Ragged work, necessarily, marked the opening of the practice. The ball was dropped, fumbled, fallen upon, lost, regained, tossed and kicked. But it all served a purpose, and the coach and captain, with keen eyes, watched the different candidates. Now and then they gave a word of advice, cautioning some player about wrong movements, or suggesting a different method.
Phil had been put in as quarter-back on one scrub team, and Tom, as left-end, on the same. Phil found his opponent on the opposing eleven to be none other than Langridge’s friend, Gerhart. It did not need much of an eye to see that Gerhart did not know the game. He would have done well enough on a small eleven, but he had neither the ability nor the strength to last through a college contest.
Several times, when it was his rival’s turn to pass back the ball, Phil saw the inefficient work of Gerhart, but he said nothing. He felt that he was sure of his place on the ’varsity eleven, yet hecalled to mind how Langridge had used his influence to keep Tom Parsons from pitching in the spring.
There was no denying that Langridge had influence with the sporting crowd, and it was possible that he might exert it in favor of his new chum and against Phil. But there was one comfort: Langridge was not as prominent in sports as he had been during the spring term, when he was manager of the baseball team. He had lost that position because of his failure to train and play properly, and, too, his uncle, who was his guardian, had insisted that he pay more attention to studies.
“After all, I don’t believe I have much to fear from him,” thought Phil. Then came a scrimmage, and he threw himself into the mass play to prevent the opposing eleven from gaining.
The practice lasted half an hour, and at the close Coach Lighton and Captain Cross walked off the field, talking earnestly.
“I wish I knew what they were saying,” spoke Phil, as he and Tom strolled toward the dressing-room.
“Oh, they’re saying you’re the best ever, Phil.”
“Nonsense! They’re probably discussing how they can induce you to play.”
“Well, how goes it?” called a voice, and they looked back to see Bricktop Molloy. He wasperspiring freely from the hard practice he had been through at tackle.
“Fine!” cried Tom. “We were just wondering if we would make the ’varsity.”
“Sure you will,” answered the genial Irish student, who was nothing if not encouraging. Perhaps it was because he was sure himself of playing on the first team that he was so confident.
“What did you think of Gerhart at quarter?” asked Tom, for the benefit of his chum.
“I didn’t notice him much,” answered Bricktop, as he ruffled his red hair. “Seemed to me to be a bit sloppy, though; and that won’t do.”
Phil did not say anything, but he looked relieved.
“Too bad you’re not going to play, Sid, old chap,” remarked Tom in the room that night, when the three chums were together. “You don’t know what you miss.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” was the answer, and Sid looked up from the depths of the chair, closing his Greek book. “The day has gone by when I want to have twenty-one husky lads trying to shove my backbone through my stomach. I don’t mind baseball, but I draw the line at posing as a candidate for a broken neck or a dislocated shoulder. Not any in mine, thank you.”
“You’re a namby-pamby milksop!” exclaimed Phil with a laugh and a pat on the back, that tookall the sting from the words. “Worse than that, you’re a——”
“Well, I don’t stick girls’ pictures, and banners worked in silk by the aforesaid damsels, all over the room,” and Sid looked with disapproval on an emblem which Tom had placed on the wall that day. It was a silk flag of Randall colors, which Madge Tyler had given to him.
“You’re a misguided, crusty, hard-shelled troglodytic specimen of a misogynist!” exclaimed Tom.
“Thanks, fair sir, for the compliment,” and Sid arose to bow elaborately.
Phil and Tom talked football until Sid begged them to cease, as he wanted to study, and, though it was hard work, they managed to do so. Soon they were poring over their books, and all that was heard in the room was the occasional rattle of paper, mingling with the ticking of the clock.
“Well, I’m done for to-night,” announced Sid, after an hour’s silence. “I’m going to get up early and bone away. Hand me that alarm clock, Tom, and I’ll set it for five.”
“Don’t!” begged Phil.
“Why not?”
“Because if you do it will go off about one o’clock in the morning. Set it at eleven, and by the law of averages it ought to go off at five. Try it and see. I never saw such a clock as that. It’s a most perverse specimen.”
Phil’s prediction proved, on trial, to be correct, so Sid set the clock at eleven, and went to bed, where, a little later, Tom and Phil followed.
There was more football practice the next afternoon, and also the following day. Tom was doing better than he expected, but his speed was not yet equal to the work that would be required of him.
“We need quick ends,” said the coach in talking to the candidates during a lull in practice. “You ends must get down the field like lightning on kicks, and we’re going to do a good deal of kicking this year.”
Tom felt that he would have to spend some extra time running, both on the gymnasium track and across country. His wind needed a little attention, and he was not a lad to favor himself. He wanted to be the best end on the team. He spoke to the coach about it, and was advised to run every chance he got.
“If you do, I can practically promise you a place on the eleven,” said Mr. Lighton.
“Who’s going to be quarter-back?” Tom could not help asking.
“I don’t know,” was the frank answer. “A few days ago I would have said Phil Clinton; but Gerhart, the new man, has been doing some excellent work recently. I’ll be able to tell in a few days.”
Somehow Tom felt a little apprehensive for Phil. He fancied he could see the hand of Langridge at work in favor of his freshman chum.
The matter was unexpectedly settled a few days later. There were two scrub teams lined up, Tom and Phil being on one, and Gerhart playing at quarter on the other. There had been some sharp practice, and a halt was called while the coach gave the men some instructions. As a signal was about to be given Phil went over to the coach, and, in a spirit of the utmost fairness, complained that the opposing center was continually offending in the matter of playing off side. Phil suggested that Mr. Lighton warn him quietly.
The coach nodded comprehendingly, and started to speak a word of caution. As he passed over to the opposing side, he saw Gerhart stooping to receive the ball.
“Gerhart,” he said, “I think you would improve if you would hold your arms a little closer to your body. Then the ball will come in contact with your hands and body at the same time, and there is less chance for a fumble. Here, I’ll show you.”
