Tense and anxious faces looked into those of Holly and Kindlings as the athletic committee drew closer to the platform in the gymnasium. The doors were closed. The Exter lads had been taken in charge by some Randall fraternity members, but it could not be said that there was a spirit of gaiety observable. Only those of whom it was absolutely required attended lectures. The others, not charged with the extending of courtesies to the Exter lads, hung about the gymnasium, waiting for any news that might leak out.
“Well, boys, what’s to be done?” asked Holly, rather helplessly, as he faced his committee. Tom, Sid, Phil and Frank, of course, were present.
“Who’s got anything to suggest?” asked Dan Woodhouse.
It seemed that the two trainers and managers were all at sea, as, indeed, were most of the others.
“I suggest that Frank tells us all he knows about this case,” said Tom, finally. “We’re with him to the last. I guess I needn’t say that, though,” he added.
“That’s right,” chimed in several others.
Frank arose, all eyes turned toward him.
“Fellows,” he began, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this thing has come to you. It’s like a bolt out of a clear sky to me, and I needn’t say that I never dreamed of such a charge being brought.”
“We know it,” said someone.
“If I was surprised when the charge was made against Shambler—and he admitted it was true,” went on the Big Californian. “I was completely astounded when they named me as the second man. I hardly know what to say.”
“Did you really take part in those games?” asked Holly.
“I did, but there was not the least hint of professionalism. No one dreamed of such a thing. As I recollect it, a number of college fellows were asked to compete. I was at Stanford University at the time. I entered. It was for some charity. I’ve forgotten just what now, but a hospital, I think. A business men’s committee was formed, and I was told there were to be several prizes offered for contestants. We didn’t care about them, for we only thought of doing our best and winning. We all supposed the prizes would be medals, cups, or something like that.
“Then there was some talk of money prizes being offered. But I don’t believe any of us thought anything about it being professional to compete for money, but I know we college fellows held a meeting.
“We decided unanimously that whatever prizes we won we would donate to the charity for which the contests were run off. None of us wanted them. Then came the meet.
“I don’t know just how many events I took part in. I think I won the pole vault, as well as the mile run, but I’m not sure. Anyhow, I know that after the games a man came up to me, and some of the other winners, with envelopes. I realize now that they must have contained money—the prize money.
“Everyone of us waved him aside, and the general order was: ‘Give it to the hospital,’ if it was a hospital for which the meet was held. I know I never accepted a cent, and none of the other college fellows did. That’s all there is to it.”
There was a short period of silence following the statement by the Big Californian. Then Tom arose in his seat.
“Mr. Chairman,” he said, “I move you that we take a vote of confidence in Frank, first of all, and then that we send word to Exter and Boxer Hall and Fairview, that the charges of professionalism are groundless in this case, and that Frank will take part in the games.”
“Second it!” yelled Joe Jackson.
“One minute,” began Holly calmly. “I appreciate the spirit in which that motion was made, and I’ll put it at the proper time. But, before I do, I’d like to know if anyone here has a copy of the A. A. U. rules bearing on professionalism. If he has will he see if they bear on this case?”
“I’ve got a copy!” said Dan Woodhouse, “and I know ’em pretty much by heart. I don’t believe that Frank would be barred under the rules. They make the ‘acceptance’ of money a bar, I think, and by his own evidence Frank didn’t accept it.”
“Not that I want to seem to believe for a moment this charge, but because I think we ought to be very sure of our ground, I make this suggestion,” spoke Phil Clinton. “Of course Frank didn’t take, or accept, the money. But might it not be said that by tacitly turning it over to the charity after winning it, that he had it? I’m afraid they’ll say—the committee I mean—that when he competed for a money prize he became a professional.”
“No! No!” cried several.
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” said Holly Cross. “That’s what we’re here to decide. Shall we fight this case, and have it threshed out in a general meeting, or——”
“Fight! Fight!” cried a number.
“Frank isn’t a professional, and never was,” declared Sid Henderson, jumping up and excitedly waving his arms. “I say let’s defy Exter and all the rest.”
“And maybe break up the meet?” asked Dan.
“Fellows, let me speak once more,” begged Frank. “I have thought this matter over carefully in the last few minutes, and, while I don’t retreat one point from my position, perhaps a compromise would be better than a contest.”
“No! No! Contest it!” was the general cry.
“Wait!” begged the lad who had most at stake. “This comes at an unfortunate moment. Shambler confessed that he was a professional. Fortunately it came in time to save the honor of Randall. Now, what I propose to do is for the further honor of our college.”
“What’s the matter with Frank Simpson?” demanded Bean Perkins.
“He’s—all—right!” was thundered out.
“Thank you, boys,” responded the Big Californian, when quiet had been restored. “I appreciate all that, but we must face the facts. As soon as it becomes known that Shambler has confessed, there will be a lot of talk. Fortunately Randall can’t be scorned. We have done our duty. Now there’s this charge against me. There are some complications in it. I believe——”
“A fair committee would never bar you,” broke in Tom.
“Perhaps not,” admitted Frank. “But we don’t want any question raised. Boys,” he went on, and his voice was solemn, “we have to think of the honor of Randall before we think of ourselves. It’s the college and not the contestants who will be exalted, or dragged down, as the case may be.
“I fully believe that I am in the right, and that no charge of professionalism would stand against me. But, for the honor of Randall I want you to let me withdraw. I——”
“No! No!” came a storm of protests.
“Stick it out!” urged Joe Jackson.
“We’re with you to the end,” added Phil.
Frank raised his hand for silence.
“It’s very good of you to say that,” he went on, when he could be heard, “but I know how these things sometimes turn out. There is talk afterward. You don’t want the success of Randall questioned, in case she should win this meet.”
“But can we win with you and Shambler out?” someone asked.
“Boys, you’ve got to—for the honor of Randall,” said Frank quietly. “You’ve just got to! You’ve got to let me drop out, and someone must take my place. It can be done, easily. Someone must run for Shambler, too. I know it’s going to be hard to get someone with his record, but we’ll do it. Boys, I’m not going to take part in the games. That’s final!”
