Phil Clinton opened his eyes. His face, that had been pale, was now flushed. The reaction had set in, and he tried to struggle to his feet.
“Signal!” he cried. “Eighteen A B X—two twenty-seven Z M!”
He tried to get in position to take the ball from Snail Looper, who was standing up, regarding him curiously.
“What’s the matter?” cried Phil. “Why don’t you get down to snap it back, Snail? Isn’t it our ball? Have we lost it on a fumble? Are they beating us?”
“You—you can’t play,” spoke Holly Cross brokenly.
“Can’t play! Nonsense! Of course I can play! I’m all right! I was just knocked out for a minute. Get down there, Snail. Signal——” But Phil fell back into the arms of Tom and the doctor, and lapsed into unconsciousness.
“Carry him off the field,” said the medical mansoftly. “He’s got lots of grit, but a horse couldn’t play with the fever he has.”
Sorrowfully they carried the stricken quarter-back from the gridiron. It was a hard blow to the Randall team, for it meant that a new man would have to go in and play what was probably the most exacting position on the team.
“Jerry Jackson, go to quarter,” called Holly Cross. “I’ll put Hayden at left half-back,” and the substitute was summoned from the side lines. The play went on, but, as might have been expected, Randall was at a disadvantage. When they had the ball they managed to gain considerable ground, and as much punting as possible was done. But Wescott tore through for another touch-down, while the solitary one gained in the first half was the limit of the scoring the visitors could do. There did come a brace on the part of Randall toward the close of the game, and when the whistle blew they had the ball on the ten-yard line of their opponents. They had put up a plucky fight against big odds, and the Wescott players realized it, for they cheered lustily for their enemies. There was lack of heartiness, not alone from the sense of defeat, in the cheer and college yell with which Randall responded. Then they filed sorrowfully off the field, while Tom, Holly Cross and the coach, as soon as possible, went to the hotel where Phil had been taken in an automobile.
They imagined all sorts of things, and were not a little relieved when the doctor told them that, at worst, Phil only had a bad attack of bilious fever. The change of diet, necessitated by the trip, had brought it on. With rest and quiet he would be all right in a week, the medical man said.
“And when can he play football?” asked Holly Cross anxiously.
“Not for two weeks,” was the reply, and the coach and captain groaned. They had a game with Fairview in prospect, and must needs win it if they were to have a chance for the championship.
“I wonder if we can’t postpone it?” asked Holly dubiously.
“Impossible,” answered the coach. “We’ll have to play Jackson at quarter. I’ll take him in hand at once. We only have a week, but in that time the Jersey twin will do better than Moseby, who’s been playing quarter on the scrub. It’s the best we can do.”
Phil was too sick to accompany the team home, and Tom volunteered to stay with him for a couple of days, the coach and captain agreeing to explain matters at college. So the despondent players returned to Haddonfield, while Tom remained with Phil at the hotel. Three days later, thanks to the skill of the doctor, Phil was able to travel, though he was quite weak. He was broken-hearted at the way he had collapsed in the critical part of thegame, but Tom would not listen to any of his chum’s self-reproaches.
“I’ll make up for it when we play Fairview!” declared Phil. He was in a bad state when told that he could not play that game, but there was no help for it.
Ruth called to see her brother, accompanied by Madge Tyler. He was sitting in the dilapidated easy chair when the girls came in, and apologized for it.
“Oh, we’re glad to see you even in that state, Phil, as long as it’s no worse, aren’t we, Madge?” spoke Ruth.
“Of course,” answered Madge brightly. “I wish you were better, so you could play Saturday against our college.”
“We’d be sure to win, if he did,” interposed Tom. “As it is, your fellows have a better chance.”
“I—I don’t care if we do lose!” exclaimed Madge, and she blushed prettily. “That is——” and she paused in some confusion.
“Why, Madge Tyler!” exclaimed Ruth. “That’s treason!”
“I don’t care,” was the answer, with a toss of the head. “Don’t you want your brother to get well?”
“Of course, but——”
“Well,” was all Madge said, and Tom wondered what she meant.
But Randall did not lose to Fairview in the second game. It was a hard one, but the Jersey twin did good work at quarter, and Hayden proved a “star” end, making a brilliant run and a touch-down. The score was seventeen to five, a solitary field goal being all that Fairview was able to accomplish.
“Well, now we’ll have a chance at the championship, when we meet Boxer Hall next,” said Phil, who had watched the contest from the grandstand, though he was as nervous as a colt all the while.
The ’varsity quarter-back was allowed to begin practice the following week, and was soon playing with his old-time form. In fact, the little rest seemed to have benefited him, and this, added to the fact that encouraging news had been received concerning his mother, made him less apprehensive when he was on the gridiron. There were two more rather unimportant games in prospect before the final contest with Boxer Hall, and all the energies of the Randall eleven were now turned to the deciding contest.
“I say, you fellows,” remarked Sid one sunny November afternoon, when all three chums were in the room after lectures, “don’t you want to take a walk with me? I’ve got to do some observationwork in my biology course, and I’m going to take my camera along and make some pictures.”
“Where you going?” asked Tom.
“Oh, along the river. Then I’ll strike across country, and fetch up somewhere. We’ll not be gone over three hours, and we’ll get back by dark. Come along; it will do you good.”
“Shall we go with the old gazabo, Phil?” asked Tom.
“If he guarantees not to get us lost in the woods, so we’ll have to stay out all night,” replied the quarter-back.
“Oh, I’ll get you home safe,” declared Sid. “We’ll have a nice walk. I’ll be ready in a jiffy,” and he proceeded to load his camera with films. It was a large one, and he often used it to make pictures which had a bearing on his class work in biology and evolution. The three chums were soon strolling along the banks of the river, Sid on the lookout for late-staying birds or some animal or reptile which he might add to his photographic collection.
“You must be fond of this sort of thing, to lug that heavy camera around with you,” commented Phil.
“I am,” said Sid. “It’s very interesting to study the habits of birds and animals. You’d ought to have taken that course.”
