madge. “I told him what I thought of him myself.”
“Good!” exclaimed Tom, and then he detailed the circumstances to his chums. They agreed that Jake Shambler would have to be taught a severe lesson if his “freshness” did not subside soon.
Not at all rebuffed by what had happened, however, Shambler asked some of the other girls in Miss Tyler’s set to dance with him, but they refused. However he managed to find some partners, including the girl who had invited him. He greeted our heroes with breezy familiarity, and they could do no less than bow coldly. But Shambler did not seem to mind.
The dance went on, and the inseparables had a fine time. Doubtless their girl friends did also, and it was not until an early hour that the affair ended.
“And to think that we won’t have another for at least a month!” groaned Tom, as he and his chums wended their way Randallward.
“And you’re the chap that was making such a fuss about a tan tie,” murmured Sid. “Look at yours now. There’s nothing left of it.”
“No, nor my collar either,” replied Tom, feeling of his wilted linen, for he had danced much.
A week, in the early Spring, can work wonders. One day there may be snow covering everything. Then a few hours of warm sun, a warm South wind, and it seems as if the buds were just ready to burst forth.
So it was at Randall. The brown grass on the campus began taking on a little hue of green. There was a spirit of unrest in the air. Lectures were cut in the most unaccountable way. Several lads were seen out on the diamond wherefrom the frost was hardly yet drawn. Balls began to be tossed back and forth.
Down by the river, where, because of the sloping land, it was dryer than elsewhere a little group of lads were gathered about one of their number.
“Now for a good one, Grasshopper!” someone cried.
“I’m going to do seventeen or bust a leg!” came the answer.
“What’s going on over there?” asked Tom of his three chums, who were strolling about.
“Pete Backus is doing his annual Spring hop,” said Phil.
“Let’s go watch him,” suggested Sid.
“He’s getting in training for the games,” declared Frank. “I think I’ll enter myself if they hold ’em.”
“Well, there’s been a lot of talk lately,” put in Tom. “Exter Academy is hot for ’em, and I understand Boxer Hall and Fairview would come in with us, on a quadruple league for the all-around championship. But let’s look at Backus.”
“How much?” cried the long-legged lad as he made his jump. “Did I beat my record?”
“Sixteen-nine,” announced a lad with a measuring tape.
“I’ll make it seventeen!” declared Grasshopper. “Oh, hello, Tom!” he cried. “Say, are you going in for it?”
“For what?”
“The games—new league—didn’t you hear about it?”
“No!” cried the quartette in a chorus.
“Oh, it’s going to be great,” went on the lad who imagined he was a jumper. “I’m going in for the running broad, and maybe the high. I’m practicing now.”
“Say, tell us about it,” begged Phil.
“Oh, there’s nothing settled,” interposed Jerry Jackson. “Some of the fellows are talking of getting up a league for all-around athletics, and I think it would be a good thing.”
“Is it only talk so far?” asked Tom.
“That’s all,” replied Joe Jackson, the other Jersey twin. “But there is going to be a preliminary meeting in a few nights, and then it will be decided. Are you fellows in for it?”
“We sure are!” cried the four friends.
The idea spread rapidly, and a few nights later there was a preliminary meeting in the Randall gymnasium concerning the new league. Representatives were present from Fairview, Boxer Hall and Exter, and one and all declared themselves in favor of something to open the season before the baseball schedule had the call.
“What will you go in for, Tom?” asked Sid, as the four inseparables were in their room after the committee session.
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I won’t do much. I’m going to save myself for the diamond. There’s enough others to uphold the honor of Randall. There are Frank, and Phil and you.”
“But we want a good representation. How about the mile run for you?”
“Nothing doing. Frank, you ought to go in for the hammer throw, the shot put, and for the weight throwing.”
“Maybe I will. I understand there are some good lads at those sports at Boxer and Fairview.”
“Yes, and some here.”