In spite of the fact that they all expected this as a climax to what Frank had started to say, it came as a shock. There was a tense silence, and then someone asked:
“Isn’t there a way out? We need you, Simpson.”
“There is no way out, except my resignation,” answered Frank, “and I hereby tender it now, formally, and ask that it be accepted at once. Then you can go into the games with a clean slate, and—win!”
For perhaps five seconds no one spoke after Frank had announced his decision, a decision that meant more to him than anyone suspected. Then there came a spontaneous cheer—a cheer for the lad who could sacrifice himself for the honor of his college.
“What’s the matter with Frank Simpson?” again demanded Bean Perkins.
Instantly came the answer:
“He’s all right!”
“Tiger!” yelled the irrepressible Bean, and the yellow-striped cheer was given with a will.
“Well, I suppose there’s nothing else to be done,” spoke Holly, regretfully.
“Nothing,” replied Frank, and the wonder of it was that he could smile. “Nothing but to accept my withdrawal, and so inform the committee from Exter.”
“And then we’ve got to get busy and see who we can put in your place, and Shambler’s,” added Kindlings.
The resignation was formally accepted, and word was sent to Wallace and his friends. They expressed their regret at the necessity, and even admitted that perhaps a ruling from the A. A. U. might bear out Frank’s contention that he was not a professional.
“But we haven’t time for it,” said Holly. “We’ll take our medicine, though it’s a bitter pill to swallow.”
“I hope you don’t think we did this because of any fear on our part that we couldn’t win against your two men,” spoke the Exter manager.
“Not at all,” Holly assured him. “I appreciate your position, but it’s tough on us, to lose two good men. I can’t get over that cad Shambler.”
“He certainly played a mean part,” agreed Wallace. “This Simpson’s case is altogether different. I’m sorry for him.”
“We all are,” put in Kindlings. “Well, we’ve got a little time left in which to make good. I’m glad we don’t have to go into the games to-morrow.”
“Not wishing you any bad luck,” spoke the Exter lad, with a frank laugh, “I hope we beat you.”
“Randall is hard to beat,” spoke Holly grimly. “You’ll find us on the job when the time comes.”
But when the protesting committee had left the boys of Randall looked at each other with troubled eyes.
“What’s to be done?” was the general question.
No one could answer.
“Of course we’ve got to go on and play the game,” declared Holly Cross. “We’ve a few days in which to select some lads to take the places of Shambler and Frank. Oh, why couldn’t it have been someone else? This leaves the mile run and the broad jump open, and we were counting on those two contests especially. Of the others I’m not so much afraid. But who are we going to enter for those contests?”
“We’re going to lose, I think,” said Jerry Jackson mournfully.
“That’s right—lose,” echoed his twin.
“Say, you fellows make me tired!” exploded Kindlings. “We’re not going to lose!”
“That’s the way to talk, but how do you figure it out?” asked Holly. “Who’ll substitute for Shambler and Frank?”
“Sid Henderson will have to make the jump, and Tom Parsons, we’ll depend on you for the mile run!” answered Dan quickly.
“Who, me? I can never beat the Exter man in the jump,” asserted Sid.
“Say, don’t you talk back to me!” retorted Kindlings, and there was a new note in his voice. “I tell you you’re going to do it! Where’s Parsons?”
“Here,” answered Tom meekly.
“You get into practice quick for that mile run,” ordered Dan. “You’ve got to do it. Sid, get into your togs at once. Holly, come on out and hold the watch on Tom. I’ll see Moses and make it all right about lectures. We’re in a hole and we’ve got to pull ourselves out.”
At once it seemed as if new spirit had settled down over Randall. There had been gloom, following the withdrawal of Shambler and Frank, but with the manly way in which Kindlings met the situation the skies seemed to clear.
It was the only way out of the dilemma. But everyone knew that, at best, it was but a slim chance. Neither Tom nor Sid were brilliant performers, though that is not saying they were to be despised, by any means. Their talents simply lay in other directions than track athletics. Yet they were not far behind Frank and Shambler in the two events. They needed hard training, however, and the question was, could they get in form in the short time left?
“They’ve got to!” declared Kindlings grimly. “It’s going to be train—train—train! from now to the minute of the games. It means a lot of practice—hard practice. Oh, if we only had a week more! Why didn’t this come a little sooner?”
“Is there any chance of getting a postponement?” asked Phil. “I think under the circumstances we’re entitled to it.”
“Entitled to it, yes, maybe,” assented Dan, “but we won’t crawl by asking for it. We’ll take our medicine, and take it like men, and, what’s more, we’ll turn the trick, too!”
The squad of athletes was ordered out soon after the momentous meeting. Dr. Churchill met the situation squarely. He gave the boys all the leeway needed in the matter of attending lectures, and wrote a personal letter to the heads of Exter, Boxer Hall and Fairview, expressing regret at the turn of affairs.
And then Randall grimly set to work on her uphill climb.
That it was to be an uphill climb was soon made very evident. Whether it was because of nervousness, or real inability to make good, or because they were so suddenly called on without adequate preparation, was not made evident, but certain it was that neither Tom nor Sid gave brilliant performances in the trials that followed. Tom’s time was far behind that of Shambler in the mile run, and, though it was only a matter of seconds, everyone knew that seconds would count.
Sid, too, seemed to have lost his natural ability to cover ground in the big jump, though he was by far the best man available after Frank’s disbarment.
“This won’t do,” declared Holly, and though his heart was sinking, he kept up a bold front. “Get at it, boys,” he urged the two on whom so much depended. “You can make good yet! All you need is to think so.”
“It’s easy enough to say,” complained Tom, who was tired from many trials.
“Say, if you don’t win, I’ll roll you in the mud so your best girl won’t speak to you for a month,” threatened Kindlings. “And, as for you, Sid, I’ll have you run out of Randall on a rail. So make good—both of you!”
“Um!” grunted Tom, disconsolately, and Sid looked at him with despair in his eyes. They were both in a bad way.
There was but one more day before the games. It dawned—or rather, to quote Holly Cross, “it clouded up beautifully” from the start. There was a chill, in the air, too.
“Tumble out!” cried Kindlings, as he banged on the door of the room where the inseparables were sleeping. “Tom—Sid, we need you for some morning practice.”