Now, when Mr. Lighton started he had no idea whatever of speaking to Gerhart. It was the center he had in mind, but he never missed a chance to coach a player. He came quite close to the quarter-back,and was indicating the position he meant him to assume, when the coach suddenly started back.
“Gerhart, you’ve been smoking!” he exclaimed, and he sniffed the air suspiciously.
“I have not!” was the indignant answer.
“Don’t deny it,” was the retort of the coach. “I know the smell of cigarettes too well. You may go to the side lines. Shipman, you come in at quarter,” and he motioned to another player.
“Mr. Lighton,” began Gerhart, “I promise——”
“It’s too late to promise now,” was the answer the coach made. “At the beginning of practice I warned you all that if you broke training rules you couldn’t play. If you do it now, what will you do later on?”
“I assure you, I—er—I only took a few——”
“Shipman,” was all Mr. Lighton said, and then he spoke to the center.
Gerhart withdrew from the practice, and walked slowly from the gridiron. As he left the field he cast a black look at Phil, who, all unconscious of it, was waiting for the play to be resumed. But Tom saw it.
Fifteen minutes more marked the close of work for the day. As Tom and Phil were hurrying to the dressing-rooms, they were met by Langridge and Gerhart. The latter still had his football togs on.
“Clinton, why did you tell Lighton I had been smoking?” asked Gerhart in sharp tones.
“Tell him you had been smoking? Why, I didn’t know you had been.”
“Yes, you did. I saw you whispering to him, and then he came over and called me down.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“I am not! I saw you!”
Phil recollected that he had whispered to the coach. But he could not, in decency, tell what it was about.
“I never mentioned your name to the coach,” he said. “Nor did I speak of smoking.”
“I know better!” snapped Gerhart. “I saw you.”
“I can only repeat that I did not.”
“I say you did! You’re a——”
Phil’s face reddened. This insult, and from a freshman, was more than he could bear. He sprang at Gerhart with clenched fists, and would have knocked him down, only Tom clasped his friend’s arm.
“Not here! Not here!” he pleaded. “You can’t fight here, Phil!”
“Somewhere else, then!” exclaimed Phil. “He shan’t insult me like that!”
“Of course not,” spoke Tom soothingly, for he, too, resented the words and manner of the freshman. “Langridge, I’ll see you about this later ifyou’re agreeable,” he added significantly, “and will act for your friend.”
“Of course,” said Tom’s former rival easily. “I guess my friend is willing,” and then the two cronies strolled off.
“Are you going to fight him?” asked Langridge of Gerhart, when they were beyond the hearing of Tom and Phil.
“Of course! I owe him something for being instrumental in getting me put out of the game.”
“Are you sure he did?”
“Certainly. Didn’t I see him sneak up to Lighton and put him wise to the fact that I’d taken a few whiffs? I only smoked half a cigarette in the dressing-room, but Clinton must have spied on me.”
“That’s what Parsons did on me, last term, and I got dumped for it. There isn’t much to this athletic business, anyway. I don’t see why you go in for it.”
“Well, I do, but I’m not going to stand for Clinton butting in the way he did. I wish he had come at me. You’d seen the prettiest fight you ever witnessed.”
“I don’t doubt it,” spoke Langridge dryly.
“What do you mean?” asked his crony, struck by some hidden meaning in the words.
“I mean that Clinton would just about have wiped up the field with you.”
“I’ll lay you ten to one he wouldn’t! I’ve taken boxing lessons from a professional,” and Gerhart seemed to swell up.
“Pooh! That’s nothing,” declared Langridge. “Phil Clinton has boxed with professionals, and beaten them, too. We had a little friendly mill here last term. It was on the quiet, so don’t say anything about it. Phil went up against a heavy hitter and knocked him out in four rounds.”
“He did?” and Gerhart spoke in a curiously quiet voice.
“Sure thing. I just mention this to show that you won’t have a very easy thing of it.”
There was silence between the two for several seconds. Then Gerhart asked:
“Do you think he wants me to apologize?”
“Would you?” asked his chum, and he looked sharply at him.
“Well, I’m not a fool. If he’s as good as you say he is, there’s no use in me having my face smashed just for fun. I think he gave me away, and nothing he can say will change it. Only I don’t mind saying to him that I was mistaken.”
“I think you’re sensible there,” was Langridge’scomment. “It would be a one-sided fight. Shall I tell him you apologize?”
“Have you got to make it as bald as that? Can’t you say I was mistaken?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try. Clinton is one of those fellows who don’t believe in half-measures. You leave it to me. I’ll fix it up. I don’t want to see you knocked out so early in the term. Besides—well, never mind now.”
“What is it?” asked Gerhart quickly.
“Well, I was going to say we’d get square on him some other way.”
“That’s what we will!” came eagerly from the deposed quarter-back. “I counted on playing football this term, and he’s to blame if I can’t.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” came from Langridge. “I never knew Clinton to lie. Maybe what he says is true.”
“I don’t believe it. I think he informed on me, and I always will. Do you think there’s a chance for me to get back?”
“No. Lighton is too strict. It’s all up with you.”
“Then I’ll have my revenge on Phil Clinton, that’s all.”
“And I’ll help you,” added Langridge eagerly. “I haven’t any use for him and his crowd. He pushed me down stairs the other day, and I owehim one for that. We’ll work together against him. What do you say?”
“It’s a go!” and they shook hands over the mean bargain.
“Then you’ll fix it up with him?” asked Gerhart after a pause.
“Yes, leave it to me.”
So that is how it was, that, a couple of hours later, Tom and Phil received a call from Langridge. He seemed quite at his ease, in spite of the feeling that existed between himself and the two chums.
“I suppose you know what I’ve come for,” he said easily.
“We can guess,” spoke Tom. “Take a seat,” and he motioned to the old sofa.
“No, thanks—not on that. It looks as if it would collapse. I don’t see why you fellows have such beastly furniture. It’s frowsy.”