“Shambler’s going to enter, I hear,” added Phil.
“What for?” queried Sid.
“The mile run, and some jumping.”
“Well, he looks good, though I don’t exactly cotton to him. Say, things will be lively here soon,” commented Frank. “I guess I’ll begin training.”
“Better come in, Tom,” advised Sid.
“No, I’ll wait a while.”
“It isn’t about that trouble at home; is it?” asked Sid in a low voice.
“Well, in a way, yes,” admitted Tom. “You see I don’t know when I may have to leave here, and it wouldn’t be just right to enter for a contest and then have to drop out.”
“Do you think it would be as bad as that?”
“It might be—there’s no telling.”
“Tom,” said Sid, and his voice took on a new tone. “I think you ought to enter, and practice up to the last minute. If you have to drop out, of course, that’s a different matter. But I think you ought to do your best.”
“Why? There are plenty of others. Why should I?”
“Why? For the honor of Randall, of course. You never were a quitter, and——”
“And I’m not going to begin now,” finished Tom with a smile. “I’ll enter the games, Sid.”
“I thought you would,” was the quiet answer.
“Shove over, Tom.”
“Say, what do you want, the whole sofa?”
“No, but give a fellow his share, can’t you?” and Phil looked down on his chum, who was sprawled over a goodly part of the ancient and honorable article of furniture. “Sid has one armchair, and Frank the other, and I want some place to rest my weary bones,” declared Phil. “I’ve been out with the natural history class after bugs, and other specimens, and I’ll wager we walked ten miles. Give me a place to rest.”
“Try the floor,” grunted Tom, who was too comfortable to move. “What do you want to come in for raising a row, just as we’re nice and cozy?”
“Say, haven’t I a right here?” demanded Phil. “Who helped fix that old sofa, I’d like to know, when all its bones were showing? Give me a whack at it, Tom.”
But Tom refused to budge, and presently, in the room of the four inseparables, there was a scuffling sound, and the tall pitcher felt himself being suddenly slewed around by the feet, until there was room enough for another on the sofa. But Phil did the gymnastic act too well, for he shoved Tom a bit too far, and, a moment later one hundred and fifty pounds more or less, slumped to the floor with a jar.
“There, now you have done it!” cried Sid, as he sprang from one of the easy chairs, and made a grab for the fussy little alarm clock, that had been jarred from its place on the table by the concussion of Tom’s fall.
“Grab it!” yelled Frank.
“Safe!” ejaculated Sid, holding it up. “But it was a close call. The next time you fellows want to do the catch-as-catch-can, go out in the hall. This is a gentleman’s resort, mind.”
“I’ll punch your head—if I think of it to-morrow,” grumbled Tom, who had been half asleep when Phil so unceremoniously awakened him. “Remind me of it—somebody.”
“On your peril,” laughed Phil, as he grabbed up some of the cushions which had fallen under his chum, and made an easy place for himself on the now vacant sofa. Tom continued to lie on the floor.
“Anything doing outside when you came in?” asked Frank.
“Not much. I stopped in the gym, and a lot of the fellows were talking track athletics, and Grasshopper was jumping.”
“It looks as if there’d be something doing this Spring,” commented Frank. “I was talking to Holly Cross, Kindlings and some of the others, and there’s a good show for the new league. All the other teams are hot for it. We’ve got to have several more meetings though, and see if we can get enough cash to buy the prizes, and arrange for the meet.”
“Would it be held here on our grounds?” asked Tom, showing a sudden interest.
“Well, some of the fellows want it here, and Boxer Hall is going to make a strong bid for it,” said Sid. “I think, and so does Kindlings, that it ought to be on some neutral field.”
“I agree with Dan Woodhouse,” remarked Frank, giving “Kindlings” his right name. “A neutral field will be fair to all. Well, if this weather keeps on we’ll be out practicing in a few weeks.”
