Tom thought of many things as he walked up the silent campus at Randall, and prepared to go to his room. He went over again every happening from the time Miss Philock had grudgingly admitted him at Fairview, until he had bidden Ruth Clinton good-by. Tom had a very distinct mental picture of two girls’ faces now, whereas, up to that evening, he had had but one. They were the faces of Ruth and Madge.
“Hang it all!” he burst out, as he was on the steps of the west dormitory. “I must be falling in love! This will never do, with the football season about to open. Better cut it out, Tom Parsons!”
His musing was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a figure coming quickly from the teachers’ residence, which was directly in front of the dormitory building. The figure exclaimed:
“Wait a minute, please.”
“Proctor Zane!” whispered Tom to himself. “He thinks he’s caught me. Probably he doesn’tknow I’ve got a permit. I’ll have some fun with him.”
A moment later the proctor stood beside Tom.
“Are you aware of the hour?” asked Mr. Zane, in what he meant to be a sarcastic tone.
“I—I believe it’s nearly two o’clock,” replied Tom. “I will tell you exactly in a moment, as soon as I look at my watch,” and with a flourish he drew his timepiece from his pocket. “It lacks just eight minutes of two,” he added.
“I didn’t ask you the time!” exclaimed the proctor.
“I beg your pardon, sir; I thought you did,” spoke Tom.
“Aren’t you getting in rather late?” asked the official, as he drew out his book and prepared to enter Tom’s name.
“Well, it might be called late,” admitted Tom, as if there was some doubt about it. “That is, unless you choose to look at it from another standpoint, and call it early morning. On the whole, I think I prefer the latter method. It is more comforting, Mr. Zane.”
“None of your impertinence, Parsons!” exclaimed the proctor. “You are out after hours, and you will report to my office directly after chapel. This matter of students staying out must be broken up.”
“I agree with you,” went on Tom easily, “butI’m afraid I can’t report to you after chapel to-morrow, or, rather, to-day, Mr. Zane.”
“You can’t? What do you mean, Parsons?”
“Why, you see, I have to attend a lecture by Moses—I beg your pardon—Dr. Churchill—at that hour.”
The proctor, as Tom could see in the light of the hall lamp, as the rays streamed from the glass door of the dormitory, looked pained at the appellation of “Moses” to the venerable head of the college. The boys all called Dr. Churchill that among themselves, though they meant no disrespect. They had evolved the title from his name; from the fact that, as one of the first students put it, the original Moses went up on a hill to establish the first church—hence Church—Hill; and thus “Moses.”
“I am sure Dr. Churchill will excuse you when he knows the circumstances, Parsons,” went on the proctor with a malicious smile. “You will report to me for being out after hours without permission.”
“Oh, but I have permission,” spoke Tom, as he drew out a note which the president had given him. “I beg your pardon for not mentioning it before. Very stupid of me, I’m sure,” and this time it was Tom’s turn to grin.
The proctor looked at the permit, saw that it was in regular form, and knew that he was beaten. Without a word he turned and went back to hisapartments, but the look he gave Tom augured no good to the talented pitcher. Tom went to his room, chuckling to himself.
“Well?” asked Phil, who was not asleep when Tom entered. “Did you see Ruth?”
“Yes, old chap. It’s all right,” and Tom told something of his visit—that is, as much as he thought Phil would care to know. “Your sister and Miss Tyler are both sorry you were laid up,” he went on.
“I guess I’ll be out inside of a week,” said Phil. “The doc was here a while ago, and left some new liniment that he said would soften up the strained muscles and ligaments. I tried some, and I feel better already. Say, put that blamed alarm clock out in the hall, will you? I can’t sleep with the ticking of it.”
Tom did so, and then undressed. He turned the light down low, and, as he put on his pajamas, he knew, by the regular breathing of Phil, that the injured lad had fallen into a slumber. Sid, too, was sound asleep. Tom sat down on the old sofa, sinking far down into the depths of the weak springs. It creaked like an old man uttering his protest against rheumatic joints, and, in spite of the new leg Phil had put on and the strengthening boards, it threatened to collapse. Tom sat there in the half darkness dreaming—reflecting of his visit to Fairview. He imagined he could see, inthe gloom of a distant corner, a fair face—which one was it?
“Oh, I’ve got to cut this out,” he remarked, and then he extinguished the light and got into bed.
The next day was Saturday, and as several of the football squad were a little lame, Coach Lighton only put them through light practice. Thus the absence of Phil was not felt. He was much better, the new liniment working like a charm.
One afternoon, a few days later, Tom and Sid went for a walk, Tom as a matter of training, and Sid because he wanted to get some specimens for use in his biology class. They strolled toward the town of Haddonfield, and shortly after crossing the bridge over Sunny River, saw on the road ahead of them two figures.
“There are Langridge and Gerhart,” remarked Tom.
“Yes,” spoke Sid. “They’re quite chummy for a freshman and a sophomore. Langridge tried to save Gerhart from being hazed, but the fellows wouldn’t stand for it.”
“I should say not. He ought to take his medicine the same as the rest of us had to. But look, they don’t seem to want to meet us.”
As Tom spoke, Langridge and his crony suddenly left the road and took to the woods which lined the highway on either side.
“I wonder what they did that for?” went on Tom.
“Oh, I guess they don’t like our style,” was Sid’s opinion. “We’re not sporty enough for them.”
But it was not for this reason that Langridge and Gerhart did not want to meet their two schoolmates.
“Lucky we saw them in time,” observed Gerhart to the other, as he and Langridge sneaked along. “They might have asked us why we had gone to town.”
“We shouldn’t have told them. I guess they won’t pay much attention to us. Are you going to work the trick to-day?”
“To-night, if I have a chance. There’s going to be a meeting of the glee club, and Tom and Sid both will go. That will leave Phil alone in the room, and I can get in and make the change.”
