“Here comes the Exter bunch!” was a sudden cry.
There was the shrill, staccato tooting of a “yard of tin,” on the big tally-ho coach that carried the athletes, their manager and trainers. Gaily bedecked in ribbons it was, and behind came several other vehicles, autos and coaches mingling, carrying the crowd of Exter collegians, who sent cheer after cheer ringing across the grounds of the park.
“They’re coming in style,” remarked Miss Harrison.
“Wait until you see them go away,” murmured Phil. “They won’t cheer then.”
“Don’t be too certain,” cautioned Miss Newton.
“That’s all right,” went on Phil. “We’re going to win. I feel it in my bones.”
“Look at those boys!” interrupted Miss Tyler. “Those Exter chaps I mean. They’re waving right at us, girls! And we haven’t met any of them. The audacity!”
“Can’t blame them much, for picking out the prettiest crowd of girls here,” ventured Tom.
“Oh, thank you!” chorused the four.
“Humph! Those Exterites have their nerve with them all right,” commented Phil. “I hope we take ’em down a peg.”
“Say, if you fellows are going to take part in the games to-day, get a move on!” cried Holly Cross, running up at that juncture. “You want to warm up before the events. Come on! the girls will manage to live without you for a while, I guess, and you can come back later with colors flying.”
He bowed and smiled at the pretty quartette, and then Tom and his chums, once more predicting that they were going to carry the colors of Randall to the fore, hurried away.
The Exter crowd, after cheering for their three opponents, who, in turn, cheered the latest arrivals, took their place in the grandstand reserved for them. The contestants hurried in to get on their togs, which example was followed by our friends.
“Look well to your shoe lacings,” advised Holly to his crowd of athletes. “Don’t have anything slipping at the last minute. Has everybody got everything he needs?”
At once there were cries for various things, from bottles of liniment, or witch hazel, to strips of adhesive plaster, or wrist straps.
“Say! I never saw such a bunch of babies!” complained Kindlings. “You’d forget your heads if they weren’t fast.”
He hurried here and there, looking after the lads as if they were children, unable to do anything for themselves. And, with all this, Kindlings himself expected to take part in several events, and he had grimly made up his mind to win some of them, at least.
“There goes the Boxer Hall crowd,” commented Tom, looking from a window of the dressing room, that gave a view of the field. “They’re out for practice.”
“See anything of Langridge?” asked Sid.
“Yes, he’s there, and Gerhart, too. I’ve got to run against him—Langridge I mean.”
“And Gerhart is in the broad jump, I hear,” added Sid. “Well, don’t let that worry you.”
“I’m not,” replied Tom, as he completed his preparations.
“Come on, fellows, get a move on,” pleaded Holly, and soon those who were going to fight for the honor of Randall tumbled out of the dressing rooms, and trotted across the track and field.
“There they are, boys! There they are!” yelled Bean Perkins, wildly waving a much-beribboned cane at his crowd of shouters. “All together now! Give ’em, ‘We’re going to beat the three of you, and take your warlocks home!’”
The song was given with a will, and from then on there was a pandemonium of sound, as the shouting contingents of the various colleges sought to put heart and courage into their representatives.
There was a final consultation of the arrangement committee, the starters, timers, judges were given their instructions, and the contestants were told to get in readiness. There had been some warm-up practice, and scores of eager lads were but awaiting the crack of the pistol.
“Remember boys,” Holly impressed on the Randallites. “We can’t expect to win every event, but we’ve just got to get five out of the eight to clinch the championship. We’ve already lost the hurdle race, but if we get the mile run, the broad jump, the pole vault, a hammer throw and one other we can win, for they count the most. Get more if you can, but remember, we need the five.”
Wallace, the Exter manager, passed by, nodding to Holly and the others.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Sure,” answered Holly heartily.
“No bad feelings, I hope, on account of our protest?”
“Not a bit. We’re going to win anyhow; so what’s the difference?”