“I wish I had, instead of mathematics,” put inTom. “I’m dead sick of them, but I guess I’ll have to stick at ’em.”
For a mile or more Sid saw nothing on which to focus his camera. He suggested that they leave the vicinity of the river and strike across country, and, as his chums left the matter entirely to him, this plan was followed. Suddenly, as they were going through a clump of trees about a mile from the stream, Sid uttered an exclamation.
“Hold on, fellows!” he cried. “I can get a beautiful snapshot here,” and he motioned them to stand still, while he got his automatic hand camera into position.
“What is it?” whispered Phil.
“Avulpes pennsylvanicus argentatus!” answered Sid as he turned the focusing screw.
“What’s that, for the love of Mike?” spoke Tom.
“Blessed if I know,” retorted Phil. “I don’t see anything. Maybe it’s a snake.”
“It’s a fox, you chumps!” came from Sid. “Keep still, can’t you? I’ve got him just right. He can’t see me, and the wind is blowing from him to me. I’ll have his picture in a minute!”
But, as bad luck would have it, just as Sid was about to press the lever, releasing the shutter, Phil leaned too heavily on one foot. A stick broke under him with a snap, there was a sudden rustling in the bushes, and Sid uttered a cry of dismay.
“There he goes!” cried the naturalist. “What’s the matter with you fellows, anyhow? Can’t you keep still? Now it will take me an hour to trail him, and the chances are I can’t do it.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” explained Tom. “Phil did it.”
“I couldn’t help it,” came from the guilty one. “What do you want to photograph such scary things as foxes for, anyhow?”
“Humph!” was Sid’s exclamation. “Well, there’s no help for it. Come on.”
“Where?” inquired Tom.
“After the fox, of course,” and Sid started resolutely forward. Tom and Phil followed for a short distance, then Phil called out:
“Say, it’s getting swampy here.”
“What of it?” asked Sid, whose enthusiasm would not let him notice such small matters.
“Lots of it,” came from Tom. “We’re getting our feet wet.”
“Ah, don’t be babies!” retorted Sid, plunging into a deep, muddy hole. “Come on.”
“I’m going to find a dryer path,” said Phil, and Tom agreed with him. They turned aside, but Sid kept on. Soon he was lost to sight in the woods. Phil and Tom looked in vain for a better route, and, finding none, decided to turn back.
“We’ll wait for you out on the main road,” Phil called to his unseen chum. An indistinguishableanswer came back. The two picked their way to higher ground, and edged off toward the road which skirted the woods.
“Photographing in a swamp is too rich for my blood,” commented Phil.
“Same here,” agreed Tom. “But Sid doesn’t seem to mind it. Smoked mackerel, look at my shoes!” and he glanced at his muddy feet.
“I’m in as bad,” added Phil. “Let’s walk through the grass and——”
Just then they heard Sid calling from afar.
“What’s he saying?” asked Tom.
“Listen,” advised Phil.
Again the cry was heard.
“Sounds as if he was calling for us to come to him,” ventured Tom.
“That’s it, but I’m not going. I’m just as well satisfied to look at the photograph after he’s developed it. I’m going to stay here,” came from Phil.
“Sure,” added Tom.
The cries continued, and then ceased. Tom and Phil waited nearly an hour for Sid to reappear, and when he did not come they started back for college, thinking he had gone another way. But poor Sid was in dire straits, as we shall soon see.
Sid Henderson was of a very hopeful disposition, otherwise he never would have undertaken to get a picture of that fox after it had once been alarmed. But he fancied he could trail it to its burrow, and he wanted very much to get a photograph of the animal in its home surroundings.
So, unmindful of the desertion of his chums, he plunged on into the swamp. The footing became more and more treacherous as he advanced, and he had to go slowly, looking here and there for grass hummocks to support him. His camera, too, was a handicap.
“But I’m going to get that fox!” he exclaimed. “I just need a picture like that. Besides, I may find in this swamp some material I can use in my biological experiments.”
On he went, leaping from hummock to hummock. Once he nearly slipped and barely saved himself from falling into a slough of black water.
“I wonder how deep that is?” he remarked, and taking a dead branch he thrust it straight down.He found that the hole was deeper than he had anticipated.
Keeping a sharp lookout for the animal he was after, he was at length rewarded by a sight of it slinking along through the bushes. He started forward eagerly, so eagerly, in fact, that he did not pick his steps. A moment later he slipped from a grass hummock and went into the muddy bog, up to his waist.
“Wow! Whoop! Help! Here, fellows! Come here and help me! Bring a fence rail!” he called, for he felt himself sinking down deeper and deeper.
Tom and Phil heard his cries, but thought he was only calling to them to come and see some natural curiosity or view the fox, so they did not respond. Sid called again and again, but got no answer. Then he tried to scramble from the bog, and found it hard work, for he had to hold his camera high up that it might not get wet.
At last he managed to free his legs from the sticky mud and reached a comparatively firm place. But what a plight he was in! Plastered with swamp-ooze to his waist, he looked like some sewer laborer. Though he did not know it, his face was spotted with globules of mud, splashed up in his struggles to get from the bog.
“Well, I certainly am in bad,” he remarked to himself. “Lucky I put on old clothes. I can’tget much worse, that’s one satisfaction. I might as well keep on. Maybe I can get that fox now.”
So he continued through the swamp. His speed was better, for he no longer paused to pick his steps, but splashed on, careless of the mud and water. The fever of the chase was in his veins, and another glimpse of the fox convinced him that the animal was heading for its burrow. At last, after a tramp of a mile, Sid was successful, and, in the fast fading light of the fall day, he snapped the creature, just as it was entering the hole, when it turned for a final look at its tireless pursuer.
“Well, it was worth it all,” sighed the naturalist as he closed up his camera and started for home. “Now I wonder where Phil and Tom are.”