“Be careful you’re not caught. It’s a risky thing to do.”
“I know it, but it’s worth the risk if I can get back on the team. Besides, it won’t hurt Clinton much.”
“Well, it’s your funeral, not mine. You’ve got to stand for it all. I did my share helping plan it. You’ll have to take the blame.”
“I will. Don’t worry.”
“But what puzzles me is how Clinton can help knowing it when you change the liniment. As soonas he uses it he’ll see that something is wrong, and he’ll recall that you were in the room.”
“Oh, no, he won’t. You see, the two liquids are so nearly alike that it’s hard to tell the difference. Then, the beauty of it is that the one I’m going to put in place of his regular liniment doesn’t take effect for twelve hours. So he’ll never connect me with his trouble.”
“All right. It’s up to you. But come on, let’s get out on the road again. I don’t fancy tramping through the woods.”
They emerged at a point some distance back of Tom and Sid, who continued their walk.
“Did I tell you I met Langridge and Gerhart the night I went to see Phil’s sister?” asked Tom after a pause.
“No. What were they doing?”
Tom related the conversation he had heard, and gave his speculations as to what Gerhart could have meant.
“I guess he’s counting on Phil being laid up so long that he can have his place at quarter-back,” was Sid’s opinion, and Tom agreed.
The specimens of unfortunate frogs, to be used in biology, were stowed away in a box Sid carried, and then he and Tom turned back to college. That night they went to a rehearsal of the glee club.
“Do you mind staying alone, old chap?” asked Tom of Phil as they prepared to depart.
“Not a bit. Glad to get rid of you. I can move about the room, doc says, and it isn’t so bad as it might be. I’ll be glad to be alone, so I can think.”
“All right. So long, then.”
It was quiet in the room after Tom and Sid had departed. Phil tried to read, but he was too nervous, and took no interest in the book. It was out of the question to study, and, as his shoulder ached, he went back to bed again. He was in a half doze, when the door opened and Gerhart entered the room.
“Hope I didn’t disturb you, old chap,” he began with easy familiarity—entirely too easy, for a freshman, Phil thought with a scowl. “Parsons and Henderson out?” asked Gerhart, as if he did not know it.
“Yes, at the meeting of the glee club,” answered Phil shortly.
“That’s so. I’d forgotten. Well, here’s a note for Parsons. Will you see that he gets it?” And Gerhart walked over to the table and laid an envelope down. There was a miscellaneous collection on the table. Among other things was a bottle of liniment which the doctor had left for Phil. “I’ll just leave the note here,” went on Gerhart. “That’s a swell picture over your bed,” he said quickly, pointing to a sporting print that hung over Phil’s cot.
Naturally, the injured lad turned to see where Gerhart pointed.
“Oh, it will do very well,” he answered. He rather resented this familiarity on the part of a freshman. Still, as Gerhart had called to leave a note for Tom, Phil could not order him out, as he felt like doing. When Phil turned his head back toward the middle of the room the visitor was standing near the door.
“I guess I’ll be going,” he said. “Hope you’ll be out soon. I’m going to make another try with Lighton, and see if he won’t let me play.”
“Um!” spoke Phil, as he turned over to doze.
Gerhart, with an ugly smile on his face, hurried to his room in the east dormitory. Langridge was waiting for him there.
“Well?” asked the former pitcher.
“It’s done!” exulted Gerhart, producing from beneath his coat a bottle that had contained liniment. “I threw the stuff out, and now I’ll get rid of the bottle. I guess Phil Clinton won’t play football any more this season!” He put the bottle far back on a closet shelf.
“Why don’t you throw that away?” asked Langridge.
“I may need it,” answered Gerhart. “I’ll save it for a while.”
When Sid and Tom, after glee club practice that night, were ascending the stairs to their floor, Sid stumbled, about half way up the flight. To save himself from a fall he put out his left hand, and came down heavily on it. As he did so he uttered an exclamation of pain.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom.
“Gave my thumb a fierce wrench! It hurts like blazes! Why didn’t you tell me I was going to fall, and I’d have stayed in to-night?” he asked half humorously.
“I’m not a prophet,” replied Tom. “But come on to the room, and we’ll put some arnica on it. I’ve got some.”
Holding his injured thumb tightly in his other hand, Sid finished climbing the stairs, declaiming, meanwhile, against his bad luck.
“Oh, you’re a regular old woman!” exclaimed Tom. “Pretty soon it’ll be so bad that if you see a black cat cross your path you won’t go to lectures.”
“I wish I had a black cat to use when I’m due in Latin class,” spoke Sid. “Positively I get more and more rotten at that blamed stuff every day! I need a black cat, or something. Wow! How my thumb hurts!”
“Get out!” cried Tom. “Many a time on first base I’ve seen you stop a hot ball, and never say a word.”
“That’s different,” declared his chum. “Hurry up and get out your arnica.”
“Say, you fellows make noise enough,” grumbled Phil at the entrance of his roommates. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, Sid tried to go upstairs on his hands, and he didn’t make out very well,” replied Tom. “I’ve got two patients on my list now. How are you, Phil?”
“Oh, so-so. Gerhart was here a while ago.”
“He was? What did he want?”
“Left a note for you. It’s on the table.”
“Humph! Invitation to a little spread he’s going to give. Didn’t you fellows get any?” spoke Tom as he read it.
“No; and I don’t want one,” from Phil.
“And I’m not going,” declared Tom. “Gerhart is too much of a cad for me.”
“Insufferably so!” added Phil. “The little puppy gave himself such airs in here that I wanted to kick him out. But I wasn’t going to say anything,for I thought you might be getting chummy with him, Tom, seeing that he left the note for you.”
“No, indeed. I don’t know what his object is, nor why he should invite me. He and Langridge are a pair, and they can stick together,” and Tom wadded up the invitation and threw it into the waste basket.