“Oh, go on away,” begged Tom.
“Let me dream on,” requested Sid, drowsily.
“Tumble out!” shouted the inexorable Kindlings. “This is your last chance. It’s a nice cool morning for a run or a jump, and you’ll be all the better for it. Come on.”
So, perforce, the substitutes who were to fill in for Frank and Shambler “tumbled out,” literally, for they were half asleep. But a shower bath, a brisk rub, and the cheerful talk of Holly and Kindlings put new life into them, and soon they were at vigorous practice. They did better than on the previous day.
“If we only had another week, or even three days, I wouldn’t be a bit worried,” declared Holly at the conclusion of the trials. “They’re both doing fine, Kindlings.”
“I don’t s’pose we can get an extension?”
“I wouldn’t have the nerve to ask for it.”
“Then we’ll have to stand or fall as we are.”
“That’s it—hang together or hang separately as Patrick Henry, or some of the ancients, said,” quoted Holly.
The excitement over the unexpected charges had somewhat died away, and Randall was more like herself. The withdrawal of Shambler had created a little flurry, but not much. No one seemed to know where he had gone, and no word came as to what to do with his effects.
As for Frank, he was saddened, but not downcast. He announced his intention of taking up his case with the Amateur Athletic Union as soon as the games were completed.
“I’m sure they’ll uphold my contention,” he declared. “I’m an amateur, and I can prove it!”
“But it will be too late for any use,” spoke Tom mournfully.
Words of sympathy had come from the girls, and Tom and his chums were duly grateful for them. It developed that neither Boxer Hall nor Fairview were in favor of forcing the issue against Randall, but that Exter, with perhaps exaggerated notions as to what constituted “amateur” sport, had taken the initiative. Still Randall’s lads did not complain.
It was the night before the big games. Gathered in the room of the inseparables were our old friends, Holly, Kindlings, Dutch, and a few other kindred spirits.
“Well, it’s all over but the shouting,” said Dutch, in mournful tones. “To-morrow will tell the tale.”
“Get out, you old croaker!” cried Kindlings.
“We’re going to win! I’m sure of it!”
“If we had another week, I believe we would,” asserted Holly. “Tom and Sid could pull up by then. I’m almost tempted to telephone, even at this late day, and ask for a postponement. We’re entitled to it, under the circumstances.”
“Oh, forget it,” advised Phil. “Be a sport! Play the game!”
“Just the same I wish something would happen to put things off until next Saturday,” insisted Holly.
“It’s too late now,” declared Kindlings. “We’ve got to take part to-morrow unless——”
He stopped suddenly, and held up his hand.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom, curiously.
“Hark!” exclaimed Dan. “What’s that noise?”
They all listened intently, looking the while curiously at Kindlings. He seemed to be hearing something inaudible to the others.
“I don’t ‘hark’ to anything,” remarked Tom, “unless you mean a sort of pattering noise, and——”
“That’s it!” interrupted Dan with a glad cry. “It’s the pattering noise I mean. Fellows, there’s a way out after all. It’s raining, and if it keeps up long enough the games will have to be called off. Now, if any of you have any sort of pull with the weather man have him make it rain like the old scratch, and keep it up. It’s our only salvation. A postponement means a week, and in that time Tom and Sid will be fit as fiddles. Come on, oh you rain drops!”
For a moment or two the students all stared at Dan as though they thought he had taken leave of his senses. Then, as the patter on the window ledge outside became more pronounced, and as the gentle shower became a veritable downpour, all understood Dan’s elation. Postponement—delay—was the thing they needed most of all, and it seemed likely to be their luck.
“Oh, if it only lasts!” half-whispered Tom. “If it isn’t just a little shower, that will only lay the dust!”
Dan jumped up, and made his way to the window, shoving Phil to one side so forcibly that he toppled into one of the armchairs, with impact enough to almost wreck it.
“Hey! Look out what you’re doing!” cried Phil. “What are you up to, anyhow?”
“I’m going to stick my head out, and get soaked, then maybe the rain-god will take that as a sort of votive offering, and keep the faucets turned on all night,” replied Dan.
As he spoke there came a downpour harder than ever, and as he thrust forth his head he was drenched in an instant.
“I guess it’ll keep up all night,” he remarked. “It seems a mean thing to wish, perhaps, for it will spoil a lot of people’s fun, and the other colleges won’t like the postponement, but it’s Randall’s only hope. Rain on! Rain on!”
And rain it did, with increasing violence.
“How’s the wind?” asked Tom, with a memory of the days spent on the farm, when the weather was a fruitful source of talk, and when much depended on reading the signs.
“I can’t see it,” replied Dan. “Besides, what difference does that make?”
“Lots,” replied Tom shortly. “Let me take a look. If we’ve got a good east wind it means a long rain.”
He thrust his head out of the open window, into the darkness and storm, while his chums awaited his verdict.
“It’s all right,” he announced after a moment. “It’s in the east. There’ll be no games to-morrow.”
“You’ve got good eyes, to see wind in the dark,” remarked Sid.
“I didn’t see it—I felt it, you amiable cow,” answered Tom.
For a time they listened to the patter of the drops that meant so much to Randall, and then the gathering broke up, the visitors going to their rooms, leaving the inseparables to themselves.
It rained all night, and was still at it when morning broke. Several times during the night Tom, or some of his chums, got up to see if the storm was still doing its duty, and when they found that it was, they returned to rest with sighs of satisfaction.
Of course there was nothing to do but call the games off. Boxer Hall and Fairview, to whom Holly telephoned early in the day, agreed to this. Exter held off, her manager saying he thought it might clear. Perhaps he realized what the delay meant to his rivals. But even he had to give in finally, and formal announcement of the postponement was made, it being stated that all tickets would be good the following Saturday.
“And now, Tom and Sid, you’ve got to train your heads off and be fit to the minute,” declared Holly. “Into the gym until it clears, and you won’t have any rest as soon as it’s dry enough to get on the track.”
“We’ll sacrifice ourselves on the altar of duty,” replied Tom, mockly-heroic.