“We value it for the associations,” said Phil simply. “If you don’t like it——”
“Oh, it’s all right, if you care for it. Every one to his notion, as the poet says. But I came on my friend Gerhart’s account. He says he was mistaken about you, Clinton.”
“Does that mean he apologizes?” asked Phil stiffly.
“Of course, you old fire-eater,” said Langridge, lighting a cigarette. “Is it satisfactory?”
“Yes; but tell him to be more careful in the future.”
“Oh, I guess he will be. He’s heard of your reputation,” and Langridge blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling.
“I’ll take him on, if he thinks Phil is too much for him,” said Tom with a laugh.
“No, thanks; he’s satisfied, but it’s hard lines that he can’t play,” observed the bearer of the apology.
“That’s not my fault,” said Phil.
“No, I suppose not. Well, I’ll be going,” and, having filled the room with particularly pungent smoke, Langridge took his departure. If Tom and Phil could have seen him in the hall, a moment later, they would have observed him shaking his fist at the closed door.
“Whew!” cried Tom. “Open a window, Phil. It smells as if the place had been disinfected!”
“Worse! I wonder what sort of dope they put in those cigarettes? I like a good pipe or a cigar, but I’m blessed if I can go those coffin nails! Ah, that air smells good,” and he breathed in deep of the September air at the window.
Thus it was that there came about no fight between Phil and the “sporty freshman,” as he began to be called. There was some disappointment, among the students who liked a “mill,” but asthere were sure to be fights later in the term, they consoled themselves.
Meanwhile, the football practice went on. Candidates were being weeded out, and many were dropped. Gerhart made an unsuccessful attempt to regain his place at quarter, but the coach was firm; and though Langridge used all his influence, which was not small, it had no effect. Gerhart would not be allowed to play on the ’varsity (which was the goal of every candidate), though he was allowed to line up with the scrub.
“But I’ll get even with Clinton for this,” he said more than once to his crony, who eagerly assented.
Phil, meanwhile, was clinching his position at quarter, and was fast developing into a “rattling good player,” as Holly Cross said. Tom was not quite sure of his place at end, though he was improving, and ran mile after mile to better his wind and speed.
“You’re coming on,” said Coach Lighton enthusiastically. “I think you’ll do, Tom. Keep it up.”
There had been particularly hard practice one afternoon, and word went down the line for some kicking. The backs fell to it with vigor, and the pigskin was “booted” all over the field.
“Now for a good try at goal!” called the coach, as the ball was passed to Holly Cross, who was playing at full-back. He drew back his foot, andhis shoe made quite a dent in the side of the ball. But, as often occurs, the kick was not a success. The spheroid went to the side, sailing low, and out of bounds.
As it happened, Professor Emerson Tines, who had been dubbed “Pitchfork” the very first time the students heard his name, was crossing the field at that moment. He was looking at a book of Greek, and paying little attention to whither his steps led. The ball was coming with terrific speed directly at his back.
“Look out, professor!” yelled a score of voices.
Mr. Tines did look, but not in the right direction. He merely gazed ahead, and seeing nothing, and being totally oblivious to the football practice, he resumed his reading.
The next moment, with considerable speed,the pigskin struck him full in the back. It caught him just as he had lifted one foot to avoid a stone, and his balance was none too good. Down he went in a heap, his book flying off on a tangent.
The pigskin struck him full in the back“The pigskin struck him full in the back”
“Wow!” exclaimed Holly Cross, who had been the innocent cause of the downfall. “I’ll be in for it now.”
“Keep mum, everybody, as to who did it,” proposed Phil. “The whole crowd will shoulder the blame.”
The players started on the run toward the professor, who still reclined in a sprawling attitudeon the ground. He was the least liked of all the faculty, yet the lads could do no less than go to his assistance.
“Maybe he’s hurt,” said Tom.
“He’s too tough for that,” was the opinion of Bricktop.
Before the crowd of players reached the prostrate teacher he had arisen. His face was first red and then pale by turns, so great was his rage. He looked at the dirt on his clothes, and then at his book, lying face downward some distance away.
“Young gentlemen!” he cried in his sternest voice. “Young gentlemen, I object to this! Most emphatically do I object! You have gone entirely too far! It is disgraceful! You shall hear further of this! You may all report to me in half an hour in my room! I most seriously object! It is disgraceful that such conduct should be allowed at any college! I shall speak to Dr. Churchill and enter a most strenuous objection! The idea!”
He replaced his glasses, which had fallen off, and accepted his book that Tom picked up.
“Don’t forget,” he added severely. “I shall expect you all to report to me in half an hour.”
At that moment Dr. Albertus Churchill, the aged and dignified head of the college, and Mr. Andrew Zane, a proctor, came strolling along.
“Ah! I shall report your disgraceful conduct to Dr. Churchill at once,” added Professor Tines,as he walked toward the venerable, white-haired doctor. “I shall enter my strongest objection to the continuance of football here.”
There were blank looks on the faces of the players.
Evidently Dr. Churchill surmised that something unusual had occurred, for he changed his slow pace to a faster gait as he approached the football squad, in front of which stood Professor Tines, traces of anger still on his unpleasant face.
“Ah, young gentlemen, at football practice, I see,” remarked the doctor, smiling. “I trust there is the prospect of a good team, Mr. Lighton. I was very well pleased with the manner in which the baseball nine acquitted itself, and I trust that at the more strenuous sport the colors of Randall will not be trailed in the dust.”
“Not if I can help it, sir; nor the boys, either,” replied the coach.
“That’s right,” added Captain Holly Cross.
“I see you also take an interest in the sport,” went on Dr. Churchill to Professor Tines. “I am glad the members of the faculty lend their presence to sports. Nothing is so ennobling——”
“Sir,” cried Professor Tines, unable to contain himself any longer, “I have been grossly insultedto-day. I wish to enter a most emphatic protest against the continuance of football at this college. But a moment ago, as I was crossing the field, reading this Greek volume, I was knocked over by the ball. I now formally demand that football be abolished.”