“Say, if you’re going to get the arnica, I wish you’d get a move on,” implored Sid, who was stretched out on the sofa. “This hurts me worse than not knowing my Virgil when I’m called on in Pitchfork’s class.”
“Then it can’t hurt very much,” said Phil. “Let’s see it.”
Sid held out a hand, the thumb of which was beginning to swell.
“Why don’t you use some of my liniment instead of arnica for it?” proposed Phil. “It’s just the stuff for a sprain. Here, pour some on your hand,” and Phil, whose left arm was in a sling, handed Sid the bottle from the table. Sid poured a generous quantity on his thumb.
“Look out for the rug!” exclaimed Tom. “Do you want to spoil it?” for the liniment was dripping from Sid’s hand.
“Spoil it? Spoil this tattered and torn specimen of a fake oriental?” queried Sid with a laugh. “Say, if we spread molasses on it the thing couldn’tlook much worse than it does. I’ve a good notion to strike for a new one.”
“Don’t,” begged Phil. “We don’t have to clean our feet when we come in now, and if we had a new rug we’d feel obliged to.”
“All right, have it your own way,” remarked Tom. “But you’ve got enough liniment on there for two thumbs. Here, give me the bottle, and rub what’s on your hand in where the swelling is.”
Sid extended the bottle to Tom. Phil, who was holding the cork, endeavored to insert it during the transfer. The result was a fumble, the phial slipped from Sid’s grasp, Tom made a grab for it, but missed, and Phil, with only one good hand, could do nothing. The bottle crashed to the floor and broke, the liniment running about in little rivulets from a sort of central lake.
“Now you have done it!” exclaimed Tom.
“Who?” demanded Sid.
“You and Phil. Why didn’t you let me do the doctoring? You two dopes aren’t able to look after yourselves! Look at the rug now!”
“It was as much your fault as ours,” declared Sid. “Why didn’t you grab the bottle?”
“Why didn’t you hand it to me? I like your nerve!”
“That’s a nice spot on a rug,” said Phil in disgust.
“It adds to the beauty,” declared Sid. “It justmatches the big grease spot on the other side, which was left as a souvenir by the former occupants of this study. They must have made a practice of dropping bread and butter on the floor about eight nights a week. But say, if you want to do something, Tom, rub this stuff into my thumb, will you?”
“Sure; wait until I pick up this broken glass. I don’t want to cut my feet on it, in case I should take to walking in my sleep.”
He was soon vigorously massaging Sid’s injured hand, using a piece of flannel as directed by Phil, and was given a vote of thanks for the professional manner in which he did it.
“I’m sorry about your liniment, Phil,” said Tom. “It’s all gone. The only thing I see for you to do is to cut out that piece of the rug where it has soaked in, and bind it on your shoulder.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. I won’t need any more to-night, and to-morrow I’ll get some more from the doctor.”
Sid was the first to awaken the next morning. A peculiar sensation about his injured hand called his attention to it. He pulled it from under the covers and glanced at it. Then he tried to bend the fingers. They were as stiff as pieces of wood. So was the thumb. It was as if it had been encased in a plaster cast.
“I say, you fellows!” called Sid in some alarm.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Tom. “Don’t you know it’s Sunday, and we can sleep as long as we like?”
“Look at my hand! Look at it!” exclaimed Sid tragically. “I can’t use it!”
Something in his tones made Tom get up. He strode over to the bed.
“Say, that is mighty queer,” he remarked, as he tried to bend Sid’s fingers, and could not. “You must have given yourself a fearful knock.”
“Or else that liniment wasn’t the right thing for it,” added Phil, sitting up. “Better call the doc.”
The three chums looked at each other. Phil felt of Sid’s curiously stiffened hand.
“I don’t see how it could be the liniment,” he said. “I’ve used it right along. It’s the same thing doc gave me. You must have hurt your hand worse than you thought.”
“I guess I did,” admitted Sid. So skilfully had Gerhart carried out his dastardly plot that even his unusual visit to the room of the trio attached no suspicion to him. The breaking of the bottle of liniment destroyed one link in the chain against him, and it would be difficult to trace anything to Gerhart now.
Dr. Marshall looked grave when he saw Sid’s hand.
“That is very unusual,” he said. “It must have been something you put on it. The muscles and tendons have been stiffened. There is a drug which will do that, but it is comparatively rare. It is sometimes used, in connection with other things, to keep down swelling, but never to soften a strain.Are you sure you used only the liniment I left for Clinton?”
“That’s all,” declared Tom.
“Let me see the bottle,” said the physician, as he twirled his glasses by their cord and looked puzzled.
“We can’t; it’s all gone,” explained Phil, and he told of the accident.
“Humph! Very strange,” mused Dr. Marshall. “I’m afraid you’ll not be able to use your hand for a month, Henderson. You have every indication of having used the peculiar drug I speak of, yet you say you did not, and I don’t see how you could have, unless it got in the liniment by mistake. And that it did not is proved by the fact that Clinton used the same liniment without any ill effects. Only that Parsons used a rag to rub with, his hand would be out of commission, too. It is very strange. I wish there was some of the liquid left. I will see the druggist who put it up. Possibly he can explain it.”
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t put any on my shoulder,” said Phil. “It would have been all up with me and football, then.”
“It certainly would,” admitted Dr. Marshall. “Let me look at your dislocation.”
“When can I get into the game again?” asked Phil anxiously, after the inspection.
“Humph! Well, I think by the middle of the week. It is getting along better than I expected. Yes, if you pad it well you may go into light practice to-morrow, and play in a game the end of the week.”
“Good!” cried Phil. “Then’s when we tackle Fairview Institute for the first game of the season!”