“And you ought to be glad of the chance,” retorted Phil. “I wish I was in your place.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this trouble occurred,” said Frank to his two friends and some of the others as they were gathered in the room of the inseparables the afternoon of the day when the games were to have been held, and while it was still pouring. “I feel as if I ought to have spoken of the chance of the professional charge being brought against me, and then I could have kept out. But I never dreamed of it. There never would have been any question of Randall’s honor then.”
“And there isn’t now,” declared Kindlings sturdily. “It’s all right for those fellows to take the stand they did, but I don’t believe they were right in your case, Frank, and I don’t propose to let the matter rest there.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Phil, as he shook the alarm clock to cure it of a spasm of stopping that had developed that day. “Are you going to raise a row over it?”
“Not a row, but I’m going to write to the heads of the A. A. U. and state the case. Then I’m going to ask if Frank can be regarded as a professional. This can’t stop here. We need Frank for something else besides these games. We may have a rowing crew this year, or next; besides, there’s football and baseball to consider. I’m going to the bottom of this thing.”
“And I’m glad of it,” declared the Big Californian. “I don’t want this charge hanging over me, and if you hadn’t asked for a ruling I would. But it’s better to come from you, I guess.”
“And to think that now, if something hadn’t happened, we might be sitting here, trying to figure out how we lost, if the games had been held,” remarked Sid, as he listened to the rain.
It rained all the next day—Sunday—which had the effect of keeping the lads indoors, making them fret, for they were all lovers of fresh air, and were seldom in their rooms except to study or sleep. In the afternoon Tom and the other three, in their raincoats, braved the downpour, which had suddenly increased, and paid a visit to the girls at Fairview.
“I believe you boys did this on purpose,” challenged Madge, as they talked about the rain and the postponement.
“Don’t tell anybody—but we did,” whispered Tom with a smile. “The rain spells success for Randall.”
The girls denied it, of course, but in spite of the jokes of our heroes there was more or less of a feeling that Tom was right. The Fairview boys fretted over the delay, but were good-natured about it.
Toward evening the rain slacked up a little, and the girls granted the entreaties of the boys to come out for a walk, Miss Philock according the necessary permission rather grudgingly.
It was too wet on Monday for out-door work, and Tom, Sid, and the others kept to the gymnasium. There was a grim spirit about the work now, for the boys felt that chance had played into their hands and if they did not take advantage of it that there would be no more hope for them.
“Luck doesn’t strike twice in the same place, even if lightning does, the proverb to the contrary,” said Holly Cross.
Tom had a letter from his father that day, announcing that the final hearing in the lawsuit might come off any day now.
“And I wish I could know how it’s coming out,” Mr. Parsons wrote to his son. “It has me bothered and worried more than a little. I don’t want to take you out of college, Tom, my boy, but I’ll have to if I lose all this money. I may need you to testify in the case, but if I do I suppose I can reach you by telegram. If you do get a wire, don’t delay.”
“Wow!” mused Tom, as he read that. “I hope dad doesn’t send for me before the games. Not that I’m such a muchness, but it would sort of break up the combination if I had to leave suddenly. Well, there’s no help for it. If I have to go, I’ll have to go. If I don’t, in case dad should telegraph for me, he might lose the case, and I’d have to leave Randall.
“And yet if I left we might lose this contest. I wonder what is better to do? Delay, in case dad sends for me, and help Randall win, which may mean that I’m down and out afterward, or take a chance on Randall losing, so I can come back? Pshaw! Of course I’ve got to help win, no matter if I can’t come back. And yet for dad to lose all that money——”
“Hang it all! I don’t know what to do!” burst out Tom. “I’m not going to think any more about it. I’ll wait until the time comes, and if dad does telegraph, I’ll tell the boys about it, and see what they say.”
Then Tom resolutely put the affair as much out of his thoughts as he could, for he found it interfering with his practice and training, and he knew that he must bend every energy to win the mile run.
The practice went on unceasingly. The weather cleared, being finer than ever, and the candidates went out on the track and field.
Meanwhile Holly and Kindlings had composed a letter to the proper authorities of the Amateur Athletic Union, asking a ruling on Frank’s case. Nothing more had been heard from Shambler, excepting that he had sent for his baggage, and it was surmised that he had quietly taken himself to parts unknown.
It was Wednesday afternoon, and Tom, coming from the gymnasium, after a refreshing shower, following a hard spell of practice in all-around work, was met by Wallops.
“Oh, Mr. Parsons,” said the messenger, “there was a young man looking for you, with a package a while ago. I couldn’t find you, so I sent him to your room with it. I guess he left it.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t a telegram?” asked our hero anxiously, thinking of his father’s lawsuit.
“No, it was a package. It came by express, he said.”
“All right, Wallops. I’ll look out for it. Did you pay anything on it?”
“No, it was prepaid. I say, Mr. Parsons, do you think we’re going to win the championship?” and the diminutive messenger looked at the runner anxiously.
“Of course we are, Wallops. Why? You aren’t betting, I hope.”
“No, but you see—well, er—yes, I am in a way. A friend of mine bet a box of candy—I mean I bet the box of candy and——”
“And she wagered a necktie, I suppose,” interrupted Tom with a laugh. “Well, Wallops, I hope the young lady bet on us, and that you lose, though I’d buy her the candy, if I were you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Parsons, I guess I will,” answered the messenger with a cheerful grin. “She’s an awful nice girl.”
“Humph!” mused Tom, as he walked on. “Every fellow thinks that I suppose, about his own. But I wonder what that package is?”
He found it outside the door, which was locked. None of his chums was in as Tom swung the portal, and soon he was unwrapping the bundle.
“Ha! A bottle of medicine,” remarked Tom, as the last paper came off, revealing a flask of some dark fluid. “I wonder who could have sent it to me?”
He looked at the wrapper, but it bore no sender’s name, and his own address was in typewriting.
“Hello! What you got?” demanded Sid, as he entered at that moment, and saw Tom holding the bottle up to the light.
“Search me,” was the answer. “It’s a bottle of some kind of training dope I guess, to judge by the label.”
Sid looked at it.
“That’s good stuff,” he announced. “It’s a sort of iron tonic. I’ve used it. It’s a patent medicine, but lots of fellows use it in training. Who sent it?”
“I don’t know.”