Remembering that they had called to him that they would wait out on the road, he took that highway back to college. On the way he found several specimens which he needed in his evolution work, and in thinking about them, and his success in photographing the fox, he forgot about the plight he was in. He did not meet his chums, of course, and it was dusk when he got back to college. The mud had dried somewhat on his trousers and shoes, and, incidentally, on his face and hands, for he had, unconsciously, run his hands over his countenance once or twice, so that the mud globules had increased in surface area.
It was a very strange and somewhat disreputablefigure that entered the west dormitory a little later and started up the stairs, but Sid did not know that, having no looking glass at hand.
Now it so happened that Professor Tines was just leaving the dormitory. He had called to see one of his pupils who was ill—a “greasy dig” student—to use the college vernacular to designate a lad who burned midnight oil over his studies. The professor having finished his call came upon Sid in the corridor. The instructor saw before him a young man, mud covered, carrying a square, black box, and the countenance, spotted with specimens of swamp muck, was unfamiliar to him. Professor Tines at once suspected a student trick.
“Here! Where are you going?” he cried, blocking the way of Sid.
“To my room,” answered the luckless naturalist, who, of course, not appreciating that he was most effectually disguised, thought that the Latin teacher had recognized him.
“Your room! What do you mean by such nonsense? What student put you up to this joke? Tell me, and I will have him punished at once. How dare you come in here?”
“Why, I—I belong here, Professor Tines,” said Sid.
“Belong here? You work on the coal trestle! Don’t tell me! You are covered with coal dust now! What have you there? Are you goingto play some trick at the instigation of the freshmen? I demand an answer!”
“I’m Henderson,” went on Sid desperately. “I room here—with Phil Clinton and Tom Parsons.”
“How dare you trifle with me in this fashion?” demanded the irate Latin instructor. “I shall call the proctor and have you arrested!” and he was so much in earnest that Sid, beginning to appreciate the state he was in, determined to prove absolutely that he was himself.
“Professor Tines,” he said, “you can knock on that door there, and ask Clinton and Parsons if I’m not Henderson. I’ve been out after a fox, and I fell in the bog.”
“Ha!” cried the professor. “I see it now. You are trying to play a joke on me, with the aid of Clinton and Parsons. But you shall all three suffer for it! Iwillknock on that door. Iwillconfront your fellow conspirators with the evidence of their silly act. Come here,” and he placed his hand on Phil’s shoulder and led him toward the room of the three chums. “You shall not trifle with me!” he added fiercely.
Holding Sid firmly by the shoulder with one hand, Professor Tines with the other knocked loudly at the portal. Phil and Tom were within, and the latter quickly opened the door, for the summons was imperative. The two chums in the roomstarted back at the sight of the instructor having in custody the mud-covered figure.
“Young gentlemen,” began the professor sternly, “this—this person asserts that he is Henderson, and that he rooms here. I caught him in the corridor, and at once detected the joke he was about to play. He appealed to me to bring him here for identification. Have you three conspired to play a trick on me? Is this Henderson or is it not?”
Tom and Phil stared at the disreputable figure. They knew at once that it was their chum, but the spirit of mischief entered into Tom. He nudged Phil, and then answered promptly:
“Certainly not, Professor Tines. We don’t know the person!”
Then he shut the door, while, with a cry of rage at the desertion of his friends, Sid tried to break away from the Latin teacher.
“Ha! I knew you were up to some trick!” cried Professor Tines. “You are no student of Randall College at all! I’ll take you to Proctor Zane, and he’ll give you in charge of an officer! Perhaps you are a thief, and have stolen that camera!”
“It’s mine!” exclaimed Sid, unable to understand the action of Tom and Phil. “I tell you I am Henderson, professor!”
“Indeed! Then how do you account for Parsons and Clinton failing to identify you?”
“That’s a—a joke!” Sid was forced to say.
“Ha! I knew there was some trick in it! So you admit you were trying to play a joke on me in having them identify you?”
“No, no!” cried Sid, alarmed at this misunderstanding. “They were joking when they said I wasn’t Henderson.”
“Well, who are you, then?”
“Why, IamHenderson. This is my camera.”
“Don’t make it any worse, young man,” warned the teacher sternly. “Come with me to the proctor!”
There was no help for it, Sid had to go. He might have broken away from the professor, but he did not like to try it, for Mr. Tines seemed very determined, and the ensuing tumult would bring into the corridor a throng of students, so that Sid would never hear the last of the joke that had turned on him. He went along quietly, thankful that it was dark, and that no one would see him in the walk across the campus to the proctor’s quarters.
“Here is a young man—a thief, if nothing worse, perhaps—whom I caught in the corridor of the west dormitory,” explained Professor Tines to Mr. Zane a little later as he stood with his quarry before the proctor. Sid caught a glimpse of himself in a looking glass in the brightly-lighted office.
“Oh—I—do I look like that?” he gasped as he saw his slimy trousers, and his face, which was like unto that of a chimney sweep, his hands also being covered with the swamp mud.
“You certainly do!” said Professor Tines heartily. “Are you now ready to confess, before we send for an officer?”
“But I tell you I’m Henderson!” insisted the luckless Sid. “It was only a joke when Phil andTom went back on me. I tell you I’m Henderson, of the sophomore class!”
The proctor glanced sharply at him. Mr. Zane had good eyes and a memory for voices, which Professor Tines lacked.
“I believe itisHenderson,” spoke the proctor at length. “But where in the world have you been?”
“Photographing a fox,” explained Sid, and then he told the whole story. A dawning light of belief came into the countenance of Professor Tines, and when Sid had been allowed to wash his face and hands, there was no further doubt as to his identity.
“Well,” remarked the proctor, trying hard not to laugh as he glanced at the student’s mud-encased trousers, “I would advise you to wear rubber boots when you go on your next nature excursion.”
“I will,” promised Sid. “May I go to my room now?”
“I suppose so,” rasped out the Latin instructor. “But—ahem! I am not altogether sure yet that you are not up to some mischief.”
“I’ll develop the picture of the fox and show you!” exclaimed Sid eagerly. “And here are some snails I picked up in the swamp,” and with that he plunged his hand into the pocket of his coat and drew out a lot of the slimy creatures. Some ofthem dropped on the floor and started to crawl away, leaving a shimmering track.