The next day a notice was posted on the bulletin board in the gymnasium, stating that the ’varsity eleven would line up against the scrub that afternoon in secret practice. Then followed a list of names of those selected to play on the first team. It was as follows:
“Hurrah, Tom! You’re at left-end!” cried Phil, who, with his chum, was reading the bulletin.
“I’m glad of it. Are you all right for practice?”
“Sure. Come on; let’s get into our togs.”
On the outer fringe of football players stood Langridge and Gerhart. There was surprise on their faces at the sight of Phil getting ready to play.
“Something went wrong,” whispered Langridge to his crony. “Your scheme didn’t work.”
“I see it didn’t,” admitted Gerhart with a scowl. “I wonder where the slip was?”
But when he heard of the peculiar ailment from which Sid Henderson suffered, Gerhart knew.
“I lost that chance,” he said to Langridge, “but I may see another to get square with Clinton, and, when I do, I’ll not fail. It’s too late, maybe, for me to get in the game now, but I’ll put him out of it, and don’t you forget it!”
Phil was a little stiff in practice, but he soon warmed up, and the ’varsity eleven played the scrub “all over the field.”
“That’s what I like to see,” complimented the coach. “Now, boys, play that way against Fairview on Saturday, and you’ll open the season with a victory. I want you to win. Then we’ll have a better chance for the championship. The schedule is different from the baseball one, you know. We don’t play so many games with Boxer Hall and Fairview as we did in the spring, consequentlyeach one counts more. Now I’m going to give you some individual instruction.”
Which the coach did very thoroughly, getting at the weak spots in each man’s playing, and commenting wisely on it, at the same time showing him how he ought to play his position. There was practice in passing the ball, falling on it, kicking and tackling.
“We want to do considerable work in the forward pass and the on-side kick this season,” the coach went on. “I think you are doing very well. Parsons, don’t forget to put all the speed you can into your runs, when getting down on kicks.
“You Jersey twins don’t want to be watching each other so. I know you are fond of one another, but try to forget that you are brothers, and be more lively in the game.”
Jerry and Joe Jackson joined in the laugh that followed.
“As for you, Snail Looper,” continued Coach Lighton, giving the center the name he had earned from his habit of prowling about nights and moving at slow speed, “you are doing fairly well, but be a little quicker. Try to forget that you’re a relative of theHelix Mollusca. You backs, get into plays on the jump, and take advantage of the momentum. That’s the way to smash through the line. Now then, we’ll try signals again. Clinton, keep a cool head. Nothing is worse than gettingyour signals mixed, and you fellows, if you don’t understand exactly what the play is, call for the signal to be repeated. That will save costly fumbles. Now line up again.”
They went through the remainder of the practice with a snap and vim that did the heart of the coach and the captain good. The scrub team was pretty well worn out when a halt was called.
“Do you think you will beat Fairview?” asked Ford Fenton of Tom a little later, when the left-end and Phil were on their way to supper, after a refreshing shower bath.
“I hope so, Ford. But you never can tell. Football is pretty much a gamble.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But my uncle says——”
“Say, are you going to keep that up this term?” demanded Phil wearily. “If you are, I’m going to apply to the courts for an injunction against you and your uncle.”
“Well,” continued Fenton with an injured air, “he was football coach here for some time, and my uncle says——”
“There he goes again!” cried Tom. “Step on him, Phil!”
But Ford, with a reproachful look, turned aside.
“I don’t see why there’s such a prejudice against my uncle,” he murmured to himself. But there wasn’t. It was against the manner in which the nephew ceaselessly harped on what his relativesaid, though Ford was never allowed to tell what it was.
The Randall eleven was fairly on edge when they indulged in light practice Saturday morning, preparatory to leaving for Fairview, where the first game of the season was to take place.
“Feel fit, Tom?” asked Sid, who had to carry his left hand in a sling. Dr. Marshall had been unable to learn anything from the druggist that put up the liniment, and the cause for the queer stiffness remained undiscovered.
“As fit as a fiddle,” replied the lad. “How about you, Phil?”
“I’m all to the Swiss cheese, as the poet had it. Is it about time to start?”
“Nearly. We’re going in a special trolley. Does your shoulder pain you any?”
“Not a bit.”
“I suppose—er—that is—er—your sister will be at the game?” ventured Tom.
“Of course. She’s as daffy about it as I am. If she had been a boy she’d have played. Miss Tyler will be there, of course?” Phil questioned in turn.
“I don’t know—I suppose so,” answered Tom. “Oh, of course. She and your sister will probably go together.”
“Yes, they’re great chums. I wonder why I didn’t get a letter from dad to-day? He promisedto write every night. I ought to have received one. I’d like to know how my mother is.”
“Well, no news is good news,” quoted Tom. “Let’s start. I get nervous when I have to sit around.”
There was a large crowd on the grandstand at the Fairview gridiron when the Randall team arrived. The seats were rapidly filling up, and when, a little later, the visiting eleven trotted out for practice, they were received with a burst of cheers.
“What’s the matter with Randall?” demanded Bean Perkins, who had been christened “Shouter” from the foghorn quality of his tones. He generally led the college cheering and singing. Back came the usual reply that nothing whatever ailed Randall.
“There’s a good bunch out,” observed Tom to Phil as they passed the ball back and forth. “Look at the girls! My, what a lot of them!”
“And all pretty, too,” added Phil. “At least, I know one who is.”
“Who?”
“Miss Tyler.”
“I know another,” spoke the left-end.
“Who’s that?”
“Your sister. She’s prettier than the photograph.”
“You’d better tell her so.”
“I did.”
“Whew! It doesn’t take you long to get down to business. But come on. They’re going to line up for practice,” and the two ran over to join their teammates.