Dr. Churchill looked surprised.
“I want the guilty one punished,” went on Professor Tines. “Who kicked that ball at me?”
“Yes, young gentlemen, who did it?” repeated the proctor, for he thought it was time for him to take a hand. “I demand to know!”
“It wasn’t any one in particular, sir,” answered Coach Lighton, determined to defend his lads. “It was done on a new play we were trying, and it would be hard to say——”
“I think perhaps I had better investigate,” said Dr. Churchill. “Young gentlemen, kindly report at my study in half an hour.”
“If you please, sir,” spoke Phil Clinton, “Professor Tines asked us to call and see him.”
“Ah, I did not know that. Then I waive my right——”
“No, I waive mine,” interrupted the Latin teacher, and he smoothed out some of the pages in the Greek book.
“Perhaps we had better have them all up to my office,” proposed the proctor. “It is larger.”
“A good idea,” said the president of Randall.“Gentlemen, you may report to the proctor in half an hour. I like to see the students indulge in sports, but when it comes to such rough play that the life of one of my teachers is endangered, it is time to call a halt.”
“His life wasn’t in any danger,” murmured Tom.
“Hush!” whispered the coach. “Leave it to me, and it will come out all right.”
“But if they abolish football!” exclaimed Phil. “That will be too much! We’ll revolt!”
“They’ll not abolish it. I’ll make some explanation.”
Dr. Churchill, Professor Tines, and the proctor moved away, leaving a very disconsolate group of football candidates on the gridiron.
“Do you suppose Pitchfork will prevail upon Moses to make us stop the game?” asked Jerry Jackson. “Moses,” as has been explained, being the students’ designation of Dr. Churchill.
“We’ll get up a counter protest to Pitchfork’s if they do,” added his brother, Joe Jackson.
“Hurrah for the Jersey twins!” exclaimed Tom. The two brothers, who looked so much alike that it was difficult to distinguish them, were from the “Garden State,” and thus had gained their nickname.
“Well, that sure was an unlucky kick of mine,” came from Holly Cross sorrowfully.
“Nonsense! You’re not to blame,” said Kindlings Woodhouse. “It might have happened to any of us. We’ll all hang together.”
“Or else we’ll hang separately, as one of the gifted signers of the Fourth of July proclamation put it,” added Ed Kerr. “Well, let’s go take our medicine like little soldiers.”
In somewhat dubious silence they filed up to the proctor’s office. It was an unusual sight to see the entire football squad thus in parade, and scores of students came from their rooms to look on.
Dr. Churchill and Professor Tines were on hand to conduct the investigation. The latter stated his case at some length, and reiterated his demand that football be abolished. In support of his contention he quoted statistics to show how dangerous the game was, how many had been killed at it, and how often innocent spectators, like himself, were sometimes hurt, though, he added, he would never willingly be a witness of such a brutal sport.
“Well, young gentlemen, what have you to say for yourselves?” asked Dr. Churchill, and Tom thought he could detect a twinkle in the president’s eye.
Then Coach Lighton, who was a wise young man, began a defense. He told what a fine game football was, how it brought out all that was best in a lad, and how sorry the entire squad was that any indignity had been put upon Professor Tines. Hewas held in high esteem by all the students, Mr. Lighton said, which was true enough, though esteem and regard are very different.
Finally the coach, without having hinted in the least who had kicked the ball that knocked the professor down, offered, on behalf of the team, to present a written apology, signed by every member of the squad.
“I’m sure nothing can be more fair than that,” declared Dr. Churchill. “I admit that I should be sorry to see football abolished here, Professor Tines.”
Professor Tines had gained his point, however, and was satisfied. He had made himself very important, and had, as he supposed, vindicated his dignity. The apology was then and there drawn up by the proctor, and signed by the students.
“I must ask for one stipulation,” said the still indignant instructor. “I must insist that, hereafter, when I, or any other member of the faculty approaches, all indiscriminate knocking or kicking of balls cease until we have passed on. In this way all danger will be avoided.”
“We agree to that,” said Mr. Lighton quickly, and the incident was considered closed. But Professor Tines, if he had only known it, was the most disliked instructor in college from then on. He had been hated before, but now the venom was bitter against him.
“We’re well out of that,” remarked Tom to Phil, as they went to their room, having gotten rid of their football togs. “I wonder what fun Pitchfork has in life, anyhow?”
“Reading Latin and Greek, I guess. That reminds me, I must bone away a bit myself to-night. I guess Sid is in,” he added, as he heard some one moving about in the room.
They entered to find their chum standing on a chair, reaching up to one of the silken banners Tom had hung with such pride.
“Here, you old anchorite! What are you doing?” cried Phil.
“Why, I’m trying to make this room look decent,” said Sid. “You’ve got it so cluttered up that I can’t stand it! Isn’t it enough to have pictures stuck all over?”
“Here, you let that banner alone!” cried Tom, and he gave such a jerk to the chair on which Sid was standing that the objector to things artistic toppled to the floor with a resounding crash.
“I’ll punch your head!” he cried to Tom, who promptly ensconced himself behind the bed.
“Hurt yourself?” asked Phil innocently. “If you did it’s a judgment on you, misogynist that you are.”
“You dry up!” growled Sid, as he rubbed his shins.
Then, peace having finally been restored, theyall began studying, while waiting for the summons to supper. When the bell rang, Phil and Tom made a mad rush for the dining-room.
“Football practice gives you a fine appetite,” observed Phil.
“I didn’t know you fellows needed any inducement to make you eat,” spoke Sid.
“Neither we do,” said Tom. “But come on, Phil, if he gets there first there’ll be little left for us, in spite of his gentle words.”
