The afternoon was warm—almost too warm for that time of year, and Tom and Frank, as they neared the river, felt the breeze sweeping up from the water.
“That’s something like,” remarked Frank, who now walked with scarcely the semblance of a limp.
“Yes, it’ll do us good to get cooled off,” said Tom. “I hope there’s a decent boat left.”
There were several rowing craft, owned by the college, which were used in common by the students, it being a case of first come first served. In addition a number of the lads had boats of their own, but Tom was not one of the lucky ones.
“There’s Holly’s skiff,” remarked the Big Californian, as the two came near the boat house. “He won’t use it to-day, as he’s gone to a meeting of the athletic committee over at Exter. Let’s pinch that.”
“All right, I guess he won’t mind. It’s the only decent one left, anyhow.”
“I wonder why Randall never did much shell racing?” mused Frank, as he and his chum were floating idly down the river. “I should think the fellows would. There’s a good course here, and with Boxer Hall, and Fairview, so close by, and near the river, there ought to be more interest in the sport.”
“That’s right, there had,” agreed Tom, casting a glance over his shoulder to see if the course was clear. “Maybe we will have a good crew, after we see how these games come out. What we need is some one to stir things up. Randall, from what I hear, didn’t use to take any interest in sports. It’s only of late years that she’s come to the front. Of course there has been some rowing here, and one or two good races, but nothing to boast of. What do you say if we start something?”
“I’m willing. We four might get a shell and challenge Boxer Hall. I like rowing, and it’s good exercise. But it’s too late to do anything this term, especially with the games coming on.”
“That’s right, but it’s worth thinking of,” agreed Frank. “We’ll keep it in mind. Want me to row?”
“No, you sit still and take it easy. You’re out for your health you know.”
“Oh, you be hanged!” was the half-protesting answer. “You’d have ’em think I was an invalid. I’m all right.”
“I hope you keep so,” was Tom’s comment, as he bent to the oars.
They went down the river for a mile or so, talking of many things, but chiefly of the coming contests. Then, as they neared the vicinity of a little recreation park, which was not far from Fairview Institute, Frank exclaimed:
“Aren’t those some of our friends on shore?”
Tom looked across, being close to the bank at the time, and saw two young ladies.
“It looks like——” he began.
“It’s Miss Tyler, and Miss Harrison,” broke in Frank quickly. “I say, Tom, put me ashore, will you, I want to speak to them for a minute. Come on up, and have a chat.”
“No,” replied Tom shortly. “You can go, though,” and he swung the boat in toward land. A moment later Frank had leaped ashore and was walking toward the young ladies, who seemed surprised to see him. They turned to look at Tom, who raised his hat.
Our hero was not a little astonished when, a moment later, Frank and Miss Harrison strolled off down a woodland path, leaving Madge Tyler alone there.
“He’s got nerve!” mused Tom, and his cheeks began to burn. Miss Tyler started to walk away from the river, and at the sight of her Tom took a sudden resolve.
“Hang it all!” he murmured, “I’m going to chance it. She can’t any more than turn me down.”
A moment later he, too, had leaped ashore, tying the boat to an overhanging tree, and then he started to overtake the girl who occupied so much of his thoughts.
“I say—Miss Tyler—Madge!” he called.
“Oh, how do you do?” she replied, coldly, as though just aware of his presence.
“I—I don’t do very well,” blurted out Tom. “I—er—say, what’s the matter, Madge?” he asked helplessly and utterly unable to dissemble any longer.
“The matter? Why, I didn’t know that anything was.”
“Yes you did. That May walk—why wouldn’t you let me go with you?”
“Why, I fancied you had a previous engagement,” and her eyes, in which she could not altogether conceal the lurking glance of mischief, looked straight at Tom, making his heart beat faster than usual.
“Oh, you mean that Miss Benson? That was an accident. She had scratched herself and——”
“You were a very efficient first-aider,” came the quick retort.
“Oh, I say now, Madge—that isn’t fair. I couldn’t help it—honestly. Say, come for a row; will you? It’s early yet.”
“And leave Mabel?”
“She left you, or, rather, Frank kidnapped her. We’ll get them, if you like, but——”
“Oh, I don’t know as it’s necessary,” was Miss Tyler’s calm but quick response, and the mischief in her eyes grew. “If you’re sure you want me, I’ll come, but I’m not going to get scratched with a thorn, so you can save your handkerchief.”
“Oh, I say now, that’s not fair,” laughed Tom. “I haven’t seen Miss Benson since, though I suppose you and Mr. Shambler——”
“Tom!” she exclaimed, half angrily, and our hero had the sense to say no more. The two were soon in the boat, Tom rowing idly along under the arches of overhanging bushes.
The little misunderstanding had passed away, and the two were their happy selves again. Tom’s first care was to make sure that he would see Miss Tyler at the games, and she promised to be on hand, and to join a little party that Tom and his chums were planning after the events had been run off.
“But I think you had better put me ashore now,” said Madge after a bit. “It is getting late, and it’s quite a walk for Mabel and me back to Fairview. There she is now, waving to me.”
Tom saw Frank and Miss Harrison on shore beckoning to them.
“Oh, but I say, we haven’t been out long at all,” he protested. “Can’t you stay a little longer?”