What a mass of color the grandstands and bleachers presented! Mingled with the youths and men were girls and women in bright dresses, waving brighter-hued flags. There were pretty girls with long horns, tied with streamers of one college or the other. There were more pretty girls with long canes, from which flew ribbons of yellow and maroon—Randall’s colors. There were grave men who wore tiny footballs on their coat lapels, a knot of ribbon denoting with which college they sided.
Massed in one stand were the cheering students of Randall, bent on making themselves heard above the songs and yells of their rivals. Nor were the girls of Fairview at all backward in giving vent to their enthusiasm. They had songs and yells of their own, and, under the leadership of Madge Tyler, were making themselves heard.
Tom, in catching a long kick, ran close to the stand where the Fairview girls were massed. Madge was down in front, getting ready to lead them in a song.
“Hello!” cried Tom to her, as he booted the pigskin back to Ed Kerr.
“Sorry I can’t cheer for you this time!” called Madge brightly.
“Well, I’m sorry we will have to push the Fairview boys off the field,” retorted Tom.
“Oh, are you going to do that?” asked a girl behind Madge, and Tom, who had been vainly looking for her, saw Ruth Clinton.
“Sorry, but we have to,” he replied. “Aren’t you ashamed to cheer against your own brother?”
“Oh, I guess Phil is able to look after himself,” said Ruth. “Is his shoulder all right, Mr. Parsons?”
“Doing nicely.”
Just then the referee’s whistle blew to summon the players from practice.
“I’ll see you after the game,” called Tom, and as he glanced from Ruth to Madge, he saw the latter regarding him rather curiously from her brown eyes. With a queer feeling about the region where he imagined his heart to be, he ran across the field.
“Remember—fast, snappy play!” was the last advice from Coach Lighton. “You’re going to win, boys. Don’t forget that!”
From the stand where the Randall supporters were gathered came that enthusing song—the song they always sang at a big game—“Aut vincere aut mori”—“Either we conquer or we die!”
“Keep cool and smash through ’em,” spoke Captain Cross to his players, as the referee and other officials took their places.
It was Fairview’s kick-off, and a moment later the ball came sailing through the air. Holly Cross caught it, and, well protected by interference, began to rush it back. But the Fairview players, by amazing good play, managed to get through, and Holly was downed after a run back of twenty yards.
“Now, boys, all together!” called Phil, as he eagerly got into place behind big Snail Looper, who was bending over the ball. Then the quarter-back rattled off a string of signals for Jerry Jackson, the left half-back, to take the ball through the opposing left tackle and end.
Back came the ball, accurately snapped by the center. Jerry Jackson was on the alert and took it from Phil as he passed him on the run. Kindlings Woodhouse smashed in to make a hole for his brother back, who closely followed. Captain Cross, on the jump, took care of the opposing left-end, and with a crash that was heard on the grandstand, one of the Jersey twins hit the line. The game was fairly begun.
“First down!” came the encouraging cry, when the mass of players had become disentangled, and Jerry Jackson was seen to still have possession of the ball. He had made a great gain.
“Now, once more, fellows!” called Phil. “Smash the line to pieces!”
Again there came a play, this time with Holly Cross endeavoring to go between center and guard. But, unexpectedly, he felt as if he had hit a stone wall. Fairview had developed unusual strength. There was no gain there. But Phil thought he knew the weakness of the opposing team, and he decided for another try at line bucking. There would still be time for kicking on the third down, and he wanted his team to have the ball as long as possible early in the game.
This time he signaled for Dutch Housenlager, who was at right tackle, to go through left tackle. The play was well executed, but Dutch was a little slow at hitting the line, and after a slight advance he was held, and only five yards were gained. Randallmust kick, and the yells of delight that had greeted her first advance were silenced, while the supporters of the co-educational academy prepared to encourage their players by vocal efforts.
Holly Cross booted the ball well up into the enemy’s territory. Tom, and Joe Jackson, the ends, were down like tigers, but they could not break through the well-organized interference that surrounded Roger Barnes, the Fairview full-back. On he rushed until Phil, pluckily breaking through, tackled him fiercely.
“Now see how we can hold ’em!” called Holly Cross to his men, and they all braced, ready for the smash they knew would come. Nor was it long delayed. Right at the center of the line came Lem Sellig, the Fairview left half-back. But he met Snail Looper’s solid flesh, supported by Phil and the three other backs. Yet, in spite of this, Lem managed to advance.
“Hold! hold!” pleaded Holly, and, with gritting teeth and tense muscles, his men did hold. But ten yards had been gained. Fairview was not as easy as had been hoped.
Once more the line-smashing occurred, but this time not for such a gain, and on the next try Fairview was forced to kick.
“Right down the line, now!” called Phil, and, as if the cheering contingent understood, BeanPerkins, with his foghorn voice, started the song: “Take it to the Goal Posts, Boys!”
It had been decided, before the game, that Randall would attempt only straight football, at least during the first half. Coach Lighton wisely advised against trick plays so early in the season, as there were a number of comparatively new men on the eleven. So Phil, when his side had the ball again, called for more line-smashing, and his men responded nobly.
They advanced the ball to the twenty-five yard line, and, though tempted to give the signal for a goal from the field, Phil refrained, as there was a quartering wind blowing. He did signal for a fake kick play, however, feeling that he was justified in it, and to his horror there was a fumble. Fairview broke through and captured the ball.
Dejected and almost humiliated, Randall lined up to receive a smashing attack, but instead Fairview kicked, for her captain was nervous, and feared the holding powers of his opponent’s line.
“Now we’ve got ’em!” yelled Phil, as Holly Cross began running back with the pigskin. The Fairview ends were right on hand, however, and broke through the interference, so that Holly was downed ere he had covered ten yards. But it gave Randall the ball, and then, with a grim determination to smash or be smashed, the lads went at the Fairview line hammer and tongs. They rushedthe ball to the ten-yard line this time, and then came a rapid succession of sequence plays, no signals being given. Indeed, had Phil yelled the numbers and letters through a megaphone, they could hardly have been heard, so tumultuous was the cheering of the Randall supporters.