“We’ll have harder work at practice to-morrow,” continued Phil as they sat down at the table. “It will be the first real line-up, and I’m anxious to see how I’ll do against Shipman.”
“He’s got Gerhart’s place for good, has he?” asked Tom.
“It looks so. Pass the butter, will you? Do you want it all?”
“Not in the least, bright-eyes. Here; have a prune.”
“Say, you fellows make me tired,” observed Sid.
“What’s the matter with you lately, old chap?” asked Tom. “You’re as grumpy as a bear with a sore nose. Has your girl gone back on you?”
“There you go again!” burst out Sid. “Always talking about girls! I declare, since those pictures and things are up in the room, you two have gone daffy! I’ll have ’em all down, first thing you know.”
“If you do, we’ll chuck you in the river,” promised Phil.
Thus, amid much good-natured banter, though to an outsider it might not sound so, the supper went on. There was more hazing that night, in which Phil and Tom had a share, but Sid would not come out, saying he had to study.
“Come on, Tom,” called Phil the next afternoon, “all out for the first real line-up of the season. I’m going to run the ’varsity against the scrub, and I want to see how I make out.”
“Has the ’varsity eleven all been picked out?” asked Tom anxiously.
“Practically so, though, of course, there will be changes.”
“I wonder if I——”
“You’re to go at left-end. Come on, and we’ll get our togs on.”
After a little preliminary practice the two teams were told to line-up for a short game of fifteen-minute halves. Coach Lighton named those who were to constitute a provisional ’varsity eleven, and, to his delight, Tom’s name was among the first named. Phil went to quarter, naturally, and several of Tom’s chums found themselves playing with him.
“Now try for quick, snappy work from the start,” was the advice of the coach. “Play as though you meant something, not as if you weregoing on a fishing trip, and it didn’t matter when you got there.”
The ball was put into play. The ’varsity had it, and under the guidance of Phil Clinton, who gave his signals rapidly, the scrub was fairly pushed up the field, and a little later the ’varsity had scored a touchdown. Goal was kicked, and then the lads were ready for another tussle.
The scrub, by dint of extraordinary hard work, managed to keep the ball for a considerable time, making the necessary gains by rushes.
“We must hold ’em, fellows!” pleaded Phil, and Captain Holly Cross added his request to that end, in no uncertain words.
Shipman, the scrub quarter, passed the pigskin to his right half-back, and the latter hit the line hard. Phil Clinton, seeing an opening, dove in for a tackle. In some way there was a fumble, and Phil got the ball. The next instant Jerry Jackson, who was on the ’varsity, slipped and fell heavily on Phil’s right shoulder. The plucky quarter-back stifled a groan that came to his lips, and then, turning over on his back, stretched out white and still on the ground.
“Phil’s hurt!” cried Holly Cross. “Hold on, fellows!”
Tom bent over his chum. He felt of his shoulder.
“It’s dislocated,” he said. “We’d better get the doctor for him, Holly.”
“Some of you fellows run for Dr. Marshall!” called Mr. Lighton to the throng that gathered about the prostrate lad.
“I’ll go,” volunteered Joe Jackson.
“No, let me,” said his twin brother. “It was my fault. I slipped and fell on him.”
“It wasn’t any fellow’s fault in particular,” declared the captain. “It was likely to happen to any one. But suppose you twins both go, and then we’ll be sure to have help. If Dr. Marshall isn’t in the college, telephone to Haddonfield for one. Phil’s shoulder must be snapped back into place.”
As the twins started off Phil opened his eyes.
“Hurt much, old chap?” asked Tom, holding his chum’s hand.
“No—not—not much,” but Phil gritted his teeth as he said it. His shoulder, with the bunch of padding on it, stood out oddly from the rest of his body.
“Put some coats under him,” ordered the coach. “Shall we carry you inside, Phil?”
“No; don’t move me. Is my arm broken?”
“No; only a dislocation, I guess. You’ll be all right in a few days.”
“Soon enough to play against Boxer Hall, I hope,” said Phil with a faint smile.
“Of course,” declared the coach heartily. “We’ll delay the game if necessary.”
“Here comes Dr. Marshall,” called Ed Kerr, as the college physician was seen hurrying across the campus, with the Jersey twins trailing along behind.
The doctor, after a brief examination, pronounced it a bad dislocation, but then and there, with the help of the captain and coach, he reduced it, though the pain, as the bone snapped into place, made Phil sick and faint. Then they helped him to his room, where he was soon visited by scores of students, for the quarter-back was a general favorite.
“Now I think I will have to establish a quarantine,” declared Dr. Marshall, when about fifty lads had been in to see how the patient was progressing. “I don’t want you to get a fever from excitement, Clinton. If you expect to get into the game again inside of two weeks, you must keep quiet.”
“Two weeks!” cried Phil. “If I have to stay out as long as that I’ll be so out of form that I’ll be no good.”
“Well, we’ll see how the ligaments get along,” was all the satisfaction the doctor would give the sufferer.
Tom and Sid remained with their chum, and, after the physician had left, they made all sorts of insane propositions to Phil with a view of making him more comfortable.
“Shall I read Greek to you?” offered Sid. “Maybe it would take your mind off your trouble.”
“Greek nothing,” replied Phil with a smile. “Haven’t I troubles enough without that?”
“If I had some cheese I would make a Welsh rarebit,” Tom said. “I used to be quite handy at it; not the stringy kind, either.”
“Get out, you old rounder!” exclaimed Sid. “Welsh rarebit would be a fine thing for an invalid, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, maybe fried oysters would be better,” admitted Tom dubiously. “I could smuggle some in the room, only the measly things drip so, and Proc. Zane has been unusually active of late in sending his scouts around.”
“I’ll tell you what you can do, if you want to,” spoke Phil.
“What’s that?” asked Tom eagerly.
“Send word to my sister, over at Fairview. She may hear something about this, and imagine it’s worse than it is. I’d like her to get it straight.I got a letter from dad to-day, too, saying mother was a little better. I’d like sis to read it.”