But, though the weather did not bear out the promise of the first few warm days of Spring, there was still plenty of practice. The enthusiasm over a track meet grew, and many more lads than were expected put in an appearance at the gymnasium, to try out their skill over the hurdles, vaulting the bar, in hundred yard dashes, putting the weight, shot and hammer, while any number said they were going to try to qualify for the mile run, and the broad and high jumps.
Meanwhile, more or less correspondence went on among the athletic committees of the four institutions that naturally would form the new league, if matters came to a head. Exter was comparatively a new college, but she stood well to the fore in athletics.
The end of the Winter was at hand, when one night there came an unprecedented freeze. Tom and his chums awakened shivering in their quarters, for the window had been left open, and the thermometer was away down.
“Wow! Somebody turn on the heat!” cried Tom, poking his nose out from under the covers.
“It’s Phil’s turn,” declared Sid.
“It is not,” was the answer.
“I’ll toss you for it, Sid,” put in Frank, leaping out of bed, and reaching for his trousers to get a coin. “Call!”
“Heads!” shouted Sid.
“It’s tails,” declared the big Californian.
“Oh, well, turn it on, like a good fellow, now that you’re up,” advised Tom.
“Well, I like your nerve!” ejaculated Frank with a laugh, but, good naturedly, he did as he was asked, and soon the radiator was thumping and pounding away, while the boys waited a few minutes longer before venturing out from under the warm covers.
“There’ll be skating all right!” declared Tom, as he breathed on the frosty window. “We’ll have a last glide on Sunny River. Who’s for a spin before breakfast?”
“Not for mine!” cried Phil, and none of the others showed an inclination to stroll out in the frosty air until necessary. Before chapel, however, several of the lads paid a visit to the stream, coming back with glowing reports of the smooth ice.
“A hockey game this afternoon!” cried Tom, after lectures, and scores of others agreed with him.
“Not until some of you blue-jays do your turn in the gym!” declared Kindlings and Holly Cross, who had constituted themselves a sort of coaching pair, pending the selection of a regular trainer for the track games.
Mr. Lighton, the professional coach was temporarily absent, and it was not known whether he would be back in time to take charge of the various squads or not.
“Do you mean to say you’re going to make us practice, when it may be the last chance for a skate?” asked Tom.
“I sure am,” replied Holly. “But we’ll cut it short. Come on now, fellows, no backing out. We got to the top of the heap at football and baseball, and we don’t want to slump on the track. Randall must be kept to the fore.”
“That’s right!” came the cry, and the lads piled off for the gymnasium, where they indulged in some hard practice.
“That new fellow, Shambler, seems to be doing some good jumping,” remarked Phil to Tom, as the two were doing a little jog around the track.
“Yes, I wonder where’s he from, anyhow? I never heard much about him while he was at Harkness—I wonder if he really is from that college?”
“Give it up. What difference does it make, anyhow? Harkness was a small college, and her records didn’t count. But Shambler sure can jump. He’s as good at the high as he is at the broad. There he goes for another try, and they’ve got it up to the four-foot-ten mark I guess.”
“Four eleven,” remarked Phil, who could read the marks on the standards. “If he does that he’s a good one. The record is five feet seven.”
“There—he did it and a couple of inches over,” cried Tom, as Shambler made a magnificent leap. “Say, we need him all right.”
“That’s so. I only wish he was a little more companionable. He trains too much in with that Boxer Hall sporting set, to suit me.”
“Yes, too bad. But it can’t be helped. Now he’s going to try the broad. Let’s watch him.”
Shambler came up to the take-off on the run, and shot into the air. Forward like a stone from a catapult he went and unable to recover himself he crashed full into Tom, who was standing watching.
“Look out!” cried Shambler, as he hung on to Tom to avoid falling. “What are you trying to do, anyhow? Queer my jump? I’d have broken my record, only for you!” He spoke in angry tones.