Against such whirlwind playing as this the Fairview line crumpled and went to pieces. Slam-bang at it came first Holly Cross, then Kindlings, and then Jerry Jackson. The latter, by a great effort, managed to wiggle along the last few inches, and placed the ball over the final white mark.
“Touch-down!” yelled Tom Parsons, and a touch-down it was. How the cheers broke forth then! What a riot of color from the grandstands! How the flags, ribbons and banners waved! How the gay youths and grave men yelled themselves hoarse! How the girls’ shrill voices sounded over the field!
The goal was missed on account of the strong wind, and once more the play started in. There was more line-smashing and some kicking, yet the half ended with the score five to nothing in favor of Randall.
There was much talk in the dressing-room of the Randall players during the intermission. Some of the players pleaded for the trial of trick plays which they had practiced, but Coach Lighton insisted on line-smashing.
“I know it is more tiresome,” he said, “but it will be better practice for you now. You need straight football early in the season. Clinton, how is your shoulder holding out?”
“Fine. It doesn’t hurt me at all.”
As only minor hurts had resulted from the play of the first half, no change was made in the line-up. Once more, when the whistle blew, did the whirlwind work begin. There was a noticeable difference in the style of Fairview. They had put in some new men, and were playing a kicking game. They were holding better in the line, too.
The result was that after several minutes of play, during which the ball had changed hands several times, the Randall players were tiring. It was what the wily captain of the Fairview team had counted on. Then he sent his men smashing the line, and to the grief of Holly Cross he saw his men being pushed back. In vain did he appeal to them—even reviled them—for not holding their ground. But it was impossible, and, following a sensational run around right end, Joe Jackson missing an easy tackle of Lem Sellig, the latter player made a touch-down. This time it was the chance for the Fairview supporters to cheer and yell, and they did it, the singing contingent rendering with much effect: “We Have Old Randall’s Scalp Now.”
The score was tied, as Fairview failed to kickgoal, and at it they went again, smash and hammer, hammer and smash. Phil called for a trick play, and it worked well, but the gain was small, and a little later the ball went to Fairview on a penalty. Then came the surprise of the day. On a forward pass the pigskin was taken well toward Randall’s goal line, and after the down Ted Puder, the husky left-tackle, was shoved over for another touch-down.
The stands fairly trembled under the cheers, yells and excited stamping of the co-educationals. The girls sang a song of victory, and the Randall players, with woe-begone faces, gathered behind their goal posts. There was a futile attempt to block the kick, but the spheroid sailed over the bar. The score was eleven to five against Randall.
“Now, fellows, we can win, or at least tie the score yet,” remarked Captain Cross, as his players were sent back to the middle of the field for another kick-off. “Smash through ’em! Phil, try our forward pass and on-side kick.”
“There are only five minutes more of play,” said Tom, who heard that from the timekeeper.
“Never mind, we can do it. Tie the score, anyhow!”
But it was not to be. Smash through the line though her players did, for there seemed no stopping them, successful as the forward pass was, and with the gain netted by an on-side kick, Randall could do no better than to carry the ball to the Fairview ten-yard line.
There might have been a try for a field goal, but Phil decided there was no chance for it, whereas bucking the line was almost a sure thing. His men were doing magnificent work, for they had carried the ball continuously from the middle of the field without loss. Two minutes more of playwould have given them a touch-down, but the fatal whistle blew, and with a groan the Randall players knew their last hope was gone.
There came the usual cheers and college yells for the vanquished from the victors, and the return of the compliment. Then the downcast Randall lads filed slowly across the gridiron. They were sad at heart, and Coach Lighton noticed it.
“Fellows, you did magnificent work!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “You really did!”
“All except winning,” said Tom gloomily.
“I think we played rotten!” burst out Phil, who seemed to take it much to heart.
“And I let Sellig get around me, and missed tackling him,” said Joe Jackson, fairly groaning. “That cost us the game.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Captain Cross, who knew the danger of despondency. “You did all right, Joe; and the other Jersey twin shone like a star on a dark night. We’re all right.”
“Yes, except for what ails us,” added Dutch Housenlager, making a playful attempt to trip up Tom.
“Here! Quit that!” exclaimed the left-end in no gentle voice.
Coach Lighton noticed it. Tom, as well as the others, was “on edge.” It would not need much more to demoralize the team. He must stop the growing feeling.
“Fellows,” he exclaimed, “you’re all right! I know what I’m talking about. I’ve coached teams before, and I say that for the first game of the season you did all that could be expected. I’m proud of you. I——”
“A thing like this happened once before,” said a voice at the elbow of the coach. “My uncle says——”
But Ford Fenton got no further, for Dutch Housenlager, putting out his foot, neatly tripped the offending one, and the rest of his sentence was mumbled to the grass.
“Serves him right!” exclaimed Tom, and in the laugh that followed the nervous, disappointed feeling of the team, in a measure, passed off.
“Fairview has a good team,” went on Coach Lighton. “I give them credit for that. But we have a better one, and now that we know their style of play and their weakness we can beat them next game. We’ll have another chance at them.”
“And we’ll wipe up the gridiron with ’em!” cried Holly Cross. “Forget it, fellows! Let’s sing ‘Marching to the Goal Posts,’” which they did with such a vim that the spirits of all were raised many degrees.
“Well, Phil,” remarked Tom, as he was getting off his football togs, “we were sort of up against it, eh?”
“Oh, it might have been worse. But the way thefellows rushed the ball up the field the last five minutes was a caution. It was like a machine.”
“Yes; we ought to have done that first.”
“That’s right. By the way, I’m going to see my sister. Want to come along?”