Madge shook her head, smiling the while, and, rather against his will, Tom put about, and began to row back to where Frank and his friend waited. As he swung out into the stream he heard voices on shore, and they at once struck him as being familiar. A moment later he had a glimpse of Shambler, talking to a man—the same untidy individual who had been with the student near the gymnasium some time previous. Miss Tyler saw Shambler, at the same moment.
“Look, Tom!” she exclaimed softly.
“Yes, I see him,” was the pitcher’s answer. “I don’t care, now, though. I’m with you.”
“Is that a Randall man with him?” Madge wanted to know.
Tom shook his head, and, the next moment there came floating clearly across the water this scrap of conversation:
“I tell you I’ve got to have more money!” said the shabbily-dressed man.
“And I tell you I won’t have any until after the games—a week from now,” replied Shambler. Then it seemed as if the man made an effort to strike him.
“Oh, Tom!” cried Miss Tyler, involuntarily.
Like a flash Shambler turned at the sound of the voice. He and the man had been standing on the bank, behind a clump of bushes, but a sudden movement brought them into plain view. The new student saw the occupants of the boat. For an instant he stared at them, and then, as though caught in some questionable act, he made a dive into the woods, and was lost to sight. The man stood there for a moment, as if bewildered, and then, he, too, vanished.
“That was rather queer,” remarked Miss Tyler.
“Very,” assented Tom.
“I wonder if—if they came here to—to fight?” she faltered.
“Not very likely,” replied Tom dryly. “They are friends I guess, though I don’t know who the man is.”
“That’s a queer way for a friend to act,” commented Madge. “Mr. Shambler is—queer, I think.”
“Had much opportunity to judge?” asked Tom mischievously.
“No, of course not. I have only met him a few times, and I only went with him that once to——”
“Get even with me,” finished Tom with a laugh.
“Mean! Smarty!” pouted Madge.
“Oh, it’s all right, I deserved it, I guess,” admitted Tom, for he did not want to run any further chances. “But Shambler is queer, though he’s one of the best athletes we’ve got. He beat me in the mile run try-out. He’s our star sprinter.”
“You’ll need plenty. Our boys are going to win at the meet,” predicted Madge.
“Never!” cried Tom, with mock heroics in his voice. “Like the old guard, Randall may die but never surrender.”
With a little bump the boat hit the sandy bank, and Tom helped Madge out. Frank and Mabel came to meet them, and, after a little chat, the two girls said good-bye, for they had to return to Fairview.
“Well, it’s a wonder you wouldn’t thank me,” said Frank to his chum, when they were rowing back toward Randall.
“Thank you—what for?”
“For giving you the chance you needed. I took Mabel and myself off so you could straighten things out. Did you?”
“I did!” exclaimed Tom with a laugh. “It’s all right now. We’re friends again. Much obliged!”
“Good. I thought though, from the serious looks you both wore as the boat came to shore, that it was all off.”
“No, that was on account of something we saw. Shambler was back there a way, talking with a questionable looking chap.”
“Ha! The same one who called for him one day?”
“Yes. I don’t like the looks of it. It seems as if something was up.”
“Oh, you’re too much given to imagining things, Tom,” declared Frank. “Shambler’s all right, I think.”
“Well, I’m sure I hope so, and yet——” Tom shook his head without finishing the sentence, and the remainder of the row was finished in comparative silence.
Tom said nothing to either of his other chums about seeing Shambler in that rather lonely spot along the river. Nor did he tell Frank all the details of the little scene.
“If it’s all right, there’s no use making a fuss over it,” reasoned the pitcher, “and if there’s something wrong it isn’t up to me to bring it out. I’ll keep still about it.”
There were busy times at Randall now, for with the near approach of the day of the games, practice went on almost without let-up. Frank was in such shape that he declared he would jump, and he had also done so well in the weight throwing trials that it was decided to have him as one of the contestants for that event.
“Everybody do his best now!” urged Holly Cross, as he hustled the lads out on the field for practice one day. “Beat your own records, and then do even better next week.”
It was the final practice before the posting of the names of those who would take part, and though it was expected that there might be some changes, there were none of any moment. The same ones whom I have already mentioned were finally decided on to uphold the honor of Randall, though a few new lads were entered as emergency material, several of them developing into available contestants almost at the last minute.
“There’s going to be a slight change in the program,” remarked Kindlings to the crowd of boys when practice was about over. “We’re going to have a big hurdle race the day before the other games, and one or two events for the younger lads.”
“How’s that?” asked Tom.
“Well, after going over it all, the committees decided that there wouldn’t be time to run off all the events in one day, and so we decided to have a preliminary meet one afternoon a few days before the main one. Everyone seemed to like the idea, which was brought up by Exter, so we fell in with it. The hurdle race is always popular, and if we split up things, we’ll get two crowds instead of one, and make that much more money.”
“Good idea,” declared Frank. “Me for the hurdle.”
“Better save yourself for the main show,” warned Holly.
A meeting of the committees of arrangements from the four colleges was scheduled for the next afternoon, and, as Tom, and some of the other lads had time to spare they went with Holly, Kindlings, and the others of the committee to attend. The session was to be held at Exter.
“There’s Shambler,” remarked Phil, as with his chums and the others, they stood waiting for the trolley. “I wonder if he’s coming?”
“It’s a free country,” declared Frank. “We can’t stop him.”
“Hello, fellows,” greeted the new student, as he sauntered up. “Guess I’ll take in the show if you haven’t any objections.”
“No, come along,” invited Holly, for he realized that considerable depended on Shambler in the coming games.