“I’m sorry,” began Tom, “I didn’t——”
“Looks as though you got there on purpose,” interrupted the jumper, flashing a black look at Tom. “Isn’t the gym big enough for you?”
“Look here!” cried Tom, nettled at the tone. “I said I was sorry for what I couldn’t help, and that ought to be enough. I didn’t mean to get in your way, and if I spoiled your jump——”
“You spoiled it all right,” broke out Shambler. “Now I’ve got to try over again. Get back out of the way!” he ordered to Tom and Phil, as though they were the veriest freshmen, instead of being upper-classmen.
“You——” spluttered Tom, but Phil caught him by the sleeve.
“Don’t say it,” he advised. “Let the cad alone. If he’s like that, the sooner Randall knows it the better.”
“All right,” answered Tom in a low voice, swallowing his just wrath, and he swung aside. Shambler tried the jump again, and, though he did exceedingly well there was little applause for him from the watching throng, for many of the lads had heard what he said to Tom.
“There, I guess we’ve done our share!” exclaimed Tom, after a bit. “Come on out on the ice now, Phil, Sid and Frank have gone, and we don’t want to get left on a hockey game.”
Sunny River was thronged with students, and soon several games were in progress. A number of the girls and boys from Fairview Institute skated down, and among them was Phil’s sister Ruth, and her three girl chums. Naturally Tom and his three friends soon deserted the hockey game to skate with the girls, not heeding the entreaties of their companions.
“Let the lady killers go!” sneered Shambler, who had taken his place in one of the games. “We want sports in our crowd.”
“We must go home early,” said Ruth after a bit. “We are to have a class meeting to-night, and I’m one of the hostesses.”
“Strictly a girls’ party?” asked Tom.
“No boys allowed,” was the laughing answer, and after some pleasantries the four girls started up the frozen surface of the stream, their escorts going down. The hockey games were over, and many of the players had taken off their skates. Turning to wave a farewell to Ruth and the others, Tom saw a solitary lad skating near them.
“There’s Shambler,” he thought. “I guess he’d like to do some lady-killing on his own account. I hope the girls don’t get skating with him.”
Tom, who had lingered a few moments, now spurted ahead to catch up to his companions, who were some distance in advance. He had almost reached them when he was aware of some one skating rapidly up behind him. He wheeled about to behold Shambler, with a white, set face, coming on like the wind. And, a second later, Tom heard the screams of the girls and saw but two where, a moment before, there had been four.
“What—what happened?” he gasped.
“They—they went through the ice I guess!” panted Shambler. “They were near me, and I heard it crack. I—I skated away—I wanted to get help. I—I——”
“You skated away!” thundered Tom. “Sid—Phil—fellows! The girls are through the ice—an air hole I guess—come on back! Shambler—Shambler skated away!” he murmured under his breath as he looked unutterable things at the new lad. “Come on, boys!”
There was a ring of steel on ice. Four figures turned and like the wind shot up the river, while Tom, in the lead, shouted:
“We’re coming—we’re coming. To the rescue! Keep away from the edge, girls!” He wanted to warn back the two who had not fallen in.
“I—I can’t swim,” murmured the white-faced Shambler, as he kept on down the river. “I—I’ll get a doctor.”
“Who is it? Who fell in?” gasped Phil, as he gained a place at Tom’s side.
“I don’t know,” was the strained answer, as Tom gazed eagerly ahead to make out the figures of the two girls, who, clinging together, stood near the hole through which their companions had disappeared.
“Can’t you see who they are?” went on Phil, half piteously, appealing to his chums. “Is—is——”
They knew what he meant, though he did not finish the sentence.
“It can’t be Ruth,” said Tom softly. “Ruth is standing there—with Madge Tyler.”
Yet, even as he spoke, he knew that it was not so. For the two girls on the ice, frantically turning to note the progress of the rescuing lads, disclosed their faces to the hurrying quartette, and it was seen that they were Mabel Harrison and Helen Newton.