Sid looked at the wrapper.
“It came from Fairview,” he declared. “Tom, some of the girls thought you were losing your nerve, and they sent this. Well, a dose of it won’t hurt you. They meant all right, I guess. Going to take any? It’s fine for the stomach.”
“No, I don’t feel the need of it,” and Tom set the bottle of medicine on the shelf.
“What are you doing, Sid?”
“Writing a letter.”
“Of course. I can see that without glasses. But who to, if it’s not a personal question?” persisted Tom tantalizingly, as he stretched out on the old couch, and watched his chum busy with pen and ink. Phil and Frank were making more or less successful pretenses at study.
“Well—er—it is sort of personal,” replied Sid, and Tom noticed that the writer got red back of the ears. That is always regarded as a sure sign.
“My! You’ve got it bad,” persisted Tom.
“Got what bad—what do you mean?”
“As if you didn’t know! You saw her Sunday, and here it is only Wednesday, and you’re writing. I say, that’s against the union rules you know; how about it fellows?”
“That’s right,” agreed Frank.
“And the punishment is that you’ll have to read the letter to us,” went on Tom. “Failing to do that we will read it for ourselves.”
He arose suddenly, and made as if to look over Sid’s shoulder.
“No, you don’t!” cried the writer, dodging away from the table. “You let me alone, and I’ll let you alone.”
“By Jove! He’s writing verse!” cried Tom. “Well, if that isn’t the limit, fellows! Say, he has got ’em bad!”
“Oh, you make me tired!” snapped Sid, as he stuffed the paper, over which he had been laboring, into his pocket. “Can’t a fellow write a letter? I’m going down in the reading room.”
And before they could stop him he had slipped out.
“Sid certainly is going some,” remarked Phil. “The germ is working. Well, I’m going to turn in. I’m dead tired and I expect I’ll sleep like a top.”
“Dutch wanted us to come to his room to-night,” remarked Frank. “He’s got some feed.”
“Not for me,” spoke Tom. “I’m not going to risk anything that Dutch will set up, when the games are so near. He’d feed us on Welsh rabbit and cocoanut macaroons if he had his way. Not that he wouldn’t eat ’em himself, but they don’t go with training diet.”
“Well, I’m out of it, so I’ll take a chance,” remarked Frank.
“Don’t take Sid,” Tom called after the big Californian. “He’s on training diet, too. Dutch has the digestion of an ostrich, and it won’t hurt him.”
“All right,” Frank retorted, and then Tom, together with Phil, prepared to turn in.
Tom was thinking of many things. Of his father’s troubles, of the possible outcome of the contests, and of his own chances. For the first time since he had begun to train extra hard, because of the necessity of taking Shambler’s place, Tom felt a little less “up to the mark” than usual. He was more tired than he had been in several weeks, and his stomach did not feel just right.
“I mustn’t overtrain,” he thought. “I can’t afford to go stale.”
He did not know what time it was when he awoke, but it must have been quite late, for Sid and Frank had been in some time. The unpleasant feeling in Tom’s stomach had increased, and he did not know whether it was hunger or indigestion.
“Guess I worked a little bit too hard to-day,” he reflected. “I’ll be all right in the morning.”
But he could not get to sleep again. He tossed restlessly on his pillow, first trying one side of the bed, and then the other.
“Hang it all, what’s the matter with me?” he asked himself. “Guess I’ll get up and take a drink of water.”
He moved quietly, so as not to disturb any of his chums, but Sid, who was a light sleeper, heard him.
“Who’s that? What’s the matter?” demanded Tom’s team-mate.
“Oh, I just woke up—can’t seem to get to sleep again. I don’t feel very good,” answered Tom.
“Take some of that medicine the girls sent,” advised Sid. “It’s a harmless enough tonic, and it may do you good—send you to sleep. You don’t want to get knocked out of your rest.”
“Guess I will,” agreed Tom. There was light enough coming in through the transom over the door to the hall, to enable him to see the bottle of medicine on the shelf. He drew the cork, poured out a dose and swallowed it with a little water. The taste was not very pleasant, but he did not mind that.
“Count sheep jumping over a stone fence, and you’ll drop off in no time,” advised Sid, as Tom went back to bed. Sid was soon slumbering again.
But, somehow or other, neither the counting of sheep nor any of the other time-honored methods of wooing Morpheus availed Tom. His restlessness increased, and he was aware of a growing distress in his stomach.
Suddenly a sharp pain wrenched him, and, in spite of himself, he cried out.
“What’s the matter?” asked Phil.
“I—I don’t know,” faltered Tom. “I’m sick, I guess. Oh, say, this is fierce!” he cried, as another spasm racked him.
Phil was out of bed at once, and switched on the light. One look at Tom was enough for him.
“Boy, you’re sick!” he declared. “I’m going to call the doctor. You need looking after!”
“Oh, I guess I’ll be all right in a little while. I took some of that new medicine, and——”
Another spasm of pain prevented Tom from continuing, and hastened Phil’s decision. He slipped on some garments, awakened Sid and Frank, and was soon communicating with Proctor Zane, who at once summoned Dr. Marshall, the physician connected with Randall.
The medical man came in at once, stopping only to slip on a bathrobe.
“What have you been eating—or taking?” he demanded of Tom, as he felt of the youth’s pulse, and examined him.
“Nothing but some of that Smith, Brown & Robinson’s Tonic,” groaned Tom, motioning toward the medicine bottle. Sid quickly explained about it, handing the phial to the physician. The latter smelled of the mixture, tasted it gingerly and then exclaimed:
“No wonder you’re sick, if you took that stuff!”
“Why, I’ve often taken it,” asserted Sid. “It did me good.”
“Not ‘doped’ as this is,” declared Dr. Marshall. “I know this preparation. It is very good, but this has been tampered with. There’s enough ‘dope’ in there to make a score of you boys sick. Throw the stuff away, or, no, hold on, let me have it. I’ll look into this. There’s been underhand work somewhere. You say some girl friends sent it to you?”
“We thought so,” spoke Sid, “but if it’s been meddled with, of course, they didn’t. I begin to suspect something now.”