“How’s the foot, Simpson?” went on the lad who had caused the mischief to Frank.
“Oh, it’s all right, practically. But that doesn’t mean that I want you to jump on my back again,” exclaimed the Big Californian, with a laugh.
“No danger,” promised Shambler. “I thought I’d like to size up some of these Exter lads, and see what sort of material we’ve got to go up against,” he explained to Kindlings, who nodded comprehendingly.
There were a number of lads from Boxer Hall, and several from Fairview on hand at Exter when the committee went into session. The meeting was held behind closed doors, and meanwhile those who had come as spectators strolled about over the Exter grounds.
“Some college all right,” admired Shambler, who was making himself very much at home all over the place.
“But it can’t come up to Randall, even if it is newer,” declared Phil. “You can’t make a college in a year or so.”
The Exter lads were sociably inclined, and made their guests informally welcome. There was talk among the representatives of the four institutions about the coming games.
“Is that lad one of your contestants?” asked an Exter youth of Tom, who at the time was standing off by himself.
“Which one?” inquired the tall pitcher.
“Shambler, I think he calls himself,” and the new student was pointed out.
“Oh, yes, that’s Shambler,” replied Tom. “He’s going in the mile run for us. We’re counting a lot on him. But why do you say he ‘calls’ himself Shambler?” and Tom’s old suspicions at once recurred to him. “Isn’t that his name?”
“Yes, as far as I know. I wasn’t just certain of it, that’s all. So he’s going to run for you? Do you know much about him—where he came from?”
“Harkness, I believe. Why, do you know him?”
Tom was somewhat impressed by the curiosity of the Exter student.
“I think I have seen him before,” was the slow and rather puzzling reply. “But maybe I’m mistaken. You’re going to take part; aren’t you?”
“Well, I’m a sort of filler-in,” laughed Tom. “Baseball is my strong point.”
“Same here. I’m glad to have met you. Maybe we’ll have some fun on the diamond after these games.”
“Maybe,” and Tom turned aside, with the intention of joining his chums. As he did so he saw the Exter lad, who had introduced himself as Hal Durkin, link arms with another youth from his own college. Tom could not help overhearing what they said.
“Did you learn anything?” asked the lad who had joined Durkin, and who, Tom learned later, was Jack Pendleton.
“Not much. He goes by the name Shambler now, but I’m almost sure he’s the same fellow.”
“You are? Then this thing has got to be looked into. We’re not going up against any such game as that. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“I should say not!” agreed Durkin. “But we must go slow. It wouldn’t do to make a mistake.”
“I should say not. There’d be a pretty muddle if we did. But I’m sure I’m right, though I’m going to get more information before I say anything. Come on over, and we’ll talk to some of the fellows about it.”
“Now I wonder what in the world is up?” mused Tom. “They were certainly talking about Shambler, and from what they said it seems as if that wasn’t his name. I wonder if there can be anything wrong? Jove! I hope not, for the sake of Randall. And yet what could it be? Maybe he isn’t the best kind of a character, but that can’t make any difference in his standing as an athlete. If these Exter fellows are as squeamish as that, it’s time we knew it.”
Almost unconsciously Tom found himself defending the lad for whom he had felt such a dislike, not long since. Perhaps the little talk with Madge Tyler had made a change in our hero.
“Well, I won’t say anything about it,” decided the tall pitcher. “But I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”
The session of the joint committee was almost over when Sid, who had been strolling about, met Tom.
“I say,” began Sid, “I just had a sort of funny experience.”
“What kind?” asked Tom, wondering if Sid’s was anything like his own.
“Why some of these Exter fellows have been asking me questions about one of our lads, such as where he came from, what sort of a record he had, and all that.”
“They have?” cried Tom. “Was it about Shambler? Because if it was——”
“No, it wasn’t Shambler,” replied Sid. “Why, have you——”
“Who was it?” blurted out Tom.
“Frank Simpson,” was the unexpected reply. “Our own Frank.”
“What?” cried Tom, as if unwilling to believe it. “They wanted to know about Frank?”
“Yes, all about how long he’d been at Randall, where he came from, what his record was, and whether he was going to take part in the games.”
“What’d you tell ’em?”
“I said I didn’t know much about him, except that he came from Stanford University, where he was a crackerjack on the gridiron. I said he was going to pull down some points for us on the track, too.”
“What did they say?”
“Nothing, except that they thanked me, and I heard one of ’em say to the other that they were going to ‘look it up,’ whatever that meant.”
“Say!” cried Tom, “there’s something in the wind, Sid. I had almost the same experience, only it was about Shambler. I wonder what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, of course. I guess these Exter lads are so high-toned that they want to know a fellow’s pedigree before they’ll compete with him. Maybe he has to have ancestors that came over in the Mayflower, or else are D. A. R. or F. F. V. members.”
“Oh, get out!” cried Tom in protest. “What would the Daughters of the American Revolution, or the First Families of Virginia have to do with whether or not Exter lads would compete with us?”
“Well, I only mentioned it,” said Sid. “There’s something up, that’s sure. But it can’t be much. Frank is as straight as a string, and, while I think Shambler is a bit of a sport, no one can say anything about his abilities as an athlete. He’s one of the best in Randall.”
“I grant you that,” declared Tom, “but it’s mighty queer. We’ll keep still about it, and see what turns up.”
“Why, I had it in mind to tip Frank and Shambler off, that someone was making inquiries about them,” spoke Sid.