“Nothing like feeling confident,” commented Wallace, with a laugh. “Sorry I can’t wish you luck, but we need this championship ourselves.”
“Come on now,” ordered Kindlings, bustling up. “The fifty-six pound weight throwing comes first. On the job, Dutch. I hope you beat me, and the same to you Barth.” George Barth had been substituted, some time back, for Bean Perkins, who said he would be of more service to Randall cheering for her, than competing in the weight-throwing contest.
“Oh, we’ll win all right,” asserted Dutch Housenlager, with an air of easy confidence, at which Kindlings shook his head.
There was a silence while the announcer made the statement about the opening event, and then, as the various contestants came forward, there were cheers for the representatives of each college.
“Everybody ready?” asked the judge, as he glanced at the twelve contestants lined up before him, for each college had entered three in the fifty-six event.
There were nods of assent, and then a coin was flipped to determine the order of succession. It fell to the lot of Fairview to go first, with Boxer Hall following, then Exter and finally Randall. Kindlings was glad of this, for he regarded it as an advantage for his lads to try to beat the records previously made by their opponents.
The Fairview lads stepped forward. They were husky, clean-cut young fellows, and as the first one took his place in the white, seven-foot circle there was a little murmur of applause.
He grasped the weight confidently, and soon had it swinging well. He let go with a puff of exertion, and watched anxiously as the distance was measured.
“Eighteen feet four inches,” was the announcement.
“We’re safe so far,” murmured Kindlings for he knew what Dutch could do. In quick succession the others of Fairview heaved the big ball with its triangular handle. The record of the first lad was somewhat bettered, but it was soon seen that Fairview could not hope to win, for the distances the other contestants had done in practice were fairly well known.
Boxer Hall bettered Fairview in this contest, her best man’s distance being twenty-one feet, five and a half inches.
“We’ve got to go some to beat that,” murmured Dutch.
“Oh, you can do it,” declared Kindlings, hoping to put heart into the big lad.
Now came Exter’s turn, and with confidence her first contestant took his place. He equalled but did not beat Boxer Hall, and the second man fell below. Then came the third.
The lad on whom the hopes of Exter now depended was a magnificent specimen. Tall and fair, a very picture of an athlete, he stooped over and grasped the handle of the weight. There was a smile on his lips, and he seemed to look at Dutch as though challenging him individually.
“Go as far as you like, old man,” murmured the Randall representative. “I’ll catch you.”
There was a gasp of astonishment as the weight sailed away—astonishment and admiration mingled for, it was easily seen that this throw was, so far, the record-breaker.
“Wow!” gasped Kindlings as the weight landed. “Look out for yourself, Dutch.”
“Twenty-eight feet, eight inches!” sung out the score keeper. It was a good throw, not equaling the best of the amateur records by a foot, but still very fair.
“Now, Dutch, it’s up to us,” said Kindlings in a low voice. “I’ll go first, Barth will follow, and you hold yourself for the last. Remember we’ve got to win!”
“Um!” grunted Dutch, as Kindlings stepped into the circle.
He did not beat the Exter player’s throw, in fact being three feet behind it, and Barth was but little better.
“Come on, Dutch!” ordered Kindlings, and then from the grandstand came one of Randall’s songs chorused by Bean Perkins and his throng.
There was a hush as Dutch took up the weight, and as the muscles of his legs swelled out during the preliminary swinging of it, it seemed as if he might win, for he was in perfect trim.
Over his head sailed the weight, to fall with a thud on the turf—a thud that seemed loud amid the hush that followed.
There were anxious faces watching the scorer as he and his assistants measured the distance, for everything now depended on this record Dutch had made.
“Twenty-eight feet,” sung out the official, and Dutch felt his heart sink. “And five inches,” added the scorer. “The weight throwing contest goes to Exter by three inches, with Randall second.”
There was a riot of cheers from the Exter grandstand, and gloom and silence on the part of Randall. She had lost the first event.
“He beat me by three inches—three inches,” murmured Dutch, as if he could not understand it.