“Well, talk about it later,” advised the doctor crisply. “I’ve got a sick lad to look after now. Some of you get me a lot of hot water. I’ve got to use a stomach pump,” and he mixed Tom some medicine, while Sid hurried to rouse the housekeeper.
“Who you suppose could have sent that stuff?”
“We’ll have to look into it.”
“Yes, we ought to tell Dr. Churchill, and have him help us.”
Phil, Sid and Frank thus expressed themselves in whispers, as they sat in their room. Tom had been moved to the infirmary, and Dr. Marshall was working over him with the assistance of Professor Langley, who, as physics instructor, knew something of medicine.
The three chums had just received word that Tom was practically out of danger, and would be all right in a day or so, but that he was still quite ill, and suffered much discomfort.
“Well, I don’t know how you fellows feel about it,” spoke Sid, “but I’ve got my own opinion as to how that stuff came to be fixed, so as to make Tom ill.”
“How?” demanded Frank.
“You mean——” began Phil.
“I mean Shambler, and I don’t care who knows it,” went on Sid, raising his voice. “He’s a cad—and he’ll never be anything else. He and Tom were on the outs from the first, partly over Miss Tyler, and for other reasons.
“Then came the charge against Shambler, and, though Tom had nothing to do with that, Shambler has probably heard that Tom has taken his place for the mile run. He hates Randall, and he wants to see her lose after what happened to him, and, he wants to make Tom, by slumping, bring it about. That’s why he tried to ‘dope’ him. Oh, if I had Shambler here!” and Sid clenched his fists with fierce energy.
“Do you really think Shambler did it?” asked Frank.
“I’m sure of it!” declared Sid. “He is the only one who would have an object.”
“What about Exter—or some of our enemies from Boxer Hall—or even Fairview?” asked Phil. “You know the bottle came from Fairview.”
“It might have come from there, but no one from Fairview Institute sent it,” declared Sid confidently. “I’m going to look into this.”
“But we ought to keep it quiet,” suggested Frank. “I don’t see that any good can come of raising a row about it.”
“Me either,” agreed Phil. “Let’s work it out ourselves, with Dr. Marshall to help us.”
Sid finally agreed with this view. The night wore on, and Tom, by energetic measures, was soon brought out of danger. In fact he never really was in what could be called “danger,” the only effect of the stuff that had been put in the tonic, Dr. Marshall said, being to make him ill and weak. This, in all likelihood, was the object of the person who had fixed the dose. He hoped that Tom would be incapacitated for a week or more.
For it developed that the original bottle, of what was a standard remedy, had been opened, and a certain chemical oil added, that would neutralize the good effects, and make the stuff positively harmful.
“Say, but it was a scare all right, though,” remarked Sid, as the three sat talking about it, too engrossed to go to bed. And, in their case the usual rule of “lights out,” was not enforced on this occasion. “I sort of think it was ‘up to me,’ for recommending Tom to take the stuff.”
“Nonsense,” exclaimed Phil. “You meant all right. It was that cad Shambler who ought to be pummeled.”
“It’ll be hard to fix it on him,” was Frank’s opinion; and so it proved.
The next morning the three friends arranged with Dr. Marshall and the college authorities to keep the real reason of Tom’s illness secret from the students. It was given out that he was overtired from training. Then they set to work to unravel the mystery.
But it was hard work. In the first place they learned that the girls at Fairview knew nothing about the matter. Then Wallops was interviewed.
He gave a good description of the boy who had brought the bottle, and this personage developed, later, into a young employee of a local express company. The boy was sought out.
All that he knew was that the bottle had been given him at the Fairview office to take to Randall, and at the office a clerk had only a dim recollection of the person who brought it in to be dispatched.
Shambler was described to him, and he said that youth might have been the one. But it was flimsy evidence, and though Phil and his chums were well enough satisfied in their own minds that Shambler was the guilty one, there was no way of proving it.
So the matter was dropped, as much “for the honor of Randall,” as for any other reason. For, as Phil said:
“Fellows, we don’t want it to get out that any lad who once attended here could be guilty of such a thing.”
And so the affair rested.
It was two days before Tom was on his feet again, and though he had a wretched time he was, in a measure, even better off than before he took the unfortunate dose. For the rest had done him good, and when he got back to practice, rather pale and uncertain, he soon picked up his speed.
Sid, meanwhile, had been doing hard work, and the other candidates were up to the difficult standard set by Holly and Kindlings.
It was two days before the postponed games. All the difficulties caused by the change of date had been overcome, and there was every prospect of a successful meet.
“Now, Tom, do you feel like letting yourself go?” asked Holly, as the pitcher came out for a trial on the track.
“Yes, I’m all right again,” was the answer. “In fact I think I’m better than I was. Shall I do the whole distance?”
“No, try a half at first. Then, after you warm up, go the limit. We’ll ‘clock’ you.”
As Tom sped over the cinder track for the half mile run, he felt within himself a confidence that he had not been conscious of before.
“I believe that fit of sickness did me good,” he reflected. “It rested me up, at any rate.” When he had come to the finish mark, and the time was announced, it was two seconds better than he had ever done before.
“Now for the mile,” suggested Kindlings. “But take a little rest.”
“No, I’ll go at something else,” decided Tom. “I don’t want to get stiff.” So he did a little work at putting the shot, jumped over a few hurdles, tried some high and broad leaping, and then announced that he was ready for the mile test.
Quite a throng gathered about the track to watch Tom at his practice, and he felt not a little nervousness as he got on his mark.
“Go,” shouted Kindlings, as he fired the pistol, and Tom was off with some of the other candidates, who were in more to fill up, and make a showing for Randall than because they, or their friends, hoped they would win. And yet there was always the one chance.
Tom got off in good shape on the half mile track, two circuits of which were necessary to make the required distance.
“He certainly can go,” observed Holly Cross, who, with Kindlings, and some other kindred spirits, was watching the test.
“Come on! Come on!” yelled Bean Perkins, who was getting his voice in shape for the strain that would be put on it when the games were called. “Oh you, Tom Parsons! Come on!”
And Tom came. Running freely and well, he covered yard after yard, doing the half just a shade better than his other performance.
“Now for the real test,” murmured Kindlings, as our hero swung around the track on the final lap.