“That will do! The evidence is sufficient, I think!” exclaimed the proctor, who had a horror of such things. “Take them away at once, Mr. Henderson!” And Sid went down on his knees to gather up thehelix molluscæ, while Professor Tines hurried from the room.
“Do you want to see the picture of the fox?” asked Sid as he arose, his hands filled with snails.
“No, thank you,” answered the proctor. “I’ll take your word for it, Mr. Henderson. But please be more careful,” and he looked at the mud spots on his rug.
A little later Sid burst into the room where his two chums were pouring over their books.
“Say! What in blazes did you fellows go back on me that way for?” he demanded.
“What’s that? He speaks in riddles!” said Phil softly. “Why, Siddie,” he went on, as a mother might chide a little boy, “wherever have you been? You’re all mud! Oh, such a state as your trousers are in! Whatever will papa say, Siddie?”
“What a dirty beast!” cried Tom in simulated horror.
Poor Sid looked from one to the other.
“Why did you tell Pitchfork I wasn’t Henderson?” he demanded savagely.
“Tell Pitchfork you weren’t yourself?” asked Phil, as if he had never heard of such a thing.
“What do you mean?” inquired Tom innocently. “We haven’t seen you since we left you going after the fox, and we got tired and came home.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” began Sid, “that you didn’t——” And then he stopped, at the grins that appeared on the faces of his chums. “What’s the use?” he asked wearily. “All right, I’ll get even with you two,” he concluded as he put his camera away and proceeded to change his clothes. But a little later, when he had developed the picture of the fox, and found it to be a fine one, he forgot his anger and the ordeal he had gone through, for Sid was a true naturalist.
It was approaching the date for the great game with Boxer Hall, and the football squad was practicing with a fierce energy; for, more than any other contest, they wanted to win that one.
The team was fairly “on edge and trained to the second,” as Holly Cross said. They had won the two games that came before the final one, and now but two weeks elapsed before they would clash with Boxer Hall on the Randall gridiron.
“Are you going to theKappa Deltadance?” asked Phil of Tom one night, referring to an annual affair of one of the Greek letter fraternities.
“Sure,” replied Tom. “I think we need somethinglike that to get us in shape for the game with Boxer Hall. You’re going, I suppose?”
“Of course. Who you going to take?”
“Haven’t quite made up my mind yet. Are you going with a dame?”
“Sure.”
“Who, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Madge Tyler,” answered Phil, and he seemed to be very busy arranging his tie.
“Madge Tyler?” repeated Tom quickly.
“Yes. Any objections?”
Tom was silent a moment. He was struggling with a strange sensation.
“Well,” asked Phil, turning and facing his chum—Sid was out of the room—“any objections?”
“Of course not,” answered Tom slowly. “I took her last term, and—er—I was rather counting on——”
“You were going to take her again this year,” interrupted Phil, “but you waited too long. Sorry I cut you out, old man. No hard feelings, I hope?”
“No—no,” answered Tom hesitatingly. “Of course not,” he added more genially. “I was too slow, that’s all.”
“You’ll have to ask some one else,” went on Phil. “Are you sure you don’t mind, old chap?” and he came over and stood beside his chum.
Tom did not answer for a few seconds. Therewas a strained quality in his voice when he replied, as cheerfully as he could:
“Of course not. You’re first in war, first in football, and first in—the affairs with the ladies,” he paraphrased.
“Whom will you take?” persisted Phil.
“Nobody!” exclaimed Tom, as he got up from the couch and started from the room. “I’m not going to the affair, after all,” and he slammed the door as he went out.
“Whew!” whistled Phil. “Tom’s jealous!”
TheKappa Deltadance was a brilliant affair. Phil took Madge, and very charming she looked in a new gown of—oh, well, what difference does it make what her dress was like, anyhow? Besides, I don’t know whether it was bombazine or chiffon, and the more I try to describe it the worse I will get tangled, so if you’ll take my word for it, as well as Phil’s, who ought to know, she looked very pretty indeed. The girls said she was “sweet,” whatever that means.
“Isn’t Ruth coming?” asked Phil of his partner after the first waltz.
“Why, I thought so,” answered Madge slowly. “She was getting ready to come when I left.”
“Who with?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t she tell you?”
“She never does,” replied Phil. “I thought you’d know.”
“Well, I usually do, but this time Ruth was quite mysterious about it.”
“There she comes now!” exclaimed Phil, looking toward the entrance to the ballroom. “Who’s that with her?”
“I can’t see. She’s in front—why, it’s Tom—Tom Parsons!” added Madge quickly.
“Tom!” exclaimed Phil. “The sly beggar! He was going to take her all the while, yet he pretended to be jealous because I said I was going to take——”
He stopped in some confusion. Madge looked at him quickly.
“Was he—was he jealous about me?” she asked softly.
“He pretended to be,” said her partner.
“Only pretended? How ungallant of you!” she cried gaily, yet there was more meaning in her tones than Phil was aware of. “Why don’t you say he was madly jealous of me; and that you two quarreled dreadfully over me?”
“Well, I s’pose I could say it,” replied Phil slowly, “but you see—— Let’s try this two-step,” he interrupted, glad of the chance to get out of an awkward explanation.
“I was going to wait and speak to Ruth,” said Madge.
“Later will do,” answered Phil, and they swung out on the polished floor together.
“You frowsy beggar, why didn’t you tell me you were going to bring my sister?” cried Phil to Tom,when the two-step finished and the four had come together.
“I wasn’t sure she’d go,” replied Tom in a low voice, and Phil missed the usual friendly note in his tones. “Will you come down and have an ice?” he asked Ruth, and before Phil could say anything more Tom had led his fair partner away.
“Hang it all! There’s something the matter with Tom!” thought honest Phil as he looked at Madge. “I’ll have it out with him when this affair is over. We can’t let girls come between us.”