“Sure!” exclaimed Tom with such eagerness that Phil remarked dryly:
“I don’t know that she’ll be with Madge Tyler.”
“Oh—er—that is—that’s all right,” said Tom hastily, and he swallowed quickly. “I’ll go along.”
“All right,” said Phil.
They finished dressing, and went across the field to where a crowd of spectators was still congregated.
“Think you can find her in this bunch?” asked Tom, but he was taking no chances, for he himself was keeping a sharp lookout for a certain fair face.
“Oh, I guess so. If I don’t spot her she’ll glimpse me. Girls are great for finding people in a crowd. Sis always seems to do it.”
“Oh, Phil!” called a voice a moment later, and Ruth Clinton hurried up to her brother, gaily waving a Fairview flag. She was followed by Madge Tyler, who also had her college colors with her. “How’s your shoulder?” asked Ruth anxiously. “I was so nervous that I couldn’t bear to look at the plays.”
“Yes, you’ve got a lot of ruffians on your team,”retorted her brother. “They don’t know how to play like gentlemen.”
“But they know how to win!” exclaimed Madge, as she greeted her chum’s brother.
“That’s right,” admitted Phil, making a rueful face.
“I’m sorry I had to cheer against you and Mr. Parsons to-day,” went on Madge, as she looked at Phil. “I really—well, of course I can’t say I really wanted to you to win against Fairview, but I wish the score had been even.”
“There’s no satisfaction in that,” retorted Tom. “We lost, and they won, fairly and squarely.”
“Oh, I’m glad you admit that,” spoke Ruth with a laugh, and she waved her flag in Tom’s face. He made a grab for it, and caught the end of the cane. For an instant he stood thus, looking into the laughing, mischievous eyes of Ruth Clinton.
“Do you want it?” she asked daringly.
“Yes,” said Tom, “even though it is the color of the enemy.”
“What will you give me for it?” she asked.
“My colors,” said Tom, taking a small knot of yellow and maroon from his coat lapel. “We’ll exchange until the victory goes the other way about.”
“All right,” she agreed laughingly. “Don’t forget, now. Mr. Parsons.”
“I’ll not,” he assured her, and he turned to see Madge regarding him curiously. Her eyes shifted away quickly as they met his.
“Heard from dad?” asked Phil, who had been an amused witness to the little scene.
“Yes, I have a letter with me,” answered his sister. “Here it is,” and she handed it to Phil. “Mother is some better.”
“That’s good. Do you have to get right back to college, or have you girls time to go down the street and have some soda?” asked Phil.
“Oh, we’ll make time to go withyou!” exclaimed Madge, and she accented the last word. Tom looked at her keenly.
“Come on, then,” invited Phil, and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he swung alongside of Madge, leaving Tom to walk with Ruth. Nor was Tom at all slow to take advantage of this arrangement, though for a brief instant he hardly knew whether or not he ought to go with her, considering how friendly Madge had been with him since she gave up going with Langridge.
“How does it feel to lose?” asked Ruth, as she walked with Tom.
“Not very good,” he answered, as he listened to Madge’s gay laugh at something Phil said. He was reflecting how well she got along with thehandsome quarter-back. But Tom was not unaware of the charms of the pretty girl at his side. They talked on many subjects during the walk to town, and Tom felt like a chap who has had offered to him the choice of two most delightful companions, and cannot tell which one he likes best. Ruth was certainly an attractive girl, and her jolly laugh—but just then he heard the rippling tones of Madge’s voice.
“Oh, hang it all!” he thought to himself. “What am I up against?”
They spent a jolly afternoon before it was time for Tom and Phil to start back to Randall.
“I hope you’ll come over again—soon,” said Ruth to her brother as they were about to part.
“I will, if Miss Tyler will second your invitation,” replied Phil.
“Of course I will,” said Madge heartily.
“Can’t I come, too?” asked Tom.
“Of course,” answered Ruth promptly. “I shall expect you to report to me on the condition of my colors.”
“Oh, of course,” was Tom’s remark. Then he waited for Madge to say something to him, but she turned away without a word. Yet Tom could not forget that she had added her invitation to that of Ruth in regard to Phil.
Whereat, wondering over some matters on the way home, Tom said to his chum:
“Girls are queer, aren’t they?”
“Are you just finding that out?” asked the quarter-back.
“I guess so,” was what Tom said.
They were talking the game over in their room—Phil, Sid and Tom. Sid, from the effects of the strong liquid which Gerhart had substituted for the liniment, still had to carry his hand in a sling, but the fingers were slowly losing their stiffness.
“Where you fellows made a mistake,” Sid was saying, as he moved about on the creaking old sofa to get into a more comfortable position, “where you fellows made a mistake was in not doing more kicking early in the game.”
“Oh, I suppose you could have run things better than Phil did?” suggested Tom, not altogether pleasantly.
“Not better, but different. You should have tired them out, and then smashed their line all to pieces.”
“It wasn’t altogether such easy smashing as you would suppose, sitting and watching the game from the grandstand, was it, Tom?” came from Phil.
“Not exactly,” responded the left-end, as he rubbed his shoulder, which he had bruised makinga hard tackle. “They were as tough as nails. I suppose we did fairly well, considering everything.”
“All but winning,” spoke Sid drowsily. “You didn’t do that, you know. Now be fair; did you?”
“Oh, cut it out, you old would-be philosopher!” cried Phil, twisting around in the easy chair to reach something to throw at his chum. All he could find was a newspaper, and he doubled that up. It missed Sid, and hitting an ink bottle on the mantle, broke the phial, the black fluid flowing down over the wall and on the carpet.
“That’s a nice thing to do!” cried Tom. “Say, what do you want to make a rough house for? Isn’t this den bad enough as it is, without you doing that?”
“I didn’t mean to,” answered Phil contritely.