There were many eager faces lining the rail, and hands that held stop watches trembled a bit. On and on ran Tom, until he breasted the tape at the finish.
“Time! Time! What’s the time?” shouted the eager students who knew that fifths of seconds counted in a championship meet.
“Four minutes, forty-one and two-fifth seconds,” announced Holly. “Tom, that’s the best yet!”
“We’ll win! We’ll win!” screamed Bean. “Come on, boys!” he called to his crowd of shouters, “let’s practice that new song, ‘We’ll cross the line a winner, or we’ll never cross at all.’ All on the job, now.”
“Tom, old man, you’re all right,” cried Phil, as his chum slipped a sweater over his shoulders. “You’re going to win!”
“I hope—so,” was the panting answer.
There was a comparison of records, and it was found that while Tom’s was a little behind some mile run performances, it was better than that of a number of former champions.
“I think he can cut down a second or two when the games are run off,” said Kindlings, discussing the matter with Holly. “There’ll be a band then, and that always helps a lot, and big crowds, to say nothing of Bean and his shouters.”
“And the girls,” added wise Holly. “Tom’s got a girl in Fairview, I understand, and if she’s on hand he’ll run his head off.”
“Then we’ll have to have her on hand, if we’ve got to bribe her,” declared Kindlings.
“Oh, I guess she won’t need any bribing,” went on his chum. “Now let’s see what Sid can do.”
Sid, on whom the hopes of Randall rested to win the broad jump, was on his mettle. He could easily cover twenty feet, without straining himself, and to-day, in what all regarded as among the last of the important practices, he had several times, gone an inch or two over.
“I don’t hope to equal Bowers who, in 1899, did twenty-one feet, eight and one-half inches,” said Sid, “but I do want to do twenty foot, six, and I’m going to make it, too.”
“Sheran, in 1909, only made twenty feet, seven and a half inches,” Phil reminded his chum.
“Don’t make me envious,” begged Sid. “If I do twenty feet, six, I’ll be satisfied.”
“Don’t be satisfied with anything but the limit,” suggested Kindlings. But then he always was a hard trainer.
And so the practice went on, until Holly and Kindlings, seeing the danger of weariness, called a halt.
“I think we’re coming on all right,” was Holly’s opinion as he and his fellow coach left the field. “I’d like to get a line, though, on what Boxer Hall and the others are doing.”
“So would I, and I believe we ought to. Is there anything in the papers?”
“Yes, a lot of surmises, and some stuff that I believe is faked on purpose to deceive us.”
“Well, we’ll see if we can get a line on their form.”
Accordingly certain “spies” were sent out to see if they could get any information. It was regarded as legitimate then, for no underhand methods were used. It was “all in the game,” and there was a sort of friendly rivalry among the colleges.
A day later some of the lads whom Kindlings had sent out made a report. On the receipt of it the young coach did some figuring on the back of an envelope. Holly came upon him engaged in this occupation.
“What’s up?” he demanded.
“Well, I’m trying to ‘dope out,’ where we stand,” was the reply.
“Got any line?”
“Yes, if I can depend on it. The way I figure out is this. We’ve fairly got ’em all on some things. But not the mile run and the broad jump. Of course something might go wrong with the dash, or the hammer and weight throws, but I don’t think so.”
“What’s the matter with the run and jump?”
“Well, if these figures from Exter are true, they’ve got Tom by about three seconds, and Sid by two inches. But I think Exter has been too optimistic in giving the ‘dope.’”
“Maybe they’ve gone under their records to get better odds in betting.”
“No, I don’t think so. The only one I’m really afraid of is Exter. I think we can clean up Boxer Hall and Fairview. They can’t come near us on anything except the weight throw and pole vault, and I know Phil will make good on the vault, and if Dutch doesn’t get the fifty-six over the twenty-five foot mark I’ll punch his head.”
“Then the way you figure it out, we’ve got our work cut out for us?”
“We always had, but I think now that we’ve got just a chance to win. A chance, and nothing more, for the championship. If Shambler and Frank had stayed in it would have been different, but as it is, and not to disparage Tom or Sid, we’ve got a fair chance and nothing more.”
“To quote the raven,” said Holly with a smile. “‘Nevermore,’ Mr. Poe. But I think we’ll do it, Kindlings.”
“I’m sure I hope so,” was the grave answer. “I hope so.”
It was a day to be proud of—a day when nature was at her best. The sun shone, the sky was cloudless, the grass was green, and there was just enough wind to make it cool, without endangering any such delicate operation as putting a fifty-six pound weight, or interfere with an athlete hurling himself over the crossbar in the pole vault.
“Say, things couldn’t be better!” cried Tom, as he jumped out of bed, and stood at the open window, breathing in the balmy air. “It’s a good thing Randall’s luck postponed the games a week.”
“Feeling fit?” asked Frank.
“As a fiddle. Say, old man, I wish you were with us,” and Tom put his arm around the Big Californian.
“Oh, well, you’ll win without me, and maybe I’ll be with you—next time,” replied Frank, with the semblance of a laugh. None but himself knew the bitterness of his heart, and how much of a strain it had been for him to step aside, “for the honor of Randall,” when he was sure, in his own mind, that he was in the right, and that not a blot of professionalism stained his record.
“Come on, Sid,” urged Tom, as he pulled the blankets off his still slumbering chum. “As the old school readers used to say: ‘The sun is up, and we are up, too.’ Tumble out, and get your lungs full of good air. Then we’ll have a bit of breakfast and do some practice.”
“Um!” grunted Sid, and he rolled out.
All was astir at Randall, and so, too, in the other colleges. For, though the games did not take place until afternoon, there was much yet to do, many final arrangements to make, and the candidates, nervous as young colts, wanted a last try-out.
Running and jumping shoes had to be looked after, tights and shirts in which were rents, or from which buttons were missing, were being repaired by the rough and ready surgery of the college lads.
“This is the time when I wish we were at Fairview,” remarked Tom, as he gingerly handled a needle, repairing a tear in his shirt.
“Why?” demanded Sid.
“So I could ask some of the girls to fix these rips. I never can get used to a thimble.”