“Forget it,” advised his chum. “It will only raise a row. Just wait and see how it comes out. Then will be time enough to spring it, though for the life of me I can’t see what those Exter lads are going to ‘investigate,’ Sid.”
“Same here. Maybe they need a little investigating on their own account, though they seem like a nice class of fellows.”
Tom and Sid talked the matter over at some length, but could come to no conclusion. They decided not to mention to Phil what they had heard, though it was the first time they had kept a secret from their new chums.
To Tom and Sid, it seemed that there were many suspicious looks cast at Frank and Shambler on the part of more than one Exter lad, and yet, they agreed later, this might be only the effect of their imagination. The two lads, whose names had thus been so oddly brought up, were not, seemingly, aware of anything unusual.
The conference broke up, and Holly and Kindlings joined their friends from Randall.
“Well, it’s all settled,” announced Holly. “We’ll post the names day after to-morrow, of all those who will contest in the first event. Then after two days, to give a chance for protests, we’ll run off the big hurdle race. Later on all the names will be posted.”
“What’s that about a chance for protests?” asked Tom quickly.
“That’s the usual thing,” explained Kindlings. “The names have to be posted, and if any fellow wants to protest against another he has that right, and the committee will hear charges.”
“Do you think there’ll be any protests?” asked Sid, looking at Tom significantly.
“No. Why should there be?” inquired Holly quickly. “But the rules call for the posting of the names in that way, just the same. You don’t object; do you?”
“Not in the least. Say, that hurdle race ought to be sport,” and Sid thus changed the subject quickly.
“Well, Randall has a good chance for first prize,” declared Kindlings.
“Come on now, fellows, all together!” cried Bean Perkins, the most redoubtable cheer-leader and shouter that Randall ever numbered among her sons. “All together, and we’ll give ’em a song to warm ’em up!”
“What’ll it be?” demanded a lad in the throng that was to urge on the sons of Randall in cheer and chorus. “‘Conquer or die,’ Bean?”
“Naw! Save that song until you see we need it. Give ’em something jolly.”
“How about ‘We’re Going to Wipe the Ground Up, With Boxer Hall To-Day?’” asked another.
“Nothing to it,” replied Bean. “We’ll sing ‘I’d rather be a Randallite, and live on sawdust pie, than go to any other place beneath the bright blue sky!’ That’s the kind of a song they need. All together now.”
“Hurray!”
“That’s the stuff!”
“Sing hearty, everybody!”
“Let her go, Bean!”
These were only a few of the cries that greeted the sturdy little cheer leader who stood before his crowd of lads at Tonoka Park field that day of the great hurdle race. For it had come at last, the day of days—the day that was to usher in the preliminary event in which Randall hoped to triumph.
As had been previously decided the hurdle race, because of the number of entrants, would be run off several days before the other contests. Each college had a number of men who wished to try their skill in this, as it was generally thought that the element of luck would enter largely, and it would be necessary to run a number of heats.
Tom, Sid, and Phil, among others were on hand, the three having all been picked to go in the race. Frank decided not to compete. All of Randall’s contestants were in readiness, and they had scarcely arrived at the field ere they were joined by the throngs from the other institutions. Bean Perkins got his cheersters and songsters at work early, and soon the strains of the different choruses welled over the heads of the crowd.
There was not as large a throng present as would attend at the main meet, but the managers were satisfied. In addition to the hurdle race a number of events for the younger lads in the preparatory departments of each college were to be run off.
Boxer Hall, Fairview and Exter had their cheer leaders at work, and a riot of “melody,” if such it can be called, welled forth. It was a beautifully sunshiny day, just warm enough, and the track, with the new hurdles supplied by Randall, was in perfect shape.
“There are the girls!” exclaimed Phil, as he and his chums started toward the dressing rooms.
This announcement, that never is without its heart-interest, no matter where made, had the usual effect. Tom and Sid at once demanded:
“Where?”
“Right in front of you,” replied Phil. “Can’t you see ’em waving?”
“Let’s go over and say ‘how-d’ye-do,’ and then get into our togs,” proposed Tom. “I don’t want to go over in that crowd after I get into my Roman toga.”
“Bashful!” taunted Frank.
“I’m not so stuck on myself as you are,” retorted Tom, and then he dodged to escape a playful blow.
“Oh, there’s no use asking us to cheer for you,” said Ruth, as her brother and his chums drew near. “We’re loyal to Fairview,” and she waved a flag of her college colors in his face.
“Wait until you’re asked, Sis,” retorted Phil. “We don’t need your cheers. Listen to Bean and his bunch.”
“Once more!” cried the shouter to his crowd. “This time we’ll give ’em ‘Over the hurdles and far away,’ composed especially for this occasion.”
The singing began.
“Mercy! What howling!” cried Madge, in pretended horror.
“It’ll sound sweeter when they sing Randall’s praises,” suggested Tom.
“Now, just for that I won’t speak to you to-morrow,” she said, with a pretended pout.
There was laughter and jollity among the youths and maidens. Tom and his chums greeted old friends and athletic foes from Fairview and Boxer Hall, until Holly Cross, coming along, sarcastically suggested that if there was going to be a hurdle race that day it was time to dress for it.
There were to be four heats, and Tom and Phil found themselves drawn in the first one. Of course in the finals the best men from each college would participate.