It was late when Phil got back to his room, after taking Madge home. Sid was asleep, and the quarter-back moved about softly, so as not to disturb him, for Sid had foresworn such dissipations as fraternity dances. Just as Phil was about to get into bed, Tom came in.
“Say, old man,” burst out Phil in a whisper, “what’s the matter?”
“Matter?” asked Tom, as if greatly surprised.
“Yes, matter. You’ve been different ever since I told you I was going to take Madge to the dance. Now, am I trespassing on your preserves? If I am, say so. But I thought you liked Ruth.”
“So I do!”
“That’s what I thought. I knew you used to go with Madge, but since—— Oh, hang it all, I can’t explain—I’m Ruth’s brother, you know. But if you think I want to cut you out——”
“It’s all right,” broke in Tom with a forced geniality that Phil noticed. “Forget it, old man. Of course, you had a perfect right to go with Madge. I dare say she’d a heap sight rather have you than me.”
“I don’t know about that,” interposed Phil; “but I was afraid I was treading on your corns.”
“It’s all right,” repeated Tom quickly. “Fine dance, wasn’t it?”
“Very. But are you sure——”
“Oh, dry up!” exclaimed Tom, more like himself. “Here’s a letter Ruth gave me to give you. It’s from your mother. Your sister meant to hand it to you at the dance, but she forgot. Came late to-night—or, rather, last night—it’s morning now. She’s a little better, it seems.”
“That’s good!” exclaimed Phil eagerly. “But I wonder why she didn’t write to me.”
“She couldn’t manage but one letter, I believe Ruth said,” went on Tom gently.
“Say, I wish you fellows would cut out that gab!” suddenly exclaimed Sid, turning over in bed. “I want to sleep. I don’t go out to dances, where there are a lot of silly girls, and then sit up all night talking about it.”
“Get out, you grumpy old misogynist!” exclaimed Phil, shying a sofa cushion at his chum. “Wake up and hear the glad tidings of the dance!”
“Glad pollywogs!” grumbled Sid. “Get to bed and douse the glim.”
Which Phil soon did, as Tom showed no further inclination to talk.
In spite of Tom’s assertions to the contrary, Phil could not help feeling that a coldness had sprung up between himself and his chum. That it was about Madge, Phil could not deny, yet he hesitated to speak further of it to Tom.
“Maybe it will work itself out,” he said to himself. “I hope so, anyhow.”
Meanwhile, the time for the final and deciding championship football game was drawing closer. Randall and Boxer Hall were easily the two best teams, not only in the Tonoka Lake League, but in that section of the country. Neither had done any remarkable playing, nor could it be said that their goal line had not been crossed, but the championship lay between them. The practice was exacting and constant, and the ’varsity eleven was “as hard as nails,” to again quote my friend, Holly Cross, who had an extensive sporting vocabulary. They were eager for the contest.
Tom and Phil, between whom there was still a shadow of coldness, came walking together from the gridiron. They were talking about a wing-shift play that had been tried with some success.
“I don’t like the signal for it,” said Phil. “It’s too complicated, and the other fellows may get onto it. I think I can work out a better combination. I’ll use some of the old signal letters and numbers that we discarded. I’ve got a copy of them in my room.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea,” commented Tom. “I think, myself, that the signal takes too long to understand. It ought to be snappier.”
“That’s my idea. We’ll see if we can’t work out a better one.”
Hurrying from the gymnasium, where they had changed their clothes, Tom and Phil went to their room. Sid was there studying. Phil went over to the wall, where he had placed the new picture of Madge Tyler she had given him, and took it down.
“That’s right!” exclaimed Sid. “It’s about time you removed some of these flags, banners, ribbons and other effeminate decorations. Start in, Tom, on your share. We’ll get this room to looking right, after a bit.”
“Oh, I’m not taking it down,” declared Phil as he removed the photograph from the wall. He had had it placed in rather a heavy and deep gold frame. “I want to get my copy of the football signals—the ones we discarded—from behind it,” he explained. “I hid them there, as being the place least likely to be disturbed. I’m going to frame up a new signal——”
He stopped suddenly, and looked first from thepicture to the floor, and then from the floor to the picture.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom.
“The copy of the signals—it’s gone,” he said quickly. “I had it fastened to the back of the picture by a bit of wire.”
“Are you sure?” inquired Sid, getting up from the old easy chair, and making a cloud of dust in the operation.
“Of course!” exclaimed Phil. “They’re gone—some one must have taken the signals.”
Tom dimly recalled a certain scene he and Phil had witnessed, and also remembered the words of the coach when he had made a shift of the signals. Phil looked at Tom. He was thinking of the same thing. Suddenly Phil uttered a cry. From the deep, curved frame of the picture he held up a small gold watch-charm.
“Look!” he exclaimed.
“A freshman charm!” spoke Sid slowly, as he recognized the device affected by a certain first-year secret society.
“Whose is it?” asked Tom.
“There’s no telling,” replied Phil.
“Yes, there is,” went on Sid. “They always have their initials on the back of the charm. Look and see.”
Phil turned it over.
“Whoever left this here must have taken thecopy of the signals,” he said slowly. “He probably took down the picture and removed the paper. In doing so the charm slipped from his watch-chain and fell in the deep frame. He must have held it about at his belt to bend up the wire, for it was stiff.”
“Whose initials are on the back?” asked Tom in a low voice.
Phil looked at them.
“They are ‘G. A. G.,’” he announced.
Sid reached for a college roster, and turned to the freshman class list. The room was strangely silent, not even the ticking of the alarm clock being heard, for it had run down.
“Well?” asked Tom.
“The only fellow with the initials ‘G. A. G.’ is Garvey A. Gerhart,” answered Sid.
The breathing of the three chums was distinctly audible in the silence that followed. Varied thoughts rushed through their minds, but all centered around the idea that there was a traitor in college—some one who would go to extreme lengths to see the football eleven lose. That this person was Garvey Gerhart was the belief of Tom, Phil and Sid. The quarter-back was the first to break the silence that was becoming strained.