“Look at the rug!” went on Tom, as the ink formed a black pool. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
“We’ll get the pattern changed if we keep on,” murmured Sid, without opening his eyes. “There’s the liniment spot, now the ink spot, and the grease spots left by the former occupants. Maybe we ought to get a new rug, fellows.”
“Not this term,” said Tom emphatically. “I’ve run over my money as it is, and I don’t like to ask dad for more.”
“I notice you had some to spend for flowers to-night,” remarked Phil.
On the way home from the game Tom had stopped in a florist’s in Fairview and given an order, while Phil remained outside.
“You don’t mean to say that Tom has been sending flowers to some girl?” demanded Sid, sitting up.
“Well, you can draw your own conclusions,” replied Phil. “He didn’t bring ’em home to decorateourroom, that’s sure.”
“Worse and some more, too,” murmured Sid. “What are you coming to, Tom?” He looked reproachfully at his chum. Then he shook his head. “This girl business!” he spluttered. Then, as his eyes gazed about the room, he caught sight of the little flag of Fairview colors which Ruth Clinton had given Tom. The latter had placed it partly behind a picture of a football game. “Where did that come from?” demanded Sid, getting up from the couch with an effort and striding over to the offending emblem.
“It’s mine!” declared Tom. “Ruth—I mean Phil’s sister—gave it to me.”
For an instant Sid looked at his chum. Then his gaze traveled to the picture of the girl—the two girls—for that of Madge was beside the likeness of Ruth—and the former first-baseman sighed.
“Well,” he said, “I s’pose there’s no hope for it, but I wish I’d gone in with some fellows whoweren’t crazy on the girl question. First thing I know you fellows will have this a regular boudoir; and then where will I be? I expect any day now you’ll be wanting to get rid of this old couch and chair, and get some mission furniture, so that you can have a five o’clock tea here, and invite some girls and chaperons.”
“Suppose we do?” asked Phil, who for some reason sided with Tom.
“Well, all I’ve got to say is that I give up,” and Sid, with a helpless look, flung himself down on the sofa and turned his back on his chums. “Next you know you’ll be playing tennis or croquet instead of football. You make me sick! I tell you what it is, if you put any more of those tomfool decorations, like flags and photographs, in this room, I’m going to quit!” and Sid spoke earnestly.
“Aw, forget it, you old misanthropic specimen of a misogynist!” exclaimed Phil with a laugh. “You’ll be there yourself some day, and then you’ll see how it is.”
“Say, you talk as if you had a girl, too!” cried Sid, sitting up again and looking fixedly at Phil.
“Maybe I have,” was the noncommittal answer.
“Then you’ve gone back on me, too,” was what Sid said, as he pretended to go to sleep.
It was quiet in the room for a while, each lad busy with his thoughts. Who shall say what they were? One thing is certain—that the gazes ofTom and Phil often traveled to the wall on which were the photographs of two girls—Madge and Ruth. Tom looked at both; but Phil—well, did you ever know a fellow, no matter how nice a sister he had, to care to steal surreptitious glances at her picture? Did you? Well, that’s all I’m going to say now.
The fussy little alarm clock ticked monotonously on, as if anxious to get its work done. Still neither of the three chums spoke. Occasionally Sid would shift his position, but he did not open his eyes. Tom sometimes looked at the liniment stain in the carpet, and then at the ink spot.
“It’s a wonder you wouldn’t get a blotter and sop up some of that writing fluid,” suggested Phil to Tom at last.
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” was the retort. “You knocked it over.”
“I’m too comfortable,” murmured Phil from the depths of the chair.
“Humph!” grunted Tom. Then there was silence once more.
“How’s your hand, Sid?” asked Tom, when the clock had ticked off what seemed to the lads about a million strokes.
“A little better. That’s the worst thing I ever had happen to me,” and Sid looked at his stiffened fingers. “I don’t know what you fellows are goingto do, but I’m going to bed!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I’m sleepy.”
“Come on out and take a walk,” proposed Tom to Phil. “I’m stiff and lame. Maybe I can walk it off. Then we’ll take a hot bath in the gym and turn in.”
“That sounds good,” agreed Phil. “I’ll go you.”
They left Sid undressing and went out, it not being a proscribed hour. After a brisk walk around the campus they started for the gymnasium. As they neared it they heard voices coming from the direction of Biology Hall, a small building situated to the right of their dormitory.
“Now, then, hold him, Gerhart, while I clip him two or three good ones!” they heard some one say, and immediately after that came in pleading tones:
“Oh, please don’t hit me again, Mr. Langridge. I did the best I could for you.”
“The best, you little rat! You didn’t get the stuff I sent you for!” exclaimed Langridge angrily.
“Because they wouldn’t sell me the whisky,” was the answer. “Oh, Mr. Langridge, please don’t hit me!”
“It’s Wallops!” exclaimed Phil. “Wallops, the little messenger. What’s that brute Langridge up to now?”
“Seems as if he sent Wallops after liquor, andhe didn’t get it,” said Tom. “I hear he’s been up to that trick.”
“The dirty cad!” whispered Phil.
A moment later there was the sound of a blow, and it was followed by a cry of pain.
“Come on!” cried Phil to Tom, and the two strode around the corner of the building. They saw Gerhart holding Wallops, who was a lad small for his age, while Langridge was punching him in the face, accompanying each blow with the remark:
“That will teach you to play the sneak trick on me. You drank that stuff yourself!”
“Indeed I didn’t!” cried the messenger. “They wouldn’t let me have it. There was a new man behind the bar.”
“That’s a likely story. Hold him tight, Gerhart; I’m going to paste him another.”
“You hound!” cried Phil, his voice shrill with rage, and an instant later he had fairly leaped beside the bully. With one hand he thrust Langridge aside, and then, with a straight left on the jaw, he sent him to the ground with a thud.