“Never mind,” consoled Kindlings. “You did ten inches better than you ever did in practice, Dutch. It was a great throw, and—Oh, well, we’ve got a chance yet.”
The preparations for the throwing of the sixteen pound hammer were now underway. The Jersey twins, Pete Backus, and Holly were entered in this, and as they had all done well in practice the hopes of Randall ran high.
“Beat ’em, boys, beat ’em!” called Tom Parsons, as the quartette went forward to meet their opponents. At that moment Wallops, who, with some of the other Randall messengers, was on the ground approached Tom.
“Your father is looking for you, Mr. Parsons,” he said.
“My—my father?” gasped Tom. “What do you mean? Is he here?”
“Yes, he just arrived. He’s over talking to Dr. Churchill, and the doctor sent me to find you. Your father wants to see you.”
“Wants to see me,” faltered Tom. There could be but one meaning to the unexpected visit, he thought. He must leave Randall.
“All right, Wallops, tell him I’ll be right over,” said Tom. “I’ll tell Kindlings where I’m going, so he won’t be looking for me. But I’ve got plenty of time before it’s my turn.”
He slipped on a heavy bathrobe, for, in his abbreviated running costume, he was not exactly in shape to go to the grandstand.
“The lawsuit must have gone against dad, or else he’s come to have me go back and testify,” reasoned Tom. “If he’s lost the case, it’s good-bye to Randall for me. But if he wants me to go to court, I’m going to ask him to wait until after the run. I’m not going to desert now. The case will have to wait. But I wonder why dad came, instead of telegraphing? It must be important. I hope nothing else can have happened.”
Anxious thoughts came to Tom, as he made his way through the press of people. His mother or sister might be ill. It was an inopportune time to receive bad news—almost on the instant of entering a race that meant so much to Randall. But Tom made up his mind to do his best under any circumstances.
“What’s up?” asked Frank, whom Tom passed on his way to see his father.
“My dad’s here,” was the reply. “He came unexpectedly. I don’t know what it means.”
Frank looked grave, for he knew on how slender a thread hung Tom’s chances. A moment later our hero saw his father waving his hand to him from his place beside the president of Randall. Dr. Churchill, and several members of the faculty, had come to the games, though Professor Emerson Tines refused to attend.
“Tom!” cried Mr. Parsons as he came down an aisle to meet his son. “I’m glad to see you, boy. You didn’t expect to find me here; did you?”
“No, dad. Is anything—anything wrong?” Tom could hardly frame the question. But a look at his father’s face told him that he need have nothing to fear—at least for the present.
“It’s all right, Tom!” was the hearty answer. “I have good news for you, and I thought I’d come and tell you myself, instead of wiring. The lawsuit is ended.”
“And you win?”
“I do. The other fellows simply backed down, and decided not to contest the case further. They hadn’t a leg to stand on, and they knew it. I won everything, got back all my money, with interest, and——”
“Then I can stay on at Randall?” interrupted Tom, eagerly.
“You sure can. And look here, Tom. I hear your team lost the first event.”
“Yes, dad. They out-threw us.”
“Have you competed yet?”
“No. I’m in the mile run. It’s next to the last event.”
“Well, look here, Tom, my boy,” and Mr. Parsons leaned forward and whispered. “If you don’t win that I’ll never speak to you again, and I don’t think you’re too big even yet, for me to take over my knee, as I did once in a while, years ago. So you want to win that race!” and he laughed and clapped his son on the back.
“Dad, I’m going to win!” was Tom’s answer, given with shining eyes. “This good news will give me second wind.”
“I rather hoped it would,” said Mr. Parsons. “That’s why I came here on the first train I could get. Go on now, and—win!”
Tom nodded, and started from the grandstand, while his father again took his seat near Dr. Churchill. The throwing of the sixteen pound hammer had already started, with Exter leading off. Her entrants did well, and so did those of Boxer Hall, and then came the turn of Randall.
“Go to it, Joe! Go to it!” yelled Bean Perkins, as one of the Jersey twins stepped into the circle. “Come on now, boys, give ’em the ‘hammer and tongs,’ song.”
It rolled out splendidly as Joe Jackson threw. Perhaps it added to his strength and skill, for certainly his heave was not beaten that day. It stands as a record yet in the Tonoka Lake League—one hundred and twenty-two feet and ten inches—but a short distance less than some of the best amateur records.
“Randall wins!” came the announcement at the close of this contest, and Kindlings remarked:
“One of the five!”
The putting of the sixteen pound shot contest was closer than either of the two previous events. It was a matter of inches to decide the winner, and there was a claim of a foul on the part of Exter against one of the Boxer Hall contestants which caused a delay.
“Say, those fellows seem to do nothing but find fault,” remarked Tom to Phil.
“Yes, they’re afraid they won’t get all that’s coming to ’em, I guess.”
“They will if I have anything to say about it,” commented Tom grimly. “But maybe they won’t like it.”
The dispute was finally settled and the throwing went on. To Dan’s chagrin, and the despair of Holly Cross, Randall lost this event by the narrow margin of one inch. It went to Exter, and there was a riot of cheers from her supporters.
But the pole vault turned the tables, and Phil hurled himself over the bar in magnificent style, clearing ten feet seven inches, and winning the contest. And, as if that was not enough, Ned Warren, another Randall lad, was but an inch below this, he too beating the best performance of either of the other three colleges.
“We win twice in this event,” said Holly, who had tied the best man of Exter in the vault. “If they’d only let us count it twice we’d be all right.”
“But we’re coming on,” declared Kindlings, and, when the hundred yard dash also went to the wearers of the maroon and yellow, Bean Perkins could not contain himself.
“Cut loose, boys! Cut loose!” he ordered, and the “Automobile chorus” was fairly howled by the delighted cheerers.
“Three out of five events we need,” remarked Holly, as he and Dan were busy figuring up the points scored. “We may get the high jump, but if we don’t, and Tom and Sid make good, we’ll win the championship.”
“I hope we win the high,” said Dan. “Berry Foster is in fine trim, and I don’t like cutting it so fine as to leave the last two events to clinch things. No telling what may happen to Sid or Tom, though they’re both feeling fit as fiddles they say. Oh, if we can only get the high!”
“Don’t want everything,” suggested Holly with a laugh. “There they go for it. Come on over and watch.”
Randall’s lads made a gallant attempt to bring home the high jump, but it was not to be, and Boxer Hall carried off the coveted trophy, while her sons sang and cheered themselves hoarse.
There were but two more events on the program—the mile run and the running broad jump. Randall needed both of these to win, for, should Exter annex one, and either of the other colleges the other it would mean that the championship would be lost to the wearers of the maroon and yellow.
“Now Tom, it’s up to you,” said Dan in a low voice as the runners came out on their marks. “Are you all right—feel nervous or anything?”
“No, I’m not nervous. I want to win, Dan, but if I don’t——”
“It won’t be from lack of trying,” was the reply. “Go on Tom, they’re waiting for you.”
But, in spite of the fact that Tom had said he was not nervous there was an unusual thumping of his heart. He tried to calm himself, but, the more he did so, the worse he seemed to get.
“Oh, hang it! This won’t do!” he mused. “If Frank was running this race, he wouldn’t be like this. I must think that I’m doing this for him. Brace up! Even Shambler wouldn’t flunk.”
Tom felt better after that little lecture to himself by himself, and when he glanced across toward the grandstands, and saw a slim girlish figure suddenly spring up, and wave his colors at him, he felt a surge of elation and delight.
“That’s Madge!” whispered Tom to himself. “I’m going to win! I’m going to win! For Randall and—her!”
The runners were in their places. The starter had raised his pistol. Tom, for the first time, noticed that on his left was Langridge—his old enemy. Langridge had seen Miss Tyler’s action, and he smiled mockingly at our hero.
“I’m going to win!” Tom told himself over and over again.
“On your marks!” cried the starter.
“They’re going to run!” said Ruth Clinton to Madge, who sat next to her.
“I know it—I know it!” replied Madge nervously. “Oh, I do hope he wins!”
“Who, Roger Barns?” asked Ruth. “Evidently not though, since you waved the yellow and maroon.”
“Of course not—you know who I mean,” and Madge blushed.
Crack went the starter’s pistol, and the runners were away on their course.
“They’re off!” yelled Bean Perkins. “Now boys, the ‘Conquer or Die,’ song, and sing it as you never sang it before. We want Tom to win, and our other lads to get second and third.”
Our hero, running with all his might, heard the sweet strains wafted to him across the track, and he shut his lips grimly, and looked at Langridge out of the corners of his eyes.
The track was a half mile one, two laps being necessary to make the distance. As it was a big wide one, enabling all the contestants to start at once, there was no necessity for heats in this event. It could thus be decided more quickly.
On and on raced Tom. He felt a responsibility he had never experienced before, and it seemed as if he carried the whole weight of Randall on his shoulders, though Jerry and Joe Jackson were in the event. Tom was running well, and he knew he had a reserve of wind and strength for the final spurt. The last few days of practice had done much for him, and even his unfortunate illness had not pulled him down.
It was evident, soon after the start of the race, that it lay between Tom Parsons, Langridge of Boxer Hall and Sam Wendell of Exter. That was unless some of those who were strung out behind them should develop unexpected speed. And this was not likely.
A mile run is a matter of only seven minutes, or thereabouts, at the worst, for any performance slower than seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds scores nothing under the A. A. U. rules. And so the decision of the contest could not be long in doubt.
At the conclusion of the half mile Tom and Langridge were on even terms. The foremost Exter lad had fallen back a few feet, and Tom’s only fear was lest this contestant might be saving himself for a winning spurt.
“But I can spurt too!” thought our hero. “I’m going to win! I’m going to win!”
On and on they raced. Nearer and nearer to the goal they came. Breaths were coming faster and faster. It became harder and harder to get air into the laboring lungs. The weary muscles needed more and more urging to make them do their work.
“Can I do it? Can I do it?” Tom asked himself.
And the grim answer came.
“I’ve got to! I’ve got to!”
There was a mist before his eyes, and yet through it he seemed to see a fair, girlish figure waving a maroon and yellow flag at him. But the colors were blurred.
A singing came into Tom’s ears. It sounded like the beating of the waves of the sea. His heart was a pump, working at double speed. His legs were like the pistons of some engine, darting back and forth. They did not seem to belong to him, but to be separate from his body.
Once or twice he thought of looking down, to make sure that they were fast to his trunk, but he knew he must keep his eyes ahead of him, and his head well up. Now and then he glanced across to where Langridge was running. The Boxer Hall lad was still in his place, even with Tom. The foremost Exter runner was still lagging behind.
“I’ve got to shake him off—shake Langridge,” thought Tom, and it seemed as if he was someone else saying this.
The finish tape loomed in sight. The eager judges and timekeepers crowded to the course. Now was the time to spurt if ever.
“Come on, Tom! Come on!” yelled scores of encouraging voices, and once more Bean Perkins and his cohorts sang a song of victory.
“Langridge! Langridge!” cried his mates, and the Exter lad’s fellows shouted to him to win.
On and on raced Tom. It seemed as if he could not keep it up. His legs were senseless—his feet like lead—his breath was all but gone.
“But I must do it! I must—for the honor of Randall!” he seemed to shout, yet no sound came from between his lips.
“Now!” yelled Holly Cross, who was watching Tom. “Come!”
It was the signal to spurt, and Tom put out his last ounce of strength in the leap forward. He breasted the tape, and, as he crossed the line he shot a hasty glance to either side.
He was alone! Langridge had faltered at the last. The Exter man was a poor third.
Tom had won the mile run!
“Oh Tom!”
“Good old boy!”
“You did it! You did it!”
“I knew you would! Oh Tom!”
Everyone seemed to be calling to him at once. A score of arms sought to clasp Tom Parsons, a double score of hands were shot out to pat him on the back.
“Good old Tom!” cried Holly Cross, as he ran up to help support the half-exhausted runner.
“You’ve done your share,” complimented Kindlings.
A figure burst through the throng surrounding the winner.
“Oh Tom!” a voice cried. “I knew you could do it!” Frank Simpson clasped his chum in his arms. There was not a trace of envy—only the best of good fellowship.
“Well, I thought of you,” said Tom, when his breathing was less labored. “I—I ran for you, Frank. I pretended it was your contest, and I played it as well as I could.”
“Couldn’t have been better,” declared the Big Californian. “Now come on—the girls want to see you,” for Frank had been sitting near Miss Tyler and her friends.
“Oh, wait until I wash up,” protested Tom, but Frank would not take “no” for an answer, and, slipping a big robe around his chum he led him away to receive the congratulations that awaited him.
Tom’s father came down from the grandstand to meet him.
“Oh boy!” he cried. “You did it! I’m going to telegraph your mother!” And then, with a hand clasp, he pressed his son to him, and hurried on to wire the good news.
“The girls are waiting for you!” he called back as he laughed, and Tom blushed.
“Congratulations!” exclaimed Madge Tyler, as Tom climbed his way to her and the others. He was being greeted on all sides by those on the grandstand, but he had eyes for only one.
“I guess you were the mascot,” he whispered, as he sat down in a place Miss Tyler made for him. Tom clasped her hand.
“And our poor college isn’t in it,” said Ruth Clinton sadly.
“There’s a chance yet,” declared Mabel Harrison.
“Not with Sid Henderson to do the broad jump,” asserted Tom confidently.
Madge Tyler hastily made a bow of yellow and maroon and pinned it on one lapel of her jacket, to balance the colors of her own college.
“You’re a traitor!” exclaimed Helen Newton.
“I am not. I’m only paying respect to the victor,” said Madge with a laugh.
“We need the jump points; don’t we, Tom?” asked Frank, as he managed to find a place near the runner, who was the hero of the hour.
“We sure do. But I guess we can depend on Sid.”
Preparations for the final event were going forward. The games were almost over. But, so close had been the contests, and so well distributed were the points that even with all the hard work on the part of her representatives, Randall could not win unless she got the last event. Otherwise there might be a tie between Boxer Hall and Exter, that would have to be played off later, if either got another first place.
The jumping contestants were out on the field. They were receiving their last instructions, and drawing for places. Sid got fifth chance.
There was a lull in the proceedings. The band had rendered several airs, and the cheer leaders and their cohorts were getting their voices in shape for the final songs.
“All ready!” called the starter. “Come on now, finish things up.”
“How about you, Sid?” asked Holly, as he stood beside the lad on whom, as it had on Tom, so much depended.
“I’m all right,” was the confident answer. “I don’t know what these other fellows are going to do, but I’ll do my best.”
“We know that, Sid.”
Then the take-off was cleared, and the jumping began.
There was not the sensationalism about the running broad jump that there had been about the mile run, but to a lover of games there was much of interest in it. There were some good, clean jumpers, too, and Randall’s lads were not a whit behind their opponents.
In turn the representatives of Fairview and Boxer Hall made their trials. There were two of each, and Sid came fifth, the first one to try for Randall.
“You’ve got to beat nineteen feet, eight inches,” said Kindlings to his chum. “Can you do it?”
“I’ve done nineteen, seven—that’s the best,” was the low answer, “but I’ll try.”
Sid gathered himself for the run, and took-off beautifully. He came down a good two inches beyond the best previous mark, and there was a shout of delight as this was noted.
“I claim a foul!” was the sudden remark of an Exter player. “Henderson overstepped the take-off mark.”
At once there was a storm of protest, and some acquiescing voices. Holly and Kindlings insisted that Sid had not fouled, and, after some delay, and not a little disputing, in which hard words were passed, it was agreed that Sid might try again, after the last contestant.