“The cowardly sneak!” he burst out. “He ought to be tarred and feathered and ridden around the campus on a rail. The dirty cad!” Phil clenched his fists. “And I’m going to do it, too!” he added fiercely.
“Do what?” asked Tom.
“I’m going to tell what we discovered. I’m going to let Holly Cross and Mr. Lighton know. It was Gerhart who stole the copy of the signals. He sneaked in here when we were out and found them, though how he knew enough to look behind the picture is more than I understand. Probablyhe wanted to see if the girl’s name was on the back, and saw the paper by accident. Anyhow, he took it, and he lost the charm at the same time, though he didn’t notice it. Then he went and bargained to sell the signals to Stoddard, of Boxer Hall. That was when we saw them talking together down by the bridge.”
“But Stoddard didn’t take his offer,” interposed Tom.
“No; Stoddard isn’t that kind of a chap,” went on Phil. “He let Mr. Lighton know anonymously. But what Stoddard did doesn’t lessen Gerhart’s guilt. He wanted to throw the team, and only for the fact that he made his offer to an honest chap we would have lost the game. I’d—I’d like to smash him into jelly!” and Phil fairly shook in righteous anger, for the team was very dear to his heart. He felt everything that affected the eleven more, perhaps, than any other lad in Randall College, not even excepting the captain, Holly Cross. So it is no wonder that Phil raged. He started from the room.
“Where are you going?” asked Sid, interposing his bulky frame between Phil and the door.
“I’m going to tell the coach and Holly Cross what I’ve discovered. I’m going to show them this charm. I’m going to propose that we tar and feather Gerhart and ride him out of college to the tune of the ‘Rogues’ March.’”
“No, you’re not,” spoke Sid very quietly.
Phil looked at him for a moment. Then he burst out with: “What do you mean? Don’t you want me to tell? I’m going to, I say!”
“No, you’re not,” repeated Sid, and he did not raise his voice. “You’re going to sit right down,” and he gently shoved Phil toward the yawning easy chair. Puzzled by his chum’s action, Phil backed up, and before he knew it he had flopped down upon the cushions, raising an unusual cloud of dust.
“Say, Henderson, what’s the matter with you?” he cried, as he struggled to get up. “Are you crazy? Don’t interfere with me again! I’m going to inform on the dirty, sneaking cad who wanted to see his own college beaten!”
Sid put a hand on his chum’s shoulder and pushed him back into the chair.
“You’re going to do nothing of the sort, my son,” went on the big first baseman slowly. “Tom, lock the door and put the key in your pocket.”
Tom as though acting under the influence of some hypnotic spell, obeyed.
“Are you both crazy?” burst out Phil. “I tell you the whole college must know what a white-livered hound we’ve got here!”
“That’s just what they mustn’t know,” said Sid quietly. “Now listen to me,” he went on more sternly. “In the first place, you don’t know that Gerhart is guilty.”
“Don’t know? Of course I know it!” almost shouted Phil. “Haven’t I got the evidence?” and he held out the charm.
“Easy,” cautioned Sid. “I grant that; I even grant that the charm is Gerhart’s; but does that prove he took the signals?”
“It proves that he was in the room,” declared Phil.
“Yes, I admit that. I saw him in here once myself—just before that accident to my hand. But that doesn’t prove anything.”
“He was in here some other time then, when none of us was here. He must have taken the picture down, else the charm would never have been caught in the frame and remained there.”
“Granted; but you are still far from making out a case, Phil.”
“Don’t you believe he did it?” asked the quarter-back.
“I do, when it comes to that, but we’ve got to offer more evidence than our own beliefs when it comes to convincing other people. Besides, I don’t see what need there is of proving your case.”
“Don’t you think the college ought to know what sort of a coward and sneak we’ve got at Randall?”
“No,” said Sid decidedly, “I don’t. That’s just the point. That’s just why I don’t want you to go and tell Holly what we’ve found. I think Gerhart took those signals,” he continued, “and I believethat when we saw him talking to Stoddard he was trying to dispose of them to him. But just because I feel morally certain of it doesn’t justify me in spreading the news broadcast. Besides, do we want every one to know what a cad we have here? I take the opposite view from you. I think we ought not to wash our soiled linen in public. The more we can hush this thing up the better. I wouldn’t let it get beyond us three. It ought to stop right here. We would be the laughingstock of Fairview and Boxer Hall if it got out. To think that the Randall spirit was capable of falling so low that there was a traitor among us! I’m glad Stoddard kept still. Evidently he didn’t tell a soul, but warned Lighton privately, and the team has kept quiet about it.
“Now,” continued Sid earnestly, “do you want to go and publish it? Do you want to let every one see our shame? I don’t believe you do, Phil.”
Phil was silent for several seconds. He was struggling with some emotion. Tom stood with his back to the door, though it was locked. Sid stood before his chum, looking anxiously at him as he sat in the big chair. Then, with a long breath, Phil said:
“I guess you’re right, Sid. I—I didn’t look at it that way. I’ll keep still.”
“I thought you would,” spoke Sid significantly.
Phil put the charm in his pocket. The strainwas over. They all seemed relieved. But Phil, so much was his heart bound up in the eleven, could not forget the great affront that had been planned against it. Two days later, meeting Gerhart alone on the campus, he approached him, and showing the freshman the watch-charm, exclaimed:
“Take care, you dirty coward! We know where you lost this!”
Gerhart started, turned first pale and then red. He soon recovered himself, and answered:
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do,” snapped Phil. “You stole my signals!”
“That’s a lie,” said Gerhart coolly, and he walked on.
But if Phil could have seen him a little later, when he joined Langridge, the quarter-back would have wondered at the rage and fear shown by the freshman.
“Clinton knows! He found my charm! I was afraid I’d lost it in his room,” said Gerhart.
“Well?” asked Langridge.
“One of us has got to leave Randall!” exclaimed Gerhart savagely. “It’s he or I; and it will be he, if I can accomplish it!”