The hurdles had been set up, and carefully looked to. Last measurements were taken, and the rules announced once more. It was to be a quarter mile race final, instead of the usual one hundred and twenty yards, for the reason that there were no other big events that day; but the preliminary heats were the regulation distance.
“Get ready!” called the starter, as he raised his pistol and looked at his stop-watch. Tom found himself getting nervous, and he wished that Bean and his crowd would sing, but this could not be done while the start was being made.
“Ready!” shouted the starter.
Crack! sounded the pistol a second later, and there was a spurt of fire and smoke.
Tom found himself well off with the leaders, and a hasty glance back showed Phil on even terms with him. Tom wanted to shout an encouraging word to his chum, but refrained as he knew he would need his breath.
Tom ran as he had seldom run before. He felt that he was in fine trim, and he almost wished it was one of the big events of the main meet, instead of a preliminary hurdle contest. Phil, too, was coming on.
Almost abreast of Tom was Lem Sellig, Frank Sullivan, Roger Barns, and Ted Puder of Fairview, while, a little further on, he made out Dave Ogden, George Stoddard, Pinkey Davenport and Lynn Ralling of Boxer Hall. He saw a number of the Exter lads, but did not know them by name.
Now came the first hurdle. Tom took it easily, and went on without a break in his stride. Not so some of the others who fell back a trifle. Then another stretch, and more hurdles. The pace was beginning to tell on them all.
There was a crash just behind Tom. He half turned his head to look, and saw Phil go down, his foot having caught on a top bar. But the plucky lad was up again in a moment, though he was hopelessly outdistanced.
It was over in what seemed a remarkably short time—that first heat, the best time being a not very remarkable performance. To Tom’s chagrin neither he nor Phil qualified for the finals.
The second batch of runners came up to the marks. Once more they were off, and the crowd set up a cheer. Some of the Randall lads were in this, and Bean and his crowd cheered and sung to them to the echo. One Randallite qualified in this round.
Then came two more heats until the final was about to be run off—the one just before the big quarter-mile race that would decide the championship in that class.
“Do your prettiest!” begged Tom of Jerry and Joe Jackson as they came to the scratch, for they were the Randall representatives now.
“Sure,” they assented.
Once more the pistol cracked, and again the eager lads started off. Joe was well in the lead, taking the hurdles with an ease that surprised his friends, and sent a wave of envy through the hearts of his rivals. Nor was Jerry far behind him.
“He’ll win!” decided Tom.
“Give ’em something to keep ’em going!” cried Bean to his crowd, and forth welled the song: “There’s nothing like a Randallite to do or die, to eat or fight!”
Jerry carried off for Randall first honors of that heat, and so qualified for the final. Sid, too, was also in the class, and with Joe Jackson and others made up those who would try for final honors. There were two lads from Boxer—Dave Ogden and Pinkey Davenport—three from Fairview—Lem Sellig, Frank Sullivan and Roger Barns,—and two from Exter—George Birch and Ted Morrison—who were in the final, making a goodly crowd.
This was to be the supreme test, and on it depended much, for the winner of this race would add a goodly number of points to his college’s total.
They lined up, a throbbing, eager batch of lads, with ears on the alert for the sound of the pistol that was to send them off.
Crack! it came with startling suddenness, and they all sprang forward.
“Now, boys, the ‘Conquer or Die,’ song!” yelled Bean, and the Latin song, which had helped win many a victory under the banners of Randall filled the air. It came at a time when the other college cheering crowds were silent, and produced an unusual effect.
On and on rushed the hurdle racers, panting, fighting for every inch, taking magnificent leaps, to clear the obstacles, covering yard after yard in long strides.
“Jerry’s ahead! Jerry’s ahead!” yelled Tom, dancing about, and clapping Phil on the back until his chum cried for mercy.
“Hey! Let up, will you?” Phil begged. “I want to live to see the finish.”
“Sid’s falling back,” announced Holly, gloomily, as he watched the contestants. “But Joe Jackson is pulling up.”
“There goes Lem Sellig!” cried Tom, as that lad tripped on a hurdle and fell heavily. Several of his friends rushed out and picked him up.
“Go on Sid! Go on!” fairly howled Tom.
“Three cheers for Fairview!” came a shrill cry in girls’ voices, and Tom knew that Madge and her chums were rallying their representatives.
Close behind Jerry came George Birch of Exter. On he raced, magnificently, with a burst of speed.
“Look out, Jerry!” warned Holly, but it was too late.
With a leap George passed his competitor, and forged to the front. Even then Jerry might have caught him had it not been for a slight accident.
There was a cinder sticking up, dislodged from the smooth track by some previous runner, and not before noticed. Jerry trod on it, and his foot gave a twinge. He hesitated a moment, before a hurdle, and the hesitation was fatal to his chances.
He did not clear the barrier, but, though he knocked it over he himself did not fall. But he could not get into his stride again, and, a moment later, he was passed by several others.
“Oh Sid! Sid! It’s up to you!” yelled Phil, but it was not to be. Sid, well to the fore, was doing his best, but he had been depending on Jerry, and it was too late now to make the needful spurt.
Over the finish line burst George Birch, carrying the colors of Exter, and behind him came Frank Sullivan, of Fairview, with Pinkey Davenport, of Boxer Hall, a close third.
Randall had lost!
The echoes of the “Conquer or Die” song rolled away, and there came a silence. It was broken a moment later by a “locomotive-automobile” cheer from the cohorts of Exter, and then the other successful colleges joined in.