“Ruth—Ruth is in the water!” gasped Phil, for he too saw now that his sister was missing.
“And Miss Tyler!” added Frank.
Then, without another word, the four boys skated on as they had never skated before, not even when a race was to be won—or lost. Tom gave a glance back, and saw Shambler heading for the shore. A fierce wave of anger swept over him, but he said nothing to his chums of the apparent act of cowardice.
“Is she there? Holding on to the ice? Are they both there, girls?” gasped Phil, as he covered the intervening distance between himself and the two frightened girls.
“Oh, boys, hurry!” called Mabel. “They are both holding on to the ice, but they can’t last much longer. It’s cracking all the while. We tried to go near, but it bends with us!”
“Keep back! Keep back!” shouted Tom. “Don’t you two go in. Fence rails, fellows! Fence rails are what we need!”
He and the others skated near enough to see the two girlish figures in the water, clinging to the ragged edges of the icy hole.
“Ruth! Ruth! Can you hold on a little longer?” gasped Phil.
“Ye-e-e-s!” was the shivering answer.
“And you, Madge?” cried Tom.
“Yes, but be quick—as you can,” she said, and her voice was faint.
“Off with our skates! Lay the rails on the ice and they’ll support our weight!” cried Sid, catching Tom’s idea, and leaping toward a fence on shore.
It was done in a trice, and, a moment later several long rails were stretched over the gaping hole. This gave firm support, and willing hands and sturdy arms soon raised the two dripping figures from the ice-cold water. The girls all but collapsed as they were dragged to safety.
“What shall we do with ’em?” asked Frank, who, truth to tell, had hitherto had little to do with girls.
“We must get them to some warm place at once!” cried Tom. “There’s a house over there. Mabel, you and Helen run over and tell ’em to get the fires good and hot, and have plenty of hot water. We’ll bring the girls over. Come boys, off with our coats and wrap ’em up.”
“Oh, but you’ll get c-c-c-cold!” protested Madge.
“What of it?” cried Sid sharply, as he peeled off his thick jacket and wrapped it around the shivering girl. His companions covered Ruth, and then Tom had an idea.
“Make a chair, fellows!” he cried. “A chair with our hands, and two of us can carry each girl. It’s the quickest way. Their dresses are freezing now.”
The tall pitcher’s plan was at once adopted. Wrapped in the boys’ coats, the girls were lifted up on the hands of the lads in the old familiar fashion, and then the journey to the farmhouse was begun, Mabel and Helen having preceded the little party.
“Come right in!” invited an elderly woman as she stood in the doorway. “We’ll soon have you as warm as toast. You boys bring in some more wood. Oh, it’s too bad! I’ll soon have some hot lemonade for ’em. You must get your wet things off, dearies.”
She was a motherly old soul, and with the assistance of her daughter, and Mabel and Helen, the half-drowned ones were soon fairly comfortable, while generous potions of hot lemonade warded off possible colds.
“It all happened so suddenly,” said Ruth when, some little time later, her brother and his chums were admitted to the room where the two girls were wrapped in blankets, and sitting in big chairs before a roaring fire. “We were skating on when, all of a sudden, the ice gave way, and Madge and I found ourselves in the water. Oh, I thought we would come up under the ice, and have to stay there until——” She stopped with a shudder.
“Don’t talk about it, Ruth dear,” begged her chum.
“It’s a good thing the boys were so close,” spoke Mabel. “They came like the wind, but, even then, I thought they would never get there.”
“I wonder if we can go back to school?” ventured Ruth.
“Certainly not,” decided her brother. “You must be kept good and warm, and——”
“But, Phil dear, perhaps they haven’t room here for us, and——”
“Yes we have,” interrupted the woman. “I’ve plenty of spare beds. You just make yourselves comfortable. Well, I declare, here comes Dr. Nash,” and she looked out of the window as the medical man, who had been summoned by Shambler, walked in the front yard. The physician continued the treatment already so well begun, and said, with a good night’s sleep, the young ladies would be none the worse off for the affair.