Gerhart and Langridge were walking along the road that led to Haddonfield. The freshman was filled with unreasoning rage against not only Phil, but Tom and Sid, as well.
“Probably all three know,” said Gerhart. “I was a fool not to look to see if I left any clues behind when I was in the room.”
“Maybe you were a fool for ever trying that signal and liniment trick at all,” suggested Langridge, who did not mince words.
“Maybe,” admitted his crony. “But I thought I could get back at Clinton, Cross and Lighton, for not letting me play. Only that Stoddard was such a white-livered chump I’d have pulled off the signal trick.”
“As it was, you lost.”
“Yes; but the game isn’t over yet. There’s still the Boxer Hall contest.”
“You don’t mean to say you’re going to try and give away the signals in that game, do you?” cried Langridge.
“No; but I’m going to keep Clinton out of the game. If I can do that I’ll feel that I’m even with him—the beast!”
“But can you do it? If you do it, it may make our team lose, for Clinton is one of the best players, and it’s hard to substitute a quarter-back.”
“I can do it; and I wish the eleven would lose! That’s what I want to see!”
“You haven’t got much college spirit,” observed Langridge.
“I’ve as much as you. Weren’t you in with me on this scheme?”
“I suppose so.” Langridge didn’t seem to derive much satisfaction from the admission.
“Of course you were. You hate Clinton and his bunch as much as I do.”
“Yes.”
“And you’d like to see ’em laid out good and proper, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” hesitatingly, “I guess so.”
“Of course you would! Well, you’re going to if you stick to me. I’ve got the best plan yet.”
“What is it?”
“Come along to town, and you’ll see part of it. I’ve got to get certain things, and then I’ll be ready.”
“You want to be careful you don’t leave any evidence after you this time.”
“No danger. Will you help me?”
“I guess so, as long as it isn’t anything rash.”
“No, it won’t cause any permanent harm to any one, but it will knock Clinton out from playing the game, and that’s what I’m after. Now come on. I want to get to Haddonfield before the college crowd starts. It won’t do to be seen where we’re going, or there might be an inquiry afterward.”
About an hour later Langridge and Gerhart were in the telegraph office at Haddonfield. There might have been noticed about the sophomore a trace of nervousness as he walked up to the little window and inquired how long it would take to get some money from his uncle in Chicago.
“I want it to come by telegraph,” Langridge explained. “I need it in a hurry.”
“Yes, you college chaps usually do,” said the agent. “Well, you can get it late to-night, I suppose, if you send a wire to Chicago now. How much would you need?”
“Oh, a couple of hundred; maybe five hundred.”
The agent whistled.
“That’s more than we have on hand here at a time,” he said. “I’d have to get it from the bank, and that couldn’t be done until morning.”
“Well, there’s no great hurry,” went on Langridge. “Would I have to be identified to get it? My guardian—that’s my uncle—frequently sends me money by telegraph when I’m off on trips.”
“Oh, yes; you’d have to get some one to vouch for you,” said the agent, “but that will be easy.”
“Then I guess I’ll telegraph for some,” continued the sophomore, and he began filling out a blank under the directions of the telegrapher. Langridge, for a youth who had received money by wire before, seemed to require minute directions, and he kept the agent at the window for several minutes, holding his attention closely.
“There, I guess that will do,” said the student at length. “I’ll call to-morrow for the cash. Hope you have it for me.”
“Oh, I’ll have it if your uncle sends it.”
“He’s sure to do that,” retorted Langridge with a smile.
“Lucky dog!” murmured the agent as he turned back to his desk. “Some of those college chaps have more money than is good for them, though.”
Langridge hurried from the office. He was joined outside by Gerhart, who had preceded him out of the door by a few seconds.
“Did you get it?” asked the sophomore.
“Sure,” was the gleeful answer, and Gerhart showed several yellow slips. “Lucky the door was unlocked, so I could sneak in. I just took the blanks and envelopes off his desk when you held him in conversation. You know, they keep the receiving blanks in a private drawer, but the sending ones which you used they leave out where anyone can reach them. But it’s all right now. I’ll soon put it through.”
“I wonder if I’ll get that money?” spoke Langridge. “I took a big chance, but it seemed the only thing to do.”
“Of course you’ll get it, and I’ll help you spend it. That’s a fair division of labor, as Sam Weller used to say.”
“Well, you’ll have to do the rest,” declared his crony as they walked back to college.
“I’ll do it. Don’t worry.”
They proceeded in silence. Langridge grew less and less talkative, and to the jokes of Gerhart, who seemed in unusually good spirits, he returned monosyllabic answers.
“Say, what’s the matter with you?” Gerhart finally exclaimed.
“Well, if you must know,” answered Langridge, “the more I think of this the less I like it. It’s a brutal thing to do. I wish I hadn’t agreed to help you.”
“But you have!” insisted Gerhart. “It’s too late to back out now!”
“Yes, I suppose so,” was the gloomy answer, and Langridge plodded on behind his crony.
It lacked but two days of the big game with Boxer Hall. The Randall eleven had bucked against the scrub until that aggregation of substitutes was weary, worn and sore. For the ’varsity team was now a magnificent fighting machine. The men played together like clock-work, and were a joy to the heart of Coach Lighton. As for Holly Cross, no captain was ever prouder of an eleven than he was. The ends were fast, the backs could go through the line for gains every time, guards, tackles and Snail Looper at center were like a wall of flesh. The punting, while not all that could be desired, was good, and several trick plays had been worked up well nigh to perfection against the scrub. How they would work against Boxer Hall was yet to be seen.
But if Randall was in fine shape for the coming struggle on the gridiron, so was Boxer Hall. Reports from that institution showed that the eleven was the best that had been turned out in many aseason, and by comparing the games played by Randall (the loss of one game to Fairview and the winning of the other) and those played by Boxer Hall against the same teams, an expert would have been hard put to pick the winner of the championship struggle.
“But we’re going to win, fellows!” cried Tom after two halves of hard practice. “Aren’t we, Phil, old chap?”
“Of course,” was the rather quiet answer.