The shrill voices of the girls were heard above the hoarser voices of their boy friends, and cheer after cheer rolled out over the field.
With tears in their eyes Phil and Frank and Tom turned away from the track.
“Never mind,” consoled Holly. “Our boys did well, but fate was against us. Better luck in the big games.”
“But we needed these points,” whined Tom.
“I know it, you old grouch. But there’s a chance yet, if we win most of the other events,” declared Kindlings. “Frank, you’ve got to win for us, and so have you, Shambler.”
“I will!” cried the new student, and Tom found himself feeling more generous toward the lad he disliked.
The friends of the winners crowded around them, while those of the losers did their best to cheer them up. Bean Perkins tried to lead his crowd in a jolly song, but it was a failure.
“Let’s get our clothes on and go back,” suggested Sid, gloomily.
“Don’t you want to see the girls?” asked Phil.
“No,” snapped the loser. “I want to sit on the old sofa and hear the clock tick.”
And that was the sentiment of the four inseparables.
They did not stay to see the other events run off, but hurried back to Randall. There was gloom in the college, but it was not hopeless, for all felt that the other games would bring better news.
“We’ve just got to win,” declared Holly, as he sat in the room of the four chums. “I know we can too, for——”
There came a knock on the door, and Tom answered. He found Wallops, the messenger, there.
“Mr. Cross is wanted on the ’phone,” said Wallops.
“Who is it?” asked Holly.
“Mr. Wallace, the athletic manager of Exter college,” was the answer.
“I wonder what he wants?” speculated Holly as he went to answer the call.
“Well, I suppose you fellows are going to do your share next week,” remarked Dan Woodhouse. He had entered the room of the inseparables shortly after Holly had gone to answer the telephone summons.
“Oh, sure,” answered Tom.
“Well, we’ll need every point we can pile up,” went on the manager. “Where’s Holly, by the way? I thought I’d find him here, and there are a lot of things I want to talk over with him. Where is he?”
They were just telling Kindlings where Holly had gone when the lad in question came back. There was rather a queer look on his face.
“Oh, Dan, you’re here,” greeted Holly. “Come on out, I want to talk to you.”
“And you don’t want us to hear; is that it?” asked Sid with a laugh. “I like your nerve.”
“Come on, Dan,” went on Holly, without replying to the chaff, and there was something in his manner that impressed every lad in the room. Kindlings must have noticed something, too, for he got up quickly, and joined his chum. As he closed the door after him, Tom and the others heard Dan ask:
“What is it? What’s up? Anything wrong?”
“I don’t know,” answered Holly. “I’m afraid so. Wallace just had me on the wire. You know, Wallace from Exter, their manager. He asked me a queer question. Wanted to know if our list of competitors that I mailed him for the games next week, was to be revised.”
“Revised?”
“Yes. He asked if those were the fellows who were going to take part in the games, and of course I said they were. Then he came back at me with this:
“‘Well,’ he said, ‘I just thought I’d give you a chance to make any change if you wanted to, before we took action. But if it’s your last word, all right, and you’d better come over and see me, or I’ll come and see you.’”
“Wallace said that?” demanded Dan.
“Yes,” answered Holly, “and of course I wanted to know right away what the trouble was. He said he couldn’t tell me over the wire, but he was anxious for me to call, and I said I would. He intimated that his committee might make a protest against some of our fellows.”
“He did? Who?”
Tom and the others heard no more, for Dan and Holly moved off down the corridor, but they had caught enough to make them stare wonderingly at each other.
“What do you know about that?” asked Tom, slowly.
“That’s the limit!” exclaimed Sid. “Going to protest against some of our fellows! Who? And for what?”
No one could answer him, and for a moment there was momentous silence.
“Has anyone done anything, or does anyone know anything, that might make one of our contestants ineligible?” asked Phil.
“Not me,” replied Tom, and the others said the same.
“Let’s go and ask Dan or Holly more about it,” suggested Sid. “We’ve heard part, and we might as well hear all.”
This plan seemed to meet with general approval. But when Tom and Phil went to find the two managers and trainers, they were told that they had left the college.
“I’ll wager they’ve gone to see Wallace,” said Tom, as he rejoined his chums. “We’ll have to wait until they get back.”
But when Holly and his chum did return, late that night, they would not talk, though importuned to do so by many, for the story of the possible protesting of some of Randall’s lads had spread.
“There’ll be a meeting of our committee and Exter’s in the gymnasium to-morrow morning,” was all the information that Holly would give out. There were grim looks on the faces of himself and Dan, looks that boded no good for Randall.
“But if they protest against some of our fellows, and they have to withdraw, will there be time enough to rearrange our list?” asked Tom.
“We’ll have to make it do,” declared Dan. “We’ll have a few days to make good in if—well, if some of our best men have to drop out.”
“But who are they?” demanded Sid. “Why can’t we know?”
“Because Wallace wouldn’t tell,” was the reply. “He said he’d make formal charges to-morrow, and he intimated that we might post a notice, without saying who it was, stating that some one would be protested. His idea was that the fellow or fellows might withdraw of their own accord, and so save a scandal.”
“Are you going to post the notice?”
“I am not!” declared Holly decidedly. “I’m going to bed, and that’s where all you fellows ought to go if you want to be in shape for the meet.”
It was an unpleasant night for many at Randall, and anxious faces were noted on all sides at chapel the next morning. Wallace, and some of his fellow committee members, came over from Exter early, and soon all who could, by hook or crook, “cut” a lecture, were in the gymnasium.
“Fellows,” began Holly, who took the chair, “I guess you all know what we’re here for. Mr. Wallace, of Exter, has an announcement to make, I understand.”
Wallace arose, rather pale, and began at once.
“Fellows of Randall,” he said, “I’d give a good deal not to have to do this, but I believe it to be my duty. You all know that your college and ours, and two others are in a four-sided league for some games. The games are strictly amateur contests, as you all know, and amateur rules prevail. That is, no professionals are to be allowed.”
There was a gasp of surprise at this, and Tom, who was looking across the room, saw a movement among some lads seated near Shambler.
“None but amateurs are to be allowed to compete, under the rules,” went on Wallace, “not only for the sake of the colleges themselves, but for the contestants too. We don’t any of us want to lay ourselves open to charges by the A. A. U. of competing with professionals, and so be barred out of future games.
“I am deeply sorry to do what I have to do, but certain information has been laid before me, affecting the standing of two members of Randall who are on the lists to compete in the games soon to be held. I got the big list yesterday.”
“Who are they?”
“Name ’em!”
“It’s not true!”
These cries were heard, among other confusing ones, as the Exter manager paused.
“I’ll name them now,” shouted Wallace. “I formally charge that Jacob Shambler is a professional ball player, that he has played in a number of games for money, and that he has taken part in other sports as a professional. I claim that he was asked to leave Harkness college for that reason, and if he is to take part under the colors of Randall, then every Exter man will refuse to compete. I can prove what I have said, and if Mr. Shambler is present I challenge him to stand up and refute what I have charged!”
If a cannon had been fired in the room, it could not have produced more of an effect, nor brought about a more stunning silence following Wallace’s charge. Every eye was turned toward where Shambler had been observed to be sitting.
“Is it true?”
“It can’t be!”
“There’s some mistake!”
“Shambler, answer him—tell him it isn’t so!”
These cries followed each other in rapid succession. Tom was aware of many thoughts flying in confusion through his brain. Several suspicious circumstances in regard to Shambler seemed likely to be explained now.
“Shambler, will you answer?” called Holly, in strained tones. “Can’t you say, for the honor of Randall, that this isn’t so?”
There was a hush of silence, and, as white as a sheet of paper, the student on whom so much depended—who it was hoped would win the big mile run, and perhaps other contests for the college, arose.
“Mr. Chairman, and members of Randall,” he began, and then his voice broke. “I—I can’t say anything!” he faltered.
Once more that tense silence.
“Is it—is it true?” hoarsely asked Kindlings. “Are you a professional?”
“I—I am,” confessed Jake Shambler and then, amid a storm of hisses which broke out all over the room, the dishonored student hurried out. He had not dared to deny the charge.
“The sneak!” cried several, and more than one arose as though to follow and inflict corporal punishment on one who had trailed the colors of Randall in the dust.
“Silence!” cried Holly Cross, leaping to his feet. “It’s bad enough without making it worse. Stop that hissing!”
It stopped instantly, and amid a death-like silence Shambler opened the door of the gymnasium, and walked out. He did not look back. No one at Randall saw him again, for he left hurriedly, not even stopping to get his belongings.
For a few moments after the dramatic withdrawal of Shambler, following his practical confession of guilt, no one spoke, and no one seemed to know what to do. Then Wallace, who acted well his part under the trying circumstances, again arose.
“I can’t tell you fellows of Randall how we hated to do this,” he said. “But we felt it to be our duty—our duty toward ourselves as well as toward you and the other colleges.”
“Yes, I—I guess it had to be done,” admitted Holly, sorrowfully.
“I suppose there is no doubt about it—the charge of professionalism,” suggested Dan Woodhouse gently.
“None whatever, I’m sorry to say,” went on Wallace. “The first intimation I had was when Jack Pendleton and Hal Durkin, two of our players, spoke to me about it, after they saw Shambler, the other day. He goes by that name now, but he played as a professional under the name of Jacobs.”
“As soon as Durkin and Pendleton told me their suspicions I began to make inquiries,” went on Wallace, “and I soon found that they were right. Here is a picture of the professional nine with which Shambler played,” and he held up a sporting paper, with a black ink mark around the left-fielder. The boys crowded up to look at it, and recognized Shambler at once.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Tom, “that’s the same paper that we saw Shambler have in the reading room one day—the paper that he tore a picture from! It was his own likeness, and he was afraid we’d recognize him.”
Several recalled that incident.
“I guess there’s nothing else to be said,” admitted Holly with a sigh. “I suppose I needn’t assure you Exter fellows that we knew nothing of this,” he added quickly. “We never would have admitted Shambler to the contests if we had dreamed of such a charge hanging over him.”
“We know that,” Wallace assured him quietly. “It’s too bad, but there’s no harm done. Do we understand that you withdraw Shambler’s name?”
“Sure!” exclaimed Kindlings. “It’s too bad, for he is a fine athlete. I’m glad, now, he wasn’t in the hurdle race.”
“I guess he got in the wrong kind of company,” went on Wallace. “I understand he has been seen several times of late with a fellow named Nelson. He, too, is a professional, but he has been barred from even his own class because of cheating. He helped Shambler train.”
“Nelson,” mused Tom. “That must be the fellow I saw with Shambler, and the one I heard him talking to.” It developed later that this was so.