The cheers that had sprung up when it was rumored that Sid had won, were hushed, and in tense silence the Randallites awaited the final outcome.
An Exter lad had covered an even twenty feet, and this was by far the best record for that event in the league. Already Exter was cheering in anticipation of victory. But Sid had another chance.
“Can you do it?” asked Holly.
“I don’t know. It’s a big jump to beat, but I’m just mad enough to do it. Of all the unfair protests——”
“That’s right. Get good and mad,” suggested Holly. “They deserve to be beaten, and I believe they will be. Jump as you never jumped before, Sid!” and he clapped him on the back.
The course was cleared, and, amid a hush that was almost unnatural Sid made his preparations.
On he came with a rush, rising beautifully into the air as he reached the take off. This time there was no question but what he had leaped “cleanly.”
Forward he hurled himself, straight through the air, like some animal, until he came down with a thud. And, as he did so, he knew, in his own heart, that he had jumped better than he had ever jumped before.
A moment later came the confirmation.
“Twenty feet—two inches!” yelled the announcer. “Sid Henderson wins—Randall wins the championship—Randall wins!”
“Come on boys! One last song!” begged Bean Perkins of his well-nigh exhausted lads. “One last song to celebrate the victory!”
They gave it with a will, followed by cheer after cheer,—for the team, for the college, for the colors, for their rivals, for the girls—anything and everything was cheered.
Exter, Boxer Hall and Fairview nobly did their share, too. They paid full tribute to their successful rivals.
“And we win! We win! We win!” cried Kindlings, as he capered about the group of tired but happy athletes.
“As if there ever was a doubt,” said Holly Cross.
“Oh, you get out!” protested Kindlings. “It was all in the air until the last minute. Tom and Sid pulled us out of the fire.”
The field was being overrun with spectators, who sought to congratulate victors, or commiserate with the losers. Randall’s colors were seen on every side, for, as is always the case in college games, the winning hues always appear mysteriously at the end of the contest.
“Come on, the girls are waiting for us,” said Phil, who had changed into his ordinary garments. “They want to congratulate you, Sid.”
“Then they’ll have to wait,” was the seeming ungracious answer. “I’m all dust, and I’m going to have a shower first. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”
He raced away to the dressing rooms, and Tom, Phil and Frank, who were “presentable” now, went to talk to Madge and her chums.
“Well, how about it?” asked Tom, as he approached them.
“We haven’t a word to say,” replied Miss Tyler. “You won fairly and squarely, and—well——”
“You helped,” said Tom boldly. “You waved our colors at the right time.”
“Yes, just as if she belonged to Randall, instead of Fairview,” said Miss Harrison.
“She does, I guess,” said Ruth, with a glance at Tom.
There was laughter, talking, quips and jibes, but over all there was the spirit of gaiety.
“Your mother wired her congratulations,” said Mr. Parsons, making his way to Tom. “I’m going back home again now.”
“No, you’re not, dad,” insisted the winner of the mile run. “You’re going to stay here to-night.”
“You’ll have the time of your life,” added Sid. “Better stay.”
“Well, I guess I will,” agreed Mr. Parsons. “I begin to feel like a boy again.”
Tom and his chums said farewell to their girl friends, promising to call on them later. Then, while still the cheers of Bean Perkins and his lads were ringing over the field, faint but full of spirit, the winning team started for Randall. Mr. Parsons went with them.
And such a night as it was that followed.
Proctor Zane threw up his hands early in the evening, and retired to his quarters. Dr. Churchill said it was the best thing to do under the circumstances. For the spirit of fun, of jollity, and of victory was abroad in the land, and Randall celebrated as she had never celebrated before.
Mr. Parsons was an honored guest, and he proved himself to be imbued with the immortal spirit of youth, for he was like a lad again, capering about.