It was arranged that Mabel and Helen should go back to Fairview, to report the accident, and that Madge and Ruth should remain at the farmhouse over night. The boys, after making sure there was nothing more they could do, took their leave.
“Whew! That was a mighty close call!” gasped Phil, when they were once more skating toward Randall. “It gave me the cold shivers.”
“Same here,” added Tom.
“How’d you come to see ’em fall in?” asked Frank.
“I didn’t,” replied Tom. “I—er—some one told me.”
“Oh, yes, Shambler,” interposed Sid. “I wonder why he didn’t——”
Tom took a sudden resolve. It was within his power then to break Shambler—utterly to destroy his reputation among his fellow-students, for there was no doubt but that the new lad had acted the part of a coward. And, as Tom thought of the mean actions of the fellow in the gymnasium that afternoon, he was tempted to tell what he knew. Randall was no place for cowards.
And yet——
Tom seemed to see himself back in the room with his chums. He saw them lolling on the old sofa, or in the big chairs. He heard the ticking of the fussy little alarm clock, and with that there seemed to come to him a still, small voice, urging him to choose the better way—the more noble way.
“Shambler,” repeated Frank, “he——”
“He saw us going to the rescue I guess,” put in Tom quietly. “He saw that we could beat him skating and he—he ran for the doctor. It was—the wisest thing he could do.”
“That’s so,” agreed Phil. “I didn’t think of that. I must thank Shambler when I see him.”
Tom kept silent, but he thought deeply, and he knew that Phil’s thanks would be as dead-sea apples to Shambler.
“Come on, let’s hit it up,” proposed Frank. “I’m cold.” And they skated on rapidly.
They were soon at Randall, where the story of the rescue had preceded them, and they were in for no end of congratulations and hearty claps on the back.
“You fellows have all the luck,” complained Holly Cross. “I never rescued a pretty girl yet.”
“No, Holly’s too bashful,” added Dutch Housenlager! “He’d want to be introduced before he saved her life.”
“Or else he’d pass over his card, to introduce himself,” added Jerry Jackson. “Then he’d tell her what college he was from, and want to know whether she would have any serious objection to being pulled from the icy H2O by the aforesaid Holly.”
“You get out!” cried the badgered one. “I can save girls as well as anyone, only I never get the chance.”
“You’re not quick enough,” suggested Dutch. “You should be on the lookout to get a life-saving medal. But, all joking aside, Tom, was it at all serious?”
“It sure was,” came the reply. “It looked to be touch and go for a few minutes.”
On his way to the library that evening, to get a book he needed in preparing his lessons, Tom met Shambler. The athlete looked at our hero, half shamefacedly, and asked:
“Are the—the girls all right?”
“Yes,” answered Tom shortly.
“I say, Parsons,” and Shambler’s voice had a note of pleading in it. “I—I lost my head, I guess. I was a coward, I know it. I—er—are you going to tell?”
“Of course not!” snapped Tom. “We—we don’t tell—at Randall.”
He hurried on, not stopping to hear what Shambler had to say—if anything—in the way of thanks.
“What can we do to have some fun?”
“Stand on your head.”
“Go off by yourself to a moving picture show.”
“You’re a whole circus yourself.”
It was Dutch Housenlager who had asked the question, and it was Tom Parsons and his chums who had made answers, for Dutch had invaded the precinct of their room in search of amusement, to the detriment of the studious habits of our friends.
“Oh, say now, be decent, can’t you?” pleaded Dutch. “I’m in earnest.”
“So are we,” declared Tom. “We aren’t all geniuses like you, Dutch. We have to study in order to know anything, but we can’t if you come here, begging to be amused.”
“I’ve got to do something—or bust,” declared the fun-loving lad in desperation.
“If you’re going to blow up, please go outside,” invited the big Californian solemnly. “It messes up a room horribly to have a fellow like you scattered all over it. Get outside!”