“I’ll go myself, and start right away!” exclaimed Tom enthusiastically. “I can get permission easily enough, for I’ve been doing good work in class lately. I’ll come back on the midnight trolley.”
“You’re awfully anxious to go, aren’t you?” asked Sid.
“Of course,” replied Tom. “Why do you speak so?”
“I believe Miss Madge Tyler attends at Fairview,” went on Sid to no one in particular, and there was a mocking smile on his face.
“Oh, you just wait!” cried Tom, shaking his fist at his chum, who sank down into the depths of the old easy chair, and held up his feet as fenders to keep the indignant one at a distance. “You’ll get yours good and proper some day.”
“Well, if you’re going, you’d better start,” said Phil. “I forgot, though. You’ve never met my sister. That’s a go!”
“Can’t you give me a note to her?” asked Tom, who was fertile in expedients where young ladies were concerned.
“I guess so. Lucky it’s my left instead of my right shoulder that’s out of business. Give me some paper, Sid.”
“Tom doesn’t need a note,” was the opinion ofthe amateur woman-hater. “He’ll see Miss Tyler, and she’ll introduce him.”
“That’s so,” agreed Tom, as if he had just thought of it. “That will do first rate. Never mind the note, Phil,” and he hurried off, lest something might occur that would prevent his visit.
He readily obtained permission to go to Fairview Institute, and was soon hurrying along the river road to catch a trolley car. As he crossed a bridge over the stream, he heard voices on the farther end. It was dusk, now, and he could not see who the speakers were. But he heard this conversation:
“Did you hear about Clinton?”
“Yes; he’s laid up with a bad shoulder. Well, it may be just the chance we want.”
“That’s odd,” thought Tom. “I wonder who they can be? Evidently college fellows. Yet how can Phil’s injury give them the chance they want?”
He kept on, and a moment later came in sight of the speakers. He saw that they were Fred Langridge and Garvey Gerhart.
“Good evening,” said Tom civily enough, for, though he and Langridge were not on the best of terms, they still spoke.
“Off on a lark?” asked the former pitcher with a sneer. “I thought you athletic chaps didn’t do any dissipating.”
“I’m not going to,” said Tom shortly, as he passed on.
“Do you suppose he heard what we said?” asked Gerhart, as the shadows swallowed up Tom.
“No; but it doesn’t make much difference. He wouldn’t understand. Now, do you think you can do it?”
“Of course. What I want to do is to keep him laid up for several weeks. That will give me an opportunity of getting back on the eleven. He was responsible for me being dropped, and now it’s my turn.”
“But are you sure it will work?”
“Of course. I know just how to make the stuff. A fellow told me. If we can substitute it for his regular liniment it will do the trick all right.”
“That part will be easy enough. I can think up a scheme for that. But will it do him any permanent harm? I shouldn’t want to get into trouble.”
“No, it won’t harm him any. It will make him so he can’t use his arm for a while, but that’s what we want. The effects will pass away in about a month, just too late to let him get on the eleven.”
“All right; if you know what you’re doing, I’ll help. Now then, where will we get the stuff?”
“I know all about that part. But let’s get offthis bridge. It’s too public. Come to a quieter place, where we can talk.”
“I know a good place. There’s a quiet little joint in town, where we can get a glass of beer.”
“Will it be safe?”
“Sure. Come on,” and Langridge and his crony disappeared in the darkness, talking, meanwhile, of a dastardly plot they had evolved to disable Phil Clinton.
Tom kept on his way to the trolley.
“I wonder what Langridge and Gerhart meant?” he thought as he quickened his pace on hearing an approaching car. “Perhaps Gerhart thought he had a chance to get back on the team, because Phil is laid up. But I don’t believe he has.”
But Tom’s interpretation of the words he had heard was far from the truth. Phil Clinton was in grave danger.
Tom thought the fifteen-mile trolley ride to Fairview was an unusually long one, but, as a matter of fact, it was soon accomplished, for he caught an express, and about eight o’clock that night arrived in the town where the co-educational institution was located.
“Now to find Phil’s sister,” he said half aloud, as he headed for the college. He knew the way well, for he had been there several times before in the previous spring, when his team played baseball.
“Hello, Parsons,” a voice greeted him as he was walking up the campus. “Where you bound for?”
The speaker was Frank Sullivan, manager of the Fairview ball team.
“Oh, I just came over to see what sort of a football eleven you were going to stack up against us this fall,” answered Tom easily.
“Not very good, I’m afraid,” declared Frank. “We’re in pretty bad shape. Several of our best men have been hurt in practice.”
“We’ve got a few cripples ourselves,” said Tom. “Phil Clinton just got laid up with a bad shoulder.”
“Our half-back is a wreck,” added Frank.
It is curious, but true, nevertheless, that most football elevens seem to rejoice in the number of cripples they can boast of. The worse the men are “banged up,” the better those interested in the team seem to be. It may be that they wish to conceal from other teams their real condition, and so give the enemy a false idea of their strength. However that may be, the fact remains.
“So you came over to see how we were doing, eh?” went on Frank. “Well, not very good, I’m afraid. We expect to be the tailenders this season,” which was not at all what Frank expected, however, nor did his friends. But he considered it policy to say so.
“I didn’t come over for that alone,” said Tom. “I have a message to Phil’s sister. Say, how do you get into the female department of this shebang, anyhow? What’s the proper method of procedure? Do I have to have the password and a countersign?”
“Pretty nearly. It’s like the combination on a safe. The first thing you will have to do is to go and interview Miss Philock.”
“Who’s she?”
“The preceptress; and a regular ogress into thebargain. If you pass muster with her first inspection, you’ll have to answer a lot of categorical questions covering your whole life history. Then, maybe, she’ll consent to take a note from you to the fair damsel.”
“Can’t I see her?” asked Tom in some dismay, for he had counted on meeting Madge Tyler.
“See a girl student of Fairview after dark? Why, the idea is preposterous, my dear sir! Perfectly scandalous!” and Frank gave a fair imitation of an indignant lady teacher.
“Well, I’ll have to send word in,” decided Tom, “for I didn’t bring a note.”
“Do you know her personally?” asked Frank.
“Who—Miss Philock or Phil’s sister?”
“Phil’s sister?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Worse and more of it. I wish you joy of your job. But I’m off. There’s going to be some hazing, and I’m on the committee to provide some extra tortures for the freshies. So long. Miss Philock has her den in that red building on your left,” and, whistling a merry air, which was utterly out of keeping with Tom’s spirits, Frank Sullivan walked away.
“Well, here goes,” said Tom to himself, as he walked up to the residence of the preceptress and rang the bell.
An elderly servant answered his summons, andlooked very much surprised at observing a good-looking youth standing on the steps. Tom asked to see Miss Philock, and the servant, after shutting the door, and audibly locking it, walked away.
“They must be terribly afraid of me,” thought Tom, but further musings were put to an end by the arrival of the preceptress herself.
“What do you want, young man?” she asked, and her voice sounded like some file rasping and scraping.
“I wish to deliver a message to Miss Ruth Clinton,” was Tom’s answer.
“Who are you?”
“I am Thomas Parsons, of Randall College.”
“Are you any relation to Miss Clinton?”
“No; but I room with her brother, and he was slightly hurt in football practice to-day. He wanted me to tell her that it was nothing serious. He also has a letter from his father, that he wished me to deliver.”
Miss Philock fairly glared at Tom.
“That is a very ingenious and plausible answer,” said the elderly lady slowly. “I have had many excuses made to me by young gentlemen as reasons for sending messages to young ladies under my care, but this one is the most ingenious I have ever received.”
“But it’s true!” insisted Tom, who perceived that his story was not believed.
“That’s what they all say,” was the calm answer of Miss Philock.
Tom was nonplused. He hardly knew what reply to make.
“You are evidently a stranger to our rules,” went on Miss Philock. “You must go away at once, or I shall notify the proctor,” and she was about to close the door.
“But,” cried Tom desperately, “I have a message for Miss Ruth Clinton!”
“Are you a relative of hers?” again asked the preceptress coldly.
“No; not exactly,” spoke Tom slowly.
“That’s the way they all say it,” she went on. “If you are not a relative you can send her no message.”
“But can’t you tell her what I’ve told you?” asked the ’varsity pitcher. “She may worry about her brother, and he wants her to have this letter from her father.”
“How do I know she has a brother?” asked Miss Philock sternly.
“I am telling you.”
“Yes, I know,” frigidly. “Other young men have called here to see the young ladies under my charge, and they often pretend to be brothers and cousins, when they were not.”
“I am not pretending.”
“I don’t know whether you are or not, sir. Ithas been my experience that you can never trust a young man. I shall have to bid you good evening, though I do you the credit to state that your plan is a very good one. Only, I am too sharp for you, young man. You can send no message to Miss Clinton or any other young lady student under my charge.”
The door was almost shut. Tom was in despair. At that moment he caught sight of a girlish figure in the hall behind the preceptress. It was Madge Tyler.
“Oh, Madge—Miss Tyler!” he cried impulsively, “will you tell Miss Clinton that her brother is not badly hurt. That is, in case she hears any rumors. His shoulder is dislocated, but he’s all right.”
“Why, Mr. Parsons—Tom!” exclaimed the girl in surprise. “What brings you here?”
“Young man, what do you mean by disobeying my orders in this manner?” demanded Miss Philock, bristling with anger.
“You didn’t tell me not to speak to Miss Tyler,” said Tom slyly. And he smiled mischievously.
“Miss Tyler—do you know her?”
“I am an old friend of hers,” insisted Tom quickly, his confidence coming back.
“Is this true, Miss Tyler?” asked the head instructress.
Madge was a bright girl, and a quick thinker.She at once understood Tom’s predicament, and resolved to help him out. Perhaps it was as much on her own account as Ruth’s—who knows? At any rate, she said:
“Why, Miss Philock, Tom Parsons and I have known each other ever since we were children. He is a sort of distant relation of mine. Aren’t you, Tom?”
“Ye—yes, Madge,” he almost stammered.
“His mother and my mother are second cousins,” went on the girl, which was true enough, though Tom had forgotten it. He did not stop to figure out just what degree of kinship he bore to Madge. He was satisfied to have it as it was. Miss Philock turned to Tom.
“If I had known this at first,” she said, “I would have allowed you to send a message to Miss Tyler at once. However strongly young gentlemen may insist that they are related to my girls, I never believe them. But if the statement is made by one of my pupils, I never doubt her. In view of the fact that you have come some distance, you may step into the parlor, and speak with Miss Tyler for ten minutes—no longer.”
She opened the door wider. It was quite a different reception from what Tom had expected, but he was glad enough to see Madge for even that brief period. He followed her into the parlor, while Miss Philock passed down the corridor.
“Oh, Tom, I’m so glad to see you!” exclaimed the girl, and she extended both hands, which Tom held just as long as he decently could.
“And I’m glad to see you,” he declared. “You’re looking fine!”
“What’s this about Ruth’s brother?” she asked.
“It’s true. He was hurt at football practice this afternoon, and he was afraid she’d worry. I told him I’d bring a message to her, and also this letter. It’s from her father, about her mother. Will you give it to her?”
“Of course. Isn’t it too bad about her poor, dear mother? Ruth is such a sweet girl. Have you ever met her?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“I wonder if I’d better introduce you to her,” said Madge musingly. “She is very fascinating, and—er—well——” She looked at Tom and laughed.
“Can you doubt me?” asked Tom, also laughing, and he bowed low, with his hand on his heart.
“Oh, no! Men—especially young men—are never faithless!” she exclaimed gaily.
“But how can you present me to her, when the ‘ogress,’ as I have heard her called, bars the way?”
“Hush! She may hear you,” cautioned Madge. “Oh, we have ‘ways that are dark and tricks that are vain,’ I suppose Miss Philock would say. I’ll just send a message by wireless, and Ruth will soonbe here. I think it will be safe. Philly, as we call her, will be in her office by this time.”
Madge stepped to the steam pipes in the room, and with her pencil tapped several times in a peculiar way.
“That’s a code message to Ruth to come down here,” she explained.
“It’s a great system,” complimented Tom. “How do you work it?”
“Oh, we have a code. Each girl has a number, and we just tap that number on the pipes. You know, you can hear a tap all over the building. Then, after giving the number, we rap out the message, also by numbers. We justhadto invent it. You boys have ever so many things that we girls can’t, you know. Now tell me all about football. I suppose you will play?”
“I hope to.”
“And Phil—I mean Mr. Clinton, but I call him Phil, because I hear Ruth speak of him so often—I think he plays half-back, doesn’t he?”
“No; quarter,” answered Tom.
“I hope to meet him soon,” went on Madge. “Ruth has promised—— Oh, here she is now,” she interrupted herself to say. “Come in, Ruth, dear. Here is a sort of forty-second cousin of mine, with a message about your brother.”
Tom looked up, to see a tall, dark, handsomegirl entering the room. Behind her came a rather stout, light-haired maiden, with laughing blue eyes.
“A message from my brother!” exclaimed Ruth, and she looked at Tom in a manner that made his heart beat rather faster than usual.
“Yes, Ruth,” went on Madge; “but nothing serious. I’m glad you came down, too, Sarah, dear. I want you to meet my cousin.”
“I brought Sarah because I was afraid I didn’t get your pipe message just right,” explained Ruth. “Did you mean you had company you wanted to share with me, or that there was a letter for me? I couldn’t find the code book.”
“It’s both,” declared Madge with a laugh. “But first let’s get the introductions over with,” and she presented Tom to Ruth, and then to Miss Sarah Warden, her roommate, as well as Ruth’s.
“Phil has often spoken to me about you, Miss Clinton,” said Tom. “In fact, he has your picture in our room. It doesn’t look like you—I mean it doesn’t do you justice—that is—er—I—I mean——”
“Better stop, Tom,” cautioned Madge. “Evidently Ruth has played havoc with you already. You should study more carefully the art of making compliments.”
“Miss Clinton needs no compliments other than unspoken ones,” said Tom, with an elaborate bow.
“Oh, how prettily said!” exclaimed Miss Warden.“Madge, why didn’t you tell us about your cousin before?”
“It’s time enough now,” was Madge’s rejoinder.
“But what about my brother?” asked Ruth anxiously.
Then Tom told her, and gave her the letter with which Phil had entrusted him. The young people talked gaily for some minutes longer, and then Madge, with a look at the clock, said that it was about time Miss Philock would be back to see that Tom had not overstayed.
“What a short ten minutes!” he exclaimed, and he looked full in Ruth Clinton’s eyes.
“Wasn’t it?” she agreed. “However, I hope you will come again—that is—of course you can’t come here, but perhaps we—I—er—that is——” She stopped in confusion.
“You’re almost as bad as Tom was!” declared Madge, and there was just a little change from her former genial tones. She glanced critically at Tom.
“I expect to come over again,” replied Phil’s chum. “And I hope I shall see you then, Miss Clinton—see all of you, of course,” he added quickly.
“It depends on Miss Philock,” said Miss Warden.
“Will you be at the Fairview-Randall football game?” asked Tom.
“Yes,” answered Ruth, for he looked at her.
“I shall see you and Madge, then, I hope, only it’s a long way off,” and Tom sighed just the least bit.
Madge raised her eyebrows. She might be pardoned for considering that Tom, in a measure, was her personal property, and now, the first time he had met Ruth, to hear him talk thus, was something of a shock.
But she was too proud to show more than a mere hint of her feelings, and Ruth was, for the time being, entirely unaware that her friend was a bit jealous.
“Here comes Philly!” exclaimed Sarah Warden, as steps were heard approaching. “You had better go, Mr. Parsons, if you value your reputation.”
“Yes,” spoke Madge; “better go, Tom. Sorry you couldn’t stay longer.”
“So am I,” was his answer, and once more he looked straight at Ruth. He had thought Madge very pretty, and, while he did not waver in the least in still thinking her most attractive, he had to admit to himself that Ruth’s was of a different style of beauty.
“I’m sure I don’t know how to thank you for taking the trouble to bring me this message and letter,” said Phil’s sister, as she held out her hand to Tom. He took it in a firm clasp.
“It was only a pleasure,” he said. “Next time I hope to bring better news.”
“Then there is to be a next time?” she asked archly.
“Of course,” he replied, and laughed.
“Hurry, Tom, or Miss Philock may order you out,” urged Madge. “You’ve overstayed your leave as it is, and she may punish us for it. Good-by,” and she held out her hand. Tom clasped it, but a careful observer, with a split-second watch, might have noted that he did not hold it quite as long as he had held Ruth’s.
A few minutes later Tom was out on the campus, walking toward the trolley that would take him to Haddonfield. His brain was in something of a whirl, and his heart was strangely light.
“My! but she’s pretty!” he exclaimed half aloud. “What fine eyes! I—I—— Oh, well, what’s the use of talking to yourself?” And with that sage reflection Tom pursued his silent way.
Back in the parlor the three girls stood for a moment.
“I like your cousin very much, Madge, dear,” said Ruth.
“I shouldn’t wonder!” exclaimed Madge shortly, and she turned and hurried from the room.
Ruth looked at her in some surprise.
“Whatever has come over Madge?” asked Sarah Warden.
“I can’t imagine,” replied Ruth, and then, with a thoughtful look on her face, she went to her room.
“Humph! I guess I know,” murmured Miss Warden, as she followed.