Bonfires were built, spreads innumerable were held, professors were serenaded, and forced to make congratulatory speeches. Even “Pitchfork,” had to come out to speak to the team, though he did not show very good grace. But dear old Dr. Churchill struck the right note, and was roundly cheered as he gracefully spoke of the victory of the “track eleven and the baseball racers.”
But he meant well.
And so that night at Randall passed into honored and never-to-be-forgotten history.
They were in their room—the four inseparables. It was a few days after the great games, and the trophies indicating the championship of Randall had been placed in an honored place in the gymnasium. Also the tale of the victory had gone abroad to the world.
Tom’s father had returned home, to tell the details, the law case was a closed event. Now came talk—talk of what had been.
“It was great—couldn’t have been better,” declared Frank Simpson. “There is only one regret.”
“What’s that?” asked Phil.
“About that charge against me. I don’t say anything about Shambler, for he admitted his guilt. But I know I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“We’ll forget Shambler,” suggested Tom. “I guess he’s vanished.”
“But I would like to have a ruling on my case,” went on Frank. “I think it sort of stands as a black mark against Randall. I don’t see why that A. A. U. committee doesn’t answer.”
There was a moment of silence. No one seemed to know what to say. The alarm clock ticked off the seconds. Tom was sprawled out on the sofa, with Phil crowding him. In the armchairs were Frank and Sid. There came a knock on the door.
“Who’s there?” demanded Tom.
“A telegram for Mr. Simpson,” announced Wallops.
The Big Californian leaped for the portal, and swung it open. In an instant he had snatched the yellow envelope, and torn it open. Rapidly he scanned the message:
“Wow! Hurray!” he shouted.
“What is it?” demanded Tom.
“It’s good news! This is a telegram from the protest committee of the A. A. U. It says: ‘Your case, and others like it, ruled on some time ago. Settled you were strictly amateurs. Letter follows. You are eligible in all amateur contests.’ What do you think of that?” cried Frank, capering about. “I knew I was right.”
“And so did we!” cried Phil.
The letter settled any last doubts. It came a few days later, and stated that soon after the charity games, in which Frank, and others, took part, that the question of professionalism, on account of the money prizes, had come up, and had been settled in favor of the amateurs. No hint, even, of professionalism tainted them, it was said.
A copy of the ruling was at once sent to Exter and the other colleges in the Tonoka League, and Wallace replied at once, expressing his regret at having raised the point, and congratulating Frank.
“But it’s all for the best,” declared Frank.
“Yes,” agreed Tom, “for now there’s nothing against the honor of Randall, since Shambler has left.”
“And now there won’t be any question of your playing baseball, football or rowing on the boat crew—if we have one,” said Phil.
“Are we going to have a boat crew?” inquired Tom.
“There’s talk of it,” was the answer.
And what Randall’s crew did may be learned by reading the next book of this series, to be entitled “The Eight-Oared Victors; A Story of College Water Sports.” In that we will meet all our old friends once more.
It was several days later. The celebrations of Randall’s track and field victory were about over, and the diamond was beginning to take on an unusually active appearance.
One evening, in the room of the inseparables, the four chums sat in silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock, or the creak of the old sofa, or easy chair.
Frank walked over to the table, and began writing.
“It’s to a girl,” said Phil, in a low voice as he heard the scratching of his friend’s pen.
“What of it?” snapped the big Californian. “I guess you would write too if you wanted to.”
“Guess I will,” decided Phil, and soon four pens were scratching.
“Well, for cats’ sake, what’s this?” demanded Dutch Housenlager, a little later, as he came into the room. “Is it a new literary club that I’ve stacked up against?”
“Something like it,” remarked Tom, as he began on his fourth page.
“Hey, what rhymes with dove?” asked Sid dreamily.
“Love, you old moon-calf!” grunted Dutch, as he backed out. “Say, when you fellows get over being spoony, come out and have some fun,” he added closing the door. And the scratching of the four pens went on.
THE END
THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES
12mo. Illustrated. Price 50 cents per volume.
Postage 10 cents additional.