“You brute,” murmured Dutch. “After all I’ve done to add to the gaiety of Randall.”
“Work off another ink catapult on a new teacher,” advised Tom. “That’s always good for a laugh.”
“Oh, forget it,” urged Dutch, for that was a sore point with him yet, though it had happened some weeks before.
It was now several days since the rescue of the girls, and they had suffered no permanent ill effects from their break through the ice. Phil and his chums had seized on the excuse of asking about them, to pay several visits to Fairview, until Miss Philock, the aged preceptress “smelled a mouse,” as Sid said, and curtailed the visits of all but Phil, who, by virtue of being a brother, was allowed to see Ruth for a few minutes.
“But what’s the fun of going to see your own sister?” asked Phil.
“What indeed?” echoed the others, though some of them wished they were Phil.
And, as the days wore on the cold did not diminish, and the ice on the river held.
“A slim outlook for Spring games,” growled Dutch, as he sat in the chums’ room, vainly begging a suggestion for fun.
“Oh, well, warm weather will come, sooner or later,” declared Tom with a yawn, flinging a book behind the ancient couch. “How are things working out?”
“Pretty good, I guess,” replied Dutch. “Holly and Kindlings have charge of the arrangements. It’s practically decided that we’ll be one of a four-sided league. The only point is that of deciding what events to put on the program. Some want one, and some another.”
“Think Randall has any chance?” asked Phil.
“Sure,” declared Dutch. “Shambler is showing up well in the runs, and Frank here is jumping his head off, and going some with the shot and hammer. You fellows want to perk-up.”
“Oh, there’s time enough,” remarked Tom. “So Shambler is doing good work; eh?”
“Fine. I didn’t think he could. Some of the fellows seemed to think he had a yellow streak in him, but it isn’t showing, and I don’t believe it will.”
And then, it came to Tom, more forcibly than ever, that Shambler did have a yellow streak in him—the yellow streak of cowardice.
“And if it comes out at the last minute, it will be bad for Randall,” thought Tom. “But I promised to keep still, and I will. If anything happens—well, the rest of us will have to make it up, and cover it—for the honor of Randall.”
“Oh I say. I can’t stand this!” cried Dutch at length. “I’m getting the blues. Come on out, fellows. I’ve got a surprise for you. I’ve been holding it up my sleeve, thinking you’d suggest something, but, as long as you haven’t, I’m going to spring something. Chuck the books!”
“What is it?” asked Sid, glancing up in anticipation.
“Come on out on the river,” urged Dutch. “It’s early yet, and I guess Zane won’t make a fuss if we ask him for a little time off. We’re all standing well in classes, thank fortune.”
“The river!” yawned Frank. “I’ve had enough of skating for to-day.”
“It isn’t skating,” declared Dutch. “Come on. I’ll guarantee you a surprise and some fun, or you need never trust me again. It’s a fine moonlight night—as nice as when we went coasting that time. Come on!”
“What’s up?” demanded Tom. “No skylarking with the Spring exams so near.”
“Nothing worse than usual,” guaranteed Dutch. “Be sports, and come on before the wind dies out.”
“Wind! Are you going to fly kites?” asked Sid.
“Something like it. Listen. A fellow up the river has built a home-made ice boat. I saw him at it when he started, and gave him a pointer or two.”
“That’s the first I knew you were an expert on ice boats,” chimed in Phil.
“I’m not,” admitted Dutch frankly, “but he thought I was, and it was all the same. He adopted my ideas, and the fun of it is that the boat goes like a charm. He said I could take it any night I wanted to, and I’m going to borrow it now. We’ll have a sail under the moon, and blow some of the cobwebs out of our brain.”
“Say, that’s all to the ham sandwich!” cried Tom. “I’m with you.”
“If Zane will let us go,” added Sid.
The proctor, after a show of hesitation, yielded and soon the five students were walking along the edge of the frozen river.
The owner of the home-made ice yacht readily gave Dutch permission to use it, and soon the boys had slid it out on the frozen stream and prepared to hoist the sail.
“Do you know how to run it?” asked Tom of Dutch.
“Of course I do. Didn’t I help build it? All you have to do is to hoist the sail and steer. You can’t go wrong.”
“All right, you do it then,” directed Sid. “I’d be sure to have an upset.”
“Oh, it’s easy,” boasted Dutch. “Pile on.”
“Well, stop it. Wait for a fellow!” cried Phil, for the craft was even now moving slowly off before the breeze.
“Hop on!” ordered Dutch. “You can’t stop this like an auto, you know. Pile on while it’s moving.”
They managed to, somehow, and then, with Dutch at the helm, and to manage the sail, they darted off.
Now, if the truth is to be told, Dutch knew about as much of how to manage an ice boat as a Hottentot would about running a locomotive, but the Randallite was not going to admit that.
“I can sure sail up the river, for the wind is blowing that way,” he reasoned with himself. “And if it doesn’t switch around, and blow us back again, we can walk, and I’ll tell the fellows something has busted.”
Soon the ice boat began to move faster and faster.
“How’s this?” demanded Dutch proudly.
“Fine!” cried Sid. “I never knew you could sail one of these things.”
“Oh, I don’t go about telling all I know,” remarked Dutch modestly.
“How do you steer?” asked Tom.
“Same as in a sailboat,” replied the helmsman. “When you want to go to the left you shove this handle over this way, and the opposite way to go to the right. See,” and he moved the tiller to one side.
Instantly there was a mix-up, the boat suddenly overturned and five figures sprawled out on the ice, while the craft turned around as if on a point, the sail banging in the wind.
“Is—is that the way you always steer?” asked Phil sarcastically, “or was this just a special method, invented for our amusement?”
“This is his regular way,” declared Tom, rubbing his elbows. “It must be.”
“I—er—I turned too short,” stammered Dutch. “I can do better next time. Let’s right the boat.”
“Don’t have any ‘next time,’” urged Frank. “Just sail straight away, if it’s all the same to you. Hold on there!” he cried as the boat showed an inclination to go off by herself. “Whoa!”
“That’s no way to talk to an ice boat,” insisted Sid. “You should say ‘Gee-haw!’”
“Say, I know how to manage her all right,” declared Dutch. “Come on now, get on, and we’ll go on up the river.”
Somewhat less confident of their friend’s ability than at first, the boys piled on, and once more they were off. For a time all went well. The ice was smooth and hard, and the breeze powerful enough to send them along at a kiting pace. Then, as they came opposite Fairview institute, Tom had an idea.
“Let’s take a chance, and call for the girls,” he said. “The ogress can’t do more than turn us down, and she may let them come out for a spin.”
“Come on,” agreed Phil and the others.
“Can you stop this shebang?” asked Frank, of Dutch.
“Stop it? Of course I can. I’ll land you on shore at any spot you say.”
“Then put us up by the boat dock, and you can wait there until we come back. Shall we bring you a girl?”
“Not much,” was the indignant answer. “I’ve got troubles enough to manage this boat. It’s crankier than I thought it was.”
Dutch put the helm over, with the intention of steering for the shore. At that moment two figures were seen walking along on the surface of the frozen river, and the form of one of the figures was vaguely familiar to the boys.
“Look out! Don’t run into them,” cautioned Tom.
“No danger,” declared Dutch. “I——”
“You’re heading right for ’em!” declared Sid.
“Oh, I’ll clear ’em all right,” asserted the steersman. “Just you fellows sit steady and watch your uncle.”
But, in spite of his efforts, the ice boat seemed to be bearing down straight on the two figures. They halted, hesitated for a moment, and then prepared to run out of danger.
“It’s a lady!” cried Sid.
A scream bore out his assertion.