“Same here,” agreed Phil. “I shove it through with a nail file.”
“Threading a needle gets my goat,” confessed Sid. “Some authorities say to hold the thread still, and shove the needle at it. Other text books claim that the only proper way is to stick the needle upright in your knee and, after shutting your eyes, keep poking the thread at it until you make a hit. Then knot it and proceed as directed.”
“I never can get the right kind of a point on the thread,” admitted Frank. “It’s always too long, and then it curls up, and shoots around the needle like a drop curve, or else it’s too short, and blunt, and breaks the eye out of the needle.”
“There’s some kind of a thimble, that you stick your needle in, and it has a funnel so you can sort of drop your thread through it, and get it in the hole sooner or later,” remarked Tom. “Guess I’ll get one.”
“I had one of ’em,” said Sid. “The trouble is that after you get the needle in the thimble you can’t get it out again, and you have to break it off. Then you have to hunt up a new needle.”
“It’s a wonder some fellow doesn’t invent a kind of court plaster that you could stick over a tear, and mend it that way, as we do a cut,” suggested Phil. “I think I’ll work on that, instead of my perpetual motion machine after the games.”
Thus the jolly talk went on, until the lads, being excused from chapel for that day, had gotten their athletic suits into some sort of shape, and had gone out on the field for a final practice.
“Well, I trust the eleven will give a good account of itself to-day,” mildly remarked Dr. Churchill, as he met Holly and Kindlings with a squad of candidates. The doctor knew rather less about athletics than some girls do of baseball.
“It isn’t football, to-day, Doctor,” said Holly gently.
“Oh, of course. I ought to know that. Football comes in the Fall. The nine plays for the championship to-day, does it not? Ah, yes, I hope you win both halves.”
“It’s the track team that’s going to compete—for the all-around championship,” whispered Dr. Marshall, with a wink at the young trainers. “The track team, Dr. Churchill.”
“Ah, yes. I should have remembered. Well, I’m sure they will win,” and, with this cheering remark, the head of Randall passed on, thinking of a new book on the history of Sanskrit that he contemplated writing.
Out from their rooms, or the gymnasium, poured the athletes, eager as young colts, and as confident as all young lads are. Tom Parsons was fully himself again, Dr. Marshall’s treatment having put him on his feet. All efforts to learn more about the “doped” bottle of medicine had been dropped, and very few in the college even knew about it.
Sid, too, was trained to the minute, and the others, on whom Randall based her hopes, gave every promise of making good. Yet there was always the chance of a “fluke,” and Holly and Kindlings were desperately nervous as they checked record after record, cast up table after table of points, trying to figure out a more sure system for Randall to win.
The last of the practice was over. The boys had done all that was humanly possible to warrant their success. Now it all depended on the final outcome.
The athletes were to go to Tonoka Lake Park in autos, which had been supplied by some of the wealthier students of Randall. The rank and file would go in trolley cars, or any other way that suited them.
“Well, we can’t do any more,” remarked Holly to Kindlings, as they stood together, ready to start for the field. “We’ve done our best, and the rest lies with our lads.”
“Oh, they’ll make good, all right; don’t worry,” spoke Kindlings confidently. “Bean Perkins has a lot of new songs to cheer ’em with, and then with the band playing, our colors flying, the crowd yelling, and the girls looking pretty, why, we can’t lose.”
“Cross your fingers,” murmured Holly superstitiously, with a short laugh. “Cross your fingers, Dan, old man.”
“All up!” sung out Dutch Housenlager, as the autos came rolling up to the gymnasium. “All up, fellows. It’s do or die, now.”
“All ready!” yelled Bean Perkins. “A last cheer before we meet ’em at the grounds, fellows.”
The cheer came with resounding energy, and when it had died away, some one called for “Aut Vincere, Aut Mori!” “Either We Conquer, or we Die!”
The sweetly solemn strains of the Latin song rang out over the campus, as the competing team rolled away in the autos, waving their hands at their fellows.
“Hang it all, it seems like a funeral!” murmured Sid.
“Cut that out, you heathen!” ordered Phil, thumping his chum on the back.
“Feeling nervous?” asked Frank of Tom, to whom he sat next in the big car, for, though the Big Californian was not to compete, he rode with his chums.
“Just a little. I’m always thinking that I’ll slip, or—something——”
“Let the other fellow do the worrying,” suggested Frank, and it was good advice.
It was not a long ride to Tonoka Park, and when the autos containing the athletes came in sight of it, the lads saw the grounds gay in colors, while a big throng was already on hand. The strains of a band could be heard, and there were cheers and songs, for the crowds from Boxer Hall and Fairview were already in evidence.
“My! There’s a mob!” remarked Tom, as they swung up to the part of the field set apart for them.
“And look at the girls!” added Phil, as he waved his hand toward a section of the grandstand where the maids of Fairview were gathered.
“Will we have time to see ’em before we dress?” asked Sid.
“Oh, you’ll make it, whether you have or not,” retorted Frank. “You’re getting it bad.”
“Dry up!” ordered Sid sententiously.
They left their suit cases in the dressing rooms assigned to them, and started across the field toward the stand where they hoped to see Ruth Clinton and her chums.
As they walked along Tom started, and stared toward a section of the crowd.
“What’s up?” asked Phil.
“I—I thought I saw Shambler,” spoke Tom in a low voice.
“Nonsense! He wouldn’t dare show his face here,” said Phil.
“I guess not,” agreed Tom, and he dismissed the matter.
“Here we are!” cried Ruth, as she spied her brother and his friends. “And we haven’t got your colors, either.”
She shook a flag of Fairview in his face.
“Pooh!” replied Phil. “Enough other girls have ’em,” and he waved his hand toward a part of the stand where the young lady cohorts of Randall sported the yellow and maroon.
Tom greeted Madge Tyler, and, as he stood beside her, he caught a glimpse of something yellow beneath the lapel of her light cloak.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Don’t tell,” she whispered, “or I’d be tried for treason, but—I just couldn’t help it,” and, with a cautious glance around, she showed him a tiny bow of Randall’s colors, under those of her own college. “I—I just hope you’ll win!” she whispered, and Tom pressed her hand as he murmured his thanks.