Wallace laid before the committee several other items of proof of the charge he had made. They tended to show that Shambler had been one of the best amateur all-round athletes in the West. But he began going with a “sporty” set, and, needing more money than his folks could supply him, he accepted the invitation of a professional ball team to play for them one Summer. He managed to conceal the fact and returned to his college as an amateur until chance betrayed him. Then, having found in professional athletics a comparatively easy way to make money, he continued along that line, coming to Randall under false colors.
It was believed that he intended doing as he had often done before, secretly placing bets through Nelson, and so clearing a tidy sum. Wallace showed Shambler’s professional record in several events, and in every case the time, or distance, made was much better than the record of Shambler at Randall.
Wallace hesitated a moment, and then said:
“This case is not half as serious as the other, and we would not bring it up except that we feel that you would not want to enter a contestant against whom there was the least hint of professionalism. Am I right?”
“Exactly,” declared Holly grimly. “Out with it, I guess we can take our medicine. I hope it isn’t myself.”
Probably not a lad present was prepared for what followed.
“It is a sad duty, but one I feel I have to do,” went on the Exter manager, “when I say that Frank Simpson is also under the ban of professionalism.”
“Frank Simpson!” gasped a score of voices.
“The big Californian!” added others.
“What’s that?” cried Tom, as if he had not heard aright.
“It isn’t possible!” fairly yelled Phil Clinton, as he leaped to his feet and held out his hand to Frank, who sat beside him. “I’ll stake anything on Frank.”
“So will I!” cried Tom and Sid. Wallace remained calmly looking at the lad against whom he had brought the ugly charge.
“Frank, answer him!” implored Tom pleadingly.
For a moment Frank had been so plainly stunned and surprised by the accusation that he did not know what to do. Then he slowly got up.
“I wish to say, most emphatically,” he began in a calm voice, “that Mr. Wallace is mistaken. He has either confused me with someone else, or his information is at fault. I am not a professional, I never have been one, I never intend to become one. I never took part in any professional games, and I never received any money for playing ball, or in any other contest. I can’t make that too strong!”
“Hurray!”
“That’s the way to talk!”
“Now we’re coming back at ’em!”
Amid a babble of cries these were heard. There were angry looks cast at the Exter committee, and one or two lads started from their seats, and worked their way forward, as though to be in the fore when hostilities commenced.
Wallace stood there, calm and collected. He looked at Frank, who returned the gaze undismayed and unflinchingly.
“Do you insist, after Mr. Simpson’s denial, that you are right?” asked Holly, when there was silence.
“I am sorry—but—I do,” was the quiet answer.
There was a storm of hisses, but Holly stopped them with a wave of his hand.
“And when I say that, I do not in the least mean to reflect on Mr. Simpson’s word,” said Wallace courteously. “I think he forgets, that is all, and I will proceed to give the facts. It is no pleasure to do this,” he went on, “but duty very seldom is pleasant.”
“Go ahead, old man, don’t mind me,” said Frank with a smile. “My conscience is clear. I think you’re mistaken—that’s all.”
“I wish I was,” replied the Exter lad. “But I have information that you took part, as a professional, in some games held on the Fourth of July, three years ago, in a park outside of San Francisco, California. In particular you took part in a running race, and you were paid the sum of fifty dollars. The affair was for some hospital or other charity, and there were a number of other semi-professionals who took part in it. Do you deny that?”
For a moment several thought that Frank Simpson would collapse, so surprised was he. Then he braced himself by a strong effort, and tried to speak. For a second or two no words would come, and then, in a husky voice he said:
“Part of that is true, and part is not. I did take part in those games, but it was strictly as an amateur. I can prove that. I have never been a professional.”
“Isn’t it true that you won the mile run?” asked Wallace.
“Yes, I did.”
“And wasn’t the first prize for that contest fifty dollars in gold?”
“It was, but——”
“Didn’t you win, and get the prize?”
“I won, but I did not get the money!” fairly shouted Frank. “I never had a cent of it. I did win the race. The prize was fifty dollars, but I never got it. I turned it over, without even taking it into my possession, to the charitable committee. If that’s professionalism, make the most of it!”
He sat down, and every lad in the room was on his feet in an instant.
“Of course that’s not professionalism!”
“Never heard of such a thing!”
“That’s a silly charge!”
“The A. A. U. rules don’t make that professionalism!”
“Not by a long shot!”
Everyone seemed to be shouting something, and Holly managed to hear the above expressions, amid the babble of others.
“Silence! Silence!” he cried.
“That’s our case,” Wallace managed to say.
Once more came hisses, that were not so easy to silence.
“We claim that is professionalism, and we won’t compete if Frank Simpson represents Randall,” said Pendleton, who stood beside Wallace.
“It seems like splitting hairs,” spoke Kindlings, “but——”
“Perhaps it does,” admitted Wallace calmly. “But we claim that Simpson is a professional under the rules. It’s up to you fellows, but——”
“Mr. Chairman, I move that the athletic committee of Randall go into executive session at once, consider this matter, and let Exter have our answer as soon as possible,” shouted Tom above the din.
“Second the motion!” cried Sid.
It was put and carried at once.
“Will you make yourselves comfortable until after our session?” asked Holly of the Exter committee. “I’ll have you taken to our chapter house,” and he called some lads, who were not members of the committee, to act as the hosts of the visitors.