“How’s your mother, Phil?” asked Holly Cross. “I hope she is getting better.”
“I haven’t heard for two days,” replied the quarter-back, and his face showed a little worry.
“Well, she must be all right, or your father would have wired,” went on Dutch Housenlager. “My, but I’m tired!” he added.
“Don’t go stale,” cautioned the coach. “I think I can let up a bit on you fellows now. We’ll have only light practice to-morrow, and the morning of the game we’ll do some kicking and run through the signals. Don’t forget to listen for the word to change the system. We may have to do it if they get on to our curves, so to speak. But I don’t believe they will. And don’t forget that the signals for trick plays have been altered a bit. Also remember the tip for the sequence plays. I depend on them for at least one touch-down. Now amuse yourselves some quiet way to-night. Getto bed early, and sleep well. I hope none of you have any lessons to worry over.”
“We’ll not let study worry us, no matter what happens, until after the game!” cried Grasshopper Backus. “Wow! But what a celebration there’ll be if we win! The baseball championship, and then the football on top of it! Wow!” and Grasshopper gave a leap into the air to show how exuberant he felt. But Dutch Housenlager slyly put out his foot, and Grasshopper went down in a heap.
“I’ll punch your head for that, Dutch!” he cried, springing up; but Dutch, in spite of his bulk, was a good runner, and got away.
“Well, I suppose you gladiators are all ready for the fray,” spoke Sid that evening, when Phil and Tom were in the room, one on the sofa and the other curled up in the easy chair. Sid was stretched out on his bed.
“Ready to do or die,” answered Tom. “I hope it’s a nice day.”
“Why, you don’t mind playing in the rain, do you?” asked Sid. “I thought you chaps were regular mudlarks.”
“So we are,” went on Tom. “Only I want to see a good crowd out. It’s more enthusiastic.”
“I know what you want,” declared Sid. “You want a lot of girls from Fairview Institute to be on hand. And, what’s more, you want some particulargirl to see you make a star play. So does Phil, I’ll wager.”
“Well, from what I hear there will be a good crowd of Fairview girls to see the game,” said Phil. “Fairview is sore at being walloped twice by Boxer Hall, and the co-eds want to see us put it all over that crowd. So they’ll be on hand to cheer us.”
“Are you sure?” asked Tom.
“Sure—Ruth told me,” went on Phil. “Oh, it will be a glorious occasion! Don’t you wish you were playing, Sid?”
“Not for a minute! Baseball for mine! When I want to wallow in the mud and get my mouth and ears full of it, I know an easier way than playing football.”
“Yes; go out with a camera and get stuck in the swamp!” cried Tom, and he got up, ready to dodge any missile which Sid might heave at him in revenge for having his misadventure recalled. But the naturalist only answered:
“That’s all right. I got the best picture of a fox you ever saw. The mud will come off.”
“Oh, you’re a hopeless case!” exclaimed Phil as he got up and began to change his clothes, laying out a particularly “sporty” necktie.
“Hello!” exclaimed Tom in some surprise. “Where are you going?”
“Out,” replied his chum noncommittally.
“I thought you were told to stay in and take it easy to-night,” said Sid.
“Well, I’m not going to any exciting place,” came from Phil as he struggled with a stiff collar. “I’ll be in early.”
“Going to town?” asked Tom.
“Not Haddonfield.”
“Where?”
“I’ll bet he’s going to see some girl!” exclaimed Sid. “He’s got perfume on his handkerchief, and he never wears that tie unless there’s a damsel in the offing.”
“Well, I don’t mind admitting that there is a young lady in the case,” spoke Phil. “I’m going to call on my sister, and you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, you hard-shelled old misogynist!”
“I thought so!” cried Sid. “I knew it. But tell that yarn about your sister to your grandmother. It’s somebody else’s sister you’re going to see. You’d never tog up like this for your own sister.”
“Maybe,” admitted Phil coolly as he finished dressing.
As he stooped over to lace his shoes an envelope fell from his pocket. Tom picked it up and handed it to him. He could not help seeing the address, and, with something like a start, he noticed that it was in the handwriting of Madge Tyler. He handed it to Phil without a word, and he noticed that a dull red crept up under the bronze skin ofhis chum’s face. But Phil shoved the note into his pocket and made no comment.
“He’s going to see her—Madge,” thought Tom, and he tried to struggle against the bitter feeling that seemed to well up in his heart.
“Leave the door unlocked,” was Phil’s parting injunction as he went out. “I’ll be in early.”
“Girls, girls, girls!” grumbled Sid as he rolled over to a more comfortable position. “I’ll be hanged if I room with you fellows next term if you don’t go a bit easier on this dame question. You don’t give me any attention at all. It’s all football and the ladies.”
“It will soon be over,” murmured Tom.
“Which; football or the ladies?”
“Football,” was the answer, given with a laugh.
Sid was asleep when Phil came quietly in, but Tom was wide awake. Still, he said nothing as Phil went about, getting ready for bed, and when his chum came close to him, Tom shut his eyes and feigned slumber. There was something coming between Tom and Phil. Both realized it, yet neither liked to broach the subject, for it was a delicate one.
“Well, how was your sister?” asked Sid pointedly of Phil the next morning.
“Very well,” replied Phil calmly. “By the way, Tom, she was asking for you.”
“Yes,” answered Tom, and there was coldnessin his tones. He did not wait for Phil to go to lectures with him after chapel, but hurried off alone, and Phil, feeling humiliated, wondered if he had done or said anything to hurt Tom’s feelings. Tom took care to keep out of Phil’s way all that day, and when the last practice was over, save for some light work the morning of the game, the left-end hurried to his room. As he entered it he saw a note thrust under the door. He picked it up. It was addressed to him, and an odd feature of it was that the letters were all printed.
“Who brought this here?” he asked of Sid, who was studying his biology.
“Didn’t know anybody had brought anything.”
“Some one shoved this note under the door for me,” went on Tom, ripping open the missive. He could not repress a start as he read, in the same printed letters that were on the envelope, this message: